by Jackie Ivie
Vincent came back to the chamber well into the night, missing the evening meal. His absence would have been worrisome if Waif hadn’t been with him, Sybil decided. Vincent had also been swimming the loch if the way his kilt hung from his frame and the plastered dark blond tendrils of hair on his shoulders were any indication. He was also avoiding any eye contact as he stood just inside the room with his back to the door as if for quick escape. From that location most of his face was shadowed by the entry rafter. Not so his torso, where a sodden shirt should have been covering a span of bare flesh that almost set Sybil to sighing. That would never do. Not yet. He was too stirring, masculine, and eye-catching. And he knew how to use it. He had a sexual prowess she’d thought belonged in women’s fantasies. She knew the truth about that now and that it was no tale. She decided he’d been born with this talent for giving ecstasy with his body. The other option was that it had been learned through practice.
She’d shoved that thought aside every time it occurred. She did the same now. Having his sensuality overshadowing everything wasn’t going to get her what she needed the most and the one thing he was keeping hidden: answers. It was going to take a bit of the guile she’d spoke to Margaret about in order to get them from him, too.
Sybil rose from her crouched position beside the fire, making certain the light played through the weave of her nightshift, silhouetting most of her for him. And if that wasn’t sufficient, she’d lit torches as well. She didn’t know that was why he groaned and took a step back, but had to hope it was and use it.
“I have your sup ready,” she ventured when all he did was stand there and breathe. Heavily. Lifting his chest with each inhalation. Since he was shirtless, her eyes dropped to the roping of muscle in his abdomen as he sucked for each breath before she forced her gaze away. “I mean…I had your sup ready. ’Tis too cold now. I’ll warm it.”
He was almost too much male! Sybil had never felt as gauche and tongue-tied, nor as primed. Her entire form felt poised, readied, prepared, pliant. The nightshift wasn’t hiding much of it.
“They sent up ale. Bread. Melons.” Her voice dropped on the last word, and she watched his glance flicker to where her nipples were grazing the fabric, holding it away from her body with two pinpricks of definition. He groaned again, deeper this time and with a resonance that filled the space separating them. He also had his eyes shut if the loss of reflected moisture from the surface of them was any indication. That made her brave enough to take two steps toward him. She halted the moment he reopened his eyes, saw him assimilate her new position. Then he lowered his jaw.
“I can reheat it,” she said and slid her right foot a bit closer. She waited more than two heartbeats before following the slide of movement with her entire frame. She watched as he folded both arms and stood at his full height. That just made a deep shadow form between the humps of his chest muscle, where the kilt band was caressing skin her fingers were itching to touch.
“I’m na’ hungry,” he replied finally.
Sybil slid her left foot forward this time, grazing the floor with her thin slipper and listening to the slide of satin on flooring and then shivering as she heard it. All of which sent goose bumps flying over her limbs before centering right at her breast tips, where his glance flickered again. Then he was closing his eyes again. Sybil was close enough now to see the slight lines brought into play at the viciousness with which he held them closed. Then she slid closer, the slight sound from the bottoms of her slippers the only indication that she was within touching distance of him.
She knew he hadn’t heard her approach when he reopened his eyes and started slightly at where she was hovering, with her head tilted to look up at him and everything else on her suffering the onslaught of each exhalation of air that he breathed over her frame.
“You should na’ get this close,” he said finally with a grunt of sound, due to the gruffness he was imparting the words with.
“Truly?” she asked, taking her time with the first syllable. That way her mouth would be in a pout made more visual by the crushed hop mixture she’d rubbed them with earlier.
There was a stirring of the kilt near his belt line, making his sporran shift just slightly. It was accompanied by another groan. Sybil moved a step closer, filling the space right in front of him and attempting to meet his eyes. He avoided contact, though moving his head up so he looked out at the room behind him rather than at her. The sporran moved closer, touching the flesh beneath her breast where the contact sparked before it started warming. She struggled to keep the smile hidden as his body gave her the message she needed, even if his mouth denied it.
