Once Upon a Knight

by Jackie Ivie

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

In the fog-filled Scottish Highlands of 1457, a sensual dare brings together a fiery lass and a mysterious suitor--but it will take far more for them to discover they've fallen in love. . . A Brawny Clansman The fiercely handsome Vincent Danzel never backs away from a dare. So when he's challenged to make a particular young lady fall in love with him without taking her to his bed, he jumps at the chance to woo the unsuspecting lass to her knees. . . A Willful Lady Sybil Eschoncan's visions warn her that an unsuitable man will enter her life, and Vincent's sudden appearance confirms her prediction. But she's unprepared for her wild attraction to the rake--and perplexed by his unwillingness to claim her. . . An Irresistible Passion Vincent vows to resist his mounting desire, even as Sybil's every word intrigues him and her every touch ignites his senses. But when another man lays claim to the tempting maid, Vincent must risk everything to fight for the love he never expected to find. . . "Filled with magic and a love so deep it takes my breath away." -- Romance Reader at Heart

Release date: September 25, 2009

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

AD 1457

This one was too easy.

Vincent Danzel tucked a stray lock of hair back behind his ear and sucked in on his cheeks as he watched the cloaked figure dart beneath a shrub. Then he shifted slightly from one foot to the other in his crouch, listening for the slight groan from the tree limb he was perched on. Then he was fussing with the stopper on the sporran he’d pushed to one side. It was still full. Mostly full, he clarified for himself. He wasn’t dulling any of his charm with drink.

He was going to need it.

He slid a finger along his upper lip, scratching at the stubble there. He should have shaved, too. Then again, it would give him a rakish air. He might need that, as well.

Vincent sighed and shifted again, this time moving a foot farther forward in his crouch. The limb protested that exchange of weight, but it had complained the entire time he’d been atop it, watching the little wench waste time looking for her toads. Vincent wrinkled his nose. No one had said anything about such strangeness. Toads? He watched as she spied one, knelt at the edge of the pond glimmering beneath them and started reaching for the fifth toad so far.

He almost felt sorry for the little creature. Once she got her hands on it, she was shaking and slapping and making all sorts of strange noises until the toad would respond as she must want. Then she was making little chirping noises as she reached into the folds of her cloak so she could get a cloth to wipe at its back. He didn’t know what substance she hoped to gain, but once she had the toad wiped clean, she’d release it back into the pond, setting it gently back on the surface, where only a ripple betrayed the creature’s immediate plunge of escape.

Vincent watched her fold the piece of cloth she’d wiped the toad with into a small triangular shape, pull out a jar and shove the piece in it before replacing the cork and sealing it in with the four others she’d already gained.

Someone was paying for this insult, Vincent decided. And it wasn’t enough. That was certain. This wench had nothing to recommend her. She was small, with no shape that he could decide. She was also plain, if the way she shrouded herself was any indication. And she was strange. Worse than strange. She was odd-strange. Vincent ran his fingers along his eyelashes, separating them to a lush fringe, for the effect. He was going to need that, too.

She stood, making little difference in her size since it was seen from the height he was at. Vincent reached forward, gripped the tree limb in front of his boots and swung forward, rolling into a dead-weight hang so he could drop to the ground to the right of her. He ended up directly atop the soft, water-soaked edge of the pond. Due to the volume of his weight, the ground forfeited, leaving him ankle-deep in muck while she tipped her head away from him and giggled.

“You should na’ spy,” she said finally, once she had her mirth under control.

Vincent frowned. She didn’t even act surprised at his abrupt entrance. “I was na’ spying,” he replied.

“What was it you were doing, then?”

“Granting a wish.”

She still hadn’t looked toward him, and water was seeping through his boots now. Vincent backed a step, then another, searching without looking for the firm ground that he already knew was at the pond’s edge.

“What wish was it I’ve made?” she asked.

“A prince. ’Tis what kissing a frog is for. Gaining one.”

“I’ve kissed nae frogs,” she replied.

“That probably explains why you’ve na’ received a prince.”

“You’re nae prince?” she asked.

“Vincent Danzel. Knight. At your service.” He bowed for effect.

“Pity,” she replied before she turned and started walking away.

