He chuckled softly and sat up. “Lusty wench.”
Her frown was ruined by a yawn. “Where are you going?”
He clucked his tongue. “So eager, my lady. Don’t fret. I’ll return to your bed soon enough.” He raked the hair back from his brow.
“Conceited varlet.” She punched him lightly on the shoulder with the back of her fist. “I meant where are you going with my blade?”
He stood, testing his wounded leg. It was healing fast. In another week, it would be as good as new. “I’m going to hunt whatever beast is foraging outside.”
Her brows drew together as she listened. A heavy foot thudded on the earth, followed by the sound of grass being torn and chewed. “’Tis a cow.”
“A cow?” He shook his head. “Nay, ’tis a goat or a sheep.”
“I tell you, ’tis a cow.”
He shrugged. “Then we shall dine well indeed.”
“Wait.” She rubbed at her eyes and swept the hair from her face with the back of her hand in a gesture that was charming and childlike. Then she rose to walk sleepily over to the window. She peered out through the shutters, scratching at her hip. “You can’t kill that cow.”
“Of course I can.” He sliced through the air with the knife. “One slash to the throat and—”
“Nay, you will not kill that cow.”
“What do you mean?”
“’Tis one of Lachanburn’s.”
“Lachanburn’s?”
“Aye. See that mark upon its flank?”
He joined her at the window. The shaggy, rust-colored beast with wide horns had a circle burned into its fur near the tail.
“’Tis Lachanburn’s mark,” she explained. “Rivenloch’s neighboring clan.”
“Ah.” Colin pressed his thumb against the edge of the knife, testing its sharpness. “Then he won’t mind sharing with his starving neighbors.”
She seized his wrist. “Do not.”
“Hold a moment. I was told that Scots go on cattle raids all the time. Is it not a sort of play among the clans, stealing each other’s cows?”
“Stealing, aye. Killing, nay.”
“Surely the Lord of Lachanburn would not begrudge the Lady of Rivenloch one paltry cow. We’ll slaughter this one and give him one of Rivenloch’s in exchange when we return.”
She shook her head. “Not without his consent.”
He sighed. He was hungry, and the beast outside could feed the two of them for weeks. It was a shame to let all that meat go to waste.
Maybe he could rouse that voracious appetite of hers. “You know, I can make an amazing roast over a slow fire. Juicy. Succulent. Tender enough to melt on your tongue.”
But the stubborn wench wasn’t biting. Instead, she looked thoughtfully out through the shutters. “You may not slaughter it. However…”
“Aye?”
“I suppose ’twould do no harm to milk the beast.”
Colin’s mouth was still watering over the thought of a savory roast. But her suggestion had promise. With milk, he could make any number of velvety sauces to enhance whatever game they caught. With a little patience, he might even churn butter or make soft ruayn cheese. And he could tie the cow nearby till they left for Rivenloch, giving them daily access to her bounty.
“My lady, that’s a brilliant idea,” he told her, handing her the dagger, hilt first. He rubbed his palms together. “’Tis been a while, but I think I can manage. I’ll take a bucket and stool and set to it.” He could already imagine Helena’s expression of ecstasy as she tasted one of his favorite dishes, thickened cream poured over wild berries.
If he’d only known what mischief she wrought, he would have rattled her wicked little brain then and there.
Helena watched him with wide, innocent eyes as he strode confidently from the cottage, pail and stool in hand, to perform the impossible task. It was an old trick, one played on every Scots child growing up. She grinned in sinful anticipation, climbing back under the coverlet to await his return.
Several moments later, when he entered the hovel, she feigned sleep, lying stiffly on the pallet, her back to the door.
The bucket hit the floor, followed by the stool.
“Very amusing,” he drawled.
She braced herself, holding back laughter. His footsteps drew closer until he loomed over her.
“You’re a naughty little Hel-cat.” One of his knees sank into the pallet, pinning her beneath the coverlet. Her eyes flew open, and he planted his other knee on the opposite side, trapping her between his legs. “And you must pay for your devilry.”
