Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  He saw her coming, but he didn’t have enough time to get his knees under him. His one visible eye widened as she stalked toward him with murder in her eyes, and he struggled for purchase.

  Before he could rise, she planted a foot upon his buttocks, pressing him back down to the ground. “A broken arm? I’ll give you a broken arm.”

  He squinched his eye shut and braced for impact.

  She had no intention of breaking his arm, of course. She wasn’t the kind of warrior who would wound a man when he was down, despite what he thought. Besides, though she was furious at him for outwitting her, she was more furious with herself for being outwitted.

  “Never mind,” she muttered. “I have no stomach for cowardly caterwauling. Besides, ’twould render you completely useless as a hostage.”

  Colin frowned, humiliated by the fact that this imp of a maid had her boot planted on his arse like some hunter gloating over a kill. He’d almost outfoxed her. Almost.

  If only he’d been able to shake the blindfold completely free.

  If only he’d had time to maneuver himself to a crouch.

  If only, he thought ruefully, he hadn’t been paralyzed by the sight of Helena’s long, luscious legs splayed haphazardly as she fell, revealing the tantalizing fact that she wore not a stitch underneath her skirt.

  While she continued to disparage his worth, he heard someone coming down the path. Maybe it was The Shadow, that nefarious woodland outlaw she’d spoken of at supper, the one who moved at the speed of a devil, leaving his victims stunned and penniless. Or perhaps it was one of those infamous Highlanders, a half-naked savage come to rape and pillage. Whoever lurked in the remote depths of the forest, chances were he was up to no good.

  Colin’s chivalrous instincts rose to the surface. Despite their current circumstances, despite Helena’s treachery, despite the fact that an ignoble part of him longed to toss her over his knee and thrash the arrogance out of her, Colin was first and foremost a knight, sworn to protect ladies.

  “Cut me free!” he hissed. “Someone’s coming. Cut me free.”

  She lifted a dubious brow.

  “’Tis no trick, I swear, my lady. Cut me free, and I’ll defend you.”

  “Defend me?” she scoffed. “You’ll defend me?”

  “Hurry,” he said urgently. “Can you not hear? Someone comes.”

  “I hear,” she assured him with what Colin deemed inappropriate calm.

  Maybe he could frighten her into cutting him loose. “What if ’tis The Shadow?”

  She shrugged. “Too noisy.” Then she annoyed him greatly by hunkering down beside him and giving him a wink. “Don’t worry, little one. I’ll keep you safe.”

  The last person Colin expected to see ambling up the deer trail was a monk. But once he beheld the coarse brown cassock and tonsured head, he knew it wasn’t trouble, but salvation that had arrived.

  Quickly, before Helena could open her mouth and betray him, he blurted out, “Brother! Praise God, my prayers are answered.”

  The young monk had frozen on the path, looking much like a startled deer.

  “I beseech you, kind brother, free me,” Colin pleaded. “I fear this poor, misguided woman has mistaken me for another and intends to…” He affected a dramatic gulp. “…slay me.”

  The monk glanced nervously between the two of them, blinking rapidly. “I beg your…?”

  “She seems to be,” Colin confided in a whisper, “addled.”

  He expected Helena to burst out in vehement protest.

  She didn’t. Instead, she gave him a condescending smirk, and then rose to face the monk. “Brother Thomas. How nice to see you.”

  Colin’s hopes dropped with his shoulders.

  “I know you,” the monk said, bobbing his head upon his lanky neck. “Lady…Lady….”

  “Helena.”

  “Aye. You’re one of the ladies of the keep. But what…” The monk’s mouth gaped as if he wanted to say more, but couldn’t quite find the words.

  “I need your help,” she purred.

  Her entreaty seemed to bring the man to life, as if she’d uttered some sorcerer’s incantation. The monk straightened his narrow shoulders. “I am God’s servant and yours, my lady.”

  Colin rolled his eyes, silently cursing the power beautiful women had, even over men of the cloth.

  She fished in the top of her bodice and withdrew a scrap of parchment. “I’d like this delivered to Rivenloch, to my sister, Lady Deirdre.”

