Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  Beside the fire, the Lord of Lachanburn and her father drank together, nodding sagely and exchanging words of comfort only old widowed warriors could understand. Perhaps this battle had been a blessing. Their alliance and their renewed friendship might serve to mend the wounds both men had suffered.

  And there, across the hall, by the flickering candlelight, Pagan, her magnificent Pagan, bruised and bloody and beautiful, leaned against the buttery wall, sipping from a cup of ale and merrily chatting with…

  Lucy Campbell.

  Deirdre arched a brow, muttering, “Don’t even think of it.”

  “My lady?” Boniface looked up.

  She hadn’t battled fierce English soldiers away from her husband all night just to have a conniving Scots kitchen maid mince up and lay claim to him.

  She banged down her cup of ale and rose from the bench.

  Boniface sputtered in protest. “But my lady, I’m not f—”

  “Later.” She straightened to her full height. “I have one last foe to conquer.”

  She strode across the hall, her fingers resting idly on her dagger hilt and an even direr threat in her eyes.

  When she reached the buttery, she swept up between the two of them with a deceptively sweet, “Pagan, my love,” looping her arm possessively through his. But the glare she gave Lucy was pointed as she asked him, “Will you come upstairs with me?”

  Lucy pouted, her plans foiled. Deirdre made a mental note to assign the wench to emptying chamberpots on the morrow for her devilry.

  But one glance at Pagan’s face, and Deirdre knew he’d intended no mischief with the maid. Adoration shone in his eyes as he smiled at her, adoration and a bond that no amount of dallying with a kitchen wench could unmake.

  Not that she’d allow him to test her…

  She took the cup of ale from him and handed it off to Lucy, dismissing the thwarted maid. Then with a waggish smile, she led Pagan through the cheering crowd.

  Somehow, despite the revelers who insisted on delaying them with congratulations and hearty salutes, they managed to finally climb the stairs to their bedchamber.

  Deirdre paused before the door. There was one thing still nagging at her brain, one thing she had to ask. “Pagan, just before the trebuchet exploded…did you see…?”

  “What?”

  “Anything?”

  He grinned. “I saw you. Only you.” His eyes glowed with worship as he lifted a lock of her hair and kissed it.

  Lord, the lust in his eyes almost made her forget her question. She gulped, then furrowed her brow. “I mean…on the trebuchet.”

  His gaze drifted down to her lips, and she could almost feel his desire for a kiss. “Aye,” he said dreamily.

  “You did?”

  “Mm.”

  Then she hadn’t imagined it. “A dark figure?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “’Twas The Shadow then. It had to be,” she said. “But he just…disappeared.”

  Pagan shrugged, his gaze lingering on her mouth. Clearly his mind was on other things. “Your outlaw seems to prefer obscurity.”

  Her heart fluttered as she fought to concentrate on the issue at hand. “Then let’s not disclose his secret.”

  “Done,” he said, lifting her hand and placing a gentle kiss upon her fingers. “As long as I am steward of Rivenloch—”

  “Lord of Rivenloch,” she corrected. After the battle, Lord Gellir had, of his own free will, officially ceded authority to Pagan.

  “As long as I am lord,” he amended, laying his hand across his heart as a pledge, “no one shall ever lay a hand upon The Shadow. Whoever he is.” Then he gave her a sly grin. “As for you, however…”

  She returned his smile. Already her blood warmed in anticipation. “To the victors,” she whispered as she opened the door.

  His grin widened. “Go the spoils.”

  And, ah, what spoils they shared…

  Within moments, they were nestled beneath the thick furs, their naked bodies entwining in a tender embrace.

  “’Twas a terrible risk you took,” Pagan chided her, reaching up to caress her jaw, “coming to rescue—”

  She sucked a quick breath between her teeth as he touched a tender spot, and he withdrew his hand.

  “I caught an English fist,” she explained with a sheepish smile. “And your rescue? ’Twas a risk worth taking.” She tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear.

  He winced.

  She lifted a questioning brow.

  “Dagger nick,” he said. Then he shook his head. “Oh, wife,” he sighed, “when I first saw you tearing your way into that pavilion…” He clasped her hand in his.

