“Nae.”
“Lift his head. Let me see.”
He wasn’t conscious, because he’d been hit. There was a bit of discoloration on his forehead, but little else. She felt her back loosen as she saw the lack of damage to his face, and hadn’t even known until then that she’d stiffened.
“For that, you beat him?” Lady Eschon’s voice was rising. As was her body. Everyone watched it.
“We had nae choice, my lady. He fought us.”
Fought them? Sybil doubted that. This man wasn’t a fighter. A thief, braggart, and lover, yes. Fighter? Never. She watched as Lady Eschon moved around the table and approached where he was hanging, his size making the woman look even smaller. Sybil held her breath.
“Oh my. My. My. What…a man,” the lady of the house purred. She reached out to touch, and then run a fingernail down, one of the unconscious man’s arms.
The immediate reaction in Sybil’s own body was frightening. Her heart thudded once before assuming a rapid pace. She felt a knot form in her throat and a prickling behind her eyes. Sybil hadn’t realized she cared so much for the Lady Eschon. She didn’t want this man near her stepmother. She had to clasp her hands together to keep from making fists of them. As it was, her fingers clenched together into a great knot in front of her.
“Sybil?”
Lady Eschon had turned and was calling for her. There was nothing for it. Sybil gulped around the lump in her throat, stepped forward, and bowed her head. “My lady?”
“Put this man in your care and make him well. I wish to ken what he’s doing here…and why. I also wish to see him when he is conscious and I can converse civilly with him. And keep these fellows from harming him further.”
What? Sybil was absolutely amazed she hadn’t said the word aloud. She didn’t want the care of him! She wanted to torment and tease him and give him a very large dose of his own concocting. She didn’t want to make him well.
Lady Eschon was walking back to her chair at her dining table, dismissing the entire episode as she giggled with one of the new neighbors. Such a thing happened when crofters were allowed back onto the rocky fells of land that the Lady Eschon watched over. The lady had even allowed land tracts to be fenced in and cultivated, creating tenants to oversee. And flirting, entertaining, and romping with other landowners was the prime reason she’d done it.
“Where are the puddings? Wasn’t that next?”
Lady Eschon was back in her place, waving an arm to continue the feast, and Sybil was left to contend with the trouble. Starting with where to place the blond man. He was still being held aloft by three guardsman, none of whom appeared to find it an easy chore.
Sybil reached out a finger, put it beneath his chin, and lifted it. When the weight proved too much, she had to move nearer until she could feel each breath as it left him and lit on her. She also knew he was conscious. Probably had been through the entire exchange.
She hid the knowledge before anyone else saw it, and stepped back. “Take him to the tower,” she ordered.
“With the Eschon bed in it?”
Where her half sister Kendran had come to such joy she’d glowed with it? Sybil stood rooted. Never.
She shook her head and was already turning back to the kitchen. “Nae. Take him to my tower.”
“But—the pet.” One of the guardsman was speaking, but it was clear they all wanted to.
“Leave him at the door. On the floor outside my room. There are clean rushes. Just go.” She waved her hand and went back to control the kitchen.
The floors appeared to have been constructed better than the walls.
Vincent ran his eyes along the fitted stone at his nose as he waited. It also smelled pleasant, with the odor of fresh greens scattered about and something he couldn’t put a scent to. Something…forbidden and heated. He reached out and traced a line where they’d matched the hall-floor stone slabs together. There wasn’t much to recommend the walls, however. If he squinted with one eye he could see tiny pinpricks of starlight coming from chinks in it.
He was probably in luck that it was harvest season and, therefore, warm. Vincent rolled onto his back. The wench was taking an unconscionable amount of time in seeing to him. He already knew where he was and how to get there. That’s what came of snooping about the entire keep while any guardsmen had been too drunk to notice. He’d thought them slack. He reached up to touch the slight bump on his forehead. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
They’d put a new roof on recently, it appeared. It looked to be sealed using birdlime from their own dovecote. He could see the streaks of white where it plastered the thin planks of wood together. Older roofs wouldn’t have such distinctive streaking, since fire smoke darkened ceiling timbers within a couple of seasons. Maybe sooner.
He saw the shimmer of light touching the beams above him and shut his eyes, modulated his breathing, and listened for her.
“Get up.”
Vincent groaned.
“I already ken your sham play. Get up.”
He lifted his head slowly and blinked as if to bring her into focus. She had her skirts lifted with one hand, showing a glimpse of well-turned ankle, a candle held high in the other hand, and a slight pout to those raspberry-shaded lips. Vincent blinked away the instant comparison and swallowed.
“What…play?” he asked in a feeble tone.
“A blow such as you got could na’ have rendered such weakness.”
“How would you ken?” he asked.
“Brawny men such as you are na’ that weak,” she replied.
He grinned, caught it at her instant comprehension, and sobered. “You just called me brawny,” he replied.
“Get up,” she ordered again.
“What will I get if I do?”
A sigh of exasperation. That’s what he got. Vincent kept the amusement inside his belly this time. Deep inside where she wouldn’t see it. He sat, put his fists against the floor, and sprang into a semicrouch. He was rewarded with her involuntary stumble backward from him. That was almost as entertaining as her indrawn gasp. He stood, towering over her, and watched the candle flame waver slightly before she had it under control again.
“What do you wish of me now?” he asked when she did nothing save look up at him.
“Your departure,” she answered.
“Forgive me, fair maid, but I must decline.”
The wench was choking. That was gratifying, but it was against type. He already had her kind plotted out, and for her to show a reaction to him wasn’t right. She was a man-hater. He’d met them before. They were sheathed in ice, but they eventually melted. And when they did…
He licked his lips at the thought and waited for her next ploy.
“Why?” she asked finally.
“I’ve na’ yet received what I came for.”
“Is that why you pretended to an injury?”
“I am injured,” he replied.
“Na’ so much as all that.”
He grunted. “True…but what woman can resist a wounded man? Especially one looking as I do?” he asked.
She huffed out what sounded like a curse. “Vanity? I have to suffer vanity, too?”
“Too?” he asked.
“Along with misspent charm, illogical reasoning, a lying tongue, and a brawny frame that is constantly being put on display.”