Vincent was stunned. He sucked in a breath Not only had she not even looked his way, but she was leaving? Women didn’t react so to him. Never. Well, mayhap the Sassenach taxman’s wife had, but she’d been worshipping gold rather than the flesh. Then again, she’d had poor eyesight.

Vincent pulled his feet free of the muck, ignoring his wet boots, and moved around this female, blocking her path.

“You’ve a reason for staying me?” she asked, directing her question to the region of his knees.

The wench was diminutive, barely reaching midchest. Vincent put his hands on his hips and regarded her. “Someone has to speak for the poor devils,” he replied, finally.

“Who?”

“Me.”

“I mean, who are the poor devils?”

“Oh. Toads. Nary a one has done aught to receive treatment such as you give. I’m protecting them.”

She giggled again. Then she lifted her head, tipped the edges of her cloak open with her hand and met his gaze. Vincent regarded her solemnly, waiting for the reaction. And missing any. His world didn’t rock. It didn’t even shiver. Nothing. This wench had nothing to recommend her and nothing to tempt him. It was a good thing he was being paid, he told himself.

“I’m na’ harming them,” she said.

“That is na’ what they tell me.”

She cocked her eyebrows up, showing a glint of silver in the light blue of her eyes. That caught his attention for a moment. She had pale perfect skin and very black eyebrows. He wondered if that was the color of her hair or even if she had any to claim. He tipped his head to one side and waited.

“What is it they tell you?” she asked.

“That a pond is meant for swimming and catching sup. Na’ for the torment of a wench’s hand.”

He reached out and grabbed for her hand, surprising her with the swiftness if her intake of breath was any indication. Her hands were fine-shaped and delicate. Her entire form looked to be that way. He’d been ordered not to touch her or make her his. The warning wasn’t necessary. She wasn’t his type, she wasn’t the right size and she was too easy. Even without his fee.

Her hand trembled within his. Vince stepped closer and dipped his head slightly, looking at her with dark eyes through black lashes that had always looked incongruous with his blond hair. He knew it made women swoon. He’d been told often enough of it. That was why he’d made certain the lashes were each separated and defined.

“Torment?” she whispered.

“Aye. And shaking. Such things belong…elsewhere.” His voice deepened exactly when he wanted it to. He licked at his lip, too.

Her mouth quirked, and then everything on her features went bored and disinterested. “You need a bath,” she replied.

Vince straightened slightly. “I bathed this morn. In the loch.” He kept the defensive tone from the words with difficulty. Much difficulty. And then he was mentally doubling his fee.

“You forgot to wash your mouth.”

She shocked him further by slipping her hand free and tipping her little chin in a gesture of dismissal. His mind was blank. He didn’t know what to say. She didn’t act like she was expecting him to say anything. She picked up one side of her skirts with the hand he’d recently claimed and used the wad of material as a buffer between them as she passed right by him. His mind was stalled, his mouth was dry and made drier by the slack-jawed effect of being so summarily passed over. His eyes were still focusing on the spot of ground she’d barely made a dent in, while he was making water-filled holes the size of his boots from standing in sodden ground.

That lasted four or five heartbeats. Since he hadn’t been counting, he couldn’t be sure. No wench treated Vincent Erick Danzel in such a fashion. And if they did, they could just reap the punishment for it. Wenches didn’t turn him down, they didn’t tell him nae, and they didn’t ignore him. It was a matter of pride now.

He reached her with little more than a lope of movement, crossing ground with strides she couldn’t possibly match. He blocked her path again, ignored how the ground was even marshier here, causing him to sink more quickly, and folded his arms to make it official. She wasn’t getting past him that easily! And certainly not without an explanation.

“What is it now, Sir Knight?” She had her head cocked backward and wasn’t moving the shawl to make anything more easily seen. That posture shadowed her upper face and highlighted her lips. They were pursed sweetly and appeared to have the color and texture of a ripe plum, he decided.

“You,” he replied.

“Me?”

“Aye. You.”

“You are determined to disturb me?”

“Disturb. Aye. In a word.”

“Why?”

“First, tell me why you shake toads.”

The spark of interest was back in her eyes, making them look akin to liquid silver again. Vince sucked on one cheek while he considered that.

“I need their sweat,” she said finally.

“Toads…sweat?”