  The monk reached for the missive.

  “Do not,” Colin warned.

  To his satisfaction, the monk hesitated.

  “Go on,” Helen coaxed, waggling the paper like a bone in front of a dog.

  “If the lady means me no ill, then why has she bound me?” Colin asked. “And why does she wield a dagger?” The monk frowned in confusion. Colin used that advantage to further his cause. “I tell you, she means to kill me.”

  He expected Helena to beguile the priest then by feigning innocence or bursting into false tears or lamenting the state of Colin’s diseased mind. The last thing he expected was for her to tell the truth.

  “Aye, I’ll kill him,” she said evenly, “if this missive doesn’t reach my sister.”

  The monk looked as shocked as Colin felt.

  “And if you force me to commit murder, Brother Thomas,” she told him, “and my eternal soul is forever damned, I fear ’twill be upon your head.”

  Colin’s jaw dropped. Her convoluted logic was dizzying. For a long moment, neither man could reply.

  “Oh, n-nay, my lady,” the monk sputtered at last. “I’ll take it. There’s no n-need for you to…to…no need for you to hurt him at all.” He glanced at Colin with a worrisome forced smile that was anything but reassuring.

  Colin scowled as the monk snatched the parchment from Helena’s hand.

  “God…God bless you, my lady,” the monk said with a nervous dip of his head. As he skirted by Colin, he murmured, “And God save you, my lord.”

  Then the scrawny, useless man of the cloth scurried down the narrow path, taking Colin’s best hope with him.

  As Colin gazed after Brother Thomas in disbelief, Helena almost felt sorry for the bewildered Norman. After all, he’d made a valiant effort. He couldn’t help it if his wits were no match for hers.

  “That’s done,” she said, satisfied that Brother Thomas would deliver her message. She crouched to take hold of Colin’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  “Nay,” he said, pulling away. “Not until you give me some answers.”

  She frowned. Did he truly think he was in a position to barter with her? Why could he not accept that he was at her mercy? Maybe she hadn’t made herself clear. With the point of the dagger, she lightly flicked his earlobe. “You know, I could call Brother Thomas back,” she mused. “’Tisn’t too late to send a token along with the missive.” He stiffened visibly. “An ear…or a finger or…” She pretended to deliberate, letting her eyes course over his available features.

  Then she noticed he was staring at her with that one exposed eye, as if he measured her, judged her, wagered upon her soul. And though he lay helpless upon the ground, completely at her mercy, it suddenly seemed he gazed with his glittering, perceptive, all-seeing eye, straight into her heart.

  Unsettled, she reached out, yanking the blindfold back down.

  He lifted his chin nobly, not an easy feat for one lying on one’s belly. “You’ll do as you please, of course. But I think you should know, I have no tolerance for pain, so I’ll probably scream like a stuck pig.”

  She lifted a brow.

  “And bleed?” he continued. “I once pricked my finger on a thorn and bled for three days.”

  She’d never heard anything so absurd. “Three days,” she drawled.

  “Aye. But I’m willing to make a bargain with you, my lady, and save us both the trouble of disfiguring me.”

  A more ruthless woman would have sliced his ear off at once to show him how li
ttle trouble it was. But Helena was only savage when she was forced to be. And at the moment, with the Norman trussed up like a goose, she could afford to be merciful. Besides, though she hated to admit it, she was intrigued by his cunning. It was rare she met a man so quick of wit.

  “Indeed?” she said, stooping down beside him again. She hadn’t noticed before, distracted by the gleam of his eyes, how pleasantly formed his mouth was. His lips looked soft, yet firm, and where they parted, she saw the white tips of his teeth, one in the front slightly askew, just enough to lend the brawny knight a vulnerable quality. His nose was perfectly sculpted as well, not too narrow, not too wide, with nostrils that flared as he awaited her reply.

  “My lady?”

  She gave her head a hard shake, scattering her errant thoughts. “You’re hardly in a position to bargain, sirrah.”

  “Nonetheless, you seem a reasonable woman.”

