Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  “To bite?”

  “’Twill sting like the Devil.”

  He frowned. Was it wise to rely upon the cures of a Scotswoman? For all he knew, she used powdered frogs and raven’s claw.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve done it myself before.” She pulled aside her neckline and showed him a jagged scar near her shoulder. “’Tis unsightly, but the wine killed the infection and saved me from losing my arm.”

  Colin didn’t find it unsightly at all. Indeed, he had to resist the urge to place a kiss on the patch of puckered flesh. But if she’d endured the pain with good results, so could he. “Very well. Do it.”

  “If you’d like a leather belt…”

  He shook his head.

  “Lie back then,” she said.

  When the liquid poured onto his cut, burning like fire, folding him nearly in half, he almost wished he’d accepted the belt. A groan was wrenched from him, followed by the foulest oath he knew.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Bloody hell, are you trying to kill me?”

  “I’m trying to save you.”

  The wine was like searing acid, etching away at his flesh, and he fought to breathe through the pain.

  She corked the wineskin again. “Next time I’ll give you the belt.”

  “Next time?”

  “It should be done every few hours.”

  “Bloody hell it should.”

  “Do you want it to heal or not?”

  He speared her with a look full of loathing. “I think you’re enjoying this.”

  “You think wrong.”

  He supposed it was unfair to accuse her of inflicting hurt upon him intentionally. After all, she was caring for him as best she could, even if it was ultimately for her own designs. But it was hard to think fairly, squirming in pain while she calmly rose to retrieve the coney. He wondered how she could have endured such agony.

  While he waited for the sting to subside, Helena skinned and dressed the coney. He’d almost forgiven her when she asked over her shoulder, “Is there anything else you need?”

  He lifted his brows. Was she feeling guilty for the hurt she’d wrought? Did she wish to make amends? He grinned. Physician and patient. It was a game with which he was very familiar. Most ladies liked for him to play the physician, but he was only too willing to bend to Helena’s wishes.

  “When I was a lad,” he called out softly, “my mother would always kiss my cuts. She said it made the pain go away and healed them faster.”

  She turned around, her face a mask of perplexity. “I meant, anything else you need to make supper? I found wild onions and rosemary.”

  His grin faded. Was food all she could think about? He supposed he’d have to create some clever meal out of the small beast. One, he thought slyly, that included the remainder of that cursed wine.

  “Nay.” He sniffed. “But I still could sorely use a woman’s healing kiss, soft and tender and sweet upon my flesh.”

  “I’m not going to kiss your cut.” She raised a scolding brow, but he noticed a smile tugging at her lips. “No matter how pathetically you beg.”

  He affected a pout. “’Tis the least you could do, my lady, considering how much pain you’ve inflicted.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Indeed,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “I think I should get a kiss every time you pour that Devil’s fire upon me.”

  She clucked her tongue. “You are a knave.”

  He pretended affront. “And now you call me names. Is there no end to your abuse, my lady?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not making you eat my cooking.”

  He smiled. She’d made a jest. And he’d thought she was too serious to match wits with him.

  With her help, he managed to make it to the hearth, cooking while he sat on the three-legged stool. He put the coney in water and added the wild onions and a generous sprinkling of rosemary to the pot. While she wasn’t looking, he poured in a small measure of wine. Soon a rich stew bubbled over the fire.

  Helena ate with relish, though she still spared him no word of praise, and they shared the last of the cherries afterward. But with only a bit of cheese left from The Shadow’s cache, she’d have to find something for the evening meal. Colin offered to help her, but she insisted he stay in bed, threatening to tie him there if he moved from the spot.

  She managed to trap a pair of quail and brought back a pot brimming with blackberries, but between her rounds of foraging, she returned to dole out her torturous cure to his wound.

  Every time was as agonizing as the first, and his cursing was just as vehement. After a meal of roast quail with blackberry sauce and salat of herbs, she gave him the last treatment of the evening. But this time she did something that made him forget all about the pain. She leaned forward and very softly, very tenderly, very sweetly placed a kiss upon his thigh.

