Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  She eyed him doubtfully, as if she suspected he might use the water to drown her on the spot.

  He supposed she had a right to doubt him. Only moments ago, in Pagan’s chamber, he’d threatened to, what was it? Take her where no one could hear her scream and break her of her wild ways at the crack of a whip? He winced, recalling his rash words.

  “Listen,” he confided, lowering the ewer, “I said I wouldn’t punish you until the marriage is accomplished. I’m a man of my word. As long as you don’t force my hand, I’ll do you no harm this eve.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, she parted her lips. He carefully poured a small amount of water into her mouth. As she swished the liquid around, he got the distinct impression she longed to spew it back into his face. But with his blade still at her throat, she didn’t dare. Leaning forward, she spit into the rushes.

  “Good. Come.”

  When they’d first arrived, Pagan’s betrothed had given them a tour of the Scots castle that would be their new home. Rivenloch was an impressive holding, probably magnificent in its day, a little worn, but reparable. The outer wall enclosed an enormous garden, an orchard, stables, kennels, mews, and a dovecote. A small stone chapel sat in the middle of the courtyard, and a dozen or more workshops slouched against the inner walls. A grand tiltyard and practice field stood at the far end of the property, and the imposing square keep at the heart of the holding included the great hall, numerous bedchambers, garderobes, a buttery, a pantry, and several cellars. It was to one of the storage rooms beneath the keep that he now conveyed his captive.

  Placing Helena before him, he descended the rough stone steps by the light of a candle set in the stairwell’s sconce. Below them, small creatures scuttled about on their midnight rounds. Colin felt a brief twinge of remorse, wondering if the cellars were infested with mice, if it was cruel to lock Helena in there, if she was afraid of the creatures. Just as quickly, he decided that a knife-wielding wench prowling about in a man’s chamber, prepared to stab him in his sleep, was likely afraid of very little.

  They’d almost reached the bottom of the stairs when the damsel made a faint moan and, as if her bones had melted away, abruptly withered in his arms.

  Knocked off-balance by the sudden weight against his chest, he slammed into the stone wall with one shoulder, cinching his arm around her waist so she wouldn’t fall. To prevent a nasty accident, he cast his knife away, and it clattered down the steps.

  Then she slumped forward, and he was pulled along with her. Only by sheer strength was he able to keep them from pitching headlong onto the cold, hard flagstones below. Even so, as he struggled down the last few steps, the coverlet snagged on his heel and slipped sideways on her body. He lost his grip upon her waist and made another desperate grab for her as her knees buckled.

  His hand closed on something soft and yielding as he slid off the last step and finally found his footing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Colin had fondled enough breasts to recognize the soft flesh pressed sweetly against his palm. But he dared not let go for fear she’d drop to the ground.

  In the next instant, she roused again, drawing in a huge gasp of outrage, and Colin knew he was in trouble. Luckily, since he’d received his share of slaps for past fondlings, he was prepared.

  As her arm came around, not with a chiding open palm, but a fist of potent fury, he released her and ducked back out of range. Her swing was so forceful that when it swished through empty air, it spun her halfway around.

  “Holy…” he breathed. Had the maid not been drunk, the punch would have certainly flattened him.

  “Y’ son of a…” she slurred. She blinked, trying to focus on him, her fists clenched in front of her as she planned her next strike. “Get yer hands off me. I’ll kick yer bloody Norm’n arse. Swear I will. S—”

  Her hands began to droop, and her eyes dimmed as she swayed left, then right, staggering back a step. Then whatever fight she had left in her fizzled out like the last wheezing draw on a wineskin. He rushed up, catching her just before she collapsed.

  Cradled against his flank, all the fury and fight gone out of her, she looked less like a warrior maid and more like the guileless Helena he’d first spied bathing in Rivenloch’s pond, the delectable Siren with sun-kissed skin and riotous tawny hair, the woman who’d splashed seductively through his dreams.

  Had that been only this morn? So much had transpired in the last few weeks.

