Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Come, you’ll frighten my bride,” he said. “Let the women take her above and make her ready. I’ll stay and have one last drink with you.”

  Before Deirdre could protest, a dozen Rivenloch and Norman maids surrounded her, intent on carrying her upstairs. They struggled to lift her ungainly body. It was fortunate she’d removed her armor, or else they would have collapsed under her weight. Finally, in a flurry of grunts and groans and giggles, they managed to hoist her atop their shoulders and carry her up the winding stairs to her chamber.

  It was foolishness, she thought as they tied back the bedhangings, then undressed her and scattered rose petals across the linens of her bed, dabbed lavender oil at her throat and lit the candles someone had placed all around the chamber. It was a silly waste of labor and ceremony and candles. Pagan had said it himself—he was accustomed to beautiful women begging for his favors. What use had he for an oversized warrior wench like her?

  Yet her pulse raced absurdly as she let the women guide her to the bed, almost as if in anticipation. They tucked her in, releasing her braid and arranging the blonde waves artfully over her bosom, but she refused let them take the Thor’s hammer from around her neck.

  The din of men approaching, drunk and loud and raucous, sent the maids into gales of nervous laughter, and their inane excitement shot a frisson of dread up her spine. A sudden banging upon the door made her jump, and she frowned at her own lack of nerve.

  This was ridiculous! She wasn’t some fainthearted craven to cringe in terror. With a defiant toss of her head, she threw off the coverlet and sat up proudly to face the invading horde.

  She was prepared for a string of bawdy jests. She was prepared for crude gestures and lewd leers and mindless, drunken raving when they flung open the door.

  She was not prepared for sudden silence.

  Chapter 9

  Pagan’s jaw dropped. Unbidden, his gaze coursed over the lush contours of his bride’s body, following the graceful waves of firelit hair that swept past her wide, yet fine-boned shoulders, only partially covering her elegant breasts, and leaving bare her flat stomach with its inviting navel.

  He could draw no air into his lungs.

  He’d known Deirdre was beautiful. He’d glimpsed her naked from afar as she bathed. And he’d seen her dressed in both soft, flowing silk and body-hugging chain mail. But he hadn’t expected the perfection before him now. And he’d never guessed how much knowing that she belonged to him would enhance her beauty.

  Another woman might have gasped and shielded herself. But Deirdre made no move to hide from him, and her self-assurance aroused him tremendously. Blood surged suddenly in his loins, shaking him to the core.

  Then he realized that his men, shoving each other behind him for a peek, were struck dumb as well, that they, too, felt the effects of Deirdre’s unabashed beauty. His lust swiftly took a possessive turn then, and he wanted them gone. All of them. Now.

  But even through his own blinding desire, when he met Deirdre’s bold gaze, he detected the subtle hint of fear in her eyes. Like cornered quarry, it seemed she put on a brave face and stood her ground when she likely wished instead to retreat into some safe warren.

  And that courage made him feel something else, something wholly unfamiliar to him. It was a kind of admiration and ownership, a strange respect, but also a desire to protect her.

  Somehow he found his voice. Somehow he found the patience to resist commanding them all to get the bloody hell back down the stairs and away from his bride.

  “People of…” He thought he’d found his voice. That telltale squeak, he feared, gave away the rattled state of his composure. The men crowding the doorway let out their breath in a collective chuckle of relief.

  He started again. “People of Rivenloch, Knights of Cameliard, I thank you for bearing witness to our holy union.” He glanced at Deirdre’s hands. There was the clear sign of her tension. Though she kept up a serene mien, her hands were balled into fists upon her lap. He felt a powerful urge to unclench them for her. “However this union only God shall witness.”

  As was customary, the men sent up a loud and drunken protest, but they soon dutifully retreated from the doorway. The women, too, abandoned Deirdre with whispered wishes of good fortune.

  Only Sir Rauve was sotted enough to yell, “We’ll come for the bloody linens on the morrow, lad. Don’t disappoint us!”

  The others joined in with other merry threats, but Pagan closed the door on them. He took a deep breath and turned to face his wife.

