that would run from her…into two servant wenches’ arms.
Sybil replaced and checked for damage everything he might have touched. Then, to expend energy, she rearranged the room, shoving her three armoires with grunts and groans until they crept little by little along the floor, creaking in protest. She had to keep moving. It was better than closing her eyes.
Waif found him easily. Vincent was putting sound to the notes in his head while pacing along the shore at the far end of the loch, making the beat match the solid, steady lap of waves at his feet. It had started drizzling at some point, and he hadn’t even felt it. All he was capable of feeling was the music.
And then he heard the wolf, joining him with an off-key howl. Vincent stopped the exquisite melody he’d been playing over and over until it was instilled in every reach of his memory and laughed. Loudly. Fully. And waited for the animal to reach him. This wild emotion he felt wasn’t part of the bargain he’d made. He had to do something with it before it turned him into a fool.
He was supposed to be making the lass have this trouble—not him! She was supposed to be burning with unrequited love for him while he rode away and left her to her musings. Not him. Not like this.
It was probably amusing…to everyone but him. The little lass had touched his heart, and he hadn’t thought he still had one. She damn near had it in her little hands. Which was frightening, exhilarating, and amazing.
And it was never happening again.
As if it knew the train of Vincent’s thoughts, the wolf’s howl changed. So did the new tune Vincent coaxed from his flute, making it full with sorrow and weighty with loss. It didn’t change anything. He had a response to coax from a certain lass, maybe a tear or two to see shed by her, and then he’d be on his way. Or as far as a man walked while carrying as much gold as he could.
Vincent wasn’t a fool. He wasn’t about to be start being one now. He put the fipple flute aside and sat on the rocks, pulling his feet beneath him. “Come along, Waif, old fellow.”
He waved the wolf over and clicked his tongue as he found the pouch attached to the animal’s collar. She’d sent it. For him. He swallowed with a throat that needed a bit of ale of a sudden to soothe the dryness. They hadn’t told him? His cousin Myles had set him onto a challenge, sweetened it with the largest payment of gold any man could earn, and yet left out the most important part.
The wench was odd…but he didn’t think she was fey. Vincent had run across too many who were charlatans to believe easily. If she were, no wonder she had him hard and pounding and able to think only of need…for her and only her! Damn wench! Damn Myles! Damn wolf! Damn just about everything!
He shivered and set the slight taste of fear aside. He’d taken this assignment for three reasons. One was the gold. The second was his freedom. The last was because Vincent loved a challenge. It was the spark to the kindling of life. That’s what it was. This challenge was going to take all his wits, all his strength, and all his fortitude. He knew it. He also knew that this wench was going to be worth besting. And that’s exactly what he was going to do.
Vincent had it all decided before he pulled the pouch onto the sling of kilt between his knees. He felt the stir of fear as he checked through the small packets she’d sent. He found the unguent first. He knew what the thick, greasy compound was for and put a dab on the swelling hidden beneath his hair.
He was in luck with the guard’s blow. Any lower, or with a wider arc, and he’d be probably be sporting a black eye, not just bluish-purple bruising that was difficult to spot unless he pulled his hair back and made it obvious.
“Hmm,” Vincent murmured to himself as he picked open the two stitches holding the small woven bag together. The dried leaves he could fathom easily. If he had his flint, he’d spark a fire
Sybil replaced and checked for damage everything he might have touched. Then, to expend energy, she rearranged the room, shoving her three armoires with grunts and groans until they crept little by little along the floor, creaking in protest. She had to keep moving. It was better than closing her eyes.
Waif found him easily. Vincent was putting sound to the notes in his head while pacing along the shore at the far end of the loch, making the beat match the solid, steady lap of waves at his feet. It had started drizzling at some point, and he hadn’t even felt it. All he was capable of feeling was the music.
And then he heard the wolf, joining him with an off-key howl. Vincent stopped the exquisite melody he’d been playing over and over until it was instilled in every reach of his memory and laughed. Loudly. Fully. And waited for the animal to reach him. This wild emotion he felt wasn’t part of the bargain he’d made. He had to do something with it before it turned him into a fool.
He was supposed to be making the lass have this trouble—not him! She was supposed to be burning with unrequited love for him while he rode away and left her to her musings. Not him. Not like this.
It was probably amusing…to everyone but him. The little lass had touched his heart, and he hadn’t thought he still had one. She damn near had it in her little hands. Which was frightening, exhilarating, and amazing.
And it was never happening again.
As if it knew the train of Vincent’s thoughts, the wolf’s howl changed. So did the new tune Vincent coaxed from his flute, making it full with sorrow and weighty with loss. It didn’t change anything. He had a response to coax from a certain lass, maybe a tear or two to see shed by her, and then he’d be on his way. Or as far as a man walked while carrying as much gold as he could.
Vincent wasn’t a fool. He wasn’t about to be start being one now. He put the fipple flute aside and sat on the rocks, pulling his feet beneath him. “Come along, Waif, old fellow.”
He waved the wolf over and clicked his tongue as he found the pouch attached to the animal’s collar. She’d sent it. For him. He swallowed with a throat that needed a bit of ale of a sudden to soothe the dryness. They hadn’t told him? His cousin Myles had set him onto a challenge, sweetened it with the largest payment of gold any man could earn, and yet left out the most important part.
The wench was odd…but he didn’t think she was fey. Vincent had run across too many who were charlatans to believe easily. If she were, no wonder she had him hard and pounding and able to think only of need…for her and only her! Damn wench! Damn Myles! Damn wolf! Damn just about everything!
He shivered and set the slight taste of fear aside. He’d taken this assignment for three reasons. One was the gold. The second was his freedom. The last was because Vincent loved a challenge. It was the spark to the kindling of life. That’s what it was. This challenge was going to take all his wits, all his strength, and all his fortitude. He knew it. He also knew that this wench was going to be worth besting. And that’s exactly what he was going to do.
Vincent had it all decided before he pulled the pouch onto the sling of kilt between his knees. He felt the stir of fear as he checked through the small packets she’d sent. He found the unguent first. He knew what the thick, greasy compound was for and put a dab on the swelling hidden beneath his hair.
He was in luck with the guard’s blow. Any lower, or with a wider arc, and he’d be probably be sporting a black eye, not just bluish-purple bruising that was difficult to spot unless he pulled his hair back and made it obvious.
“Hmm,” Vincent murmured to himself as he picked open the two stitches holding the small woven bag together. The dried leaves he could fathom easily. If he had his flint, he’d spark a fire
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