  A fortnight ago, Sir Pagan had received orders from King David of Scotland to venture north to Rivenloch to claim one of Lord Gellir’s daughters. At the time, the King’s purpose had been a mystery. But now it was clear what he intended.

  King Henry’s death had left England in turmoil, with Stephen and Matilda grappling for control of the throne. That turmoil had fomented lawlessness along the Borders, where land-hungry English barons felt at liberty to seize unguarded Scots castles.

  King David had granted Pagan a bride and thus the stewardship of Rivenloch in the hopes of guarding the valuable keep against English marauders.

  Despite the King’s sanction, Pagan had proceeded with caution. He’d traveled with Colin in advance of his knights to ascertain the demeanor of the Rivenloch clan. The Normans might be allies of the Scots, but he doubted they’d receive a hearty reception if they arrived in full force, like a conquering army, to claim the lord’s daughter.

  As it turned out, he was right to be wary. Their reception, at least by the daughters, had been far less than hearty. But by God’s grace, by midday on the morrow, after the alliance was sealed by marriage, peace would reign. And the Scots, once they were made merry with drink and celebration, would surely welcome the full complement of the Knights of Cameliard to Rivenloch.

  Helena gave a snort in her sleep, and Colin smiled ruefully down at her. She’d offer him no word of welcome. Indeed, she’d likely prefer to slit his throat.

  He bent to slip one forearm behind her knees and hefted her easily into his arms.

  One of the small storerooms looked seldom used. It held little more than broken furnishings and tools, piles of rags, and various empty containers. It had a bolt on the outside and a narrow space under the door for air, which meant it had likely been employed at one time for just this purpose, as a gaol of sorts. It was an ideal place to store a wayward wench for the night.

  He spread the coverlet atop an improvised pallet of rags to make a bed for her. She might be an assassin, but she was also a woman. She deserved at least a small measure of comfort.

  After he tucked the coverlet about her shoulders, he couldn’t resist combing back a stray tendril of her lush golden-brown hair to place a smug kiss upon her forehead. “Sleep well, little Hel-hound.”

  He exited, closing and bolting the door behind him, and then sat back against it, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. Perhaps he could steal one last hour of sleep before morning.

  If all went well, by afternoon the deed would be done, and the rest of the Cameliard company would arrive. Once Pagan was decisively wed, it would be safe to release Helena.

  He marveled again over the curious Scots maid. She was unlike any woman he’d ever met—bold and cocksure, yet undeniably feminine. At supper, she’d boasted of being an expert swordswoman, a claim none of her fellow Scots had disputed. And she’d regaled him with a tale of the local outlaw, trying to shock him with gruesome details that would have unnerved a lesser woman. She’d exhibited the most unbridled temper when her father announced Miriel’s marriage, cursing and slamming her fist on the table, her outburst checked only by the chiding of her older sister. And her appetite… He chuckled as he remembered watching her smack the grease from her fingers. The damsel had eaten enough to satisfy two grown men.

  And yet she inhabited the most womanly form. His loins swelled with the memory of her naked in the pond—the flicker of her curved buttocks as she dove under the waves, the gentle bounce of her full breasts as she splashed her sisters, her sleek thighs, narrow waist, flashing
teeth, the carefree toss of her sun-streaked hair as she cavorted in the water like a playful colt…

  He sighed. There was no use getting his braies in a wad over a damsel who currently slumbered in drunken oblivion on the other side of the door.

  Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Helena was unique. Intriguing. Vibrant. He’d never met a woman so headstrong, so untamed. As fresh and wild as Scotland itself. And as unpredictable.

  Indeed, it was fortunate Pagan had chosen quiet, sweet, docile Miriel for a bride, and not Helena. This wench would have been a handful.

  More than a handful, he considered with a wicked grin, recalling the accidental caress he’d enjoyed moments ago. Damn, she had a delectable body. Maybe he could eventually charm the maid into allowing him to take further liberties. His loins tingled at the thought.

  Earlier, when he’d foiled her assassination plans, imprisoned her in his arms, and, in the flush of anger, threatened to break her, she’d skewered him with a green glare as raging hot as an iron poker. But she’d been besotted and desperate and not in her right mind.

