higher, and the wolf reacted, turning so quickly and violently that Vincent’s collapse onto his backside wasn’t graceful or anything other than exactly what it was: his legs going weak and giving out on him. Vincent had to consciously control the quivering of limbs that he’d worked into a surfeit of muscle and brawn—and adding to that was the queasy reaction in the pit of his belly. He was appalled at his cowardice and lack of luck. Being held prisoner by a wolf? Nobody outside this keep would believe it. And he was beginning to think that no amount of pay was worth this.
It took some time to get his breathing back to normal and his heart to dull from the powerful thud it had been hampering him with. Vincent watched the wolf attack and demolish the joint of meat, until the snap of bone showed the point he’d reached. And each time, Vincent felt an odd leap of his pulse as he realized it could very well be his bones receiving the crushing pressure. This trained pet of hers was a better jailer than any Sassenach brute he’d met.
“Tasty, is it?” Vincent finally asked.
The animal growled slightly and started licking along the edge of its bone.
“You do ken that she’ll pay for this?” Vincent asked.
The wolf huffed with what could be amusement. The animal had every right—if it were mortal and had the ability to think. Vincent’s threats were idle and a waste of breath. They were doing what he needed them to, though. They seemed to have a calming effect on the animal, and using his voice was giving him a sense of courage. Which was worse than odd. Vincent Erick Danzel had never been accused of being unmanly and frightened.
Until now.
“I was promised gold. As much as I can carry. You ken what for?”
The wolf didn’t respond, although it did stop the loud slurp of each tongue lap on the bone and seemed to wait.
“To take her…heart. Make her love me.”
The wolf growled. Vincent smiled slightly.
“And then to leave her.”
The wolf was on its feet and snapping at him from just beyond his tucked-under ankles. Vincent pursed his lips and hoped it hid the way they trembled.
“That’s right, Waif, old fellow. I’m to just go. Never look back. Leave her…to her heartburnings. All of them. And I’m to make certain she has plenty of them and that they’re strong. What say you to that?”
The animal came closer, looming right over his bent knees and breathing hot, mutton-scented breath at Vincent’s nose. There was a moment when Vincent wondered if his heart was going to make it to the next beat, and then it decided it would with a thud so strong it pained his throat. Vincent swallowed around the obstruction.
“Ho! I’ve go it!”
The serf was back. Vincent hadn’t heard the lad’s approach over the force of his pulse combined with the growl that was emanating from Waif. But he didn’t need to hear anything. The wolf’s reaction was telling him of it. He realized what it was about now as the beast started snarling and snapping and looking altogether like he was starved and hadn’t just eaten a large joint of meat. The animal was acting out his role…for the effect.
“Jesu!”
The serf said it for him, and Vincent turned what was probably a sickly smile toward the lad.
“You have my fipple?” he asked without making much sound.
“Aye.” The lad held up the flute, and Vincent closed his eyes for a moment. It cleared the sheen of moisture on them, as well as hiding the weakness from everybody, including himself.
“Pitch it at me. Be perfect with the aim, lad.”
The serf did an underhanded toss, and it was so well-aimed that it landed in the sling of material made by the kilt between Vincent’s knees.
“I—I’m going to need some…bread,” Vincent managed to say.
“I’ve nae time for a second platter yet, sir,” the serf explained.
“Did you na’ bring it with the first?”
“Oh. Aye. Black bread. Baked this morn. Tasty. But dust-covered now.”
“Toss it this way.”
“There’s a pat of butter, as well.”
“I will na’ need butter.”
“’Tis more palatable with butter, sir.”
“I’m using it for a blockage, lad. At the end of my reed.”
“You block it?”
“Aye. Takes the sound and lowers it a span.”
“It does?”
“Aye. And I dinna wish this beast tearing at my throat if he is na’ fond of high-pitched sounds. You ken?”
“Bread. On its way!”
The boy’s aim wasn’t as good this time, and the half loaf of bread glanced off Waif’s nose and landed in the gloom beyond them. The wolf reacted, reaching the spot the lad had been in with one powerful spring of its body. The lad’s scream would have been amusing if Vincent hadn’t been in a full-out lunge after the bread loaf and getting back to his assigned spot before Waif returned. He barely made it, and watched as the wolf assimilated what had occurred and why. Vincent knew that was what was happening, too, as the beast looked at the reed he held in one hand and the loaf of bread in the other.
“Will you be wanting a piece?” Vincent asked.
The wolf sat back on its haunches and tipped its head.
“You can have the crust. I’ve nae need of it. I’ve all I need…right…here.”
Vincent was scooping out the soft innards of the loaf and compacting it into a dense plug about the size of his thumb. He eyed it once or twice for measurement purposes and knew the animal was watching him. He was also using the time to work his hands and fingers. He needed them warm and limber, not frozen and stiff with fright.
He was also going to need a bit of moisture in his mouth, or at least enough to wet his lips, but his mouth hadn’t been helping with that for some time. It was dry as dust. Vincent sucked some spittle into existence, tongued it along the top of his flute, and began.
Vincent liked to think he was a master of several things, but music had always been his real talent. Very few knew that, and he liked it that way. Such a thing made a man seem weak, easily manipulated, and soulful. None of which he could afford to be. He closed his eyes to whatever the wolf was demonstrating and ran through a series of easy melodies he’d created over the years. Then he launched into the more melodious, difficult ones, moving his fingers with rapidity and stealth all along the series of holes carved in the top and bottom of his fipple flute. The other thing the bread plug was good for was muting his music. He really didn’t want an audience. Not yet. His expertise at some things was better kept hidden.
Vincent finished one of his fast, wild songs, and cracked open an eye. Waif was on the opposite side of the hall, had his head down beneath his paws,
