Once Upon a Knight. Jackie Ivie

Sybil had already envisioned, feared, and shrunk from.

      It was the man from her dream, only worse.

      He really was dwarfed, looking to reach just to Lady Eschon’s shoulders. He had a tankard in his hand, and the short fat fingers showed the extent of his stunting. It was just as obvious that he was dark. Extremely so. And hairy. Smelly. Rounded. Ugly. Foul.

      The newest emotion had to be panic. It was strong enough that it kept Sybil rooted in place, her feet stuck to the lowest stair and her hand gripping the end of the rail. Panic was filling her, and it was so severe it had chased away everything else. Even the heightened awareness and wellspring of heat that the blond man had brought into being. She actually felt faint.

      “There you are, Sybil! Come. Closer!”

      No. Dear God, no. No. The words weren’t leaving her mouth, but her mind was echoing them. There wasn’t anything she could do about the opaque mist that seemed to be encasing her ankles other than blink until it turned back into the rush-covered floor. Then her feet were moving as requested, although every other part of her was shrinking away. The closer she got to the head of the table, the more her heart was sinking. But still her feet moved. The man’s eyebrows grew together, making one large line etching a black mark across a brow furrowed with a cross-hatching of wrinkles. He was bearded, hiding most of his face. He looked auld, but it was difficult to tell for certain. He looked two score or more…older even than her father had been. He could be less, however. Dwarfs aged differently. Sybil knew that from something she’d been told.

      He had smallish eyes, too, deep-set in folds of flesh. They were an indeterminate color and didn’t move from an appraisal of her as she got closer. She knew what he was there for, and every bit of her cringed away from it.

      Except her feet.

      “I would make a proper introduction. This is Lord Caernavik’s sheriff. From the Caern Glen. I ken that they’re lowlanders…but they’re verra powerful. Isn’t it exciting? A member of the Caern clan. Here. At my table.”

      What was unbelievable was that he’d managed to arrive anywhere in the vicinity without Sybil having any awareness or warning of it. And then she was cursing her own stupidity for that thought. She knew why she’d missed such a momentous thing: the man stretched out on her bed. This moment.

      The instant thought of him sent warmth surging through her. She ducked her head to hide it. If she suffered such things, she’d say it was a blush. But that was unreasonable and stupid. It was more like anger that Vincent had bested her in a way and lay ensconced in safety on her bed while she faced this. She watched the floor in front of the trencher table until the warmth receded, leaving her feeling weak and ineffectual and small. That wasn’t good. She had hell to face, and yet the thought of the blond man in her bed melted through everything.

      He was in her bed…?

      He’d better not be! Especially not with his boots and plaide still on. Sybil didn’t have much, but what she did have, she treasured. The pure linen sheets she’d woven were one of the small luxuries she allowed herself—and if he were abusing them, he’d pay! Her lips lifted slightly. It would be worse if he’d doffed anything and was actually in her covers. Much worse…and much better. Sybil nearly sighed at the instant image that thought brought. What was happening to her? Sybil swallowed all of it away. She didn’t have time for pondering handsome men naked in her bed! She needed her wits for other things.

      “Sir Ian Blaine? May I present my…daughter? My…eligible daughter, Sybil. Sybil!”

      The second sounding of her name was hissed, since Sybil hadn’t yet looked up. She couldn’t. She was reeling with the words. Never had Lady Eschon claimed her. And never would she have suspected it to be with such warmth, and with words that were honeyed and sweet. Sybil dropped a curtsey and lifted her head to watch as the little dark man moved from his chair in order to bow formally from the other side of the table. He was shorter even than she was, and had arms that appeared furred with a thick growth of the same black hair that was bearding his chin.

      It didn’t seem possible, but he was more hideous than she’d envisioned in her nightmare. It was made worse as he smiled, revealing gaps where teeth had been, while those that were still seated were stained and foul-smelling, even from across the span of the trencher table.

      “I’ve just been telling Sir Ian how it is your hand behind all the comforts in the Eschoncan Keep, Sybil. While he was regaling me with the status of his own holdings. I’m quite overcome, I am.”

      Her stepmother had hidden a great flair for dramatics all the years she’d been abused and mistreated by her late spouse, Lord Eschon. Now she put every bit of emphasis on the words and the wide sweep of her arms as she opened them wide to Sybil.

      “Come, dear. Sir Ian was so longing to meet you. I had you fetched and a plate set for you. Just look.”

      Sybil’s eyes narrowed. She’d never been called such an endearment before, nor had she been invited to the table, both signs of worse things yet to come. How was it possible to have her life upended so thoroughly—and in the span of less than a day’s time? Where no man had been in her sphere, now she must deal with two of them?

      She swallowed and lifted her skirt with a hand in order to slide into position on the bench. She knew how to right everything and exactly what to do with both of these men. And exactly what potions to use. She looked up and smiled slightly at the dark, ugly, little one…watched it returned and ignored how it felt. As usual.

      The wench had drawers full of mystery stuff, and not one bit of flimsy, revealing undergarments, which was what he was looking for. Not at first, and not consciously. He hadn’t an idea of what he was looking for when he’d first started, but with each drawer he opened he got more determined to find her weakness. There wasn’t a wench born that didn’t love soft, clingy, sheer underthings caressing her flesh. At least, if there was one, he hadn’t met her yet. Vincent was beginning to think he’d found the lone one, as each drawer he rifled held little more than materials, or dirt, and one held such a profusion of dried mushroom-looking things that he’d shoved it shut with a grunt of disgust.

      Every wench had a soft, feminine, hidden side. He was going to find hers and use it to torment her and use against her. If she had one. And if he could find it. And with each drawer he rifled he felt nearer to failing.

      Waif wasn’t helping, but he wasn’t hindering, either. In fact, he was fairly amenable to whatever Vincent did until he’d located the toad-sweat jar. The moment he’d spied it and lifted it, the animal was on its feet and putting a methodical purr of growl into sound. Vincent got the message and put the jar back.

      The animal was worse than a jailer—and twice as vigilant.

      Vincent went back to checking drawers and cabinets. That activity the wolf didn’t mind. In fact, Waif was at the moment lounging across a rug that positioned him directly in front of her unlocked armoire, the one holding her liquids and potions. Waif wasn’t threatening; he was actually looking sleepy. That was another oddity. It was as if being granted access and being left in the chamber cleared Vincent from the list of things to be threatened, attacked, and perhaps eaten. Vincent was free to do what he wished, as long as he stayed away from certain possessions of hers that the wolf alerted him to.

      Vincent opened one of the last drawers and knew he was getting close. This one contained several folded, light tan-colored sacks that, once unfurled, looked to be dresses. Sackcloth dresses. He’d known monks to wear such stiff, scratchy cloth, but what would a noblewoman be doing with them? She hadn’t been wearing one when he’d met her. She wasn’t wearing one now.

      He slammed that drawer shut, too, shoved his hair out of his eyes and opened the bottom one, and struck treasure. The lass had garments so sheer they were near invisible, and the stitching was such that it was nigh impossible to spot. He tried. It wasn’t until he took one pink-shaded garment closer to the fire and held it in front of his nose that he spotted the incredibly tiny stitches that had pieced the thing together.

      And then he knew he was in trouble. The