Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  “’Tis like a battle,” she said. “There are always two sides. One loses, and one wins. One is the victor, and one is the victim. Only in the battle of marriage, ’tis always the man who wins.” She held his gaze, wondering if she’d gotten through to him.

  The last thing she expected was the burst of laughter that exploded from him. “The battle of marriage?”

  She stiffened at his mockery, clenching her teeth against the instinct to plunge her fist through his amused grin.

  Then he made the mistake of laying patronizing hands upon her shoulders as he tried to stifle his laughter. She threw off his arms and shoved hard at his chest, making him stumble back a step.

  His laughter vanished then, but there was still a trace of humor in his eyes. “Hel-cat, sweetheart, marriage is not a battle of foes.” His gaze softened. “’Tis an alliance.”

  Helena raised her fists defensively. Even though she was free of his embrace, part of her felt cornered, snared in the twinkling, knowing, tempting allure of his eyes. The battle was on, and already he had the advantage.

  Before she could throw a punch, he reached up, lightning fast, and seized her wrists.

  “There is no conqueror, no conquered,” he said gently. “Do you not remember?”

  Her arms trapped, she resorted to making weapons of her legs. But he knew her too well. Before she could raise her knee, he lunged forward, crushing her with disturbing intimacy against the stone wall.

  She silently cursed her mutinous body, which warmed even at this hostile contact. His scent, leather and smoke and spice, filled her nostrils. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. And his hips pressed against hers possessively.

  “Sometimes ’tis the man who wields the greater power,” he murmured, his breath stirring the tendrils along her cheek, tickling her ear, sending a shiver through her soul.

  Then, just as she felt her bones begin to melt like iron on the forge, he released her suddenly. She staggered against the wall, catching her breath. He backed away, lifting his palms in a gesture of surrender. His eyes were smoky with lust, his mouth parted with hunger, and there was a telling bulge beneath his trews. “And sometimes,” he whispered, desire roughening his voice, “he is at the woman’s mercy.”

  Helena’s head whirled in confusion. She gazed at Colin du Lac, standing before her in breathless wait, his need raw, his emotions bare. He’d stolen kisses from her, used her passions against her, claimed her body again and again. Yet just as often, she’d seduced and bewitched and overpowered him. In their bouts of lovemaking, there had never been a clear victor. Maybe, she dared to hope, it would prove thus in marriage.

  “Conquer,” he breathed, “or be conquered. ’Tis no matter to me, Hel-fire. Only do not deprive me of your love.”

  After such sweet words of surrender, Helena could do nothing else but show him mercy.

  As she pushed off the wall, her blood already simmering with anticipation, her flesh burning for his touch, she managed to whisper, “Sir Colin du Lac, I challenge you to a tryst.”

  Somehow they found the pallet. But swiftly, their battle became a hazy blur of yielding and domination, yearning and gratification. Garments littered the chamber, and soft cries filled the air as their limbs twined in sensual combat. Colin steered the charger of their desire for a time, then she seized the reins, turning it along her chosen course. For a while, he towered above her like a conquering hero, and then she rose to victory, commanding him from her lofty perch. He groaned out his need to her, and she moaned her passion to him, until their voices sounded together, and they cried out in mutual, blissful, undeniable triumph.

  Afterward, in the peaceful wake of their tumultuous war, Helena lay curled against Colin’s flank, his limbs surrounding her like the roots of a tree, locks of her hair draping him like ivy clinging to an oak.

  “I warn you, I won’t be your chattel,” she murmured, running an idle finger down his breastbone.

  He chuckled softly. “And I won’t be your hostage.”

  “I won’t give up my sword.”

  He smiled. “I won’t give up my cooking pot.”

  Beyond the window, she could hear the distant dull thunder of hooves, cheers from the tournament field, and the indistinct voices of lovers quarreling, growing nearer. But she felt as if she floated a world away from all that.

  Colin ran a fingertip down the ridge of her nose. “I will give up my philandering ways.”

  “Then I will give up…” She thought for a moment. As difficult as it was to make the promise around the lump in her throat, she knew it was the reasonable thing to do. “I won’t spar until after the babe is born.”

