Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  He chuckled warmly and rubbed his nose against her cheek. “Liar. Open your mouth, and I’ll make it better.”

  Contrary to a fault, she clamped her lips together. Kissing him might be a breathtaking experience, a lofty thrill, much more pleasurable than any she’d had before. But she’d not be mastered by her emotions. And she’d definitely not be bested by a cocksure Norman.

  “Are you afraid?” He arched a brow.

  “I’m afraid of nothing,” she said, thrusting out her chin.

  His gaze lowered to her lips. “Then open your mouth.”

  “Nay.”

  “I think you’re afraid you’ll like Norman kissing.”

  “Hardly.”

  “In fact, you prefer it to your Scots stable lads’ unskilled pecks.” His eyes sparkled. “Or all those toads you’ve been kissing.”

  She smirked. “Are you going to let me up?”

  “Eventually.”

  “I never knew Normans were such tyrants.”

  “I never knew Scotswomen were so stubborn.”

  “We’re only stubborn when our virtue is threatened.”

  He laughed. “I’m not threatening your virtue. All I’m offering is another kiss.”

  “I wouldn’t kiss you again if you were the last man on earth.”

  “And yet ’twas you who woke me, little wanton.”

  She felt her cheeks grow hot. “I’m not a wanton.”

  “Oh, aye, right.” His lips curved up in a sly smile. “You’re afraid.”

  Her temper, never stable to begin with, simmered perilously close to eruption. “I am not afraid of anything,” she said between clenched teeth, “not men, nor battle, nor death, nor you.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I don’t have to prove anything.”

  “True.” Amusement made his eyes glitter. “But I’ll forever know in my heart you’re afraid of kissing me.”

  Then he smiled and let her go. Rolling off her, he fell back onto the pallet and laced his fingers behind his head, staring smugly up at the ceiling.

  She should have been satisfied. After all, she’d won. He’d released her. And yet the glimmer in his eyes told her that somehow he believed he was the victor.

  “Wait!” she said, knowing even as she said the word that she was about to get herself into trouble. Nevertheless, she fixed her eyes on a beam overhead, blew out a hard breath, and braced herself as if for a powerful punch. “Go ahead.”

  “Go ahead, what?”

  She shuddered. “Kiss me.”

  After a moment’s consideration, he sniffed. “Nay.”

  She whipped her head around. “What do you mean, nay?”

  He shrugged. “Nay. ’Tis not my way to frighten fainthearted ladies.”

  “I am not fainthearted.”

  “So you say.”

  She growled in frustration. “Bloody hell! Kiss me, you irksome knave.”

  “Not unless you ask nicely.”

  “Son of a…” She threw back the covers and flounced over till she loomed above him, then bit out, “For the last time. I am not. Afraid. Of you.” And to prove it, she bent forward and crushed her lips against his in a hard, dispassionate kiss.

  At least it started out to be dispassionate. But when he wove his fingers through her hair, caressing her ear and the nape of her neck, then wrapped his arm around her back, pulling her closer, her body began to melt into his embrace like iron in a crucible.

  He seemed to surround her, stroking her, cradling her, murmuring wordless urgings. And slowly, gradually, inevitably, she resonated to his play, like a lute to a minstrel’s touch.

  “Open for me,” he bid her softly.

  And, cursing herself for a fool, she did.

  She’d thought his lips were supple, but they were nothing compared to the soft, wet explorations of his tongue. His invasion was gentle, but she found herself longing for more. She delved further into the kiss, letting him swirl his tongue around hers in a languorous dance that sent her reason spinning wildly away.

  His hand slipped lower, cupping her buttocks, pulling her firmly against his obvious need. The rigid staff pressed upon her woman’s mound, and she gasped as the pressure sent a jolt of pleasure through her.

  He caught her gasp within his mouth and answered it with a moan. The sound affected her like thunder sometimes did, sending a thrill of excitement along her spine. Only half-aware of what she did, she thrust her hands into his hair, burying her fingers in the lush treasure, and deepened the kiss.

