by Jackie Ivie
“But…you doona’ believe in love, Cousin,” Myles finally said, taking another bite as if there wasn’t the menace of man and beast facing him. “’Tis a horrid state that shackles a man. Makes him a prisoner to his own heart, and quashes his soul. This is what you’ve always preached afore.”
“That’s because I’d never felt it! And I was right about the horrid part. ’Tis worse than that! I burn to hold her, ache to have her near, and feel empty without her. Of course I love her!”
“Good thing. I’d worry over my wenches if you dinna’,” Myles replied.
“Wenches.” Vincent huffed the word with more disgust. “What am I to do with over a dozen winsome wenches? And na’ one of them familiar with a bow. Or even a dirk. You’re mad. I was mad to listen. And I’ve tired of it. We leave. Tonight. My way.” Vincent went to his knees and started yanking on the laces of his bliaut, where bright blue ribbon crossed about him, trying to define a womanly shape.
“Tonight. Aye. True. But cease that. You’ll destroy your gown.”
“That’s what I intend!” Vincent replied angrily,
“You’ll need it. Trust me.”
“I’ve trusted you long enough! I want her now! In my arms! And dressing as a woman is na’ going to get me what I want!”
“There is nae other way, Danzel. Now cease that. You’re na’ to change back into a man until you have Sybil in your arms. Then I give you free rein to take a skean to your skirts…and any other portion of your attire that you’d like. But na’ until then.”
“I hate women’s skirts! I am immobile, my legs encased by leagues of material. I am useless.”
“Would you use something aside of your loins with which to think?” Myles asked.
Vincent stopped trying to unknot the ribbon tie and looked across at where his cousin reclined on a bench.
“There is nae way to approach Castle MacHugh without being seen. None. I’ve known that since I took him in battle six years ago and won back this hunk of rock for you. I have to use my wits. And that means so do you.”
Vincent grunted. Waif growled. “With a gaggle of giggling wenches? How is that using wits?”
Myles snorted on the ale he’d taken a swallow of. “Castle MacHugh has a dearth of women. Always did. Their laird prefers the solitude of men. He also kens that ’tis easier to control men if there are nae women in their midst. He is a worthy adversary. Always was.”
“You’re planning to use the wenches to divert his men?”
Myles twisted his lips and nodded. “You’re finally using your head for something aside from catching kettles of stew and hanging that godforsaken wig on. Finally.”
“These women agree?” Vincent asked, smoothing down the tangled mess of black that had been shaved from a like-colored sheep and then fashioned into a mess that resembled hair for him to wear.
“They are the finest, most comely camp women I could hire. All of them. Used to men. Used to entertaining men. Used to lots of things. And then I made certain of one more thing.”
“What?” Vincent asked as he smoothed out the wimple and tested it atop the wig.
“Musical ability.”
Vincent stopped his fussing with the headdress and looked over at him. “They dance?”
Myles grinned. “What laird can resist a traveling troupe of musicians? Especially one of more than a dozen beautiful women, and one supremely ugly one who has been injured and canna’ walk.”
“Who are you calling ugly?” Vincent asked.
“You still play that mouth flute of yours well?”
“Aye.”
“And does Sybil ken your talent with it?”
Vincent tried to keep the flush from happening. He was forced to look aside and hope the wig hid most of it. “Aye,” he replied again.
Myles cleared his throat. “Good. Take it. Play it whenever the mood takes you. They’ll dance to it. Sing to it. Take off clothing to it. Play it loudly. All night if you must.”
“How am I going to avenge myself on the MacHugh and rescue Sybil if I’m playing my fipple? Everyone will ken where I am. Your plan is a fool’s bane.”
“Beggin will assist you. He’s a wonder. You’ll see. He’ll have the entire household visiting the latrine more often than they stand if I doona’ miss my guess. Find him. Use him. He’ll get you to Sybil. And then, dear Cousin, that is when you get to decide.”
“Decide what?” Vincent asked.