  “Pah! You won’t spar with Pagan until after the babe is born.”

  She turned her head to look at him.

  He lifted her hand for a kiss. “Sung Li informed me that our babe is to be a great warrior.”

  “Aye?”

  “Then he’ll need to grow accustomed to battle. And for that, you deserve the best sparring partner,” Colin boasted. “What say you? Every day at dawn?”

  Helena’s eyes filled with moisture as she gazed with almost unbearable fondness into his twinkling eyes. He wouldn’t try to change her warring ways then. Maybe theirs would be a happy marriage.

  “Of course,” he warned, “that’s only after your leg has healed.”

  “Of course.”

  “And only with blunted blades.”

  Her lips curved into a smile.

  “What?”

  “She.”

  “What?”

  “She. Sung Li said ’twould be a lass.”

  “A lass?” A rainbow of emotions tinged Colin’s features, but the prevailing one was wonder. “Another warrior maid…”

  Then their sweet and intimate discourse was interrupted, with all the finesse of an ox crashing into a crockery shop, by a sudden solid pounding upon the door.

  Chapter 24

  Helena scrambled up at once, casting about for a weapon. Colin tossed her a surcoat.

  “Colin du Lac!” came a muffled bellow. “Are you within?”

  Helena frowned. The voice was unmistakably Deirdre’s, and she sounded furious.

  “Within?” Colin muttered, pulling on his trews. “Alas, no longer.” He gave Helena a saucy wink.

  “You savage, cowardly knave!” Deirdre yelled. “If you’ve laid a hand on my sister, I swear as God is my judge…”

  Pagan’s calmer voice joined Deirdre’s at the door. “He wouldn’t hurt her, my love.”

  “Oh, aye?” she snapped. “Well, he got her with child, didn’t he?” She banged harder on the door. “Don’t tell me that was her idea.”

  Helena gulped. There was apparently much that Deirdre didn’t know about her. Considering the circumstances, perhaps it was best she don clothing.

  “If you’ve touched one hair on her head, you spineless worm…”

  Colin slipped a long shirt over his head. “You needn’t worry,” he called back. “Tell her, Pagan. She needn’t worry.”

  “There,” Pagan said. “You see? You needn’t worry. Now I think ’twould be best if we leave them to—”

  “I’m not leaving until I see her. Do you hear me, you bastard?” She hammered again. “Open this door.”

  Helena cursed under her breath, struggling with the laces of her surcoat. She tugged frantically at her skirts, trying to give them some semblance of order.

  “I command you!” Deirdre bellowed. “Open this door now!”

  Colin lifted a brow, silently asking Helena for permission to let her in. Lord, she thought, he was irresistibly handsome. His trews were wrinkled and the laces of his shirt undone. His hair, combed hastily with his fingers, was as unruly as the mane of a wild stallion, and his sultry eyes and the sheen of sweat dusting his skin left no doubt as to what they’d been doing. Still, Helena couldn’t hide from her sister forever. Especially now that she intended to marry the Norman. She blew out a bracing breath and nodded.

  “Damn you,
varlet! Open the—”

  Colin snatched the door open so quickly that Deirdre almost fell in.

  “Deirdre,” Helena said lightly, as if she’d come in to chat about the weather.

  Deirdre’s face was lined with worry. She shoved Colin aside and came toward Helena. “Are you well? Has he—” Then she saw the state of Helena’s dress, and an almost visible fury seemed to boil off of her. She whipped around to Colin, who was nodding a companionable greeting to Pagan. “You!”

  Colin reflexively covered his nose.

  Pagan stepped between them. “Deirdre, there’s no need—”

  “You will wed her this very day,” Deirdre decreed, her ice-blue eyes snapping. “Do you understand?”

  Helena’s hackles rose at that. “You can’t command me to wed!”

  Deirdre spoke over her shoulder. “I can, and I will. ’Tis for the best, Helena. I won’t let you bear a bastard child.”

  Helena was outraged. It seemed her sister hadn’t lost her imperious nature after all. “And what if I choose to bear a bastard child?”