She giggled again. He could grow fond of that sound, he decided. If he kept his eyes closed to the rest of her.

“A toad releases a substance when it’s frightened. ’Tis akin to the strongest of brews.”

“It does?”

“Aye. And ’tis a powerful thing, too. Makes a man weak and seeing things that could na’ be.”

“Truly? What does it do for a woman?” he asked, matching his whispered tone to her own.

“Makes labor easier to abide.”

“Labor?”

“Bringing a babe into the world is labor, Sir Knight. A woman suffers. I assist with relieving it.”

“This toad sweat…is that powerful?”

She smiled and raised her eyebrows several times. Then she stepped nearer to him as if they were conspirators of some kind. She was also closer to his height for some reason. Vince didn’t notice the reason was that he was sinking farther into mud that was thick with pond water.

“That and more. ’Tis also known to create a thrill.”

“Thrill?” he asked. The center of her eyes wasn’t silver at all, but an aqua blue. Vince found himself staring into that center…being drawn into it, singed and yet enthralled by it. He shook his head once to clear it and stepped back. His feet didn’t make the move; only his body did.

The spray from his fall glittered in the air for a moment before it started settling, acting like it was applauding him. Vince sat, stunned, knees bent and feet stuck solid, nearly to his calves. The ground was just as wet and slimy and muck-filled as it had looked while standing atop it. Now that he was seated in it and feeling it leach through the fabric of his kilt, he knew it was miserable-feeling as well. The wench wasn’t just giggling, either. It was an outright laugh.

Vince put his hands to either side of him, but they just sank into the muck, too. He pulled them free with a distinctive sucking noise, leaving two fist-sized holes that immediately filled with water, reflecting back the grimace he was giving first one and then the other of them.

“You do your creed well, toad prince,” she said, once she had the laughter under control.

“Toad prince?” he replied. And then he said it again, louder than before. There was nothing for it. He looked at both hands, blew a sigh of disgust over them to warm them slightly, placed them atop his bare knees, and grunted himself upright. It took every bit of his strength and made muscles bulge from his thighs and stomach, and there was a moment when he didn’t think he was going to be able to gain his own feet, but it was done. The hole he’d made with his buttocks immediately filled with water.

“You see?” she said. “I am right again.”

“About what?” Vincent went to a twist and busied himself with pulling the tree-mash from the back of himself. All that managed to do was make his lower arms a mess of mud as well.

“You. And a bath.”

And with that, she turned and left him.

A man was coming for her. He had been for almost eighteen months, ever since the day her sister Kendran had wished such a thing upon her. Sybil wiped the sides and then the tops and finally the bottoms of all her apothecary vials. It was a chore of love and one she enjoyed. Every bottle hinted at the contents within, with a thumbprint made of lamp oil and soot. She’d then scratch a symbol through the lines, marking what was inside. It was her special pride and joy: all the treasure she’d accumulated. All the good she could do…as well as the evil.

Sybil sucked on her bottom lip as she handled the tansy vial. It was useful for granting death…or it could be used for ridding a body of an unwanted babe, but that usually resulted in death as well.

That was why no one else in the keep had access to the apothecary cabinet belonging to her. No one. That was also why there was a huge hasp of a lock barring it, and before that, anyone would have to get past her pet and guardian, the large wolf named Waif. Sybil tossed a kiss motion toward where Waif reclined and was rewarded by a slight whiff of sound. That gave her pause. It was more than his usual unblinking stare.

She knew why. Waif knew it, too. The man was coming for her. A man so unsuitable it would serve as payment for any teasing and tormenting she did. She knew that’s what the wish was. Kendran wanted her to fall in love. Useless emotion that it was. Falling in love? And with a man lacking a handsome face, or a brawny frame, or even strength of character that Sybil valued the highest? The man from her dream fit the description perfectly.

Even if she’d never seen him.

The shadow from her dreams was just that: dark and wispy and stunted to the stature of a dwarf. That’s the man that was coming for her and the one she’d do her best to avoid. It certainly wasn’t the immense, muscled, blond, fair-faced Adonis of a fellow that had dropped out of a tree today and bothered her at her chores.