“If love is sweeter than revenge.” Myles shrugged. “It’s your choice, Cousin. Your life to live as you see fit. Always was. Always will be. Doona’ waste it this time.”
Chapter Thirty
The din was overpowering. It was loud even over the storm that had been brewing all day. Sybil stayed on her stool in the corner of her room, with the window pulled into place, the shutters barred, and the drapes closed. She also had the door shut and the bolt in place. Yet still some sounds of their fest managed to filter through, sounding so much like Vincent with his fipple flute that more than once she’d caught her hands to her breast to make certain her heart wasn’t going to plunge out.
Hugo MacHugh had given her one day to prepare to receive him. It wasn’t an offer. It was a demand. But couched as a rescue. From the arrogant brute she’d labeled Vincent Danzel to be. MacHugh was sending word that Sybil didn’t wish to be ransomed. Myles Donal could keep his gold. Who would it harm? Hugo had asked her. It wouldn’t harm Vincent. The Danzel laird was said to be still abed with his injury. He might be addled for life, MacHugh’s spies were reporting.
Sybil’s heart had dived to the pit of her belly and her legs had spasmed when she’d been told that, but since she’d been sitting it hadn’t been noticed. Except by her. It didn’t stop MacHugh’s words. Nothing did.
It would be said that the child she and Vincent had created was a bastard; MacHugh’s bastard.
She’d want for nothing. MacHugh would put her in a position of power as the chatelaine of his estate. He’d even leave her untouched after tomorrow eve if that’s what she wanted. All he required was the bairn and word that it was his. He wasn’t caring if the child was a boy child or not. He didn’t care if the child favored its sire. Her dark hair should win out, while dark eyes with black hair were common. But even if the child had the blond visage and dark eyes of Vincent Danzel, MacHugh would claim it. He was a desperate man, and his age was telling. He hadn’t many years left to him, and he wanted an heir.
It was her future, and it was horrid. Sybil huddled farther into the corner of the room and tried to ignore the muted sounds of revelry wafting through the very floors. She’d never see Vincent Erick Danzel again. He’d never know he had a child. It was the perfect revenge, Lord MacHugh had told her.
Sybil twisted the linen square she held in her hands, ignoring the damp that came from incessant tears. Such emotion was wasted. She’d already made her choice when she launched the pot at Vincent. She just wished it didn’t hurt so badly.
There were more sounds of banging. She assumed it was the men and their tankards again. Sybil didn’t understand why Hugo had let this traveling band of misfits through his gate. It was obvious they weren’t musicians. They were harlots. All of them. The MacHugh clansmen had seemed to start salivating even before the carts had come to a halt. And then the men had raced for the loch shores. She knew what they were doing. Bathing. Shaving. Getting presentable. Donning their best plaids and getting ready for a night of enjoyment that had nothing to do with music.
Sybil knew all this because she’d watched it from her balcony before the winds forced her back inside. Onto a stool. She had better things to worry over. Things such as why this particular band of musicians had to have a member with immense talent on a fipple flute. The woman rivaled Vincent. That comparison created more heartache that Sybil could do without. That was why she’d latched the shutters she’d already shut, pulled the glass down into position, and then drawn the drapes, shutting out the elements as well as the music.
If she h
ad to be lady of this castle, ribaldry and debauchery weren’t going to be allowed. She’d make sure of it.
And then even worse happened.
Sybil had the embroidered square to her breast and was on her feet when the hammering started at her window. She was backing away from it, and it just continued, with what sounded like loud shouting accompanying it, although she couldn’t make out words. Laird MacHugh couldn’t control his men any better than this? That was even more horrid!
The hammering finally stopped, but not before she’d heard the wood shutters groaning as someone tried to pound them apart. That’s when Sybil started worrying over which of the MacHugh clansmen had such a death wish. If anything happened to Vincent’s babe, she didn’t hold out much hope for the man causing it. She already knew what punishments the Laird of MacHugh was capable of. Sybil was praying the shutters would hold, and miraculously they did.
