Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  “You’re wasting your time,” he said bluntly. “He won’t pay a farthing for me.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Why, Sir Colin, even I know you’re not that worthless.”

  It took him aback, hearing her call him by name. He liked the way it lilted off her tongue.

  “Besides,” she continued, “I’m not asking for a farthing. I’m asking for my sister.”

  He shook his head. “Pagan won’t be manipulated.”

  “Everyone can be manipulated.”

  “Ah,” he said, a sour taste in his mouth. “You mean the way you manipulated the mercenaries?”

  She only gave him a sly smile, and then moved to begin tending to his leg.

  “And you called me a philanderer,” he grumbled.

  “I’m not a philanderer.”

  He smirked. “I can’t quite recall. How many stable lads was it?”

  She chuckled as she carefully unwrapped his bandage. “You believed me?”

  “Where else would you learn all those…those…?” Images of the breathtaking beauty, swinging her hips and fluttering her lashes and exposing her velvety bosom, wound their way through his mind again, heating his blood.

  “Oh, aye,” she told him, her voice laced with sardonic humor. “I’ve slept with all the stable lads. And I’ve bedded all the knights of Rivenloch as well.”

  She might think it was amusing, but he didn’t. Not tonight. Not when she’d displayed such expertise at seduction. Not when she’d risked her body to set him free. And most especially not when he’d begun to grow perilously fond of the Scots maid.

  She propped her foot up on the pallet, then proceeded to cut yet another swath from her underskirt. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect she did it to provoke him, for his gaze couldn’t help but wander up the enticing length of her exposed calf.

  He scowled. “’Tis just as well Pagan will not surrender his bride.”

  “And why is that?” She lowered her foot. Wetting a rag in the nearby bucket of water, she began swabbing at his wound. Her touch was surprisingly gentle for a woman who’d just stabbed a couple of outlaws without blinking an eye.

  “You wouldn’t last long as his wife.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Pagan would demand fidelity.”

  “Ah.” She frowned, pretending to consider his statement. “So he’d have no patience for my stable lads?”

  He lowered his brows. The wench wasn’t taking him seriously at all. “He’d kill them.”

  “Pity.” A hint of a smile hovered about her lips. “Of course, I’d have to kill all his mistresses in turn. Then who’d be left to tend to the castle?”

  Helena could feel the frustration roiling off Colin like the heat off a new-forged sword. She found his attitude half-amusing and half-irritating. Why was it that men assumed they could bed whomever they desired, but women had to be faithful? It was hardly fair.

  Not that she was interested in bedding any man, including the man she planned to make her husband. Indeed, if Pagan wished to be a philanderer and swive every maidservant in the castle, that was fine with her.

  “There,” she said, finishing off the bandage and dusting her hands together. “Now where’s that satchel of food? I’m starving.” She spotted it by the fire. Picking it up, she batted it a few times to see if any vermin had crawled in. “What about you? Are you hungry?”

  There was hunger in his eyes, but it was hunger of an entirely different sort. His gaze smoldered with desire, like a banked fire waiting to be roused. God’s bones, he, too, had been affected by her seduction. She hadn’t noticed before. Of course, it probably didn’t help that she’d just spent several lingering moments tending to a wound located mere inches from…

  She glanced at his trews. There was no mistake. He was as solid as a lance primed for the joust. And for some curious and disturbing reason, that sent a thrill of excitement through her veins.

  It was absurd. She was accustomed to such sights. In the company of men for most of her life, she’d been exposed to all sorts of manly displays, from loud belching to arse scratching, from proud farting to vile swearing. She’d witnessed men snorting and pissing and, aye, swiving.

  But something about Colin’s manifestation of desire, and knowing it was for her alone, gave her an intoxicating sense of power and playfulness.

  She sauntered toward him with the satchel of food, a sultry smile playing about her lips. “So you don’t think I can win Pagan’s devotion?”

  He looked uneasy, as if he didn’t want to think about it. She perched beside him on the pallet, then popped a cherry into his mouth.