  She raised both brows. No one called Helena reasonable. She was anything but reasonable. The Norman was either feebleminded or lying through his teeth. “Go on.”

  “If you answer one question, my lady, I’ll cease fighting and come willingly with you.”

  “One question?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ask it.”

  “If you don’t intend to ransom me for Rivenloch, what is it you intend? What did the missive say?”

  She blinked. Why should he care? It wouldn’t alter his fate. It was up to Pagan what happened to him. On the other hand, it was no great secret. And if Colin meant what he said, that he’d cooperate… “If I give you answer, you’ll come with me willingly?”

  “Aye.”

  “And you’ll try no more trickery?”

  “No trickery. I vow it upon my honor as a knight.”

  She smirked. Perhaps he was not as clever as she imagined. It was a bargain too good to pass up. She would give him nothing, and he would give her everything.

  “Very well,” she said, sheathing her knife. “The note said, ‘I have taken the Norman hostage. I will not return him until the marriage is annulled.’”

  “What!”

  She repeated, “‘I have taken the Norman—’”

  “Aye, I heard you, but what…how…ah, bloody hell…”

  She chuckled smugly. “Now he’ll have to give my sister back.”

  “He won’t do it.”

  “Oh, I think he will.”

  The Norman’s pleasantly formed mouth turned down at the corners. “You don’t know Pagan Cameliard.”

  “And you don’t know the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch.”

  He shook his head, as if some great jest had been played upon him, but he said no more.

  She helped him to his feet, and they continued along the trail without speaking. True to his word, he went willingly, but for Helena, his silence cast a dark pall upon her rousing adventure.

  With each mile they marched away from Rivenloch, Helena’s sense of unease grew. Could Colin be right? What if he wasn’t as valuable to Pagan as she assumed? What if Pagan deemed the loss of his man a reasonable price to pay for wedding the bride of his choice? What if he tore up the missive before Deirdre could see it? What if, God forbid, she never heard from her sister? How long would she have to wait in the woods? How long could she hold Colin hostage?

  And most critical, how long could they survive without food?

  Her belly was already grumbling when they finally reached the copse of gnarled oaks in which the cottage nestled. It was sufficiently overgrown with ivy and moss and ferns that its walls appeared to be made of foliage, and in the deep shade of the leafy trees, the structure was hardly visible. The door of the dwelling sagged, and the pair of rotting shutters dangling over the sole window looked as if they might blow away at the slightest breeze. The roof was more hole than thatch, but vines had climbed across to fill in the gaps, rendering the cottage relatively safe from the elements.

  At one time the hovel had belonged to a crofter, and nearby was a clearing where barley had been planted. But that, too, had long since filled in with gorse and heather, wildflowers and weeds. Not far away, a spring trickled out of the hillside to become a brook, then a stream, then a rivulet, ultimately emptying into one of the twin lochs for which Rivenloch was named.

  “We’re here,” Helena announced, stopping at the threshold of the cottage to remove Colin’s blindfold.

  Colin didn’t know what he expected. A holy sanctuary perhaps. Or a neighboring castle. Or the modest home of one of Helena’s allies.

  He certainly didn’t expect a veritable hovel in the middle of the darkest part of the forest, a decrepit cottage that looked like it might harbor light-fearing goblins and wart-covered toads.

  “Oh, this is lovely,” he drawled.

  Peeved at his sarcasm, Helena gave him a shove forward. “You’ll be glad enough of its shelter when the wolves come, sirrah.”

  He scanned the garlands of ivy and fronds of fern and patches of moss smothering the walls and wondered if there were indeed walls beneath the foliage.

  “I doubt any wolves would brave this hovel,” he muttered.

  “They may already be here,” she said. Then she did something extraordinarily heroic, something that took him aback. Grabbing a fistful of his shirt to keep him within reach, she placed herself between him and the entrance and used the haft of the dagger to nudge the door open a crack. If a beast did lurk within, it would charge her first.

  Which disturbed him greatly.

  “Wait,” he said. “Allow me.”

  “I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “I don’t intend to lose my hostage to a charging boar.”

