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 garment he held in his hand would be dangerously short on any wench—even one with the slight build of the 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