And then the assault was turned on her door.
When the pounding on her door first started, she was forced back toward the window, her hands over her ears to keep out the sounds of shouting. This was worse than annoying. It was getting to be frightening. She wondered how she was supposed to sound an alarm, if the same men who were guarding her were the ones doing the assault? She watched as the bolt actually bowed inward more than once, keening with the pressure of something big being used against it.
That’s when Sybil went to the bed, going to a ball under the covers, with her hands about her head and panting with fear of what was going to happen if the bolt broke. That way, she blocked out everything. The door quit shuddering, the laughter and sounds of the fest taking place outside her chamber ended, and everything was so dead-still calm and quiet that Sybil began to think she was dreaming.
And then the barely audible strains of a melody she’d only heard once came through the muffling bedding.
Vincent was at his wit’s end. The woman he ached to hold was barred into her room with more efficiency than a virgin in a chastity belt. And that was just wrong. And foolish. And making his work a thousand times harder than if she’d just been waiting his rescue once he’d scaled the trellis vine outside her window. He had Beggin to thank for the location. He had Beggin to thank for a lot of things, most especially the way all the clansmen on the castle grounds appeared to be suffering from a belly ailment that had them writhing and moaning and unable to do a thing with the barely clad women who’d been flitting about making certain they all partook fully of the ale. He didn’t wish to know what the lad had used. He was only grateful for its efficiency.
The skirts that had hampered him for so long had been sliced off at the knee, leaving him with a length not unlike a kilt. The bulbous chunks of material he’d been padded with for breasts were gone as well. He hadn’t even looked back for where. The moment Beggin whistled the sign he’d waited for, Vincent had been racing to her window. Then he’d been climbing, getting scratched by thorns, ignoring the way the wind tried to steal his breath, as well as the chill pelting of rain he was receiving. And it was all for naught. Sybil was bolted in, and no matter what he used to pry on the shutters, nothing would budge. Not even swinging from the overhang above to hit them with his feet had done anything more than send wood scraps to add to the general melee in the air about him.
He’d been forced to admit defeat. At the window.
He’d jumped the last body-length from the vines and grabbed Beggin by the neck of his tunic to hurry him in finding Sybil’s room from the hall. That meant dodging bodies of retching men and what was left of the dancing women. They’d been paid, and they’d been warned. If they didn’t leave, they were on their own. Beggin had also counseled them on not partaking of the tainted mead, but there were still some of the wenches that hadn’t listened.
They were ripe-bosomed wenches, too. Beggin stopped more than once, slack-jawed by the sight of so much feminine bounty on display. Vincent brought him to his tiptoes and kept him moving. They didn’t have time for such. Not now.
And then they’d come across the body of the MacHugh laird, lying full out at the base of his step, on his chest with an unguarded back just begging for a knife to get stuck in it. To the hilt. With killing force. A skean such as Vincent had in his right hand, since his left was full of the squire’s collar.
He didn’t waste time looking down at the laird of the MacHugh clan. He didn’t have any to spare. He had Sybil to fetch, the horses to get unfastened from the carts, and then they had a long ride ahead of them. He snorted a bit on his amusement over Hugo MacHugh’s complete vulnerability before he was stepping over him and racing up the stairs. Myles had been right. Again. Damn him. Love was worth everything.
And then he ran into her damned door.
Vincent was forced to stop trying to ram a way through the solid structure of her door when a scrape opened up on his shoulder and his legs trembled with the effort. Brawn wasn’t working. Muscle and strength hadn’t done anything, either. He had to use his wits. And his musical talent.
Vincent spent a few moments in panic looking all over his torso for the fipple before finding it hung up in the wig that was still trailing from his neck, since he’d had the wimple tied securely enough beneath his chin it wasn’t in danger of blowing away in the winds and giving away his disguise. Then he had to calm himself enough to play. And then he had to remember the melody he’d composed that first night.