  He looked at her in awe, but her brow furrowed, as if she wondered why she’d done it.

  He closed his eyes and caught her hand in his. “’Tis feeling better already.”

  He fell asleep like that, holding her hand, pleasantly weary, a vague smile on his lips. And he would have slumbered peacefully till morn, but in the middle of the night, he heard the unmistakable sound of a damsel in distress.

  Helena shivered violently in the darkness. It seemed winter had chosen to visit on this midsummer night. Her jaw ached from clenching her teeth for the past several hours, and she blew on her hands, trying to warm her numb fingers.

  She’d given Colin two of the coverlets. It seemed the right thing to do, considering how much pain she’d made him suffer. Besides, he needed a solid night’s rest to help him heal. But now she was paying for her kindness.

  Nothing was left of the fire but a dim glow. She’d made the mistake of letting the supply of wood run out. Now it was so cold, she’d begun to consider burning the furniture.

  She curled into a tight ball and let out a long, chattering sigh.

  “God’s eyes, wench,” came a growl from the bed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  She heard him rustling the coverlet, but she was too stiff to move or speak.

  “By the Saints, ’tis colder than a nun’s…’tis freezing,” he amended. “Come here, my lady.”

  “I’m fine,” she managed between her teeth.

  “Nonsense. I can hear your bones rattling from here.”

  “’T-t-tis nothing.”

  “Come, lady. I’ll share the pallet. We can keep each other warm.”

  “Oh, aye, you’d like that, w-wouldn’t you? Ph-ph-ph-philanderer.” Lord, even half-asleep, the knave had nothing but bedding her on his mind.

  He was quiet for a moment, and she wondered if he’d drifted off to sleep again. When he spoke again, his voice was solemn. “I am a knight, my lady, a man of honor. I will sleep beside you and keep you warm, ’tis all.”

  His offer was tempting. She was so cold that her breath made mist upon the air.

  “Come, Hel-cat. Who will ransom me if you freeze to death?”

  She wondered if she might freeze to death. She couldn’t remember being this cold, even when she bathed in the pond at Martinmas.

  “I swear by my sword I’ll be a gentleman. Come up.”

  With great difficulty, she managed to uncoil herself and hobble to the pallet. He lifted the coverlet to make room for her. She climbed in, careful not to touch him. But her efforts were for nothing. In an instant, he threw a possessive arm around her and hauled her back against his chest, enveloping her in delicious warmth.

  “Of course,” he murmured against her hair, “if you wish me to keep you warm another way…”

  She tried to elbow him, but his arm held her fast.

  “Shh, little Hel-fire. You’re safe with me.”

  She did feel safe. She should have felt trapped, smothered in his embrace. Instead, there was calming comfort in the circle of his arms, a curious contentment, as if she was protected…and cherished.

  She slep
t so soundly that the sun was already up when her eyes finally trembled open. The first thing she noticed was that Colin’s palm cradled her breast. The second was that his loins pressed against her backside. The third, the thing that saved him from her wrath, was that he was sound asleep. Soft snores issued from his parted lips, and his body was as limp and heavy as a coat of chain mail.

  She knew she should move. It was not gentlemanly at all, the way he touched her, surrounding her, violating her. She would move at once. At least she planned to move. Then again, as long as he was sleeping…

  His hand felt rather pleasant there. It fit her perfectly, as if it was made to encircle her breast. It was curious how it fell at just the right place when his forearm rested upon her hip. She took a deep breath, and the subtle movement made a sweet friction between her breast and his hand. It was as if he stroked her there, and she felt her nipple swell as her bosom rose and fell beneath his palm. A wave of warmth suffused her blood, and her nostrils flared as she savored the sensation.

  She felt him breathing, his broad chest expanding and contracting against her back, while his loins nestled against her buttocks. Sweet Mary, he was so hot there, like a coal waiting to be stirred to life. She wondered what would happen if she moved against him?

