Without her knowing.
But how would he accomplish that?
He stopped pacing and hunkered down to make a bed of straw in an empty corner of the stable. It would be a chilly night. Indeed, he’d been tempted to grab a milkmaid on his way to the stables to keep him warm. But he recalled what had happened the last time he’d tried to tryst with a servant. And so he resorted to burrowing into the straw for warmth while he considered his battle strategy.
The first key to combat was knowing one’s enemy.
What did he know about Deirdre?
She seemed to respond most favorably in the tiltyard when he treated her like an equal—challenging her, spurring her on, expecting no less than her best. And ironically, once he began treating her like a man, she became even more enticing to him. He’d trained her hard this morn, thinking to expose her feminine weakness, and she’d astonished him by working harder than his own men.
Yet beneath her armor, Deirdre possessed the soft curves of a lady. Near her unbending spine beat the gentle heart of a maid. He’d glimpsed her tenderness when she’d sacrificed herself for her sister, when she’d cared for her father, when she’d intervened for the Lachanburn lads. Deirdre might think like a man, but she sensed things like a woman. She could be offended or impressed or hurt or pleased as easily as any female.
And therein lay his dilemma.
He was content to treat her as an equal, for she was as worthy and wise and loyal as any man he’d ever known.
But he’d never wanted to bed a man.
It was unsettling. One moment he found himself clapping her affably on the back, and the next he longed to drag her into the nearest stairwell, tear off her gown, and ravish her.
How could a man fight a foe who was a constantly changing target, whose tactics were as unpredictable as thistledown in the wind, who in one moment charged onto the field like a berserker, and in the next, blushed at the prospect of being caught in a kiss? How could one vanquish a foe that would not be forced or reasoned with or lured into surrender?
He asked himself those questions long into the night, while the moon cast a blind eye on the world below, and the stars tumbled across the sky like bright dice, divining the course of fate. Finally he slept, leaving his question for the reckoning of dreams.
With the revealing light of dawn, his answer came. He opened his eyes to find he was no longer alone. Miriel’s strange Oriental maidservant was staring down at him.
He sat up with a sharp gasp. Her expression was mildly amused, and her small hands were clasped before her in a gesture of patient waiting. How long she’d been standing there, watching him sleep, he didn’t know, but the fact she’d come upon him unawares was highly unsettling.
“What is it?” he asked gruffly, scrubbing the straw from his hair.
She clucked her tongue. “You will never make sons for Rivenloch this way,” she said bluntly, “sleeping with the horses.”
Pagan’s jaw came unhinged. Why the sisters put up with such an impudent servant, he didn’t know, but he refused to endure Sung Li’s insolence. “That is not your affair.”
Undaunted, the woman continued, shaking her head. “You are a foolish, foolish man.”
Pagan’s temper rose. “Guard your tongue, wench, or I’ll—“
”That is your mistake,” she told him. “You are too much a warrior. Always you answer with threat.”
Pagan’s hands itched to throttle the rude servant. Of course, now he couldn’t, for that would make Sung Li unequivocally right. He settled on a fierce scowl.
“Listen or do not listen,” she said with a shrug. “It is up to you. But I have the answer you seek.”
He got to his feet, towering over her so she’d not forget who was her master. “What answer?”
“There is only one way to claim her body,” she said smugly.
Pagan was stunned by the old woman’s perception. Did she possess some mystic clairvoyance, or had he been talking in his sleep? He rubbed pensively at his stubbled cheek, torn between listening to what might be sage advice and hauling Sung Li out the stable door for her impertinence. But the truth was, determined to prevail over his intractable wife and eager to claim his bride, Pagan was frustrated enough to consider anything. He crossed his arms in challenge, sneering, “And how is that?”
Sung Li straightened to her unimpressive full height and wisely intoned, “First you must win her heart.”
Pagan rolled his eyes. This was her counsel? “You’ve been listening to too many of Boniface’s madrigals,” he scoffed.