  “Don’t be foolish.”

  “Don’t call me foolish.”

  “You are being foolish.”

  “I am not.”

  “I’m only watching out for you, Helena.”

  “I don’t need you to watch out for me.” She planted her hands on her hips. “And I certainly don’t need you choosing my bridegroom. Especially after you stole Miriel’s.”

  Deirdre gasped, then narrowed her eyes. “’Twas for her own good, and you know it. You and I agreed. We would have done anything to save her from the pain of—”

  Pagan cleared his throat. No doubt his pride was still wounded by the fact that the sisters had fought over who would make the sacrifice of wedding him. “Helena,” he said, “be reasonable. ’Tis truly the best solution. You can’t raise a babe on your own. You can’t—”

  Colin straightened to his full height and stabbed his finger at Pagan’s chest. “She can do whatever she damn well pleases!”

  “Oh aye, Colin!” Deirdre bellowed. “God forbid you should be burdened with a wife! Better to swive your merry way through all the maids, scattering babes like dandelion seeds in the wind!”

  Colin gaped, incredulous. “Did I say that?”

  Pagan narrowed stern eyes at Colin. “You will marry her.”

  “Don’t order him about!” Helena cried, poking Pagan in the shoulder. “’Tis our babe, and ’tis up to us what we decide to do about it.”

  “You’re not thinking, Hel,” Deirdre said. “Your condition has made you irrational.”

  Fury left Helena speechless.

  Colin clenched his jaw. “Don’t call her irrational! She’s the wisest woman I know.”

  Deirdre arched a wicked brow. “Then why did she lie with you?”

  Helena itched to slap her ill-mannered sister, but for once, she didn’t let her impulses get the best of her.

  “Deirdre!” Pagan scolded. “Enough.”

  Helena gritted her teeth. It was one thing for her to snap at her sister. But it grated on her ears to hear Pagan issuing commands. “See?” she said to Colin. “See how he orders her about?”

  Colin shook his head. “Dreadful.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed.

  “I would never do such a thing,” he said.

  “I thought not.”

  “But then,” Colin added, “you wouldn’t resort to such insults.”

  “Nay,” she admitted. “I’d probably answer with my blade.”

  “And I’d be at your back, my love.”

  “As always.”

  They crossed their arms in unison and faced Pagan and Deirdre, who had fallen into stunned silence.

  Pagan was the first to breach the long quiet. “I told you we should have left them alone,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  Deirdre sighed in disgust. “They’ve already decided to wed, haven’t they?”

  “Oh, aye, I’d say so.”

  “So all this was for nothing?”

  “Oh, nay. I’d say they have an amusing tale to tell at the wedding supper.”

  “Ballocks.”

  As it happened, the story was recounted at the wedding feast, in the form of an extremely long and detailed ballade delivered by Boniface and accompanied on the lute. Helena thought Deirdre deserved no less.

  Rivenloch’s great hall resounded with music and merrymaking, and the tables groaned with a sumptuous blend of hearty Scots dishes and savory Norman fare. The air was filled with the scents of ginger and galyngale, verjuice and mustard, cinnamon and ale. New trophies from the tournament graced the scrubbed plaster walls, captured pennants and silver spurs and the golden arrow Helena had won in the archery contest.

  Helena could put a name to most of the Cameliard faces around her now, and she’d begun to think of them as denizens of Rivenloch. Indeed, the only stranger in their middle this eve was Sir Rand of Morbroch, a handsome noble who claimed to be bewitched by Miriel. Helena had to smile as she watched him try to engage her little sister in conversation. Miriel might appear sweet, shy, and soft-spoken, but she was no wide-eyed maid. Indeed, Helena suspected more warrior blood ran through her veins than she admitted. Sir Rand might have more of a battle before him than he expected.

  As for Helena and her beloved adversary, she knew the way ahead might be rocky. Sometimes Pagan would wield his influence and fight for authority, but sometimes she would take the upper hand, demanding her way. With patience and love, they’d resolve their differences, and in the end, they’d both emerge victorious.