  He must have read her wicked intent, for he roused in his sleep then and rolled away from her onto his back. And though she’d never lain with a man before, though she always slept alone, her body felt instantly bereft of his touch.

  She carefully turned toward him so as not to wake him and lay on her side, studying his profile. He was quite a handsome man. For a Norman. He hadn’t the rugged quality of her countrymen. Their faces were scarred by weather and battle, their skin ruddy, their hair as brown as the heath in winter. Colin’s features were almost delicate in comparison, and yet there was nothing feminine about him. His mane was a much richer color, not quite black, but as dark as wet oak. His skin was golden, as if he’d been dipped in honey. His brow was heavy, but the lashes falling upon his cheek were as fine and thick as new grass.

  She lifted herself onto her elbow to get a better view. Something had happened to his nose, maybe a brawl, maybe an accident, but there was a tiny nick across the bridge where the bone might have been chipped. His jaw was wide and strong and covered with a light growth of coarse black hair, proof that Normans could indeed grow beards.

  She gazed at his lips. Even they were different from those of the Scots. Rivenloch men had grim mouths, mouths meant for frowning and feasting and bellowing in battle. Colin du Lac’s mouth looked as soft and yielding as pandemain fresh from the oven. She’d seen his lips curl in displeasure, curve in amusement, and grimace in pain. But now, while he slumbered, they parted slightly, making him look as sweet and innocent as a child.

  It was a mouth made for laughter, for sipping wine, for reciting verse, for all the carefree pleasures of life. A mouth, she thought, made for kissing.

  She supposed it made sense. After all, he was a philanderer. No doubt he applied potions and salves to his lips nightly to keep them supple for all that kissing.

  She wondered just how soft they were. She bit her own lip. Did she dare try? She’d kissed plenty of Scots lads, mostly on a dare or to distract them so she could follow up with a hearty punch. Once, when she was twelve summers old, a kitchen lad had wagered she couldn’t kiss his sleeping friend without waking him. She’d won the wager. But then the lad’s lips had been wind-chapped and as dry as dust. She doubted he could have felt a teat shoved between them.

  She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, wondering if she could kiss Colin without waking him.

  On impulse, before she could change her mind, she leaned over him, hovering inches away as his breath brushed across her mouth. Then she closed her eyes and, holding her breath, pressed her lips ever so softly to his.

  Chapter 12

  This time, she would have lost the wager, for the moment their mouths met, Colin woke, seized her by the shoulders, and slammed her back down onto the pallet. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he frowned down at her. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” She gulped. She’d forgotten he was a warrior, trained to sleep with one eye open, a man accustomed to reacting first and reasoning later. She’d also forgotten how strong he was. God’s bones, he’d flipped her onto her back faster than she could suck in a startled breath. And he still held her pinned there.

  “What were you doing?” he demanded.

  His threatening tone tweaked her ear. Her awe turned to anger, and she sneered, “I was trying to suck the life from you.”

  He sighed. “Don’t you know better than to wake a sleeping soldier?”

  “I didn’t think something as…” She seized his forearms, trying to push him away. It was hopeless. He was as strong as a warhorse. “Something as insignificant as a ki—” As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them.

  “As a what?”

  The silence seemed thunderous.

  Then crinkles slowly formed at the corners of his eyes, and an infuriating smile replaced his scowl. He clucked his tongue. “Lusty little Hel-cat. You were trying to kiss me.”

  “Nay.”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “I was trying to…to kick you.”

  “Indeed?” He lowered his gaze to her mouth, and God help her, her lips tingled almost as if he touched her there. “And did you enjoy it? That kick?”

  Nothing enraged her more than mockery. She’d show him a kick. She twisted her left leg free, intending to boot him in the shin.

  But he guessed her intent and slung his heavy thigh over her before she could move. “Take care, my lady. I am yet a wounded man.”