  By the time she awoke in the morn and recognized what she’d done in a drunken furor, she’d likely blush with shame and weep with regret. And when, by the light of day, she realized the mercy this Norman had shown her—his patience, his kindness, his compassion—she might feel more agreeable to his advances. Indeed, he decided, his mouth curving up in a contented smile as he drifted off to sleep, maybe then she’d welcome his caress.

  Chapter 2

  Helena hated Colin du Lac. With all of her heart. With every fiber of her being. Indeed, if she didn’t hurt so much this morn—all that loathing on top of the terrible throbbing in her head—she would have manifested that hatred by slamming her fist against the oak door and screaming at the top of her lungs.

  But today her rancor had to be of the silent, smoldering kind, for too much wine had left her with a sour taste in her mouth and a dull headache that threatened to crack her skull.

  Sitting on the pile of rags her gaoler must have heaped into a rude pallet for her, she dropped her head onto her bent knees and pressed at her aching temples.

  Why had she gotten so drunk last night? And why had she been so damned impulsive? If she’d only bided her time, she might have been able to think of a better way to prevent Miriel’s wedding. A cleverer way. One that didn’t entail trying to murder the bridegroom in his sleep.

  But now, as Helena languished, powerless, in the cursed cellar, no doubt poor Miriel stood trembling beside her churl of a groom, shyly murmuring the vows that would make her his chattel forever.

  Helena shuddered. She’d caught a glimpse of Pagan Cameliard last night as he rose naked from his bed. The man was easily twice Miriel’s size, broad of bone, and thick of muscle. Indeed, he’d vowed not to take Miriel against her will, but Helena didn’t trust the Norman. And when she imagined her innocent sister being mauled by such a brute, she felt sick.

  “Shite!” she barked in frustration, wincing, as the oath sent sharp pain streaking through her head.

  If only she hadn’t swilled so much wine.

  If only she hadn’t tripped over that meddlesome Colin du Lac.

  If only, she mused with grim villainy, she hadn’t missed with her dagger.

  She pressed her closed eyes with the heels of her hands. She knew better than to think she could have committed cold-blooded murder, drunk or not. Fierce warrior she might be, but she was no assassin. Even if she hadn’t tripped and gone sprawling across Pagan’s bed, she’d have found some excuse not to stab him.

  But the Normans had caught her with a knife in her hand and bloodlust in her eyes. Now she’d never convince them she was both incapable and inculpable.

  She shivered as she remembered Colin’s words. ’Tis treason. You should hang for that.

  Her hand went involuntarily to her throat. Surely it was an idle threat. A foreigner couldn’t simply ride up to a Scots castle, marry the lord’s daughter, and then execute her sister. True, once Pagan wed Miriel, he’d become steward of Rivenloch, a position of significant power, especially considering Lord Gellir’s sadly lapsing wits of late. But the three sisters had managed the keep well enough without their father’s help. They didn’t need Pagan’s help either. And they certainly didn’t need him to, as his first stewardly obligation, hang her for treason.

  But even if he didn’t drag her to the gallows, Pagan had left her in the clutches of his partner in perfidy, Colin du Lac. Already the man had threatened her with bodily harm. Already he’d hinted at chastisements of a lingering nature. And last night, wrestling her down the stairs, the cur had put vile hands upon her, clutching at her breast as if she were a harlot for the taking.

  She hadn’t trusted the knave from the moment she’d glimpsed him at supper, his green eyes sparkling with devilry, his black hair as irreverently overgrown and riotous as his humor, his lips subtly curved with ever-present amusement. He was cocky, the Norman was, and brazen, and sly, the kind of man who felt he was entitled to whatever he desired. He’d already helped himself to Rivenloch’s wine and hearth.

  She’d be damned if he’d help himself to her.

  She narrowed her eyes at the door, as if she could burn a hole through it and sear him on the other side. Of course, he wasn’t there. By now everyone would have gathered at the chapel in the courtyard to attend the wedding.

