Once Upon a Knight. Jackie Ivie

      “A shirt. Do you own one?”

      “Mayhap,” he returned.

      “Where is it?”

      “Why?”

      “So you’ll don it, of course.”

      “Hmm. The lady of the house dinna’ seem to mind.”

      “How would you ken? You had your eyes closed.”

      She knew that? Vincent felt the satisfaction pump through him with the next three or four heartbeats. He knew exactly what it was. The little wench was warming to him. And here he’d thought she’d be a challenge.

      “Ears that are open sometimes ken more than eyes do. And her tone said she found much to her satisfaction,” he answered.

      “Wondrous. You’re a spy as well?”

      “I use my senses and you call it spying? Verra well. I spy. What of it?”

      “Are you sufficiently recovered then?”

      “For what?”

      “Seeing the back of your arse as you leave,” she answered crossly.

      “What will I get if I were to do so,…Sybil?”

      She sucked for a breath. Vincent watched it as well as heard it.

      “What do you want?” she finally managed.

      “An introduction will do for a start.”

      “You’re in the keep. My stepmother is bemused and interested. I dinna’ ken what else you need.”

      “The female in you would,” he replied.

      Her silver-gray eyes flashed up at him, showing the ire she was hiding. He pursed his lips.

      “Come along, then. Let’s test your wound.”

      “T’isn’t much. As you already ken. But…I am at your mercy. Be gentle, fair maid.”

      She didn’t answer, but her movements did it for her. He watched her fumble in her cloak to pull a large, unwieldy-looking key from somewhere in the folds of it, and then she was shoving it into the lock with more force than was necessary. He couldn’t help the grin, and then he was gasping with the size of the animal that slammed against his chest and backed him up fully two steps, pinning him against the wall with a paw to each side of his head and a mouth full of hot breath and wicked-looking teeth at his nose.

      “Dinna’ let him move, Waif.” She whispered it so softly he almost didn’t catch the wolf’s name. And then she shut the door, leaving him with a man-killer in the hall.

      Chapter Four

      Vincent tried everything in his repertoire that he could think of. Nothing moved the light gold stare of the wolf from contemplation of what a tasty bite he would be. If such an animal had thoughts, it was clear what they were. The only thing it wasn’t doing was licking its lips. Waif didn’t have to bait or trap his prey. He already had it. Vincent looked to where his boots were being caressed by hot breath from the animal reclining right in the center of the hall, and the animal stared right back.

      It was more than he expected.

      When she’d first shut the door, Vincent had actually felt a tremor of something resembling fear. He hadn’t even a skean on him, and even if he did, he couldn’t reach it. The animal wasn’t allowing him any movement. Not at first. Not until enough time had passed that his ears had started buzzing with keeping his breathing modulated and his eyes from betraying emotion. The animal had finally dropped onto all fours, prowled a bit in a circular motion, and then sat…right in the center of the hall.

      The animal gave him an area by the wall roughly equivalent to his body length. It hadn’t done more than blink once when Vincent slid onto his haunches to give his legs a rest from their trembling. There was sweat soaking his palms where he rubbed them on his plaide. And his belly rumbled, too, telling of its displeasure at missing the feast he’d barely had time to smell.

      He had to do it…although he didn’t want to. He had to give the little wench this exchange as well. She was rapidly and markedly getting beneath his skin, and that wasn’t what he’d bargained for. When he’d bargained. Vincent sat and thought. He’d been offered his freedom from that dungeon and offered good food and employment. He hadn’t had much to think over.

      Vincent moved away from the wall a bit to scratch at where a stone was rubbing at his lower back. The animal moved its head slightly toward him. Vincent sighed. It was a good thing he hadn’t put a time frame on this endeavor.

      “I was na’ escaping,” he said aloud and watched in disbelief as the animal nodded its head. Twice. And looked a tad less attentive.

      Vincent studied the wolf. Then he spoke again, using the same tone as he would if addressing another man. “I was just settling myself. Against this cursed rock. ’Tis nae much more.” He shimmied into a more comfortable position, sliding along the wall until he was reclining on his side. He was studiously ignoring how the movement scraped the skin above his knee and onto his upper thigh as the kilt didn’t move with his motion and the slate of the floor beneath the rushes wasn’t smoothed.

      The wolf made the same motion, only it moved until it was on its front and cooling its belly with the rock.

      “Na’ much for creature comfort is it?” Vincent asked, still in the same companionable voice but feeling a total fool.

      The animal responded with a low whine in its throat.

      “And even less for sustenance.”

      The wolf growled again.

      “And the smells. They’ve cooked a huge banquet below, and what? They let us starve?”

      The wolf huffed that time. Vincent had never had a conversation with an animal, but it was better than envisioning the death grip of his throat in those teeth.

      “Well? Do we receive a platter? Do you ken?”

      Another huff.

      “They make you share my punishment? Well, that’s hardly fair.” He couldn’t help it. There’s was no one about, and the hint of injured male pride crept into his voice. He probably sounded like he was whining.

      The animal eased a bit toward him in response, moving along the shale floor. Vincent held his breath.

      “Methinks wenches have had the upper hand for overlong in this keep. This is what I’ve decided. What say you, Waif, fellow? We agreed?”

      The animal got closer, breathed a bit on his leg, and then leapt to its feet, snarling and snapping foam-flecked teeth. Vincent damn near screamed and would have if his heart hadn’t been blocking his throat.

      It wouldn’t have been heard over the huge clatter of a dropped wooden serving platter, followed by the crash of a tankard, with the resultant foaming mess of spilled ale, and the sharp cry of the servant carrying them as he took in the scene.

      Vincent moved his eyes to the end of the hall. It was the only part of him he dared move.

      “Is—was that my sup?” he asked, stopping after the first word to lower his voice back within the masculine range.

      “Aye,” the serf whispered.

      “And…what was it…to have been?” Vincent could still feel hot breath against his calves from the wolf, but it wasn’t reacting to his words. It was more than he’d counted on—and he stored that information for later use.

      “The boar is gone. So I’ve brought a joint of mutton. Bread. Gravy. Cabbage. A melon. There was…also ale. Freshly drawn. I did it myself.”

      “Sounds…pleasant. Smells…better. Did you bring a blade with it?”

      “A blade?”

      Vincent