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 every movement as they finished their chores with the pots and kettles showed him as much.
They should have worn thicker skirts, or a layer beneath these. Then he wouldn’t be able to glimpse stout legs and nicely turned ankles with the fire’s light behind them. They should also have provided some support for the swinging appendages of their voluminous breasts. Vincent put the tankard down, lifted the hollowed-out bread loaf to his lips, then shoveled another huge bite of stew into his mouth.
He chewed as he listened to and watched the lasses. They obviously weren’t immune to a man’s appreciation, nor did they appear worried over the fact that there were two of them and but one of him. Vincent swallowed and grinned hugely at the lass that turned and hefted both of her bulbous breasts toward where he was, with one leg atop their cutting table as he watched…and feasted, and worked at finding desire for what was being offered to him.
Although it didn’t seem possible, he didn’t feel the vaguest inkling of desire or stirring for either of the lasses right in front of him, offering pleasure for pleasure’s sake. He only hoped it didn’t show. He nodded his appreciation as the bolder of the two started swaying, moving her hips from side to side as she thumbed the pinpricks of her own nipples into tautness against her blouse.
Vincent bit at the side of his bowl and came away with a chunk of stew-soaked, thick, bitter crust. He left the crumbs that accompanied his movement where they landed, atop his wet plaide. He was still soaked. And worn out. And weakened. That could be it. He’d swam out into their loch until his arms were cursing him with the use. Then he’d turned over and floated, breathing deeply of the damp mist that kissed the water. And then he turned back and used the rest of his strength to reach shore again. It had taken almost all of it, too. Vincent knew it had worked at cleansing the desire for Lady Sybil from his limbs as he’d hauled himself back onto the rocks with trembling arms and weak legs. The chill had worked as well.
Perhaps that was the cause of his lack of desire no matter how much he forced it. The larger one had gotten even bolder, induced no doubt by his foolish grinning. Vincent took another bite of the bread-crust bowl they’d hollowed out for him the moment he’d appeared on the step, soaked through and shivering.
They’d turned into mothering types then and couldn’t get warm victuals into him fast enough. It was the shorter of the two that had cut the end from a loaf of bread, pulled
