Once Upon a Knight. Jackie IvieЧитать онлайн книгу.
have worn thicker skirts, or a layer beneath these. Then he wouldn’t be able to glimpse stout legs and nicely turned ankles with the fire’s light behind them. They should also have provided some support for the swinging appendages of their voluminous breasts. Vincent put the tankard down, lifted the hollowed-out bread loaf to his lips, then shoveled another huge bite of stew into his mouth.
He chewed as he listened to and watched the lasses. They obviously weren’t immune to a man’s appreciation, nor did they appear worried over the fact that there were two of them and but one of him. Vincent swallowed and grinned hugely at the lass that turned and hefted both of her bulbous breasts toward where he was, with one leg atop their cutting table as he watched…and feasted, and worked at finding desire for what was being offered to him.
Although it didn’t seem possible, he didn’t feel the vaguest inkling of desire or stirring for either of the lasses right in front of him, offering pleasure for pleasure’s sake. He only hoped it didn’t show. He nodded his appreciation as the bolder of the two started swaying, moving her hips from side to side as she thumbed the pinpricks of her own nipples into tautness against her blouse.
Vincent bit at the side of his bowl and came away with a chunk of stew-soaked, thick, bitter crust. He left the crumbs that accompanied his movement where they landed, atop his wet plaide. He was still soaked. And worn out. And weakened. That could be it. He’d swam out into their loch until his arms were cursing him with the use. Then he’d turned over and floated, breathing deeply of the damp mist that kissed the water. And then he turned back and used the rest of his strength to reach shore again. It had taken almost all of it, too. Vincent knew it had worked at cleansing the desire for Lady Sybil from his limbs as he’d hauled himself back onto the rocks with trembling arms and weak legs. The chill had worked as well.
Perhaps that was the cause of his lack of desire no matter how much he forced it. The larger one had gotten even bolder, induced no doubt by his foolish grinning. Vincent took another bite of the bread-crust bowl they’d hollowed out for him the moment he’d appeared on the step, soaked through and shivering.
They’d turned into mothering types then and couldn’t get warm victuals into him fast enough. It was the shorter of the two that had cut the end from a loaf of bread, pulled the center out, and filled it with stew that had burned, then warmed, and then filled him.
He’d started shoveling the food in, and they’d started enticing him, even going so far as to use the bellows a bit on their fire to give them more back light for each movement they were making in front of it. Or maybe it was to gain more warmth for him, but he doubted it.
Vincent shifted slightly, making the table groan where he was using it for support. Their meal-preparation table had almost the same strength as the trencher in the Great Hall. But it wasn’t shaved and smoothed to a flat surface that was comfortable to sit atop. That was the trouble. He only wished it was what the fat one interpreted it to be—discomfort from his arousal.
He knew from the sly look she gave him that she’d put that value on his movement. Vincent nearly groaned but settled instead for lifting the tankard to his lips and gulping another long, full draught. He knew he was in trouble when he brought the vessel from his lips. The large one had pulled her loose blouse to the tips of her bosom, giving him total access to her ample assets. And she was closer than she ought to be as well.
Vincent did groan then.
There was nothing about the overblown woman in front of him that stirred anything in him except disinterest. And worse. He was disgusted at himself for allowing her to think him interested, and then at her for such a blatant display, at himself again for failing to feel any arousal, and at her again for forcing the issue.
“My thanks, lass. That…was…uh…” He knew just how large and soft her breasts would feel; he didn’t need them shoved against his chest for a demonstration. He only wished it was working for something more than showing how damp his shirt still was when it was pushed into contact with his flesh.
She was warm, though. Sweaty warm. He could see rivulets of it glistening between the lush bosom she was offering him, as well as smell the distinct odor wafting upward from where she was pressed to him.
“Are you full and warm now, sir?” she asked, drawing the words out with a low-throated murmur. “Or have you need of more?”
Vincent was pulling back, using the partially eaten bread bowl of stew as a barricade between her chin and his, and was preparing to lunge away from her when a gasp from the doorway stopped everything. The Lady Sybil stood there, with the hood of her cloak parted just enough to show how disgusted she found the sight. And she was looking directly at him.
Vincent was immediately stirred into a semblance of desire. Again. It was severe enough it had him hardening and heating to the point he had to get away from the buxom lass before she noted it and gave it a different meaning. There was nothing for it. He had the bowl on the table with one hand, used the other arm to shove the lass away, and was on his feet before anyone else moved.
“Mary!” Lady Sybil’s voice was sharp and angered. “And Isabelle!”
“My lady?”
The smaller one was answering, since the fat one was occupied with covering herself as she backed from him. Vincent wasn’t watching them. He knew what was happening from the movement of their feet and the shifting of the shadows in the room as they intersected the firelight. He didn’t dare look at Lady Sybil again. Not until he had himself under control.
He didn’t know what was the matter with him, and he didn’t like it. At all. He’d been warned about her use of sorcery. If this was a demonstration of it, he was in dire need of running. As quickly and as far from her as he could. That’s what he was going to do. Just as soon as he could without his cowardice being seen. Myles could keep his gold. All of them could keep it. Vincent knew when to fold his hand. That was the best method of survival in the life he’d chosen.
He had a hand atop the table edge and was bent over, using everything he knew to send the cursed desire away, when she spoke again, making it worse somehow.
“There are ceaseless duties in the morn, you two. You should both be abed. Alone.”
There was a bit of giggling from the large, shameless one and then Vincent heard them shuffling out. As least he assumed that’s what they were doing. He didn’t dare move yet, although it felt like his legs might be of use to him after all. The amount of food he’d consumed and the ale he’d swilled it down with was making his head buzz. Or perhaps it was the blow to his head that was responsible for all of this. And even that was being overridden by the pounding in his loins where he least needed or wanted it.
This wench?
There was no reason why this particular lass was the one to do this to him. None.
“Have you finished?”
She was standing beside the table as she asked it. He didn’t have to look; he could see the tips of her slippers peeking beneath her gown. She wasn’t wearing a sackcloth gown beneath her cloak. She probably wasn’t wearing the rose-colored gossamer thing, either. Vincent cursed beneath his breath as he thought it and gripped tighter to the table edge.
“Well?” she continued.
She was closer, and everything about her smelled sweet and aromatic and fresh. Vincent took a deep breath and raised himself to his full height, settled his sporran fully in front of him, and faced her. She had her face tilted up and shadowed since her back was to the fire. He could still see the hammered silver of her eyes. He swallowed.
“Well…what?” he asked.
“I asked if you had finished.”
“Depends on which bit of finished you’re asking,” he replied.
“You seek to play a game of words now?”
“I seek nothing more than my sup and a bit of ale.”
“And entertainment?” she added.
“That,