Free Once Upon a Knight by Jackie Ivie Page A

in the span of less than a day’s time? Where no man had been in her sphere, now she must deal with two of them?
    She swallowed and lifted her skirt with a hand in order to slide into position on the bench. She knew how to right everything and exactly what to do with both of these men. And exactly what potions to use. She looked up and smiled slightly at the dark, ugly, little one…watched it returned and ignored how it felt. As usual.
     
    The wench had drawers full of mystery stuff, and not one bit of flimsy, revealing undergarments, which was what he was looking for. Not at first, and not consciously. He hadn’t an idea of what he was looking for when he’d first started, but with each drawer he opened he got more determined to find her weakness. There wasn’t a wench born that didn’t love soft, clingy, sheer underthings caressing her flesh. At least, if there was one, he hadn’t met her yet. Vincent was beginning to think he’d found the lone one, as each drawer he rifled held little more than materials, or dirt, and one held such a profusion of dried mushroom-looking things that he’d shoved it shut with a grunt of disgust.
    Every wench had a soft, feminine, hidden side. He was going to find hers and use it to torment her and use against her. If she had one. And if he could find it. And with each drawer he rifled he felt nearer to failing.
    Waif wasn’t helping, but he wasn’t hindering, either. In fact, he was fairly amenable to whatever Vincent did until he’d located the toad-sweat jar. The moment he’d spied it and lifted it, the animal was on its feet and putting a methodical purr of growl into sound. Vincent got the message and put the jar back.
    The animal was worse than a jailer—and twice as vigilant.
    Vincent went back to checking drawers and cabinets. That activity the wolf didn’t mind. In fact, Waif was at the moment lounging across a rug that positioned him directly in front of her unlocked armoire, the one holding her liquids and potions. Waif wasn’t threatening; he was actually looking sleepy. That was another oddity. It was as if being granted access and being left in the chamber cleared Vincent from the list of things to be threatened, attacked, and perhaps eaten. Vincent was free to do what he wished, as long as he stayed away from certain possessions of hers that the wolf alerted him to.
    Vincent opened one of the last drawers and knew he was getting close. This one contained several folded, light tan-colored sacks that, once unfurled, looked to be dresses. Sackcloth dresses. He’d known monks to wear such stiff, scratchy cloth, but what would a noblewoman be doing with them? She hadn’t been wearing one when he’d met her. She wasn’t wearing one now.
    He slammed that drawer shut, too, shoved his hair out of his eyes and opened the bottom one, and struck treasure. The lass had garments so sheer they were near invisible, and the stitching was such that it was nigh impossible to spot. He tried. It wasn’t until he took one pink-shaded garment closer to the fire and held it in front of his nose that he spotted the incredibly tiny stitches that had pieced the thing together.
    And then he knew he was in trouble. The garment he held in his hand would be dangerously short on any wench—even one with the slight build of the one who was to wear it—and there wasn’t much to hold it to her body, if the little sleeves were any indication. Vincent held the thing to his chest and attempted to force the desire and ache away. He wasn’t to touch her! He wasn’t to ken her. He wasn’t to do anything his body was primed to do! Again? He was obsessed. His mind was locked on to it—and this time he’d done it to himself?
    Nothing worked. Vincent breathed heavily and dropped the garment. He was left with nothing save the obvious.
    Escape.
    Waif stirred as Vincent walked purposefully to the window, but that was the extent of the animal’s movement. It didn’t stop Vincent. He had a reddish