  She hadn’t moved from the spot. Sitting in the midst of her fur-covered bed, lit by a host of ivory candles, she looked like a saint about to be martyred. Her eyes shone with courage, her belly rose and fell with each shallow breath, and her fingers clenched tightly in the bedclothes. He felt almost sorry for her.

  Until she spoke.

  “Touch me, and ’twill be your blood upon the linens.”

  Her words extinguished his lust like a bucket of cold water. If Deirdre was akin to a frightened beast, then she was decidedly the kind with claws. And he’d already endured one of her painful scratches. He wouldn’t do so again.

  He needed a moment to think, to best consider how to approach this dangerous animal.

  While she kept a wary gaze upon him, he perused the chamber. It was furnished in a manner ill befitting a lady, aside from the rose petals scattered upon the bed and the fresh rushes strewn with heather that covered the floor. There were no perfumes, no ribbons, no trinkets upon the single table that stood at one side of the bed, only a quill, a few pieces of parchment, and a vial of ink. A heavy oak chest dominated one wall, and a second chest of pine sat beneath one of the two shuttered windows. A worn chair squatted beside the hearth, where a modest fire burned steadily. A hook on one wall held her cloak, and beneath it nestled a pair of pale leather slippers. Blue velvet bedhangings softened the square frame of the bed, but lent little femininity to the room. No painted garlands decked the plain plaster walls, and instead of tapestries, there hung a pair of shields, a mace, a flail, a battleaxe, and half a dozen swords and daggers. It was the unadorned chamber of a warrior.

  Like her chamber, he thought, Deirdre was straightforward, forthright. She displayed her weapons for all to see, made no pretenses about what she was, and wasted no space on frivolity. He, too, must be equally blunt with her.

  He approached the bed, unbuckling his belt with purposeful leisure. Then he wrapped the leather round his fist and though he let his hand drop to his side, she gave it a fleeting glance, clearly wondering what he intended. He let her wonder. It was best to keep one’s adversary guessing.

  He towered over the bed, looking down his nose at her. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time, wench. Maybe you will hear me better now. You’re my wife. You wedded me of your own free will. You wear my ring, and your lips sealed our troth.” He saw her hands fidget restlessly in the linens. “I won’t be denied that which is my right.”

  He was going to go on, to tell her that despite that right, he’d made a vow to her sister, and indeed, it was in keeping with his honor as a knight, not to take Deirdre against her will. Despite the lust raging inside him, he would willingly rein it in if she refused him.

  But she never gave him the chance to say a word.

  As fleet as a fox on the hunt, she reached beneath the bolster on her bed and whipped out a dagger.

  Thank God, she didn’t lunge for him. If she had, he would have swung his fist instinctively, breaking her hand and lodging her knife in the far wall. Fortunately, she only brandished the weapon before her, her gaze an unspoken threat as chilling as the silver steel of the blade.

  Stunned though he was by her violent response, he quickly schooled his movements to casual unconcern, as if she wielded a feather, and carefully unwrapped and rewrapped the leather around his fist.

  “I seem to remember that earlier in the great hall, you proposed a barter—your sister’s penance for your own.”

  She was
silent, but he noticed an uncertain flicker in her eyes.

  “Yet you look most unwilling to endure that penance now.” He let his gaze drop briefly to the gleaming blade. “Indeed, you seem very unlike the humble maid who bargained with me before, who begged me to accept her sacrifice, who was willing to offer up her own body so her sister wouldn’t have to suffer. Is this so? Do you wish to withdraw your offer? Shall I take the sin out of Helena’s flesh?”

  “Nay! Nay.” A crease of confusion marred the smooth space between her brows, and her grip shifted upon the dagger. “But why would you seek to punish me here, now, in our marriage bed?”

  He lifted a brow. “’Tis abundantly obvious you wish for nothing else here.” He glanced pointedly at her weapon.

  Bit by slow bit, Deirdre lowered the dagger, but he could see the struggle in her eyes. How it frustrated her to succumb to him. Yet in the end, she’d bound herself by her own words, and so at last, she conceded.