“But I’m your wife,” she whispered, breathing the words all along the folded arms in front of her and the chest and belly he seemed to be protecting. “You are my husband. We’re in our chamber. Alone.”
A tremor scored him over that, and Sybil couldn’t keep the slight curve from her lips this time. It was too much pleasure to tap through the reserve he’d put in place and find the man beneath.
“And it’s night. Outside it’s dark. Cold. Lonely,” she continued in a litany of whispered words, making certain each one carried enough breath that he had to feel them.
“It is ever lonely,” he answered. She watched the words move through his throat, and the way he tightened his jaw, since he wouldn’t look down at her.
“Oh, nae. My liege. Na’ anymore.”
He dropped his head and looked down at her. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t really have to. The way he was pulling in and releasing each breath in a steadily increasing tempo was telling her plenty. As was the way everything on him tensed, putting sinew and muscle into full, firelight-defined splendor for viewing and delectation and pleasure.
She was almost purring.
“Dinna’ you speak with my clansmen today?” he asked.
“I spoke with nae…man,” she replied, pausing before emphasizing the last word, and watched him flinch slightly. Then she was warring with her own body not to show the pleasure of the minute reaction he was giving her. The rough scrape of linen against her primed nipple flesh was a good indication of how she was losing, however. She didn’t have to look down to know it.
“Who did you speak with, then?”
“Your sister,” she replied.
“The MacHugh?” He spat the title, and his voice contained enough venom that it gave her pause. That would never do. She realized it as he pulled in a breath and held it for more heartbeats than she could count. He’d put a ripple in the seductive atmosphere she was trying to create. On purpose. He was probably proud of himself.
“Mary Elizabeth…is a MacHugh?” she asked in a low tone.
He nodded.
“She wed your enemy? Your sworn enemy?”
He nodded again.
That explained much of what had been puzzling her. No wonder the elder sister was treated as a pariah. Sybil sucked in her bottom lip in thought. “Your parents allowed that?”
He shook his head.
“Then it was a love that couldn’t be denied?”
He huffed a bit with what was probably amusement. “I already told you. There’s nae such thing.”
“Aye. You told me. You’re wrong. You are that oft. You ken?” She shifted closer, almost touching him and feeling the contact even with the gap of space between them.
He gulped. She heard it and saw it, and gloried in it. She’d been cursed with this love emotion he was denying existed. She wondered if that was what Kendran’s Christmas wish had meant. Sybil had been cursed to suffer from an unsuitable love. Unsuitable…
Surely that wasn’t Vincent Erick Danzel. The man was entirely suitable, if a bit hardheaded and stubborn. Sybil sucked on her cheeks in thought. “She was a war prize then,” she stated and watched his jaw tighten. “After the fire.”
“Who told you all this?”
“Margaret, but I’m guessing, too, my love. I have a fair chance of being right. Everyone does. If they state what could be
and watch for the reaction. Anyone can do it.”
“Perhaps you’d best stand over there, then.”
“Over where?” she asked.
“Anywhere. Away from me.”
“Why?”
He flicked a glance toward her, grimaced like he was in pain, and pulled in a breath. “Because I am na’ worthy.”
“Of what?” Sybil asked.
“This,” he said and met her gaze.
It was akin to being doused with cold water and then set afire. Sybil experienced all of it and wondered where her mind had gone. The man had the most soul-searching dark eyes, the deepest pools of black-brown. It was a depth she felt drawn into. She was spellbound. Completely. Absolutely. And it was like nothing any of her herbs or potions or fantasies could have created. It was too vast.
Then he blinked, releasing her to catch breath again, hear her pulse as it beat loud and strong in her ears, and stand swaying in a trembling fashion before her knees locked into position and saved her from falling.
It was useless. All of it. She’d already fallen. Totally. Forever. For this man. And only him. The floor felt the substance of fog. It had the same chill and dampness about her ankles, as well. Sybil shivered despite herself. This wasn’t what she wanted or needed at all.