Sybil paused at the door, the handle turned down preparatory to opening it. In her other hand she held the large metal key with which she’d secured her cabinet. She nearly shook her head over constant thoughts of the blond fellow. It wasn’t difficult to ascertain the reason. That man had much to engage a woman’s interest. It was obvious he deserved and expected it.

Sybil was still shaking her head as she shut the door, leaving her pet wolf to guard the interior. There was the distinctive click of the door latching, and then there was the likewise distinctive sound of a throat clearing. Sybil pulled in a gasp and turned slightly, managing to keep the reaction from showing anywhere on her body.

“Well?”

The blond fellow from the marsh was moving from an indolent position leaning against a bit of rock wall even as he spoke. He was more massive than she remembered. With hands upon his hips and legs apart, he effectively spanned the width of her tower hall. He’d also found a way to a bath and laundry, if what she smelled and observed was accurate, since he was splendidly attired in little more than a kilt of blue and black, while the open sides of his doublet were leaving none of his brawn disguised. He probably should have donned a shirt as well, she decided, eyeing him with what she hoped was disinterest.

“Well…what?” she replied, since he did nothing more than block her hall while he waited.

“I’ve bathed,” he replied. And then he grinned.

Sybil had to look down as the strangest shiver ran her frame the moment she glimpsed teeth and what promised to be actual dimples as well. Her own body’s response was unfamiliar, unwarranted, and not going unnoticed. At least by her. She could only hope her voice had the same disinterested, modulated tone as always when she needed to use it.

She looked back up. One of his eyebrows was cocked, and his head was slanted slightly. There was a visual array of ropelike muscle pounding from the belly he was displaying as well. It was very practiced, very posed, and very unnecessary. It was also stupid.

“So?” she replied, finally.

His eyebrow fell, as did his smile. He had wickedly dark eyes, and with them dark lashes, both of which were incongruous and superficial-looking with his coloring. He knew it and was used to wielding it, which made the reaction her body was giving even worse. He’d lowered his chin, made a knot bulge out on side of his jaw, and favored her with a stern look, but since it was being shadowed by his lashes, it didn’t do much. It was just as theatrical as the rest of him.

Sybil’s lips quirked despite her effort.

“So…you approve?” he asked.

“You are verra handsome, toad prince,” she replied.

He blinked once and then lifted his chin a fraction. His eyes weren’t black, after all. They had amber shading that, when struck perfectly by the light, glowed with a touch of gold. Sybil forced the most horrid belly tingle to subside even before it had a good start. She didn’t have time for brainless, brawny, beautiful men with large opinions of themselves. She knew who did, though: her stepmother. She narrowed her eyes before he spotted her instant knowledge.

“And?” he prompted.

“And what?”

“I’m verra handsome and you have named me a toad prince. What else?”

Sybil shrugged. “Naught.”

She dipped her head and slanted her shoulder and made a move around him in a dismissive fashion. He took a sideways step and blocked her. Sybil looked at his feet and then tried again. This time, she moved to the other side of the hall, taking three steps and gaining a half step forward of progress. One of his sideways lunges, however, and she was blocked again. She blew the slightest sigh through her lower lip, making it puff out and a wisp of her hair flutter.

“Vincent,” he said.

Sybil ran her gaze up the mass of flesh he was displaying for her and met his eyes. The wretch was smiling. He was openly doing it now and showing full teeth. She tilted her head to one side and regarded him, forcefully ignoring every bit of how it felt. Every bit. Especially the itch of sensation at each breast tip, where she must have donned an underdress that hadn’t been rinsed thoroughly because it chaffed with what had to be lye residue. Especially there.

“I ken your name already. You told me.”

“So say it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking you to.”

Sybil pulled in a breath and complied, giving her voice the most enticing, sensual, deep-throated undertone she knew how, as she drew the first syllable of his name out in a lengthy fashion before finishing it with a moan of sound.

The reaction was immediate and visual. The mass of man jumped slightly as if an itch of sensation made it inevitable. Sybil was around him and almost down the hall before she heard his boots coming after her.

She stopped, turned fully, and put both hands out, blocking his way for a change. She was watching his reaction as he slowed to a crawl of movement and then halted just shy of her and stood there, breathing deeply. Sybil was matching him but kept the beginnings of agitation to herself.

