Free Once Upon a Knight by Jackie Ivie

with a cross-hatching of wrinkles. He was bearded, hiding most of his face. He looked auld, but it was difficult to tell for certain. He looked two score or more…older even than her father had been. He could be less, however. Dwarfs aged differently. Sybil knew that from something she’d been told.
    He had smallish eyes, too, deep-set in folds of flesh. They were an indeterminate color and didn’t move from an appraisal of her as she got closer. She knew what he was there for, and every bit of her cringed away from it.
    Except her feet.
    “I would make a proper introduction. This is Lord Caernavik’s sheriff. From the Caern Glen. I ken that they’re lowlanders…but they’re verra powerful. Isn’t it exciting? A member of the Caern clan. Here. At my table.”
    What was unbelievable was that he’d managed to arrive anywhere in the vicinity without Sybil having any awareness or warning of it. And then she was cursing her own stupidity for that thought. She knew why she’d missed such a momentous thing: the man stretched out on her bed. This moment.
    The instant thought of him sent warmth surging through her. She ducked her head to hide it. If she suffered such things, she’d say it was a blush. But that was unreasonable and stupid. It was more like anger that Vincent had bested her in a way and lay ensconced in safety on her bed while she faced this. She watched the floor in front of the trencher table until the warmth receded, leaving her feeling weak and ineffectual and small. That wasn’t good. She had hell to face, and yet the thought of the blond man in her bed melted through everything.
    He was in her bed…?
    He’d better not be! Especially not with his boots and plaide still on. Sybil didn’t have much, but what she did have, she treasured. The pure linen sheets she’d woven were one of the small luxuries she allowed herself—and if he were abusing them, he’d pay! Her lips lifted slightly. It would be worse if he’d doffed anything and was actually in her covers. Much worse…and much better. Sybil nearly sighed at the instant image that thought brought. What was happening to her? Sybil swallowed all of it away. She didn’t have time for pondering handsome men naked in her bed! She needed her wits for other things.
    “Sir Ian Blaine? May I present my…daughter? My…eligible daughter, Sybil. Sybil!”
    The second sounding of her name was hissed, since Sybil hadn’t yet looked up. She couldn’t. She was reeling with the words. Never had Lady Eschon claimed her. And never would she have suspected it to be with such warmth, and with words that were honeyed and sweet. Sybil dropped a curtsey and lifted her head to watch as the little dark man moved from his chair in order to bow formally from the other side of the table. He was shorter even than she was, and had arms that appeared furred with a thick growth of the same black hair that was bearding his chin.
    It didn’t seem possible, but he was more hideous than she’d envisioned in her nightmare. It was made worse as he smiled, revealing gaps where teeth had been, while those that were still seated were stained and foul-smelling, even from across the span of the trencher table.
    “I’ve just been telling Sir Ian how it is your hand behind all the comforts in the Eschoncan Keep, Sybil. While he was regaling me with the status of his own holdings. I’m quite overcome, I am.”
    Her stepmother had hidden a great flair for dramatics all the years she’d been abused and mistreated by her late spouse, Lord Eschon. Now she put every bit of emphasis on the words and the wide sweep of her arms as she opened them wide to Sybil.
    “Come, dear. Sir Ian was so longing to meet you. I had you fetched and a plate set for you. Just look.”
    Sybil’s eyes narrowed. She’d never been called such an endearment before, nor had she been invited to the table, both signs of worse things yet to come. How was it possible to have her life upended so thoroughly—and