Any other man she would have thrown from the bed with a violent heave of her hips. But Colin had learned her tricks. He knew she relied upon surprise and subterfuge, so he was prepared to counter her every move.
“Get off of me,” she grunted, struggling to get her arms free, which were also caught beneath the coverlet. But it was hard to fight Colin when she was also fighting laughter. Every time she envisioned him outside with his bucket and stool, trying to find the udders on Lachanburn’s bull, giggles rose inside her like bubbles in a keg of ale.
“Oh, you think that’s droll, do you?” His voice was stern, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.
She bit her twitching lip.
“I believe you’re laughing at my expense,” he chided.
She shook her head, but a squeak escaped her as she imagined the bull’s surprise.
“Aha! You are laughing.”
She shook her head again, more vehemently.
Then he discovered one of her well-kept secrets, one she tried to hide at all costs. His fingers skipped lightly up her ribs as he began to tickle her.
She had time to cry “Nay!” once before she dissolved into a torrent of giggles, her body jerking in helpless spasms.
He assailed her ruthlessly for several moments, then stopped to let her catch her breath. “Are you sorry now for your mischief?”
She mustered up her most severe glare, not an easy feat in the middle of laughter, and shook her head.
And then he began again. He seemed to know every ticklish spot, from the place under her arm and the gaps between her ribs to the crevice of her neck and the crest of her hipbone.
She writhed and giggled and tossed her head until she was near giddy with laughter.
He gave her respite again, his grin impish as he looked down his nose at her. “Apologize, captive, and I’ll halt your torture.”
She grinned back. “Why should I apologize? ’Twas your own fool fault that—”
She yelped as he clamped his fingers into the spot above her hip where she was especially ticklish.
“You should apologize,” he said over her laughter, “because I might have been killed.” He paused his torment to give a dramatic shudder. “You should have seen the beast’s lusty eyes when I started pulling on his udder.”
Her stifled laughter exploded out at his vulgarity, and he resumed her punishment, attacking her until she was breathless and weak. Finally, she could endure no more. “I yield!” she gasped.
He paused. “What was that?” He turned his ear to hear better. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” She blew the stray strands of hair from her face. “I yield.”
“Ah. And you apologize?”
“I apologize,” she agreed.
He climbed off her, grinning in triumph.
“I apologize,” she repeated, turning onto her side, adding slyly, “for your stupidity.”
He gave her bottom a solid whack before she could dodge. “Come along, Hel-hound. We have eggs to hunt.”
She should have been incensed. No one swatted a Warrior Maid of Rivenloch. Yet how could she take offense when he looked at her with such a convivial twinkle in his eye?
Precisely when he’d made the transformation from foe to fellow, she didn’t know, but something had shifted between them. Whether because of the trick she’d managed to successfully perpetrate against him or simply the sweet release o
f laughing so long and hard, her mood was carefree the rest of the day. She no longer felt like an abductor with a hostage. Indeed, it was as if she and Colin were companions in arms, sharing this rousing adventure in the woods.
Helena found several caches of quail eggs hidden in the dense thicket, and Colin whipped them up over the fire into a frothy concoction with a sprinkling of thyme and the last bit of The Shadow’s cheese. He even found some walnuts on the crofter’s old tree that hadn’t been eaten by squirrels, and they broke them open with a rock, digging out the choice treat within. As they cleaned the last morsel of egg from the pan, Helena began to wonder if she’d ever be able to eat dry oatcakes again.
After their meal, Colin took the fishing pole and re-fashioned it into a bird snare with milkweed fiber. Together they ventured into a part of the woods heavy with brush. While Colin hunkered behind an oak, extending the pole with its fiber loop near the ground, Helena stole up behind the adjacent bushes and shook the foliage. A pair of quail fluttered out in a panic, but Colin wasn’t quick enough to catch them, and they skittered down the trail.