Nothing came out of the instrument at first. Vincent didn’t have enough moisture in his mouth to create a whistle. He had to stop, take time to calm his breathing and his heartbeat and concentrate. Then he tried again. This time the notes were true and full and had Beggin’s eyes wide while his mouth went to the slack-jawed effect that seemed to be the only thing that stopped the squire’s incessant fidgeting. Vincent came to the end of his melody, looked at the hewn wood blocking him, and waited.
Nothing.
“Are you certain this is her chamber?” he asked.
“Aye. She’ll na’ come out, though. She told the staff. If they had to have a fest, she’d remain within. The MacHugh allows it now. He’ll do naught to harm the bairn.”
“The…bairn?” Vincent paled, felt his belly roil while his legs wobbled until the wall stopped his fall. Then he felt the supreme thrill that came from knowing he’d created a life with her. The euphoric feeling was too vast to be contained or confined, or shamed over.
“Your wife carries your heir. You dinna’ ken?”
The lad was hooting with laughter. Vincent didn’t stop him. He thought the sides of his mouth might split with his own grin. He was going to be unable to play another note if he didn’t control his shaking, however. He sucked spittle into his mouth, took a deep breath, and started playing again. With even more emotion this time as he poured out the burning of his heart since she’d been taken. He’d had to wait for his head to heal and cease paining him. That’s why it had taken nine days. He played of why he’d told of the bargain. He’d been trying for a chance to save her. He’d never meant to cause pain such as he’d seen in her eyes when he’d said she meant nothing to him. She meant everything! He tried to put into notes what he wasn’t being allowed to say.
He didn’t know tears were flooding his eyes and pouring down his face until he finished, hung his head, and waited.
Nothing. Again.
He had an audience now. There were four of the half-dressed wenches at the top of the hall behind him, all holding hands and sobbing. Vincent speared a glance at them, and that’s when he realized he was weeping, too. And it was for nothing. It hadn’t worked. Sybil wouldn’t have him.
He’d done it again. He’d killed it. It wasn’t enough he’d had to be the reason his best friend and parents died, and then his clan dispersed. Oh, no. Not him. He had to destroy this, too. He’d been gifted with the most immense, intense, incredible emotion of his life…and he’d had to make certain to kill it. Just as everything he touched was destroyed and damaged and vilified. Blackened. Defiled. Shamed. Cursed.
&nbs
p; He was a lowlife thief. A vandal. A heartless wretch…to the soul. He had been for over eleven long years. He didn’t know why he’d forgotten it.
Vincent turned toward the stairs, trying to see the stretch of stone through the blur of tears blocking his vision. He only hoped he made it to the stables before the sobs took him to his knees.
And that’s when he heard the sound of the bolt moving.
Sybil’s heart was in her throat and her arms were trembling, and all of that was slowing her down and making her clumsy. She didn’t wonder at what was on the other side of the door. She knew. She knew what he’d been telling her with the music, too. She just couldn’t believe it was taking so long to get to him!
She lifted the bolt just enough that it would release the door, before falling back down. Then she had to jump over it when it dropped, in order to get to him.
“Vincent!”
If she’d ever thought his dark brown eyes soul-filled and deep, it was equaled and then obliterated by the depth of emotion in them as he turned toward her and opened his arms. And then she was there, held against a massive chest holding a heart that was thrumming with intensity while his breathing was powerful enough to move her with it. Nothing had ever felt so wonderful.
And then his mouth was on hers.
Sybil didn’t hear the sighs of the women about them or the embarrassed coughing of the squire. She wasn’t capable of experiencing anything more than the kiss of the man she loved. No matter that it grew in length and depth and intensity and emotion. Nothing in the world mattered more than knowing she was in his arms.
“I love you, Sybil, lass.” He pulled his lips from her to whisper it. And then he said it again. Louder. And then he turned to the audience about them and announced it to them as well.
“I love her!”