  She gasped.

  He let go.

  “Caught an English face,” she said, flexing her sore knuckles. Sighing, she ran a palm experimentally over his bare shoulder. “I couldn’t bear to leave you there with those miserable bas—” He tried not to flinch, but she could tell it pained him.

  “Mace bruise,” he admitted.

  “Ooh.” She cringed in sympathy. “Is there anywhere you’re not…”

  He thought for a moment. Then one side of his mouth curved up into a wolfish grin.

  Battle-weary and bone-bruised, they made love slowly, carefully, murmuring endearments against one another’s lips. And as they merged in blissful union, Deirdre perceived that this, more than anything, represented the truth of their bond.

  Before, she’d envisioned their marriage as a battle waged between the two of them, where one triumphed and one surrendered, a contest for control and power.

  But marriage, she now knew, was not war at all. Marriage was man and wife, side by side as they were now, sharing life’s adventures and battling its challenges…together. It was an alliance forged of the finest steel, tempered in the fires of adversity, and thus blessed by unrivaled strength.

  Gradually, their limbs and murmurs and hearts tangled in the lovely disarray of trysting, and Deirdre grew less and less capable of clear thought. Instead, she found herself enveloped in a mindless mist of sensual pleasure and sweet relief. And finally, as one, they culminated their passion, holding each other, heart to heart, crying out their soft ecstasy, just as sunlight poured over the horizon on a new day.

  Pagan had never felt such contentment, gazing upon his beautiful prize, his fair Scots bride. Her adoring eyes shone as pure and clean as the cloudless sky, and the golden hue of her hair rivaled that of the sunlight spilling through the half-shuttered window. He stroked her silken locks while her breathing slowed and her eyes drifted closed.

  But there was much more to her beauty than her blonde Viking tresses and clear crystal eyes and sensual curves, he realized. Deirdre possessed a beauty of spirit. She’d shown him faith and loyalty. Strength and honor and, aye, love.

  He smiled. It had taken them bloody long enough to admit to that love. But now that they had, he wouldn’t ever let her forget it. Indeed, he wondered how long it would take for Colin and Helena to realize that they, too, belonged together.

  Deirdre sighed happily, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her brow. From the moment he’d glimpsed her ripping through the English pavilion, sword in hand, come to rescue him, he’d realized she was as courageous as any of the Knights of Cameliard, and as headstrong. Now he supposed there was no getting that ale back into the keg. But he’d gladly fight beside his brave Warrior Maid any time, for together, they could conquer the world.

  Amor vincit omnia.

  Together, they’d fortify Rivenloch’s walls.

  Together they’d build an army of peerless renown.

  Together, he thought with a devilish smile, they would raise the next generation of Knights of Cameliard and Warrior Maids of Rivenloch.

  All at once he remembered her words on the parapets about their babe…

  He swept the back of his scarred knuckles lightly over the soft flesh of her still flat belly. “Deirdre,” he whispered, “what you said before, are you…?”

  But she was alre
ady asleep, a pleased smile curving her lips, probably dreaming even now of their brood of children and their future together.

  He smiled in response. He’d let her dream and ask her later. After all, they had years of bliss ahead of them. He could wait a few more hours.

  THE END

  CAPTIVE HEART

  The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 2

  Dedication

  For

  Grandma Edna,

  who raised four boys,

  outlived six husbands,

  flew airplanes,

  rode a red Indian motorcycle,

  and owned a beauty parlor,

  long before kick-ass women

  were in fashion.

  With special thanks to

  Melanie, Helen, and Lori,

  for their faith.

  Acknowledgments

  Warm thanks to…

  “America,” Kathy Baker, Dr. Barbara Barnett,

  Orlando Bloom, Brynna Campbell, Dick Campbell,

  Dylan Campbell, Richard Campbell, Carol Carter,

  Lucele Couts, Karen Kay, Hudson Leick,

  Lauren Royal, Betty and Earl Talken,

  Shirley Talken, Charles and Nancy Williams,

  and everyone who plays “Starcraft”

  Chapter 1

  THE BORDERS, SUMMER 1136

  Helena was drunk. Drunker than she’d ever been in her life. Which was why, no matter how she struggled against the cursed brute of a Norman oaf wrestling her down the castle stairs, she couldn’t break his hold on her.