It took most of the day, but finally they managed to snare a couple of partridges, and on the way back to the cottage, Colin cut sprigs of mustard and picked a few handfuls of wild greens and violets. She busied herself plucking the birds, ordering him to rest his leg, for it was clear he’d overtaxed himself. To her surprise, he didn’t argue with her, and soon she heard him snoring atop the pallet.
She smiled, stopping her task for a moment to study him. His features were softer when he was asleep. His brow was smooth, his lashes thick where they swept his cheek. His hair, unkempt as always, fell in dark locks over his forehead and teased at his ears and jaw, giving him an air of devilry. His nostrils fluttered as he breathed, and his mouth, open enough to expose the slight cross of his front teeth, looked as innocent as a babe’s.
He awoke while she was watching him, and in that instant of discovery, she saw that he knew she’d been watching him, for his eyes glimmered smugly.
“You let me sleep too long, my lady.”
“Who could wake you?” she teased, returning to plucking the partridge. “You sleep like the dead.”
“On the contrary,” he said, stretching as languorously as a cat. “I awakened to the mere gaze of a woman’s admiring eyes.”
She felt her face grow warm. “I was not…admiring.”
He smiled and carefully sat up. Lord, even taunting and disheveled, he was as handsome as Lucifer. “Why, my lady, is that a blush upon your cheek?”
She plucked with a vengeance. “Nay.”
He set his feet slowly upon the floor. “You don’t have to wait until I’m asleep, you know. You may feel at liberty to admire me any time of—”
“I was not admiring you. I was…calculating your worth at ransom, pound for pound.”
“Pound for pound, eh?” He stood up and ambled toward her, his grin wide. “And was that clothed…or unclothed?”
Her blush deepened. Bloody hell, even in a battle of wits, he seemed to best her at every turn.
Colin took mercy upon the poor flustered damsel and let his query go unanswered. Just like the tickling he’d made her endure this morn, he knew when enough was enough.
Her blush surprised him. After all, she’d spoken with shameless candor before the mercenaries, using all manner of suggestion and vulgarity. She’d swung her hips and displayed her bosom with unabashed enthusiasm. Why she should be troubled by the fact she’d been caught staring at him, he didn’t know. It wasn’t as if he was unused to the stares of women.
Smiling at her curious contradiction, he busied himself with roasting the partridges in a paste of mustard and tearing the greens and violets into a salat.
He found he enjoyed impressing Helena with his cooking. She seemed so grateful, finishing every morsel with elan, licking her fingers, making those sensual sounds of pleasure deep in her throat. It was almost with regret that he thought about their return to Rivenloch, when she’d no longer require his services as cook.
It was a pity he had no better stores. A few additions would have made the meal perfect. A cup of crisp, cold perry. Plump, sweet rastons fresh from the oven, slathered with butter. And those berries with thickened cream he’d dreamed of earlier. Then Helena’s eyes would roll in ecstasy.
He supposed he’d just have to settle for offering her a different kind of ecstasy. He smiled wickedly. She’d let him kiss her yesterday. He wondered what liberties she’d allow this eve.
A few hours later he found out. He stretched out on the pallet, propped on his elbows, while she examined his wound.
“The stitches should stay in for another week,” she declared, swabbing the injury lightly with a wet rag.
She could’ve told him he’d have to live with them forever, and it would’ve made no difference. His mind was drifting to much more interesting thoughts as her forearm strayed dangerously close to his groin. Before, when she’d used the wine, he’d only been able to focus on the pain of his wound. Now he felt the brush of her sleeve upon his thigh, the gentleness of her fingers upon his flesh, the warmth of her body as she sat beside him on the pallet.
As she prepared to rewrap the bandage, he let out a forlorn sigh. She looked askance at him.
“No kiss?” he asked.
She lifted a dubious brow.
He looked at her, all innocence. “I’m sure that’s why it’s healed so quickly.”
“Indeed?”
“Oh, aye.” He added soberly, “Nothing is more powerful than the kiss of a beautiful woman.”