  His hand came around to her jaw, holding her steady, and his fingers dug gently into her cheek. Beneath her, his chest rose and fell rapidly, and the thought that they shared the same turmoil magnified her exhilaration.

  His thumb teased at the corner of her mouth, and she turned her head to nip at it. Sliding it farther inward, he eased it between her lips. She grazed it lightly with her teeth, then lapped at it, then took the whole thumb in her mouth, sucking hard.

  He rasped in a ragged breath and shuddered, and she peered at him through slitted eyes, relishing the effect she was having on him. His mouth hung open in naked desire, and his brow furrowed as if he suffered great pain. Why he should be thus aroused, she didn’t know, but it was a heady feeling to be in command.

  That sense of command lasted but a few moments. Colin, like a novice knight deciding he was outmatched, growled and slipped his thumb from her mouth.

  “Lucifer’s ballocks, you’re a wicked wench,” he said breathlessly.

  She frowned, unsure what he meant. But when he pushed her, gently but firmly, off of him, evidently done with her, she felt insulted and unsatisfied. It was as if he’d challenged her to combat, then withdrawn just as she was about to win.

  Indeed, her displeasure went beyond disappointment. It was a palpable disquiet. Her entire body tingled with expectation, the way her nose did before she sneezed. Her heart raced with anticipation, and her skin was as uncomfortably hot as the instant before she dove into the cool waters of Rivenloch in summer.

  As Helena bounded from the pallet, Colin bit the inside of his cheek, willing his desire to subside. Sweet Mary, what was wrong with him? Had it been so long since he’d lain with a woman that he’d lost all restraint?

  God’s eyes, it was just a few kisses. He’d kissed a hundred women—ladies, kitchen maids, millers’ daughters, harlots. But none had affected him so deeply. Nor so quickly.

  From the first contact, his blood had simmered faster in his veins than a shallow pan of blancmange over a hot fire, roiling out of control and threatening to boil over. But when she took his thumb fully into her mouth in blatant suggestion, sucking at it as if…

  Lord, he dared not let his thoughts wander there. His loins already swelled in urgency, demanding appeasement. Only reason saved him from disavowing his chivalry.

  Curse her teasing, the little vixen knew what she did. The triumph was obvious in her smoldering eyes. She tormented him, making lascivious promises with her body that she had no intention of keeping.

  He wondered if she tortured her stable lads thus. He wondered if she’d ever been taken against her will because of it.

  Luckily for her, Colin was as expert at reining in his passions as at reining in an unruly warhorse. But watching her as she flitted about the room in agitation, her cheeks flushed, her breathing rapid, her hair whipping over her shoulders in alluring disarray, it was hard not to wish her back in his bed.

  “I’m going fishing,” she suddenly announced.

  “Alone?” He rose up on one elbow. “Is that wise?”

  “I want to be alone.”

  Her reply probably had a deeper meaning, but at the moment, he paid it little heed. “I don’t think you should go by yourself.”

  “I told you,” she said, tucking both blades into her belt, “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “That’s foolhardy.”

  She pulled the door open. “Nay. Letting you kiss me was foolhardy.” She slammed it behind her before he
could get in a word.

  Muttering a string of foul oaths, Colin shoved the coverlet back and threw his legs over the side of the pallet. He might be wounded, but that didn’t excuse him from his knight’s vows. He’d sworn to protect ladies. Even if it was from their own foolishness.

  By the time he put on his boots and managed to hobble out the door, a heavy iron spoon—the only weapon he could find—clenched in his fist, she was long gone. But by her obvious trail, she’d returned to the same fishing spot.

  “Damn!” Did the woman seek trouble? Or was she just attracted to it? If the English did come after them, where else would they go but to the place they’d first found them?

  He limped along faster, wondering if he’d fare any better against the mercenaries with a cooking spoon than he had with a fishing pole.

  By the time he came crashing through the brush to see Helena gingerly dipping her line in the water, his leg throbbed, his face dripped with sweat, and he was in no mood for her defiance. “Damsel, are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “Hush.”