  He chewed for a moment, then spoke around the pit. “Pagan is not as gullible as that pack of mercenaries.”

  Impulsively, she leaned forward to whisper, “All men are gullible when it comes to their trews,” then gave his ballocks a light pat.

  As quick as a falcon snatching its prey, his hand shot out and caught her wrist. He turned his head and spit the cherry pit onto the floor. She expected him to blush with shame and cast her hand away as well.

  She never expected his grim smile. Or his smoky gaze. Or that, completely unabashed, he would press her palm against his erection and hold it there against her will. At least, she supposed it was against her will. She didn’t make much of an effort to resist.

  He looked at her through slitted eyes. “Don’t begin what you’re unwilling to finish, little temptress.”

  Her heart beat at her breast like a wild bird flapping against its cage. Lord, his cock was firm and full, and she could feel the heat of it through his trews. But it was what resided in his gaze that took her breath away. In his eyes was an invitation to high adventure, the promise of unimaginable pleasure. Her own loins tingled in response, her skin flushed hot, and the blood sang in her ears. Indeed, if she hadn’t heeded the warning voice in her head, the one that sounded much like Deirdre’s, telling her she was being dangerously impulsive, she might have leaned forward to see what Norman lips tasted like.

  Colin could feel Helena’s desire like a palpable thing. It was intense and powerful. Indeed, if he’d known just how powerful, he’d never have forced her hand against him.

  He’d thought to issue her a stern warning, to awe her with the consequences of her teasing, to teach her that though he might be a noble knight, he was also a man.

  But she wasn’t heeding his warning at all. Instead, she seemed drawn to him. Her emerald eyes sparked with fierce longing, their lids dipping as if the weight of desire was too heavy to bear. Her lips, looking more delicious than the cherry, parted as she lowered her sultry gaze to his mouth. And her hand remained where it rested upon his groin. Indeed, her thumb brushed brazenly along the length of him, eliciting from him a groan of pleasure.

  Every nerve in his body instantly craved her touch. But he knew it could not be. She was too drunk, and he was too vulnerable. If they consummated this desire, then he’d be no better than the mercenaries.

  Using all his force of will, he released her wrist and tore his gaze away.

  It took Helena a moment to revive from her languid haze and realize he’d let her go. Lifting her hand, she blinked away the veil of lust, and then stumbled awkwardly backward, knocking the satchel from the bed.

  As she gathered up the food that had spilled, she seemed agitated, and he wondered if he had shocked her after all. He hoped so. It was difficult enough, battling his own passions, without having to temper hers.

  Finally, without meeting his eyes, she shoved the satchel at him. “Here. You need your strength.”

  “But what about you? You must be—”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  With that, she made her own bed on the ground, and then climbed under the coverlet, facing pointedly away from him.

  Colin suddenly wasn’t hungry either, not for cherries and cheese. He set the satchel aside. While the fire dimmed, he stared up at the ceiling, unable to shake the provocative images of Helena from his mind—her flashing
eyes, her coy smile, her voluptuous breasts, the gentle curve of her hip.

  Maybe tomorrow, he thought, when she was less intoxicated, and he was more in control of his appetite…

  As the flickering light slowed its dance upon the splintered beams, he closed his eyes and let sweet anticipation lull him to sleep.

  All night he dreamed of Helena—cavorting in the pond with her sisters, struggling in his arms down the castle stairs, grinning in triumph as she caught a trout, battling the mercenaries, swaying and whirling seductively in the firelight, tenderly bandaging his wound.

  By morn, he thought he’d be weary of her image, but he was wrong. Especially since the first thing he saw when he cracked his eyes open was the object of his dreams, completely and unabashedly naked, washing by the fire with a rag and a bucket.

  For a long while, he stared in silence, afraid to make a sound lest he rob his eyes of this lovely feast. She ran the rag over her shoulder and down one arm, then switched hands to wash the other. As she bent to dip the rag in the bucket again, her breasts swung gently forward, and his loins responded to the sight, swelling with desire. She bathed her throat, then her breasts, shivering as the cold water stiffened her nipples. He stiffened as well, and low in his belly grew a familiar ache, an ache he hadn’t relieved in too long a time.