  Muttering a soft oath, she rose slowly to her feet to scour the dim cellar, looking for something, anything, she could use to free herself.

  The room to which he’d brought her was naturally the one stocked with utterly useless items—chests with broken hinges, stools with broken legs, dusty bottles and crockery and vials with nothing in them, cracked pots, torn parchment, and scraps of cloth too small and worn to be used for anything other than polishing one’s dagger or wiping one’s arse.

  Her belly growled in complaint, and she scowled, rubbing her hand over the sunken spot.

  One door farther along the passageway was a storeroom filled with cheese and bacon, oats and salted fish. Beyond that was a cellar packed with sugar, spices, and sweetmeats. But of course, the Norman had locked her in the room with no food.

  Maybe, she thought sullenly, he planned to starve her to death.

  She eyed the generous crack at the bottom of the door, where faint light streamed in, taunting her. Then she frowned. If she could slip her arm through that crack…somehow lift the bolt out of its latch…

  She’d need a sword or a long stick, but it just might be possible.

  Revived by hope, she dropped to the floor to peer under the door, then inched her hand through the crack. But though she pushed and strained, she couldn’t squeeze past her elbow.

  “Ballocks!”

  She scraped her arm back in and tried another spot. The floor was uneven. Maybe the crack was wider elsewhere.

  But again her arm jammed.

  Twice more she tried, earning nothing more than a red and abraded forearm for her efforts.

  Then as she squinted under the far left edge of the door, she spied some small object lying on the floor. It was too dark to tell what it was or even if it was within her reach. But the possibility that it might be edible convinced her to make the attempt.

  Using her left arm this time and pressing her cheek to the cold floor of the cellar, she stretched as far as she could, patting the ground with splayed fingers, trying to locate the object, to no avail.

  With a groan of pain and effort, she managed another inch, and her middle finger contacted something cold and hard. Breathless with triumph, she scrabbled at the thing until she managed to maneuver it closer. A series of flicks and urging finally edged the object near enough to grasp. And when her hand closed at last about the familiar contours, she smiled, forgetting all about her aching head.

  Colin shook his head as he made his way back down the cellar steps. This day had been strange indeed. Awakening early, he’d checked the bolt on the storeroom, then left to help Pagan
prepare for his wedding. And what a wedding it had been, with thunder and lightning cracking the sky and rain pelting the earth with a vengeance, the bride’s handmaiden a shriveled, unmannerly crone from the Orient, the bride’s father an addled old man with the bearing of a Viking invader, and the bride…

  That was the biggest surprise of all. And to Colin’s amazement, Pagan didn’t seem to mind in the least that he’d wed the wrong sister.

  As if all that weren’t enough excitement for one morn, Rivenloch’s guards had spotted an army approaching on the horizon, an army Deirdre was convinced was English. Of course, Colin and Pagan knew better. It was none other than the Knights of Cameliard. But Pagan had chosen not to reveal that fact to the Scots. He’d decided to use their arrival as a drill, a test of Rivenloch’s defenses.

  And now Colin had been sent to summon Helena, who, Deirdre informed him, was the second-in-command of the guard.

  A woman in command of the guard. He shuddered. What would the Scots think of next?

  Of course, he had no intention of setting Helena free. He wasn’t about to put the fighting force of Rivenloch in the hands of a wench who’d tried to slay his captain. She was likely to order her archers to open fire upon the Knights of Cameliard.

  But though he had no plans to release the bloodthirsty damsel yet, he couldn’t let her languish uncomforted in her gaol. She was but a maid, after all, young and foolish. Besides, she was doubtless suffering this morn from pangs of overindulgence, remorse, and hunger. He smiled as he unwrapped the still-warm, fragrant loaf of currant-studded bread he’d snatched from the kitchen. He could at least assuage one of her discomforts.

  Musing over what his compassion might earn him in the way of thanks, he rapped upon the cellar door. “Good morn, little Hel-fire. Are you awake?”

  There was no response.

  He pressed his ear against the oak. “Lady Helena?”