Sybil closed her eyes for a moment, pulled in a breath and held it until her chest hurt before easing the air back out. She slit her eyes open at the same time and watched the reaction on the belly, arm, and chest flesh right in front of her nose as everything tightened and rippled. Again. “Surely you jest,” she replied.
“This is nae jest. Nor is it a game. ’Tis na’ even a battle.”
“What is it then?” she asked, getting brave enough to put her index finger on one forearm of his crossed arms before trailing her fingernail along sinew and strength that seemed to ripple in anticipation of the touch.
“Torment,” he replied to the air above her head.
Sybil giggled.
“I wish you would cease that,” he mumbled to the area above her ear.
Sybil put her other hand on him and moved both hands up his shoulders and from there about his neck, lifting on her tiptoes in order to do so.
“What?” she asked.
“Your laughter.”
It was all right to press her body against him and caress him, then? Sybil held the glee over that inside, and then she had her hands hooked behind his head in order to use her body weight to pull his mouth down to hers.
It wasn’t necessary. Vincent realized what she was about and had both hands about her waist to lift her instead. Then his mouth was on hers. It wasn’t possible to tell who was greedier as Sybil used her tongue within the caverns of his mouth just as he was doing with her. Dueling. Sucking. Slurping. Toying. Kissing and enjoying and molding her lips to his.
She opened her legs, wrapped them about his hips, and pushed herself into position in order to slide along where the sporran had been shifted to the side, allowing hardened, engorged flesh to fill the area in its stead. Vincent’s hands shifted then, moving to support her buttocks as he moved her, sliding her back and forth while she was cooing the satisfaction over it.
The man was mad if he felt unworthy. She tried to tell him so without words, and then she just showed him. The sound of combined heavy breathing and slurping noise filled her ears, charging through the rapid pace of her own heartbeat. And then she was using her fingers to hold to his ears while she pulled away and looked deep into his eyes.
“Tell me you doona’ love me,” she whispered.
A smile tipped the just-kissed look to his mouth, and then it was transferring to his eyes, where the little laugh lines came out before she saw the flash of teeth.
“You doona’ give up, do you?” he asked.
“Na’ with my heart at stake,” she replied.
That sobered him. She watched as the amusement of a moment before shifted, turning him into a saddened entity with just the glimmer of tears coating the surface of his eyes before he blinked and sent it away.
“Ah, lass. If there was such a thing….”
He swallowed, while her entire being began an ascent to the heavens with the joy of what he’d admitted. He moved his head then, to focus on something over her head, and then he stiffened. Sybil had a moment to ponder the change before she was on her feet and being shoved behind him while he shouted a name out.
“MacHugh!”
Sybil strained to peek around his arm, gasped with the shock of seeing yellow-and-red plaid-clad men stepping from behind the canopied bed. There was more than ten, twelve. Then there were fifteen. Vincent shoved her back behind him before she had the total fixed and still there were more, jostling and pushing to fill the space, and all heavily armed.
And deadly silent.
Her legs were threatening to drop her from the sensual journey she’d been pursuing, and to that was being added surprise and something even more disabling: fear. She was prevented from falling by the pressure of Vincent’s arm holding her against his back. This put her breasts against his belt, where she could feel the weight and sharp edges of a dirk that was tucked into the leather. They weren’t exactly weaponless, although it wasn’t comforting to realize only one blade was between them and more than a score of enemies. Sybil started sliding her hands from where they were clasped about Vincent’s belly. The arm he was holding her with tightened, putting her even closer. She realized what it was. A request to halt any movement. She also knew why. He couldn’t protect her if she moved away.
“I wish to thank you now, Danzel. And so I do.”