  “Cease, wench!” her captor hissed, stumbling on a step in the dark. “Bloody hell, you’ll get us both killed.”

  She would have grappled even harder then, but her right knee suddenly turned to custard. Indeed, if the Norman hadn’t caught her against his broad chest, she’d have tumbled headlong down the stone steps.

  “Ballocks,” he muttered against her ear, his massive arms tightening around her like a vise.

  She rolled her eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over her. If only her muscles would cooperate, she thought, she could wrench loose and push the bloody bastard down the stairs.

  But she was well and truly drunk.

  She hadn’t realized just how drunk until she’d found herself in the bedchamber of her sister’s bridegroom, Pagan Cameliard, dagger in hand, ready to kill him.

  If she hadn’t been drunk, if she hadn’t tripped in the dark over Pagan’s man, slumbering at the foot of the bed like some cursed faithful hound, she might have succeeded.

  Damn, it was a sobering thought. Helena, the daughter of a lord, and an honorable Warrior Maid of Rivenloch, had almost slain a man quite dishonorably in his sleep.

  It wasn’t entirely her fault, she decided. She’d been up until the wee hours, commiserating over a cup, indeed several cups, with her older sister, Deirdre, lamenting the fate of Miriel, their poor little sister, betrothed against her will to a foreigner. And under the influence of excessive wine, they’d sworn to murder the man if he so much as laid a hand on Miriel.

  It had seemed such a noble idea at the time. But how Helena had gone from making that drunken vow to actually skulking about the bridegroom’s chamber with a knife, she couldn’t fathom.

  Indeed, she’d been shocked to discover the dagger in her hand, though not half as shocked as Sir Colin du Lac, the brawny varlet over whom she’d tripped, the man who currently half-shoved, half-carried her down the stairs.

  Once more, Helena had become a victim of her own impulsiveness. Deirdre frequently scolded Helena for her tendency to act first and ask questions later. Still, Helena’s quick reflexes had saved her more than once from malefactors and murderers and men who mistook her for a helpless maid. While Deirdre might waste time weighing the consequences of punishing a man for insult, Helena wouldn’t hesitate to draw her sword and mark his cheek with a scar he’d wear to his grave. Her message was clear. No one tangled with the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch.

  But this time, she feared she’d gone too far.

  Pagan’s man grunted as he lifted her over the last step. Damn the knave—despite his inferior Norman blood, he was as strong and determined as a bull. With a final heave, he deposited her at the threshold of the great hall.

  The chamber seemed cavernous by the dim glow of the banked fire, its high ceiling obscured by shadow, its walls disappearing into the darkness. By day it was a lofty hall decked with the tattered banners of defeated enemies. But by night the frayed pennons hung in the air like lost spirits.

  A cat hissed and darted past the hearth, its elongated shadow streaking wraithlike along one wall. In the corner, a hound stirred briefly at the disturbance, chuffed once, and then lowered his head to his paws again. But the other denizens of the great hall, dozens of snoring servants, huddled upon mounds of rushes and propped against the walls, slumbered on in oblivion.

  Helena struggled anew, hoping to wake one of them. They were her servants, after all. Anyone seeing the lady of the castle being abducted by a Norman would send up an alarm.

  But it was impossible to make a noise around the wad of the coverlet her vile captor had stuffed into her mouth. Even if she managed, she doubted anyone would rouse. The castle folk were exhausted from making hasty preparations for the travesty of a wedding in the morn.

  “Cease, wench,” Sir Colin bit out, giving her ribs a jerk of warning, “or I’ll string you up now.”

  She hiccoughed involuntarily.

  Surely hanging her was an idle threat on his part. This Norman couldn’t execute her. Not in her own castle. Not when her only crime had been protecting her sister. Besides, she hadn’t killed Pagan. She’d only attempted to kill him.