  Spitting mad, she nevertheless heeded his warning. The last thing she needed was to deal him a blow that would make his recovery take longer.

  And yet he insisted on testing her temper. “You know, if you want a kiss,” he told her, his eyes sparkling mischief, “all you have to do is ask.”

  “I don’t, you overgrown, oversexed son of a—”

  “My lady!” he exclaimed, feigning shock. “’Tis you who wished a kiss from me. I was sleeping blissfully on when you came to ravish me with—”

  “Ravish you? I did no such—”

  “By the Saints, you practically threw yourself at me and—”

  “Oh!” Fury built inside her, the kind of fury that made her speak without thinking, but she could no more stop her tirade than one could stop ale flowing from a cracked keg. “’Twas only to see if ’tis true what they say,” she snarled, “that kissing a Norman is like kissing a toad!”

  Most men cowered at her outbursts. Colin only laughed. “And have you kissed many toads?”

  Rage blinded her. Words eluded her. The only reaction she could summon up was a scream of pure wrath.

  But before she was finished, his lips descended to cut off her cry, muffling the sound in the recesses of his mouth.

  Her blood boiled, and she struggled against him, trying to twist away from his insistent lips. But she could no more shake him loose than a hound trying to shake loose a tick. He slanted his mouth across hers, but she managed to seal her lips shut to prevent his entrance. His heavy breath blew across her cheek toward her ear, sending an unwelcome shiver through her. So forceful was his kiss that she couldn’t even maneuver her teeth to bite him.

  But she could use her fists. It was awkward with his hands holding her down, but she pounded on the sides of his shoulders as hard as she could. She might just as well have been patting a well-performing horse. He gave no outward indication that he felt a thing. Indeed, his kissing grew even more unrelenting.

  Colin meant to stop. Though he was a master of seduction, he was no ravisher. Unless, of course, that was the game his mistress wished to play.

  He’d only meant to silence her scream.

  But now that he was engaged, now that he could taste the sweet, wild honey of her lips and feel the heat of her anger, so like passion, it was difficult to
extricate himself.

  Desire seized him between the legs, sending current coursing through his body. He distantly noted Helena pummeling at his shoulders, but it was nothing compared to the pounding of his heart as lust roused him with a vengeance. He deepened the kiss, trying to coax her lips apart, and a groan of pleasure rolled up from his throat.

  Her small mewl of protest finally awakened his conscience, and he forced the raging beast within to calm. By the Rood, he thought, he was a gentleman. No matter how great the temptation was, Colin du Lac never forced a woman to his will.

  But in the next moment his world was turned awry. As he softened his kiss, the intensity of her pummeling lessened, and to his shock, she began tentatively kissing him back.

  Somewhere in the middle of her rage and resistance, Helena stopped thinking. That was the only way to explain her diminishing lack of will and the way her limbs seemed to turn to custard. She acted, or more accurately, reacted, not from reason, but from instinct.

  Lord, his lips were soft and warm, warmer than she’d imagined. Where they touched hers, they left her flesh hot and tingling. His beard was coarse against her cheek, but she scarcely noticed it as his tongue brushed lightly across her lips. His breath caressed her face, and his low growls of contentment called to something primitive inside her.

  It was as if every nerve in her body convened at that one point of contact. Her breasts ached, her belly fluttered, her loins burned. His kiss seemed to bring her to life. It was an empowering sensation, one that left her feeling almost omnipotent.

  But when he lessened the pressure and backed away briefly, giving her a respite from his onslaught, some of the sensual haze dissipated, and she became almost capable of rational thought. It was when he smugly murmured, “You enjoyed that as well, didn’t you, Hel-fire?” that her vision cleared. Her pride instantly rose in defense, and she ground her teeth, incensed by his male arrogance.

  Did he think she was so easily conquered? That he was every woman’s desire? That she would now turn to clay in his hands? She refused to give him the satisfaction. Trying to look as bored as possible, she offered him an insulting shrug.