“Oh, I’m beautiful now, am I?” She might have said it sardonically, but her blush betrayed her. She enjoyed his compliment.
“Fairer than an English morn. Lovelier than a rose in bloom. More graceful than a dove on—”
“If I kiss your injury, will you stop spewing verse at me?”
He pretended hurt, then slowly nodded.
She leaned forward to give him a quick kiss upon his cut, and her soft hair brushed the inside of his thigh. He shivered, wondering if she knew what she did to him.
As she rewrapped the bandage, he pointed to his knuckle, scraped in the fight with the mercenaries. “I have another injury here.”
She gave him a knowing glare. “I suppose that one needs a kiss as well?”
He nodded.
She smirked, but obliged him.
Then he tapped a finger on his cheekbone, grazed by an English fist.
Shaking her head at his mischief, she gave him a light kiss there as well.
Then he pointed to his lips.
She wagged a finger at him. “Valiant try, but nay.”
He shrugged. “At least I spared you my bruised arse.”
She gave him a chiding shove in the chest, knocking him off his elbows.
He returned with a light push at her shoulder.
Her jaw dropped, and she shoved him again.
He tugged at her hair.
Fighting laughter, she grabbed his wrist.
He rose up to give her a quick peck on the lips.
She growled at him.
He kissed her again.
“Stop it, you—”
He interrupted her with another peck.
“You knave, what are you—”
Then another.
“Cease!” Her words belied her grin.
And another.
She tried to clamp her lips shut, but laughter burst from between them.
The sixth kiss was nearly impossible, she was laughing so hard. He moved instead to her neck. But the clever wench got her revenge while he was nuzzling the sweet skin beneath her ear. Her devilish fingers found his ribs and began tickling away.
His arms instantly clamped against his sides as he made an unsuccessful grab for her wrists, and he gasped against her neck. He tried to catch her hands again, but she was as fleet as a bee, stinging him here and there, finding his most vulnerable spots. Soon his breathless laughter joined hers until f
inally he managed to trap her wrists. He rolled her onto her back and beamed down in victory.
“You,” he said, grinning, “are a wicked, wicked wench.”
She twisted against his hold, but without much effort, and it was then he realized the secret of her pleasure. She wasn’t a lover. She was a warrior. What heated Helena’s blood was battle. The key to winning her affections was to spar with her, with words, with actions. She liked to fight, liked the excitement, the aggression. He smiled. He could give her the battle of her life.
Chapter 14
Drunk on laughter, Helena couldn’t muster up proper outrage at the varlet for kissing her against her will. True, she’d gotten her vengeance, discovering to her glee that Colin was as ticklish as she. But now, giddy and breathless, she found his advances not so unwelcome. Indeed, a part of her, probably that “wicked, wicked” part, perversely longed to nestle even closer to the trespassing knave.
Her blood had grown warm, and her heart throbbed. She grinned, feeling the way she did after a good sword fight, as if she glowed with the light of a hundred candles.
She could have escaped him if she’d wanted to. But she only half-wanted to. There was nothing Helena loved better than battling a worthy foe.
She squirmed as he lowered his head to hers, and his moist breath teased at her ear. “You,” she murmured, “are a vile beast.”
He answered with a growl and a bite to her neck.
She gasped in surprise.
“Beast I am, my lady,” he agreed, “and I shall devour you.”
He gnawed playfully at her throat. She writhed beneath him, caught in a strange place between laughter and longing, and not entirely sure she sought escape.
“I shall sniff out your most delectable parts.” He snuffled about her neck and ears, making her squeal. “And feed on your quivering flesh.” He nipped at the lobe of her ear, sparking her desire like flint striking iron. “I’ll sink my teeth into your delicate neck and drink the very life from you.” He ran his tongue along the pulsing vein beneath her ear, and she shivered as the sparks burst into quick flame.
“Nay,” she gasped.
“Oh, aye,” he said, licking lightly around the rim of her ear. She stiffened as fire instantly infused her blood.
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