Sybil tipped her head just slightly and slid to Vincent’s other side, so she could get a view of the proceedings from the chamber mirror that was on a side wall and filled right now with the reflection of the grouping of men. The one who’d taken the forefront was stocky but short. He was also portly and not young, if the hair that was graying from the red shade it had been was an indication. Sybil could tell that from the length of it beneath his bonnet.
“For what?” Vincent responded. Her breast flesh vibrated with the sound of those two words. She had to swallow and concentrate to stop the sensation.
“Na’ having the sense to fill in the tunnel afore today. Putting Sir Sheldon at the entrance as guard.”
Vincent sucked in air. Sybil moved backward at the quantity of it. “If you harmed him…” he began.
“He’s barely touched. He’ll have a large ache in his head in the morn, but he’ll live. ’Tis your fault if he does na’. Just as everything is.”
Vincent let the air out, seeming to shrivel at the same time.
“Luck still eludes you, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” Vincent replied in a mumble.
“My men watched you all day and into the eve as you carted and packed stones to fill in the entrance. It was a wasted effort.”
That’s what he’d been doing all day? Sybil wondered.
“But you ken that now, doona’ you?” the leader finished.
Sybil felt Vincent’s back muscles clench, but he didn’t give any further sign that the man affected him, either through a gesture, movement, or in his voice when he spoke again. “Most of what I do is luckless, MacHugh.”
“This is what I’d heard. Although I nae longer wondered if the great laird Erick Danzel had sired a fool and a coward when he formed you from his seed. I already knew the truth about that…dinna’ I?”
Sybil gasped. Vincent relaxed slightly. If she hadn’t been affixed to his frame, she wouldn’t have seen or noted it, however. “What of it?” Vincent replied finally.
“You have na’ changed the room much, I see.”
The chieftain was twirling about as he looked up at the rafters, down at the floor, encompassing the room, and then he met her gaze in the mirror. He smiled. Sybil didn’t move. It was totally unpleasant.
“First things first,” Vincent replied.
“Exactly.”
“What do you want this time?”
Vincent sighed loudly. “There is nae joy in vengeance, Hugo. None.”
“Who’s looking for joy? I want justice. I always have.”
“What will it take this time? Another fire?” Vincent asked with a carefully modulated tone that didn’t give much away. His entire frame was twitching as he said it, although nothing must have been showing, for the man referred to as Hugo didn’t react.
“Actually…we came for the wife.”
Vincent huffed out a heavy breath, almost of amusement. “Why dinna’ you just send word? Mary Elizabeth would rush to your side.”
“I doona’ mean my wife,” the man continued.
Sybil was turning to stone. She already knew what the man was going to say. She knew Hugo MacHugh was responsible for the severity of Vincent’s whipping, the punishment that had been the death of Edward Carrick. And now he was taking Vincent’s wife. She didn’t have to ask.
“You doona’?” Vincent asked easily. He sounded relaxed. He felt calmer, too. There wasn’t one bit of tremor happening to the frame she was clinging to.
“The Donal thought he was teaching me a lesson when he ‘rescued’ Mary Elizabeth from me. I dinna’ want her any more. She’s barren. Seven years as my wife and na’ one child—na’ even a girl child! The wench is cursed. Perhaps I’ll have better luck with yours.”
“My what?” Vincent asked without one sign of realization.
“Wife. I’m claiming her.” Hugo MacHugh met her look squarely in the glass, and then he smiled, showing stubbed, gapped teeth.
That’s when her knees started trembling in earnest, moving the weak feeling clear to her ankles. Vincent was easing the grip on her as well, and she guessed why. He was going for his skean. She couldn’t allow him to do this! It would mean his death. That seemed to be just what this Hugo fellow wanted. It wouldn’t change anything, either. Sybil was going to leave with the MacHugh. There were too many to fight.
“You ken what you do? And who she is?”
The Hugo smiled wider. “Aye. She’s the sister of the Donal laird’s wife. ’Tis what makes this so sweet. The man thought me cowed when he won at Clammond and got your property back. I was na’ beaten. I was taught a lesson.”