  When she laved between her legs, he almost let out an audible sigh. God’s eyes, he envied her hands. She performed the task with nonchalance. But he knew how to touch a woman there to make her sob with passion.

  She progressed down her legs, the long, silky length of them, and he wondered what they would feel like, wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his buttocks as…

  “Good morn,” she said casually, as if she weren’t naked and lovely and tempting. And naked.

  Few things left Colin speechless. He could seduce the most reluctant maid with a clever turn of phrase. He could summon up verse as quickly as a jongleur. He could talk his way out of a jealous husband’s chamber with ease. But this—this tied his tongue in knots.

  Chapter 11

  Helena thought she might be the most wicked woman in all Scotland. She knew very well what effect she had on men, and this morn she intentionally provoked Colin.

  Why she taunted him, she wasn’t certain. Maybe to regain the upper hand she’d lost last night. Colin’s intimacy had unsettled her, left her out of control, and she was a woman unaccustomed to feeling vulnerable.

  Today she’d prove she was master of her own emotions.

  “When I’m done, I’ll fetch a fresh bucket of water for you, if you like,” she offered, propping her foot up on the stool to scour the dirt from her ankles and show off her shapely legs.

  He made no reply, but she felt his gaze stroking down the length of her. It was a heady feeling indeed.

  Ever since they were children, she and her sisters had bathed outdoors, in a pond near the castle. They’d never developed a sense of shame about their bodies, nor had they realized their own attraction. But in the last few years of bathing so openly, Helena had discovered a secret. She could wield more power in her natural state than she could while fully clothed. Men were left stunned and stuttering when they glimpsed her in all her naked glory.

  She scrubbed at her other foot and cast a quizzical look at him over her shoulder. “That is, if you wish to bathe.”

  His expression, predictably, was dazed. Now she had him under her heel. He might have made her pulse race last night, but this morn, she dominated the game.

  Smiling to herself, she flipped her head, tossing her hair forward, and then used her fingers to comb out the tangles. “Has your voice escaped you in the night, Sir Colin?”

  “Nay.” He cleared his throat. “Nay.” After a moment, he asked hoarsely, “Are you not…cold?”

  “Oh, aye, a bit. I could add a log to the fire.” She flung her hair back once more and felt his gaze lock on her. “Or maybe you’d like to come closer to the hearth?”

  For a while, he continued to stare at her in disbelief, and she enjoyed his riveted attention, stretching her arms above her head in a way that she knew favorably displayed her breasts.

  But her triumph was to be short-lived. As he watched her, his eyes gradually narrowed, and the hint of a smile began to soften his lips. The varlet had guessed her ploy. “Oh, aye,” he murmured, “I’d like to come closer.”

  She tried to remain nonchalant, but his sudden confidence unnerved her. She was accustomed to men groveling and drooling at her feet. Colin du Lac did neither. Though he’d been rattled at first, now he was self-assured, unaffected by her beauty. And for the first time in her life, Helena’s nakedness made her feel, not supremely powerful, but horribly vulnerable.

  As Colin swung his legs over the side of the pallet and sat up, wincing in momentary pain, she pressed the rag to her throat, casually covering her breasts with her arms.

  “I would like to wash,” he decided. “Get the stink of the mercenaries off me.” Without preamble, he pulled both his shirts over his head and cast them aside.

  Helena couldn’t draw breath. She’d seen men’s bare torsos before, but none to compare with his. By the Saints, he was well-made. His chest was broad, and his waist was flat. His arms and shoulders swelled with muscle. A thin white scar traversed his stomach, and below his navel, fine black hair traced a slim path to what lay lower. Her heart fluttered.

  It wasn’t lust, she told herself. And it certainly wasn’t panic. She was still in control. But suddenly she tired of the game and wished to get dressed. Dragging her gaze away from his magnificent body, she grabbed her abbreviated underdress from the hearth and quickly slithered into it.