  Still, she swallowed back the bitter taste of doubt.

  These Normans were vassals of the King of Scotland, and the King had commanded that Pagan wed one of the daughters of Rivenloch. If Helena had succeeded in slaying the King’s man…it would have been high treason, punishable by hanging.

  The thought made her sway uneasily in Colin’s arms.

  “Whoa. Steady, Hel-fire.” His whisper against her ear sent an unwelcome shiver along her spine. “Don’t faint away on me.”

  She frowned and hiccoughed again. Hel-fire! He didn’t know the half of it. And how dared he suggest she might faint? Warrior maids didn’t faint. That was only her feet tangling in the coverlet as they shuffled through the rushes in the great hall.

  Then, as they lurched across the flagstones toward the cellar stairs, a different, all too familiar sensation brought her instantly alert.

  Shite, she was going to be sick.

  Her stomach seized once. Twice. Her eyes grew wide with horror.

  One look at the damsel’s beaded brow and ashen pallor told Colin why she’d stopped in her tracks.

  “Shite!” he hissed.

  Her body heaved again, and he snatched the wadded coverlet from her mouth, bending her forward over one arm, away from him, just in time.

  Fortunately, no one was sleeping there.

  Holding the back of her head while she lost her supper, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the miserable little murderess. She obviously wouldn’t have tried to slay Pagan in his sleep if she hadn’t been as drunk as an alewife.

  And he certainly didn’t intend to have the maid hanged for treason, no matter what he’d led her to believe. Executing the sister of Pagan’s bride would destroy the alliance they’d come to form with the Scots. She’d obviously done what she’d done to protect her little sister. Besides, who could drop a noose around a neck as fair and lovely as hers?

  Still, he couldn’t allow the maid to think she could attack a King’s man without consequence.

  What Colin couldn’t fathom was why the three sisters of Rivenloch so loathed his commander. Sir Pagan Cameliard was a fierce warrior, aye, a man who led an unparalleled fighting force. But he was kind and gentle with ladies. Indeed, wenches often swooned over the captain’s handsome countenance and fine form. Any woman with half a brain w
ould be ecstatic to have Pagan for a husband. Colin would have expected the sisters, sequestered so long in the barren wilds of Scotland, to vie eagerly for the privilege of wedding an illustrious nobleman like Pagan Cameliard.

  Instead, they quarreled over who would be burdened with him. It was perplexing.

  Poor Helena had ceased heaving, and now the pretty, pitiful maid quivered feebly, like a storm-tossed kitten locked out of the barn. But Colin dared not let compassion override caution. This kitten had shown her claws. He let her up, then instantly drew his dagger, placing it alongside her neck.

  “I’ll spare you the gag now, damsel,” he told her in a stern whisper, “but I warn you, don’t cry out, or I’ll be forced to slit your throat.”

  Of course, if she’d known Colin better, she would have laughed in his face. It was true, he could kill a man without a moment’s hesitation and dispatch an enemy knight with a single expert blow. He was strong and swift with a blade, and he had an uncanny instinct for discerning the point of greatest vulnerability in an opponent. But when it came to beautiful women, Colin du Lac was about as savage as an unweaned pup.

  Happily, the damsel believed his threat. Or perhaps she was simply too weak to fight. Either way, she staggered against him, shuddering as he wrapped the coverlet tighter about her shoulders and guided her forward.

  Beside the entrance to the buttery were a basin and a ewer for washing. He steered her there, propping her against the wall so she wouldn’t fall. Her drooping eyes still smoldered with silent rage as she glared at him, but her pathetic hiccoughs entirely ruined the effect. And fortunately, she hadn’t the strength to lend action to her anger.

  “Open your mouth,” he murmured, using his free hand to pick up the ewer of water.

  She compressed her lips, as contrary as a child. Even now, with fire in her eyes and her mouth tight with mutiny, she was truly the most exquisite creature he’d ever beheld. Her tresses cascaded over her shoulders like the tumbling froth of a highland waterfall, and her curves were more seductive than the sinuous silhouette of a wine-filled goblet.