  But he wasn’t a man to be stung twice. He held out his hand for her dagger. Reluctantly, she flipped the blade in her hand and surrendered it, hilt first.

  “I trust you have no others within reach,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  He took the dagger, and with a quick flick of his wrist, sent it sailing across the room. It lodged with a thunk in the oak chest.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her flinch, not much, but enough to let him know she hadn’t fully let down her guard. She stole a glance at the belt wrapped around his hand, and he knew she expected him to use his fists on her.

  Colin would have laughed to imagine such a thing. Pagan had never in his life beat anyone. He’d never needed to. His dark looks alone could send servants scrambling to do his bidding and make soldiers tremble in their tracks. But Deirdre didn’t know that. And maybe it was best to keep her in doubt.

  Despite her gruesome expectations, she neither quailed nor lost her dignity, but only offered him this blunt advice: “Do as you will. But take care, sirrah, not to lose your temper and forget your strength. ’Twill do you no good to have a dead wife.”

  Faced with her bluntness and astonishing courage, Pagan could not keep up his pretense of menace. She was uncommonly valiant, this new bride of his, and his heart swelled with a curious pride. And again, as preposterous as it seemed, he considered what a fine soldier she’d make.

  But when his gaze slipped down to the place where her golden tresses had parted now to reveal the delicate, rosy crest of her breast, all thoughts of battle vanished like ashes in the wind. He slowly unwrapped the leather belt and set it upon the bedside table.

  Nay, he had a different kind of punishment in mind, a penance he’d first imagined while bandaging the cut she’d dealt him with her sword, and later perfected in the chapel, pressing warm lips to hers in primal possession. The only suffering she’d endure in this chamber would stem from her own passions.

  “Oh, my lady, ’tisn’t death I dole out this night,” he told her cryptically, “but life.”

  While she looked at him in mistrust, he unpinned the plaid from across his shoulder and tossed it onto the chair. He noticed that her knuckles were white where she gripped the coverlet, and he frowned. Aye, he intended to punish her for her defiance, to teach her who was master. And he meant to achieve that end with his own form of torture, but not with fear or pain. ’Twould bring him no pleasure to best her unless she was in fighting form.

  “You fear me,” he prodded.

  “Nay,” she said. “I despise you.”

  “Liar.”

  She glared past him, as if drilling into the plaster wall. “Make no game of this. Have done with it. Do what you will.”

  “You won’t struggle?”

  She shook her head once.

  “Nor scream for help?”

  “I do not scream.”

  The ghost of a smile touched Pagan’s lips. He could make her scream. “Nor cower in fear?”

  “I told you. I’m not afraid.”

  “And yet you strangle the poor coverlet with your fists.”

  She immediately released the fabric.

  He planted one boot upon the end of her bed to untie the laces, and he chuckled as she swiftly averted her eyes. Still unaccustomed to his lack of braies, he found some aspects of the revealing Scots attire entertaining.

  Once his boots dropped to the floor, he pulled his tunic over his head and loosened the laces of the long linen shirt beneath. As he did so, Deirdre stole peeks at him, glances she thought he couldn’t detect, and this pleased him immensely. She was not so numb with fear that she couldn’t indulge her own curiosity about the man she’d wed, which was good. Deciding to keep her curious, he left his shirt on and dragged a tall candle stand close to the bed. He wanted light—warm, bright, and illuminating—for what he planned.

  Deirdre wished he’d get on with it. Damn the brute! What did he intend? It was pure torture to be braced for suffering and yet ignorant of its nature. Pain she could tolerate, but this anticipation would drive her mad.

  Worst of all, it grated against her grain to willingly endure such abuse. She was accustomed to fighting, not yielding. It would take all her strength of will to resist resisting.

  Now he’d stripped to his shirt and brought a candle near. Dear God! What perversion was this? Did he plan to torture her with hot wax? Or was the candlelight so he could better admire the bruises he inflicted? Sweet Mary, she wished she hadn’t surrendered her dagger.