  He stood up carefully, favoring his injured leg, and began loosening the ties of his trews. Her eyes widened. Lord, he meant to expose himself, here and now. With an involuntary squeak, she seized her surcoat and tugged it down over her head, allowing the fabric to block her vision. But curse her curiosity, she couldn’t resist a peek.

  He was beautiful. Unlike the fair-skinned men of her clan, his flesh was golden all over. He was perfectly proportioned, his legs long and sturdy, his hips lean. Though his body was that of a warrior, large of frame and hard with muscle, parts of him appeared not menacing, but intriguing. The nest of curls at the juncture of his thighs looked soft and lush, and the rigid staff protruding there seemed made of velvet.

  She found her mouth sagging open, and she closed it with a snap. A quick glimpse into his eyes told her he knew quite well what he was doing. Somehow the knave had beaten her at her own game. Now she was the one drooling at his feet. It was infuriating.

  With a scowl of self-disgust, she wrenched tight the laces of her surcoat and began tying them. So overwrought was she that she broke off one of them.

  “Do you need help?” he asked casually.

  “Nay!” she barked. She didn’t want him coming any closer with that dangerous body of his.

  As nonchalant as she had been, he sauntered toward her, his legs flexing and his… She bit her lip. He didn’t so much display that part of his anatomy as brandish it. Now she couldn’t deny that the quickening of her breath had everything to do with panic. What she feared, she couldn’t name, but before he could draw any closer, she snatched up the bucket and headed for the door.

  Her voice was high and brittle. “I’ll just go and fetch you clean water then.”

  Colin chuckled as she tore out the door, her feet bare and the bodice of her surcoat askew. When she’d gone, he leaned against the hearth and grimaced as lightning seared his thigh. It had taken all his self-discipline to walk toward her without grimacing in pain, but it had been worth it to see the shock in her eyes.

  The naughty wench had thought she was the only one who could play at seduction. She didn’t know with whom she dealt. Colin was favored among the ladies for his skills at lovemaking, for his inventiveness and patience and devotion. He knew how and when and where to touch a woman to leave her pleading for more.

  Helena might
think she’d learned a great deal from the stable lads and knights she’d bedded, but Colin knew things about women that most men did not. Before they returned to Rivenloch, he intended to teach the impish Scotswoman just what talents her Norman hostage possessed.

  But by the time she returned, her eyes carefully averted, Colin’s thoughts had strayed by necessity to his wound. It ached more than it should have, and he suspected it might have worsened.

  “I’ll check your bandages after you’ve finished,” she muttered, setting the bucket on the floor and shoving a dagger into her belt. “Meanwhile, I’m off to fetch a coney.”

  After a hasty washing, he donned his undershirt again, added wood to the fire, then climbed onto the pallet.

  He gingerly peeled back the linen bandage on his leg. True to his fears, the flesh around the stitched wound was red and swollen. He cursed under his breath.

  There was little he could do. He’d have to cut the stitches loose and drain the infection, or worse, cauterize the wound. Either option was a wretched choice. But the longer he waited, the worse it would be.

  Using The Shadow’s sharp knife, he took a deep breath and slipped the point under the first stitch. Just as he sliced upward, Helena came in the door, one fist full of greens and a coney slung over her shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, dropping her burden onto the pine chest.

  “The wound festers.”

  “Nay! Stop!”

  Now that he’d begun, he wasn’t about to stop, even for the woman who’d painstakingly sewn all the stitches. He sliced another one.

  But she was having none of it. She marched over and knocked the knife from his hand with her fist.

  “Hey!”

  “Don’t you dare ruin my handiwork.” She fetched the wineskin she’d stolen from the English. “There’s a better way.”

  “Indeed?” He arched a brow at the wineskin. “And what is that? Get so drunk I no longer care about the pain?”

  “Hardly,” she said, uncorking the skin. Then she hesitated, as if thinking better of it. “Maybe you had better have something to bite.”