  “Don’t hush me!”

  “There’s a fish circling the bait,” she whispered. “That’s it. That’s…”

  “I don’t care if there are mermaids circling the bait! We have to get out of here.”

  “Shh!”

  He limped forward. He might be injured, and she might be stubborn, but he outweighed her by half, and if he had to remove her bodily, he would.

  “Oh, curse you, Norman!” She let the pole drop. “It’s swum away now.” Then she turned and glared at him in outrage. “What do you think you’re doing? You were supposed to stay in bed. Get back to the cottage!”

  “You get back to the cottage!”

  “Don’t order me about!”

  “Don’t order me about!”

  She blew out a harsh sigh. “You’re injured. You should not be taxing your wound.”

  “And you’re a woman. You should not be baiting mercenaries.”

  She gave him a long-suffering roll of her eyes.

  “Damn it, wench!” A muscle ticked along his neck. “What if the English return?”

  “They won’t.” She hauled the line in on her pole and checked to make sure the bait was still attached. “We’re not worth their trouble.” She smiled in grim recollection. “We gave them some gruesome reminders of that. Besides, I’ve never seen English here before, not this far north. We’re not likely to see any again.”

  Her nonchalance was frustrating. “Heed me well, my lady. Things are not as they were. There’s a new King in England and unrest in the country.”

  “This is not England. ’Tis Scotland. We’re still under King David’s rule. Just because we ran across a band of English outlaws—”

  “English outlaws,” he pointed out, “where there never were before.”

  She shrugged, then picked up the pair of trout she’d caught earlier and began wrapping them in grass.

  He sighed. It wasn’t his way to bore women with discussions about the workings of government. But his leg didn’t feel capable of supporting a wayward, struggling wench all the way back to the hovel. Maybe he could make her comprehend the danger so she’d cooperate. “This new King doesn’t have the support of all of the nobles. Dissenters have been stripped of their wealth and holdings, their castles given to Henry’s favorites. These indigents, with nowhere to go, have begun to look elsewhere for land. A lot of them have headed north. They’re laying siege to castles, Scots castles.”

  He had her attention now. “But King David won’t let them lay claim to Scots holdings.”

  “Exactly. ’Tis the reason the Knights of Cameliard were sent to Rivenloch.”

  She arched a dubious brow. “To claim my keep before the English could?”

  “Nay. To help protect your keep from the English.”

  “Oh.” She looked mildly surprised. Then the deeper significance of that sank in, and he could almost see the hackles rise on her back. “But Rivenloch is perfectly capable of defending itself.”

  Helena was a proud woman, and Colin didn’t want to begin a long argument. “I’ve no doubt,” he hedged, “but apparently your King didn’t think so.”

  She scowled.

  He continued. “That we encountered a band of English mercenaries means they’re already here, penetrating the Scots countryside. ’Tis unsafe for a damsel to go wandering about on her own.”

  To his astonishment, instead of launching a scathing protest, after a pensive moment, she nodded. “As unsafe as for a wounded Norman.” She collected her catch and the fishing pole. “At least I’m armed,” she said, slipping the knife into her belt. “What’s that?” She nodded toward the iron spoon and arched a sly brow. “Did you plan to cook the English to death?”

  Chapter 13

  Helena gave Colin the fishing pole to carry, knowing he could use it as a crutch. Though the proud warrior would never admit it, she was sure he’d taxed himself chasing after her.

  As for the English, she wasn’t truly afraid of running into them. She’d wandered these woods from the time she was a wee lass, battling outlaws and wild boars and oafs from the unruly Lachanburn clan. The English didn’t frighten her.

  But she had to return Colin to the cottage before he aggravated his wound. And if the only way was to feign cooperation and accompany him there, she’d do it. She’d already caught a hefty pair of trout for supper anyway.

  As for treating his infection, she hoped it hadn’t worsened. She was running low on wine, and moreover, she was running low on resolve for the unpleasant task.

