Once Upon a Knight. Jackie Ivie

one who was to wear it—and there wasn’t much to hold it to her body, if the little sleeves were any indication. Vincent held the thing to his chest and attempted to force the desire and ache away. He wasn’t to touch her! He wasn’t to ken her. He wasn’t to do anything his body was primed to do! Again? He was obsessed. His mind was locked on to it—and this time he’d done it to himself?

      Nothing worked. Vincent breathed heavily and dropped the garment. He was left with nothing save the obvious.

      Escape.

      Waif stirred as Vincent walked purposefully to the window, but that was the extent of the animal’s movement. It didn’t stop Vincent. He had a reddish haze in front of his eyes, coloring everything, and a pounding from his nether regions into each thigh, and from thence to his entire body. He didn’t have a choice in the matter. He had to get as far away from her and her things as possible, or he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. And this had never happened to him before.

      He didn’t bother with options. He knew her rooms were on the third level, or what would be the third level if they’d constructed their castle with an eye to measurement and quality. Vincent saw the odd striping of the grass and dirt below what looked to be a little over a two-story leap, and then he swiveled and scanned upward. The crenellated top of the tower hung out, and there were outcroppings of rocks and jutting wood where they’d put another floor above this one. Up. He was going up.

      Vincent grabbed on to one of the awning rocks and swung out, putting himself into a crouch in order to spring upward the moment his boots touched stone again. He didn’t hear or feel the rip of his kilt until he was already swinging out and reaching up for a wooden floor joist.

      The wolf was in deadly earnest as it leaped up again, snapping with jaws that would have reached the naked flesh of a thigh if Vincent hadn’t already caught and hung from a beam. From there it was a matter of using his arms to pull himself up. He wasn’t willing to risk any part of his body near her window until he was well above the beam and looking down. He could have sworn the wolf shook its head, too.

      It didn’t matter. Vincent didn’t give her pet another thought. It was survival of the fittest now. Every living thing knew that rule. Vincent slid along the beam, garnishing slivers in the bottom flesh of his thighs and buttocks and wishing it pained more.

      The wood he was atop was rough-hewn and weathered, but it was stout and solid. It bore his weight well when he was standing atop it and reaching for a poorly cut stone that was part of the tower floor. It was a small matter then of hand and foot coordination and effort, and then he was lying full-out on the floor of the tower, looking at a darkening sky and heaving for each breath.

      It had worked, too. Vincent watched the myriad of stars come out to litter the sky, felt the cool caress of the new night breeze, and started to feel the itch and irritation of wood slivers. All of which was better than the raging lust and desire he hadn’t been able to stop.

      He wasn’t deserving of this torment. He was beginning to wonder if the bargain had been made against him, rather than her. But why? He hadn’t done anything to deserve this. Lately, anyway. And just how had they found such a tempting, winsome, exciting, smart lass? And why had they made the bargain the way they had? Get the lass to love him and then leave her? Without taking her? How had they known Vincent would be craving the one thing he wasn’t allowed to have?

      And why was that becoming the foremost thing in his life and starting to reflect in everything he thought and did?

      Denial. That was the problem. He needed a wench. Any wench.

      Just not that one.

      “Damn.” Vincent said it to the night air and lifted onto his knees. He thought his family had a certain fondness for him, and yet look what they’d done to him. They’d done this! They’d caused him to be craven and desperate and aching. Vincent looked down at himself in disbelief as he realized the truth. No irritation of wood slivers or chill caress of night was working. He didn’t want just any woman.

      He wanted that one.

      He rubbed at the aggravation of itching flesh all along the backs of his legs and into his buttocks and knew there was nothing for it. He had to find his way into a burn or the loch. He needed the water to relieve the sting of the slivers, and he needed the cold on his ardor.

      No wonder he stayed clear of his entire clan.

      Chapter Seven

      If Sybil had ever screamed, it would have sounded like the noise she made once she unlocked her door, opened it, and saw her chamber. She had both of her hands clamped to her mouth to stay any more of the screech and waited until her heart finished its tenth pounding beat before moving. Nobody ever heard her scream, or screech, or moan, or anything. And why? Because she was an emotionless shell, and that’s exactly how she liked it. She’d groomed it. Studiously maintained it. Lived it. No matter what.

      And now, thanks to the violation of her privacy, she’d given him exactly what he took as his due: female reaction. Sybil ran her hands along the opening of her cloak, feeling the velvet, stiff and thick in her palms. And then she was unfastening the garment and hanging it, and scanning the black corners of her room for anything that looked like a large blond wretch in Highland clothing.

      The only thing she spotted was Waif slinking along the wall. Sybil clicked her tongue, and the wolf came slowly from behind one of her cabinets, a bit of blue and black plaide held in his teeth. She held out her hand for it and restrained the instant burst of emotion in case there was blood on it.

      The piece was just that—a torn bit of plaide. But from where? The room was dark, and it felt exactly as always—empty. Bereft. Lonely. She shook off the fancy and narrowed her eyes as she reached to where that man had dropped the pink chemise she’d designed, woven, and then stitched into being. How dare he? It was bad enough he was making all of her feel tense, annoyed, and breathless, and then knowing he’d touched this! The outfit she’d made for when her fondest dream came to fruition. And now it had been touched by hands so unclean it was senseless to wash them! She knew the man was unclean, uncouth, and barbaric, and all of that had touched this? Sybil wadded the gossamer material into a ball and stopped just shy of tossing it into her firepit.

      Waste was waste, however one looked at it. She shook the outfit out with hands that trembled, and folded it automatically into the small square it had been in before. Then she was finding her bottom drawer and replacing it amongst the other garments he’d tossed about.

      It was a stupid idea to burn it. She couldn’t have burned anything anyway, since the fire was down to mere coals. And if she’d tried, she’d have created a stench worse than when she’d been working on her concoction for creating haze and smoke without using fire.

      Sybil refolded and restacked the garments, then rocked back on her heels after closing the drawer. She had to start using her wits again. That’s what she prided herself on—wits. And not with any vanity. She was very sharp. The first thing she had to do was find out where that Viking fellow had gone and to get him back. Her plans depended on it.

      Vincent shoveled in another bite of the delicious stew he’d missed out on earlier, wiped at his chin, and nodded his head at the two serving wenches who were cavorting before the kitchen fire for his delectation. He knew that’s why they did it and grinned again before he swallowed. They were plum-ripe and lusty women, and they were finely arrayed. He only wished their efforts were working.

      The little dark, odd wench appeared to have ruined him. Vincent swallowed the bite and shoveled another enormous one in and nodded again at the larger of the two. Both lasses were buxom, with rounded asses and the ripest breasts he’d seen in many a moon. Actually…

      Vincent swallowed the stew and grabbed for the tankard of ale that the larger one had dipped out for him and gulped until he ran out of breath. He had to amend his own recollection. He’d been without a woman since before his stay as a guest in the dungeon Myles had spirited him away from. And he hadn’t even seen these two lasses’ breasts, although he had no doubt that at any moment he would. The way they were enhancing