Once Upon a Knight Read online

  ONCE UPON A KNIGHT

  Also by Jackie Ivie

  A KNIGHT WELL SPENT

  HEAT OF THE KNIGHT

  THE KNIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  TENDER IS THE KNIGHT

  LADY OF THE KNIGHT

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  ONCE UPON A KNIGHT

  Jackie Ivie

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To Kimberly Anne,

  for the entertainment,

  excitement,

  and absolute joy

  you’ve always added to life

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  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 w
hy 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.

  Chapter Two

  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 c
learing. 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.