Sybil took the pot to the oriel window and tipped the vessel, letting gravy run down the haphazard joining of tower stones, just like she’d done with most of her concoctions. When the liquid reached the ground, it would either create more of the dead earth where nothing would grow, or add to the bit of grass that was such a vivid shade of green it had caused more than one onlooker to stop and stare. They didn’t know that was how Sybil had discovered the concoction that was dripped into the soil for the best garden yield.
Trial and error.
She paused in her musings. Giving anything harmful to this Vincent fellow fell into the error category now, after his musical demonstration. Sybil would have sighed as she continued pouring, but it would be wasted. Emotions weren’t for her. Such things were worthless. She’d seen too much of other’s heartburnings to ever wish such a thing for herself. She was unwanted, unloved, and free of worldly goods. It was a good thing she was useful.
Sybil knocked the last bit of stewed dandelion leaves from her pot and wiped it clean.
Her chamber door trembled, alerting her more from the motion of rattling against her door latch than the actual knocking sound.
He knocked? And Waif allowed it? That wasn’t good. Sybil put the pot down, wiped both hands down the sides of her skirt, and crossed to her door. She didn’t know what was wrong with the man. Any male possessing the brawn, handsomeness, charm, and musical soul of this one had options available to him. He probably had property as well. He was everything that shouldn’t be interested in a dowerless, plain, illegitimate woman…and yet he still seemed to be. Still. Sybil crossed to her door, lifted the wood dowel, and opened it a slit.
“You are na’ following the role-play, my lady,” he said from a height she couldn’t achieve without standing on a chair. And then the wretch smiled.
From the width of the door and his stature, the effect of white teeth and the mysterious black color of his eyes was enough to make any lass tremble. It wasn’t entirely her fault when it happened to her, too. Sybil gulped away the excess moisture in her mouth to answer. “What role-play?” she asked.
“The one assigned us. This eve.”
“When?”
“I’ve been wounded. You’ve been assigned to heal me. That role-play.”
“You dinna look wounded,” she replied. He must have known she was shutting the door, for the moment she tried, there was a booted toe in the gap, and then the entire boot. Then he stopped and waited, holding the door open against the pressure of her weight. That didn’t last, for next he reached around the wood and gripped a hand at the level of her nose. Sybil toyed with putting her weight against the door and shoving, but that was illogical and would look stupid as well.
“Where is my wolf?” she asked, hoping the breathless tone of her voice wasn’t obvious.
That was a vain hope. She knew it as his lips widened into a smile again.
“I girded the fierce dragon in his own den and came out not only unharmed but as the victor. You should laud me.”
“Laud…you?”
The second word was separated from the first by the quick force of his shove against the door, pushing her back into the room like she was so much wheat chaff, and showing that Waif was happily engrossed in chewing on a large joint of what looked like cooked mutton. The wolf was even making smacking sounds as it licked at the joint.
“Laud. As in glorify, applaud, sing my name in dulcet tones for all posterity. Things such as that.”
“I canna’ sing,” she replied. Or tried to reply. She didn’t know what it sounded like. There was the oddest buzzing noise affecting her speech, and her heart was hammering almost enough to cover it over.
He was fully in her chamber now—something no man had ever attempted. Actually, she had to amend the thought, no one was ever in her chamber.
“’Tis a good thing I can, then. I’ll make up for your failings, fair wench.”
Fair wench? She was afraid of what the surge of heat through her breast signified, and knew it was a blush when heat hit her hairline and started little droplets of moisture there. She should have worn a wimple, she decided as he stood just inside her doorway observing everything.
Then his eyebrows lifted several times. “I thank you for inviting me into your chamber. ’Tis an honor few receive. Am I right?” He moved three steps farther into the room, making it look cluttered and small. Although it was cluttered, since she liked things about her—lots of things—it had never been small.
“I dinna’ invite you,” she replied and took a step back from him, much to her chagrin. She’d lost control of the situation. She didn’t even know how. It was as if this man had the key to her subconscious and was playing with it. Sybil had never felt at such a disadvantage, and Waif was no help. He’d betrayed her the moment he’d heard this man’s music.
Just as she’d done.
This Vincent put his hands on his hips, cocked his head up, and sniffed. “Have you been cooking? In here? That is na’ fair.”
“Na’ much is at the moment,” she replied.
He smiled, and it effectively stopped her enmity. She couldn’t win at any battle of wits if she let emotion in. Emotions swayed the outcome of any situation. They always did. She didn’t know what was the matter with her.
All she knew was she didn’t like it.
“Smells wondrous. What is it?” he asked.
“Gravy.”
“Do you have any left?”
She shook her head.
“That is na’ verra generous of you. I’m supposed to be in your care.”
“You are na’ supposed to be anywhere near me.”
He shook his head. Twice. “Na’ true. I heard the lady of the manor. You’re to make me well. How were you planning on doing this? With gravy?”
Sybil was starting to regret the odd weakness that had made her drain the mixture out the window, but that wasn’t any consolation. She didn’t know what was, though. This man had too many weapons at his disposal, and male presence was just one of them. As were the almost sensual looks he was giving from dark brown eyes, and the ease with which he put it all on display for her to view. He moved to fold immense, bared arms across his chest as he regarded her, making such a visual image of male perfection that she almost mouthed a sigh.
“You ken your way about a kitchen, do you?”
“What?” Sybil asked, and blinked. Several times. It didn’t help.
“You cook?” he continued.
“Oh. Aye. I cook. And I season.”
“Season?”
“With spices and herbs. To make the fare more tasty.”
“And is it?” he asked.
“I’m responsible for all the dishes served in the castle. Including the meat you have bribed my wolf with.” She couldn’t help the injured tone.
He grinned again. “Smarts a bit, does it?”
Sybil refused to answer. She hoped the tightening of her lips was the proper way to show that, but she didn’t know for certain.
“That’s what happens when you play with other’s lives and run across a master of it.”
“What?”