She ignored his scorn. “There is an ancient riddle in your land. Perhaps you have heard it. The riddle is, What is it a woman desires most?”
Riddles. He loathed riddles. In another moment, he’d drag the old crone out by her braid. It was a stupid riddle anyway. What a woman desired most? That would depend upon the woman.
“Do you know the answer?” Sung Li prodded.
He scowled, biting out, “Flowers. Sweetmeats. Jewels. It could be anything.”
Sung Li’s black eyes twinkled. “Nay. Not anything.” She looked about, as if to make sure the horses weren’t listening, then confided, “Her will. What a woman desires most is her will.”
Pagan narrowed his eyes. That was a silly answer. Too simple. Too sweeping. Too vague.
And yet, upon reflection, he realized... Aye, it might be true.
He had tried to force Deirdre to his will. By seduction. By threat. By trickery. He’d never once considered bowing to her will. As a warrior, he’d been trained to never surrender, never compromise. But Deirdre, too, believed in victory at all costs. And thus was sired their deadlock.
If Pagan let Deirdre win, if he let her have her way...
He paced the small space of the stable stall.
It wouldn’t be easy. There were matters of castle defense and stewardship that he dared not surrender, for his experience was simply superior to hers. But if he conferred with her on other matters, as he had with the Lachanburn lads, if he listened to her and included her in his decisions, maybe her heart would soften toward him.
And once her heart was receptive, discreet seduction would take care of the rest, as long as she believed it was her will.
“Sung Li, I believe I’ve misjudged—“
When he turned toward the maidservant, she’d vanished into the ether, as swiftly as shadow, without a sound, without a trace. He scratched his head. The woman was like some inscrutable Oriental wraith.
By the time Pagan emerged from the stables, brushing the straw from his braies and squinting against the sunlight, he smiled with new purpose. No matter how it went against everything bred into him as a man, how it countered all his basest instincts, when Deirdre appeared this morn like some shining Aurora, Pagan meant to steel himself against his natural lust and attempt to accommodate his wife’s wishes.
If he succeeded, by tonight, they would share something far sweeter than fellowship. He knew exactly where he was going to place the kiss she owed him, and heaven help her when he stormed those gates.
CHAPTER 20
Deirdre couldn’t move.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. Her body had somehow stiffened in the night, and even the warmth of dawn couldn’t thaw her joints.
Pagan had never come to bed. That was little surprise, given how angry he’d been. But if he thought he’d worm his way out of practicing with her today, he was mistaken.
Slowly, she rolled onto her side, but when she tried to lever up on one arm, sharp pain shot like lightning from her elbow to her shoulder.
“Ballocks,” she gasped.
While she teetered on that shaky arm, she swung her legs gingerly over the edge of the bed. Lord, they ached as though a cart had run over them repeatedly. And now that she sat upright, she felt every muscle in her body complain.
She’d overdone it. In her zeal to demonstrate her skill to Pagan, to show him what strong stuff she was made of, she’d worked too hard sparring yesterday. Today
she’d suffer for it.
But she wouldn’t be cheated out of her time in the tiltyard. No matter how painful it was.
Grimacing and cursing, she managed to lift the heavy hauberk of mail over her head and let it shiver down over her shoulders. She didn't bother with the armor plate, simply cinching her swordbelt around her hips with trembling arms. She half-limped, half-dragged herself down the stairs as her legs quivered like newborn lambs. How she was going to hide her infirmity from Pagan, she didn’t know. Every step was an agony.
She tried to walk as normally as possible as she neared the tiltyard, but a hedgepig could have easily outpaced her.
She heard Pagan before she saw him.
“You’re late, my lady.”
He reclined in the shadows, propped against the stable wall, his long legs stretched out casually before him and crossed at the ankles. He grinned, chewing on a piece of straw. She wondered if he’d slept in the stables.
As she walked stiffly toward him, he tilted his head, studying her with that infuriating smile. She frowned in chagrin. No doubt she resembled a stooped old crone hobbling along.