  “And I don’t intend to lose my spurs for lack of chivalry,” he insisted. “Besides, how much experience do you have in fending off wild animals?”

  One side of her mouth curved up in a sly grin. “Including you?”

  Under any other circumstances, he would have found that smile inviting. The fact that she’d called him an animal didn’t bother him in the least. Women called him many things—knave, varlet, beast—always with affection. But this was neither the time nor the place for flirtation. Dangerous creatures might prowl beyond the door. And he wasn’t about to use a lady as a shield against them.

  “Cut my bonds and give me the knife. I can—”

  Without warning, completely ignoring his directive, she gave the door a hard, reckless shove. It swung wide and slammed against the inner wall with a loud bang and a puff of plaster dust.

  His jaw slackened. If there was a wild animal within, it would surely attack them after that alarming jolt.

  Fortunately, all he heard from within was the skittering of tiny creatures fleeing the light. And aside from a couple of spiders that frantically scrambled up their damaged webs across the doorway, no beasts sprang from the shadows. But when Helena turned to assure him it was safe, he was so simultaneously horrified and livid that he couldn’t speak.

  Noting his apoplexy, she raised a challenging brow. “You Normans are not afraid of mice, are you?”

  Colin was too shaken to reply. As Helena hauled him into the cottage, he had only one thought.

  This woman was trouble.

  She was careless and savage and far too daring for her own good. That kind of impulsiveness was going to get her killed. It would likely get him killed as well.

  “’Tisn’t what you Normans are used to, with your perfumed pillows and silk sheets,” she said with thinly veiled disgust as he surveyed the interior, “but ’twill suffice.”

  Perfumed pillows? Silk sheets? Colin had no idea what she was talking about. His bed was made with linen—coarse, plain linen—unless he was on campaign, and then he counted himself lucky to bed down on a flat spot with his cloak and a pallet of leaves. Where the wench got her ideas about Normans, he didn’t know.

  The inside of the cottage was surprisingly tidy. Though a thin layer of dust covered everything, the hard-packed dirt floor was strewn with yellow rushes, few vines grew between the cracks
in the plaster walls, and the sparse furnishings in the room appeared sturdier than the lodging itself.

  The hearth was stocked with split wood, and three iron cooking pots hung on a rod suspended above the fire. Beside the fireplace clustered a pail, a pitcher, a coil of rope, three cups, and a clay vessel full of spoons of various sizes. A three-legged stool stood watch over a small pine chest, and an empty lantern with a flint was suspended from the wall on a hook. Shoved against one wall was a wooden frame rope bed furnished with a reasonably clean pallet. The exterior of the hovel might be overgrown, but someone had used the inside recently.

  “Do you bring all your hostages here?” he asked her.

  She smirked, and then nodded toward the pallet. “Lie on the bed.”

  He shot her a lusty glance. “If you insist.”

  While he laid back awkwardly on his bound arms, she fetched the coil of rope from beside the hearth, slicing off four yard-long pieces.

  She seized one of his ankles and began to tie it to the wooden leg of the bed. While he understood her desire to keep him prisoner, he didn’t like the idea of being left defenseless.

  “My lady, is this absolutely necessary?”

  “I can’t have my hostage escape.”

  “But what if there’s a fire? What if wolves come? What if—”

  “I told you before,” she said, tying off the knot, “I need you alive. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  He ground his teeth as she began to secure his other leg. He’d been raised to be self-reliant. It was difficult enough for him to depend upon his fellow knights. But putting his trust in a woman, and an impetuous one at that…

  “What if I give you my word that I won’t escape?”

  She leveled her gaze at him. “Your word? A Norman’s word?”

  “I kept my word to come willingly,” he reasoned.

  “You kept your word because I was still holding the knife.”

  She was only half right. Once he’d given her his vow, he’d never considered attempting escape, though there’d probably been a dozen opportunities to do so. He was, after all, a man of honor.

  He twisted on the bed, trying to relieve the numbness in his hands, caught beneath him. She snatched his bound wrists and sliced the linen away, freeing his arms. But she was careful to return her weapon at his throat.