  It was curious. She never batted an eye when it came to doling out injury to a foe. She could be merciless, bloodthirsty, an unflinching warrior. But somehow, dribbling wine over Colin’s wound, hearing him suck painful gasps between his teeth, knowing she hurt him badly, weakened her appetite for violence.

  As they made their halting way back to the cottage, Helena was haunted by what Colin had said. Could it be true? Were English mercenaries setting their sights on Scots keeps? Had they found their way to Rivenloch already? Was it possible they’d lay siege to the castle?

  It seemed unthinkable. Yet a lot of improbable things had happened of late. Her sister had wed a foreigner. The Shadow had been careless for the first time. And Helena had let a Norman kiss her. Twice.

  Maybe change was in the wind, blowing away the withered leaves of the past. Perhaps it would be a new age for Rivenloch, a time of war and bloodshed, an era of newfound foes and newfound alliances. The thought sent a restless shiver of adventure up her spine.

  But until she straightened out the mess she’d gotten herself into with Sir Pagan’s right-hand man, that adventure would have to wait.

  Back at the cottage, she discovered that Colin’s thigh had thankfully begun to heal. The flesh around the stitched cut looked healthy once again.

  No one was happier to hear the news than Colin. “No more of that bloody wine?”

  “No more.”

  He grinned. “Let’s drink to it.”

  She grinned back. “You’ve suffered the most from her sting,” she said, offering him the wineskin. “You drink first.”

  He took a hearty pull and passed the skin back to her. Only days before, she would’ve raised a disdainful brow and wiped the lip with her sleeve. How much had changed in the past week. They’d shared suppers, battle, pain, laughter, and even kisses. With a salute of the wineskin, she upended it and drank deeply.

  Supper was the best she’d tasted thus far. Colin was right. Normans had a gift for cooking. Somehow, with a few sprigs of rosemary and a clove of garlic, he turned the trout into a feast fit for company. She picked two generous handfuls of peas from a wild vine that had escaped the crofter’s garden years ago, and he boiled them with mint. Even the pair of pathetically tiny apples she found on a shriveled old tree managed to become a delicious treat when he wrapped them in thick leaves of fern and baked them over the coals until they were soft and sweet.

&
nbsp; Indeed, so content was she as she listened to the well-fed fire pop and crackle on the hearth later that night that she didn’t even blink when Colin called her to bed.

  “Come,” he said, patting the pallet beside him. “It grows late. I think we must rise early and rob a nest for breakfast.”

  “A nest?”

  “I’ve seen quail in the woods.”

  She rose from the hearth and shook her head. “’Twould take many quail eggs to fill a belly.”

  “That’s why we must rise early.”

  Why she willingly climbed into bed with him, she didn’t know. After all, the air was less chill tonight, and the fire burned brightly. Maybe Colin had slipped some Norman potion into her food to make her malleable and obliging. Or perhaps it was simply her satiated appetite that mellowed her mood. Whatever it was, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to slip into the pallet beside him and let him pull the coverlet over her.

  Until he murmured, “Tonight, my lady, do try to bridle your passions.”

  She stiffened. “My what?”

  “Don’t molest me, at least not until I’m fully awake.”

  She gave him a sharp elbow in the stomach, and he let out a satisfying oof, but she couldn’t help the blush that crept into her cheeks.

  Dawn sent narrow beams of light through the shifting branches, like a harlot running her fingers through her hair the morning after a tryst. But it wasn’t the brightness that awakened Colin as he lay beside the sleeping beauty on the pallet who had her leg slung possessively over his hips.

  Something foraged in the leaves just outside the cottage. Something bigger than a mouse or a squirrel or quail. Something that might make an even better breakfast than eggs.

  Careful not to disturb her, he usurped the knife Helena kept at her side, and then tried to extricate himself from her unwitting embrace. It was impossible. As soon as she felt him stir, she woke.

  “What is it?” she mumbled sleepily.

  “I’m trying to rise.”

  She looked at him sharply. Then, suddenly realizing that part of him had risen under her trespassing thigh, quickly withdrew her leg.