“Come, come!” he teased. “Don’t dawdle. Do you not wish to spar?”
She clenched her teeth. “I do. And I’m not.”
“I’ve seen ducks waddle faster.”
“I’m...cold,” she said, grasping at the first excuse she could. “It takes a while for my bones to thaw.”
He spat out the straw and came to his feet, his eyes never leaving her. After a moment, he crossed his arms over his chest and clucked his tongue. “You’re not cold,” he guessed. “I’d wager you lifted one too many buckets yesterday.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can still fight.”
His grin widened. “I suspect you could go missing both arms, wench, and still believe you could fight.”
“Both arms and both legs.”
His laughter startled her, ringing out as rich and warm as the golden sunlight. Apparently, his night in the stables had cooled his temper.
“If ‘tis your will then...let’s see what you have,” he said, clapping her companionably on the shoulder.
She sucked a quick breath between her teeth as pain streaked down her arm. “Right.”
To her amazement, he was merciful to her, considering what vengeance he could wreak while she was in such a helpless state. As they worked together in the tiltyard, he spent more time discussing techniques than employing them, guiding her through slow stretches rather than endurance-building exercises. She was grateful for his patience and his leniency, for when she attempted to wield her sword, she could scarcely lift it above her waist, rendering her blade about as deadly as a wet rope.
And while he occasionally chuckled at her lack of strength, it was never mean-spirited, even when her knees wobbled out of kilter and her shield sank pathetically lower and lower.
Deirdre had stumbled back into the wattle fence for the second time when he finally suggested, “Let’s stop for the day."
Out of pride, she started to refuse. “I’m fine,” she gasped. “I can—”
“You’re fine. I’m weary. Quit for my sake.”
She raised a dubious brow. He wasn’t even breathing heavily. Nonetheless, she nodded and eased back against a fencepost. “You’re not weary.”
He grinned, then leaned on the fence beside her, resting his forearms atop the gate and gazing off toward the keep. She glanced at his well-muscled hands, his wide shoulders, his corded neck. He’d hardly broken a sweat.
“Do you never tire?” she asked.
He chuckled, and Deirdre was struck again by the easy warmth in his laughter. “I conserve my strength. I suppose I’ve learned to choose my battles with care.”
As he stared thoughtfully into the distance, Deirdre got the distinct impression that he spoke of more than just sparring. For a commander like Pagan, choosing battles was a way of life. Maybe that was why he’d let go of his anger at her. Maybe he’d decided it wasn’t a battle worth fighting, that she wasn’t worth his trouble.
She should have been relieved. After all, if he gave up the fight, if he no longer insisted upon consummating their marriage, it would be a perfect union, wouldn’t it? He might command Rivenloch's army by virtue of his greater skill, but as long as Deirdre withheld herself from him, he'd never have complete reign over her.
Why, then, was she left with a hollow place in her heart when his men began to arrive at the tiltyard and Pagan dismissed her with another casual pat on the shoulder?
She felt even emptier when, hours later, as she passed by the pantry with a midday havercake, she overheard two of the kitchen maids wagging their tongues.
“‘Twon’t be long now, a day or two at most,” one of them gloated. “The lord never did go to his bedchamber last even.”
“Well, he didn’t go to yours either,” the other quipped.
“Nay. But he met me in the buttery two nights past.”
“And did he swive you in the buttery, or was he there for a piece of cheese?”
“You’re a mean old trot, you are.” She gave an offended sniff. “I had my skirts up around my waist for him.”
“So he ran you through with his lance, did he?”
There was a pause. “Nay...not exactly.”
The first maid snickered.
“But he will,” she protested. “I’m sure of it. After all, he’s a man, and he’s getting nothing from his wife.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Indeed, there’s some who say the lady was born without...proper women’s parts.”
“Fie, Lucy! There’s some who say you were born without a brain. Get on with you!”
