and make the tea she’d thought he needed. Mayhap.
And then he found the yellow powder. He’d never seen anything like this.
Vincent rubbed the dry-feeling talc between his thumb and forefinger in thought. Once on, it wouldn’t wipe off. He scraped his fingers along ground and sand bits and found that didn’t make much difference, either. He put the items aside and crawled to the water’s edge and dipped his fingers in it as well. Not only did his flesh stay dry, but the water beaded up and ran off without any kind of effect or absorption. Alchemy? The lass dealt in the dark arts, too? No wonder he’d been in such a haze of lust! This Sybil was barely skirting a charge of witchcraft. That was what was wrong with him! He was being spelled.
The yellow stuff wouldn’t come off. No matter what he did. His thumb and two fingers were coated with it. There was no help for it. He’d have to find her and make her take it off. That could wait. Vincent scooted back onto a softer bit of rock-strewn shore and just sat, breathing deeply of the rain-soaked predawn. He opened the tea packet, pulled out a leaf, and sniffed at it. Smelled nice. He wondered how it tasted. He touched it to his tongue. The spot tingled slightly but otherwise remained safe enough from her concoction. He still didn’t trust it, though, and held it out for Waif. He watched as the wolf sniffed at it and then licked it into his mouth.
Vincent waited, listening to Waif’s slurping noises as he moved the dried leaf about in his mouth. Then, with a shrug, Vincent pulled out another one and put the leaf fully on his tongue. He was sucking on it as he lay back, pillowing his head on his folded arms and looking up into the gray tunnel of rainfall.
That was the last thing he noted.
Sybil wasn’t concerned until the midday meal was being cleared and still there was no sign of Vincent or Waif. She wasn’t actually worried, because she never allowed herself to feel such an emotion. As she dressed for the supper entertainment, however, she did tell herself there was always a first time.
It had been so stupid to let him leave last night without even giving chase! Now she had to contend with Sir Ian’s blatant interest and had no option other than to dose him before he asked for her hand. That would only work if she had access to him and him alone. She wasn’t certain she dared sprinkle linden flowers on everyone’s fare. The resultant illness would have only one result. Blame. And there was only one they’d lay the blame on. Her.
She had to get to Sir Ian’s fare and his alone. Which meant she’d have to be close to him, and him alone. And that she was avoiding that at all costs.
She had some hope, though. Waif. If Waif managed to find the Viking and get him to try the leaves, he’d be like clay in her hands, easy to manipulate and aroused. At least, that was her plan.
And then there wasn’t even that.
The summons came as she was finishing tying the bottom of her braid ribbons, preparatory to winding them about her head.
The Lady of Eschon was requesting her presence in the solar. Prior to sup. Sybil swallowed and told Isabelle she’d be but a moment or two. She then shut the door on the wench’s face. She didn’t want to see the gloating that was bound to be on it. Of course, Isabelle and Mary had the right to gloat. They had Vincent Erick Danzel probably spirited away in their chamber, while Sybil had a grand, rich, lush future as the wife of a Caern clansman.
Her wimple gave her trouble. She was wearing a high white one, because that was the only one she could find in what had become a confusing existence. Where all had been orderly and easily located and filed and catalogued, now she couldn’t locate one headdress that wouldn’t bring attention to the one thing she didn’t want, her dark hair and flawless complexion? Impossible.
Sybil had never considered herself attractive. Not in the usual sense. She’d have to be touched in the
And then he found the yellow powder. He’d never seen anything like this.
Vincent rubbed the dry-feeling talc between his thumb and forefinger in thought. Once on, it wouldn’t wipe off. He scraped his fingers along ground and sand bits and found that didn’t make much difference, either. He put the items aside and crawled to the water’s edge and dipped his fingers in it as well. Not only did his flesh stay dry, but the water beaded up and ran off without any kind of effect or absorption. Alchemy? The lass dealt in the dark arts, too? No wonder he’d been in such a haze of lust! This Sybil was barely skirting a charge of witchcraft. That was what was wrong with him! He was being spelled.
The yellow stuff wouldn’t come off. No matter what he did. His thumb and two fingers were coated with it. There was no help for it. He’d have to find her and make her take it off. That could wait. Vincent scooted back onto a softer bit of rock-strewn shore and just sat, breathing deeply of the rain-soaked predawn. He opened the tea packet, pulled out a leaf, and sniffed at it. Smelled nice. He wondered how it tasted. He touched it to his tongue. The spot tingled slightly but otherwise remained safe enough from her concoction. He still didn’t trust it, though, and held it out for Waif. He watched as the wolf sniffed at it and then licked it into his mouth.
Vincent waited, listening to Waif’s slurping noises as he moved the dried leaf about in his mouth. Then, with a shrug, Vincent pulled out another one and put the leaf fully on his tongue. He was sucking on it as he lay back, pillowing his head on his folded arms and looking up into the gray tunnel of rainfall.
That was the last thing he noted.
Sybil wasn’t concerned until the midday meal was being cleared and still there was no sign of Vincent or Waif. She wasn’t actually worried, because she never allowed herself to feel such an emotion. As she dressed for the supper entertainment, however, she did tell herself there was always a first time.
It had been so stupid to let him leave last night without even giving chase! Now she had to contend with Sir Ian’s blatant interest and had no option other than to dose him before he asked for her hand. That would only work if she had access to him and him alone. She wasn’t certain she dared sprinkle linden flowers on everyone’s fare. The resultant illness would have only one result. Blame. And there was only one they’d lay the blame on. Her.
She had to get to Sir Ian’s fare and his alone. Which meant she’d have to be close to him, and him alone. And that she was avoiding that at all costs.
She had some hope, though. Waif. If Waif managed to find the Viking and get him to try the leaves, he’d be like clay in her hands, easy to manipulate and aroused. At least, that was her plan.
And then there wasn’t even that.
The summons came as she was finishing tying the bottom of her braid ribbons, preparatory to winding them about her head.
The Lady of Eschon was requesting her presence in the solar. Prior to sup. Sybil swallowed and told Isabelle she’d be but a moment or two. She then shut the door on the wench’s face. She didn’t want to see the gloating that was bound to be on it. Of course, Isabelle and Mary had the right to gloat. They had Vincent Erick Danzel probably spirited away in their chamber, while Sybil had a grand, rich, lush future as the wife of a Caern clansman.
Her wimple gave her trouble. She was wearing a high white one, because that was the only one she could find in what had become a confusing existence. Where all had been orderly and easily located and filed and catalogued, now she couldn’t locate one headdress that wouldn’t bring attention to the one thing she didn’t want, her dark hair and flawless complexion? Impossible.
Sybil had never considered herself attractive. Not in the usual sense. She’d have to be touched in the
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