“You’ve a reason for delaying me?” she asked finally.

“I’m na’ delaying you,” he replied. And gave that little smirk-smile that came with one dimple. “At least…na’ this time.”

She took a deep breath. “My stepmother is a verra gracious woman. Anymore. Especially to me. I dinna wish any of that changed,” she replied.

His confusion was almost perfectly portrayed. Sybil had never met a better liar. Poser. Deviant. Her eyes narrowed even more.

“’Tis obvious to me, my toad prince. You are one of my stepmother’s newest lovers. She has them. Ever since my father’s death in spring of last year, there has been a string of handsome young men about the castle. All dancing attendance on her. Without end. ’Tis her reward for the life she lived with him. I dinna’ begrudge it to her.”

“Lover?” he questioned, putting a meaning behind the word that she didn’t recognize.

That was odd. She didn’t like odd. She swallowed the excess spittle her mouth was cursing her with and continued, making certain he knew of her knowledge.

“Dinna’ let it fash you.” She ran her eyes up and down his frame and ended up back at his belly, where a roping of muscle was still moving with his pounding heart. “You are by far the most handsome. Much. She sees well. It’s my guess she’ll na’ be dismissing you as quickly as she did the others. Unless you give her reason.”

She finished on a whisper. He was choking. It sounded in his next words. He was a terrible choice for a lover. He wasn’t even loyal. Sybil was already thinking through the selection of herbs she could use. The Lady of Eschon didn’t deserve such a cheat and a wretch. Both of which he was proving himself to be the longer he bothered the only other young female in the castle: Lady Sybil.

“You th-think…I’m one of your…st-stepmother’s…lovers?”

He was stammering through it, and that started the most entertaining flush to his cheeks. Sybil watched it. The man was extremely handsome. She had to give him that. He was more than handsome. He was a stunning, beautiful specimen, and the flush was making the gold of his eyes glow. Her stepmother had let her eyes be her guide this time. She hadn’t looked beyond that.

Sybil had it decided. She was going to use crushed and dried chicory on him. She pulled in her lower lip in thought, wondering at the exact portion that wouldn’t prostrate him with sickness but would have him visiting the castle latrine more oft than he could Lady Eschon’s bedchamber.

“Oh, dear man.” Sybil clicked her tongue. “I dinna’ just think you are. I ken it. Perfectly.”

He grunted. Then he moved a step toward her, standing above her and breathing hard on her and making her regret the outstretched arms and aggressive stance. Especially since she’d been the one assuming it. Oh! He was getting a double dose of chicory with bruised leaves. Enough to cause gastric distress for a sennight. That’s what was happening to him, she decided.

“So certain.”

He reached a hand to touch her chin and lift it. She had two choices. Give up her stance, wrap her cloak about herself, and try to escape him again, or wait. Bide her time. Create the events that would serve her intent and not his. She narrowed her eyes to make her choice less noticeable for him.

“What if I were to tell you that the moment I set eyes on you this morn, nae other woman existed…anymore?” he murmured in such a soft, seductive tone that Sybil nearly believed it. Almost. He was good. Amazingly good. And he had a voice like warm butter. He was the best one Lady Eschon had enticed to her side. Easily.

“Other than remarking that such a thing would definitely give her reason to replace you, I’d have only one thing to say,” she replied.

“And…that would be?” He moved closer, but it wasn’t by moving his feet. Or if he was, she didn’t hear it. Since he had a forefinger beneath her chin and was still forcing her to look up at him, she wouldn’t have seen it anyway. She watched him lean a bit closer to her, roamed her eyes all about his face for something to look at other than the mesmerizing quality of those gold-enhanced dark eyes, and had to swallow the increased spittle in her mouth. She knew he felt it.

“Sage,” she said finally.

He blinked a dark fringe of lash, shadowing the honey color into opaque black before letting it back.

“Aye. Brewed with a touch of honey. Such a thing would be wondrous for your condition.”

“What condition might that be?” He was tilting his head and slanting forward even closer, pulling her to her tiptoes with the lifting of his hand at her chin. And with pursed lips he was a completely devastating sight. If she were a female that cared for such things.

Like a first kiss.