Deirdre stole away then, but the women’s words lingered as she slipped into the buttery to find herself a piece of cheese. She wasn’t hurt by Lucy’s gossip. She’d inured herself to such insults long ago. But the core of the conversation gave Deirdre pause as she perused the buttery shelves.
The fact that Pagan might stray hadn’t occurred to her before.
She picked up a block of hard cheese and sniffed at it, then put it back on the shelf.
Lucy was right. Pagan was a man. He had needs. And he certainly wouldn’t let an unwilling wife keep him from satisfying those needs.
She chose a hunk of soft spermyse cheese and pulled out her eating dagger.
Indeed, Pagan wouldn’t be the first husband to stray in his affections.
She stabbed the cheese hard enough to kill it, then carved out a generous portion.
Deirdre was no innocent. Despite the censure of the church, she knew men felt free to swive whomever they willed, even other men’s wives, as long as they weren’t caught.
She testily shoved the cheese back onto the shelf and began spreading her portion over the havercake with the dagger. Then she frowned into the darkest corner of the buttery. Was that where Lucy had lifted her skirts? Was that the spot where Pagan had been tempted to break his marriage vows?
The havercake snapped in two.
With a curse, she jammed her knife back into its sheath. Then she stuffed the cheese and havercake mess into her mouth, biting down with a vengeance, and made her way out of the buttery, not wanting to spend another moment in Pagan’s trysting place.
When she emerged in the great hall, her mouth full of food, she all but crashed into Pagan himself, sweaty, dusty, and breathless, obviously straight from the tiltyard. God help her, when he perused her with those twinkling green eyes of his, even the knowledge that he was a faithless knave couldn't stop the fickle flutter of her heart.
“I've been looking for you,” he said. Then, unable to overlook her bulging cheeks, he added with a smirk, “Hungry?”
She didn’t dare try to reply. She would have spit havercake everywhere. Chagrined, she stared hard at the rush-covered floor and kept chewing, hoping to swallow the dry wad without choking.
“I need to discuss some improvements to Rivenloch’s defenses with you," he divulged.
She glanced at him doubtfu
lly.
"I’m considering building a moat."
“A moat?” she mumbled around the havercake. Surely he jested.
Suddenly he caught her hand.
"Come," he said, giving her little choice as he tugged her after him like one would a child. She might have resisted, but the boyish, spirited spark in his eyes as he lugged her across the great hall persuaded her to let him have his way. His enthusiasm was contagious, and soon the companionable grip of his rough, damp palm made her forget all about Lucy and the buttery.
With Deirdre in tow, he burst through the door of the keep and continued across the sunlit courtyard, past the chapel and the orchards and the workshops, where inquisitive castle folk stopped to stare, and then out the front gates. In his eagerness, he'd forgotten her sore muscles, and Deirdre, wincing at every step, was hard pressed to keep up with him, despite her naturally long strides.
Several yards outside the gates, he stopped, and then turned her to face the castle. “The barbican would be built here,” he said, releasing her hand to draw an imaginary square, “with a drawbridge across.”
She frowned, imagining it, wondering at his motives. Adding a moat to an existing castle was a strange undertaking. It would be difficult, if not impossible.
"'Tis a lot of excavation," she told him.
"Aye."
"'Twould have to be wide enough to impede attackers."
"Aye, wide and deep."
She shook her head. "Digging that deeply near the wall might undermine the foundation."
He nodded pensively. “The builder tells me we’d have to reinforce the curtain wall.”
She lifted her brows. Rivenloch’s curtain wall ran a considerable distance around the keep. “‘Tis an enormous feat."
He bobbed his head.
She frowned. "Even if 'twas possible, 'twould cost a king's ransom."
"'Tis no matter." His voice rang with fervent pride as he added, "No amount of coin is too great to protect our land."
She glanced sharply at him. The earnest shine of his eyes told her his sense of obligation was sincere. He truly meant to do all in his power to protect the keep. He might have come to Rivenloch as a usurper, but already he was charmed enough by the holding and the castle folk to speak of making monetary sacrifices for them.
Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) Page 19