  She didn’t mind bending a little to his will, as long as he bent to hers in return. As Pagan had said when he presented them with his wedding gift, matching swords of Toledo steel, the best blades were flexible, yielding a bit to their opponent’s blows.

  As she finished off her second apple coffyn to the strains of a bawdy rondeau from Boniface, Helena suddenly felt Colin’s fingers settle brazenly upon her leg. She held her breath while they worked their surreptitious, inexorable way between her thighs. She stiffened, wondering if anyone would notice. Her cheeks grew hot as a smug, secret smile began to curve his lips.

  But two could play at that game. Just as coyly, she slipped her hand beneath the table, sliding her palm across his thigh to wreak her revenge, boldly cupping his cock. His sharp intake of breath was sweet reward.

  When he’d recovered from his shock, he looked at her with lust-darkened eyes, and said with forced calm, “My love, are you fatigued? Would you care to retire to our chamber?”

  “Aye,” she said, pressing her fingers to her temple. “I believe the babe has drained me of strength this eve.”

  Their innocuous speech fooled no one. The laughter and jesting began at once. A troop of raucous, drunken well-wishers followed them as they retreated hastily up the stairs, departing only when Colin slammed the bedchamber door on them.

  Once inside, Helena discovered that Deirdre had taken revenge upon her for Boniface’s song. It was subtle, but it was revenge nonetheless. Their bridal bed was fitted, not with linen, but with shimmering sheets of pale silk. A cauldron absolutely reeking of jasmine steamed on the hearth. And one of the castle hounds whimpered pathetically from beside the bed, no doubt mortified by the fact that around his neck were tied enough pungent spices to flavor a year’s worth of pasties.

  Colin shook his head in amusement, and then hunkered down to scratch the hound under his savory chin, while Helena picked up the missive left on the bed.

  “Hel,” she read aloud, “May you learn to bend to the ways of your Norman husband. Deir.”

  Colin chuckled, brushing his hand across the pallet. “Silk? I think I could get used to this.”

  She tossed aside the note and flashed him a wicked grin. “And I’m already thinking of ways I could bend for you.”

  “Indeed?” He growled his approval and rose to face her, winding a lock of her hair around his finger to tug her closer.

  But the pung
ent scent of the cauldron was suddenly overpowering, and before he could press his lips to hers, his nose wrinkled, and he turned his head aside with a huge sneeze. “Satan’s claws! That brew stinks.”

  “We could pour it down the garderobe.”

  He nodded. “I’ll do it.” With a sultry promise in his gaze and another sneeze, he bid her, “Wait here. Don’t move.”

  She complied, running an idle finger back and forth across the smooth fabric of the bedclothes and glancing at the hound, who stared dolefully up at her.

  Colin was back in the wink of an eye, closing the door and half-flinging the empty cauldron across the room in his haste. “Now. Where were we?”

  She grinned. “I was bending you to my will.”

  He smiled slyly in return as he drew near. “Your will is it now?”

  “Mm.”

  “And is this your will, my lady?” He slipped his hand along her jaw, caressing her cheek and pulling her close to kiss her softly on the mouth, once, twice. “Is it?”

  “Aye,” she sighed against his lips.

  “And what about this?” he asked, letting his fingers drift down the side of her neck and across her bosom, teasing at the top of her surcoat, then delving farther, until shivers of anticipation tautened her skin. “Is this your will?”

  “Oh aye,” she breathed.

  He spread the laces of her surcoat then and tugged the bodice down to bare one breast. She closed her eyes and caught her lip between her teeth, waiting for the delicious shock of his touch.

  But it never came. Instead, he growled, “Ah, bloody hell.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “What?”

  He scowled. “I can’t do anything with that damned hound watching my every move.”

  She stifled a smile.

  “Wait,” he said. “Right here.”

  “Mm-hm.” She wasn’t nearly as impatient as Colin. After all, they had a lifetime ahead of them.

  He dropped his gaze momentarily to her bared breast, and the desire that instantly glazed his eyes made her loins quiver. “Right here,” he rasped.

  Then he snagged the dog by its fragrant collar and dragged it toward the door, pushing it out by the haunches.