  “Your hands are clenched again,” he murmured, bending near.

  This time she couldn’t release them. Every nerve was stretched as tightly as a drawn bowstring. Even her voice, despite her bold words, was colored with tension.

  “Whatever vile thing you intend,” she croaked, “be done with it. You keep me from my obligations.”

  He laughed wholeheartedly then, and though the sound was pleasant, it made her ears bristle.

  “Your only obligation tonight is to me,” he said.

  Lord, she hated how his eyes twinkled, the way his lip curved up in that smug grin as he stood at her bedside. She shut her eyes tightly against the sight and braced herself for the first blow.

  Almost instantly, his palm caught her cheek, but it wasn’t with a cuff. Instead, his thumb caressed the corner of her mouth, and he brushed a fingertip over her earlobe. “Open your eyes,” he bid her. “I would have you know who is making you feel this.”

  Christ’s bones, he was debauched. She’d heard of cruel men who enjoyed the sufferings of others. Never had she imagined she’d be married to one. She forced her eyes open, gaining strength from the determination that she’d give him no satisfaction. It would be over soon, after all, and she need only remind herself that it was for her sister’s sake she endured this hell.

  He slipped his hand from her cheek. “I think…aye.” Then he made his way to the foot of the bed. “I’ll begin with your feet.”

  Despite her determination to remain calm, images of a dozen horrible tortures invaded her thoughts. Would he pummel her soles? Break her toes? Hold a candle to the bottoms of…

  He slowly tugged the coverlet down. Never had she felt so naked, so vulnerable.

  “Lie back,” he said.

  It took every ounce of self-command to comply, for she felt twice as helpless flat on her back, but comply she did. She compressed her lips, hoping it would be enough to stop her cries.

  His hand cupped her heel, and he lifted it slightly. “Beautiful,” he said, stroking the bridge with his other hand.

  His palm was warm upon her icy skin, his caress almost soothing. But she wouldn’t be lured in by his gentleness. It wouldn’t last.

  “But so cold,” he murmured, enclosing her foot between his hands.

  She held her breath, waiting for him to squeeze her bones till they cracked or to give her ankle a violent twist. But he did neither.

  Instead, he pressed his thumbs into her arch and moved them upwards, spreading them as he reached the pad of her foot.
A strange frisson of warmth sizzled up her leg. He repeated the motion, this time brushing the undersides of her toes.

  “Breathe,” he said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She wasn’t so naive as to believe him, and she half hoped she’d faint for lack of air and avoid whatever torment he had planned.

  He stopped massaging her foot. “Deirdre, breathe. I mean you no harm. I swear it. Upon my honor as a knight.”

  Maybe he did tell the truth. A trusted knight of the King would not take his vows of chivalry lightly. She let out a ragged breath and sucked in a new one.

  But what about Helena’s penance? Didn’t he say Deirdre might ransom her own flesh for that?

  As if he read her thoughts, he murmured, “I intend to have my way with you this eve, as any man with a new bride. And you, dear wife, have vowed not to resist. As penances go, I’d wager this will be far worse for you than any amount of beating.”

  Emotions coursed through her so rapidly she scarcely had time to feel them. Relief. Wonder. Dismay. Shock. Humiliation. Rage.

  Curse the Norman bastard! He was right. It appalled her to admit it, but he was right. To endure his caress, his tenderness, his seduction, without protest, would be sheer agony. Nothing was more important to her than control—over her castle, over her body, over her emotions. Pagan’s overtures threatened that control. And yet she’d given him her oath to allow them. Damn him, he’d trapped her in the shackles of her own promise.

  When she glanced at Pagan, she saw that self-satisfied grin again, the knowing look in his eyes, and she longed to clout the expression from his face once and for all. But she’d given her word not to fight him.

  Still, there were more ways than one to confound his victory. She might be bested, but she’d not make conquest easy for him. If she could be stoic under pain, then by the Saints, she could be stoic under pleasure.

  “In time, you may come to welcome my touch.”