The way he said the last words had an angry tremor traveling from the bottom of her spine, up over her head, across her nose, and flitting from there right to each nipple, making them hard and sensitive and horribly aroused right in front of him. And he knew it! She watched him look there and smile. A slow, seductive smile, so practiced he was probably known by it as well.
Sybil had never felt an emotion so akin to hate, but suspected that what was happening to her was close to it. She’d never felt such anger and malice. She was very near to shaking with it.
“Agreed,” she replied.
“What?” He moved his gaze from contemplation of her breasts and met her eyes again.
“I agree to this contest of yours.”
“Contest?”
Not only was he a wretch, but he couldn’t think, either? “Aye. Contest. Of wits. Now stand aside. I have chores. They will na’ get done if I stand in a hall being bothered by you.”
“You admit to being bothered, do you?”
She swallowed. “I admit nothing. Here.”
He was watching as she pulled a ball of twine from an inner fold of her cloak. She always carried a small ball of it. Such a thing was of many uses when gathering, checking, and securing things. “Help me.”
“What is it you’re about?” he asked.
“Measuring.”
“Measuring,” he replied in the same even tone she was using.
“Work is being done on this tower. I have the chore of overseeing it and putting it into place. I need measurements for such a thing. If you waylay me, at least make yourself useful.”
“How long am I to hold it?”
“Dinna’ fash, toad prince. I’ll return when I’ve made the measure. Can you do this?”
“Hold one end of a ball of string?” he asked in an incredulous tone. This time both of his eyebrows were lifted.
“We’ll move to more difficult chores once I see how well you handle this one. So. Can you?”
In answer, he plucked the ball from her hand, pulled the end free, and handed the twine back to her. Sybil held it loosely in her palm, allowing it to unwind as she went down the spiral of stairs, trying very hard not to skip. She didn’t look back. She was afraid she’d giggle.
Chapter Three
This wench was going to be the toughest yet. Ever.
No wonder his cousin had offered such a sum of gold to gain her heart—and then do what he did best once he had it. Walk away. He should have expected such a wench when Myles Magnus Donal had broken through the side wall of Lord Shrewsbury’s dungeon in order to free Vincent. He really should have suspected such a trick when he got the challenge that came along with his freedom. Find the littlest Eschon lady, make her thrill for love of him, and then make certain she suffered heartburning. He was to leave. They’d pay him all the gold he could carry if he did so. Which was stupid. That’s what he always did. Exactly like he always did. And then Myles had made the task even more intriguing with the formidable qualification that Vincent had to do it without physical means.
They wished him to get a wench to fall in love with him without benefit of touch? Good thing Vincent knew exactly the scope of his talents. Any other man would have thanked them for the freedom, turned down the challenge, and walked away. Not him. They’d made it illicit, intriguing, and irresistible.
Now he realized he’d been shammed. Completely. He should have known Myles hadn’t changed. The Donal laird always won at any contest. Vincent should have remembered that.
Vincent ran the entire length of their castle curtain wall twice before he dared face the wench again. There was emotion fueling his frame and filling his chest. He had to get it under control before he met her again. The little wench had stirred his passion, all right. She’d angered him to the point he had to physically work it out. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
The run wasn’t easy going. Chunks of masonry had fallen or been chiseled off in what looked like continual repair, and the boulders had to be dodged or jumped. Vincent increased his stride rather than take a cautionary pace. Fading light made it difficult, and that required instantaneous reaction. Which was exactly what he needed.
He wasn’t angry. Never. Anger was one of the things he made others feel. It gave him the edge he needed. Anyone losing their temper lost. He’d learned that so long ago it was ingrained. Besides, the physical exertion was helping the return of feeling to the arm and shoulder that had grown numb from hours of standing in a hall holding a piece of twine that lifted every so often throughout time that had lengthened into afternoon. He hadn’t known until he’d given up and followed the string that she’d tied it to a door in order to give him the impression there was a real body at the other end of it.
He stopped pumping his legs, more for lack of ability to continue than anything else, and took great gulps of rain-laden air. The Eschon castle was a large, rambling structure. They appeared to be renovating it and had a massive amount of work still to do. He could see chinks of light glowing from spots where it wasn’t supposed to. If light could get out, then elements could get in. As could any number of other vices, such as an enemy’s battering ram, foul weather, the black death…vermin.
He was also sending word to the Donal clan that he needed more gold. This particular assignment was going to cost more. A lot more. He’d had a running love bet since he was a cocksure youth and a braggart and found that both of those things created anger in others. It was too late to take it back now…any of it. He didn’t lament it. It actually kept him employed at times. Besides, it was easy pay. All he had to do was clean up, use a skean on his facial hair, don a feile-breacan, and pull back his hair. That, and use the gifts God had given him. It was easy. There wasn’t a wench he couldn’t charm and win. And then leave.
Vincent was an expert at the challenge of a lass’s heart. He also had a perfect win ratio. This particular wench must have annoyed someone to the end of endurance to wish her such ill will, though. He could well imagine what she’d done. But they’d forgotten to add a few things when he’d been offered the bet. Things like how odd she was, how prickly her temperament, how sharp her tongue, how quick her wit…and the worse. The wench was sharp, as well.
Vincent blew the sigh out hard, shoving the air back up his nose with the strength of it, and unstrapped the rawhide tie from his upper arm in order to pull his hair back. Such a thing as rock climbing was better done without things like blowing hair and stinging sweat in your eyes. Then he approached the outer wall, found a handhold, and started climbing.
It wasn’t for exercise or to create more mass and brawn. He didn’t need either. Muscle had been gifted to him from birth, almost. He rarely had to do more than bed a wench or take a run to keep toned and fit. He had enough mass and strength to survive on the list if he was challenged. That’s all he needed. He was no great fighter, but if he used his wits he didn’t need to be. He used tests of physical endurance because it helped him think, plan, strategize.
Exactly as he was doing now.
There were large, fist-sized outcroppings of masonry sticking out in a haphazard fashion on the outer wall, making it an easy