Sybil gulped. “Poor…eyesight.” She managed to whisper it, and then watched as he lowered his dark brush of eyelashes. That was tantamount to closing his eyes. She wondered at the man’s sanity. And bravery. And idiocy.

The moment before he’d have touched his lips to hers, she moved. The hall could have him. She was finished with this nonsense. She swiveled, had her cloak wrapped about herself and was nearly to the steps before he caught up with her again. This time he wasn’t subtle. He wrapped a hand about her upper arm and used that to stop her. Then, before she knew it, he had her swiveled and pressed against a rough wall. It was obvious they hadn’t reached that spot yet in their renovations. The entire keep was undergoing massive renewal and work. They weren’t at Sybil’s tower yet. The walls here still needed to be shaved smooth. Or at the very least filed to a smoothness that wouldn’t feel like tiny spikes were jutting into her spine when she least needed that effect. Sybil felt every bit of it as he just held her there and looked her over. He was breathing hard, too, and such a thing as chasing a lass down a hall shouldn’t be raising such an amount of breathlessness in such a muscular male, but she didn’t know what would.

Oh! She was giving him worse than chicory sprinkled on his sup tonight! He was getting dried linden flower petals mixed with hops. Such a thing was going to dull his senses and make everything on his body soft and worthless. Everything. Even the parts she didn’t care to note. That’s what she was going to do to this man for daring to touch her, to prevent her from leaving…for starting a riot of oddity throughout her belly that would have shamed her earlier. Now, it was vaguely frightening…illicit….

Naughty.

He’d finished his perusal of her bosom or wherever he’d been looking and had her pierced with a dark, honeyed gaze from beneath his lush lashes. The man had been blessed with theatrical coloring, perfect features, and amazing presence. He knew how to use all of it. Probably had practiced it. Sybil felt the shuddering of her belly calm a bit, and her head cleared. She couldn’t do a thing about the agitated breaths she was taking, however.

“I am na’ your mother’s lover,” he said finally.

“Stepmother.”

“Hers, either,” he answered.

“Then…what are you doing here? Now? At Eschoncan Keep?”

She watched the black of deviousness slip over him, although nothing looked to have changed. It was like he was being dipped in it, covered over in it, and then stewed in it. She knew the next thing from his mouth would be a lie. She’d been wrong earlier. There wasn’t lye soap enough to clean this man up.

His eyes slid sideways, avoiding contact for the briefest moment, and then they were back, boring into hers, as if daring her to look elsewhere. “I’m putting myself in the running for a certain position,” he replied.

“What?”

He’d moved his chin, facing her and making it too close. The smell of him was too unsettling, and the visage of angered and intrigued male was one she was going to have difficulty ignoring every time she shut her eyes. How had all of that happened? she wondered.

“A certain position. In your household.”

“I heard that. I meant…which one?” It was a good thing the man she was avoiding was a dwarf and dark in coloring. Otherwise, she’d think the increase of her heartbeat when she connected glances with this Vincent was something really horrible. Something akin to arousal…sensual arousal.

“What will you pay me to find out?” he asked.

Sybil’s features fell. She couldn’t prevent it. Just as she couldn’t prevent the stiffening of her entire frame. All that happened was the increased annoyance of hard knots of castle stone against her spine and buttocks, a closer view of his face since he’d lowered it toward her, and the scratch of her underdress on her nipples becoming more distinct and noticeable. She watched him glance there—and for no reason that she could tell. She was still swathed with her cloak. It was if he was looking for such a thing as a woman’s arousal after putting it into being. It was exactly what he was expecting! Sybil knew it. She watched him put his lips into a perfect kissable position in order to get a certain reaction. Her knees quivered as her body betrayed her and actually gave it to him, too!

Sybil was mortified. Completely and totally, and it put her off balance and made her feel weak and fragile. Inside. Which was where she was determined to keep it buried. Nobody was ever going to ever see it—or suspect it. She didn’t need to pay him to learn anything. He was telling her with every prolonged moment in his company. He wasn’t her stepmother’s lover. Yet. That was obviously the position he was seeking, however. And why not? It was known throughout the rocky fells that the widow of Laird Eschon possessed gold, and a powerful amount of it.

Men had been flooding to the castle for over a year in order to get their hands on it. This man resembling a Norse god was one of them no. . .