Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Nay!” she snapped. Then she muttered to Miriel, “Now see what you’ve done? Why did you come between us?”

  Miriel’s jaw dropped. That Helena would so readily lay the blame at Miriel’s feet only made her more determined to defy her sister once and for all. “Because, you overbearing, meddlesome wench,” she snarled, “this is not your affair. ’Tis mine.”

  The shock on Helena’s face was priceless.

  Before she could lose her nerve, Miriel turned to Rand, who looked as bewildered as a fox cornered by a pair of mad hens. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she reached forward, snagged him by the tabard, and hauled him toward her. Then she planted a kiss hard on his mouth.

  Chapter 3

  Miriel intended to lay claim to Rand before Helena could gainsay her. She didn’t anticipate becoming waylaid herself.

  But she’d never kissed a man before. Once she pressed her lips against Rand’s, a wave of amazing sensations began to wash over her that completely distracted her from her purpose.

  His mouth was much warmer and softer than she’d imagined, and he tasted faintly, pleasantly of honey. His ragged sigh of pleasure sent a sultry shiver along her flesh.

  Curiosity compelled her to tilt her head, deepening the kiss, and as she did, a strange, delightful warmth flooded her body.

  “Here now!” Helena scolded.

  But Miriel was too engaged to pay heed. She felt as if she quenched an unknown, eternal thirst. She drank more and more, happily drowning in the dizzying wake.

  “Stop that!” came Helena’s irksome protest again.

  Rand, unresponsive at first, now returned the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers, and suddenly the current swirled to sweep her away completely. The real world diminished around her as she swam in a languorous pool of feeling.

  Gone were the spectators at the fence.

  Gone was Helena.

  Gone were the tiltyard and the keep and all of Rivenloch.

  The only thing left was this kiss.

  He parted his mouth as if to taste her, grazing her bottom lip with his tongue and sending a lightning strike of desire through her loins that turned her knees to custard. It was as if her very soul gasped, and the heat fortified her passions even as it melted her bones. She clutched Rand’s tabard tighter, no longer to keep him near but to keep herself aright.

  Sweet Mary, this was divine. She never wanted this moment to end.

  Rand knew, the moment the dagger fell from his limp fingers, he’d gone too far. He was fast losing control. This was no way to gain the trust of the people of Rivenloch, by ravishing one of their maidens. Especially when he’d claimed to be here to court Lady Meryl…Marion…Mirabel.

  But Lord, this wench’s kiss was sweet. And wet. And hot. And arousing.

  It took all his strength of will to pull back, to break contact. When he did, the hungry glaze over her smoky blue eyes and the inviting curve of her open mouth made him long to assail her again.

  But the sharp length of steel that suddenly intruded to separate them brought him back to his senses.

  “By Lucifer’s ballocks, cease!” Helena commanded for the third time, narrowing suspicious eyes to glance back and forth between them, finally focusing on the lass. “What do you think you’re doing? Do you know this man?”

  The lass, still swooning from the effect of their kiss, didn’t answer at first.

  Helena thumped her on the shoulder. “Do you know this man?”

  The maid blinked the mist from her eyes and raised her chin in defiance. “Aye,” she boldly lied.

  “How?”

  “I met him…” Her voice was rough with desire, soft and ragged. “I met him at the tournament.”

  Rand was stunned speechless. He’d never seen the maid before in his life. And she didn’t have a face he’d easily forget.

  “He told me he’d come back for me,” she continued, “and as you can see, he has.”

  A faint breeze could have knocked him over at that moment, and perhaps taken Helena as well. Helena stood with her mouth agape as the damsel looped an arm possessively through his and tugged him away.

  “Shall we, Rand?”

  If Rand’s brains hadn’t been scrambled by that soul-searing kiss, he might have figured things out before they were halfway across the field. When the truth finally dawned on him, he stopped so abruptly in his tracks that the lass collided with him. “You.”

  She glanced up at him, her face deceptively sweet, her gaze deceptively wide.

  A glimmer of recognition crept into his eyes. “You’re the wicked lass from the woods.”

  She raised innocent brows. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Wicked and deceitful. He chuckled, then bent low to whisper, “How else would you know my name?”

  “Why, sir,” she murmured back, “I cared for you when you were injured at the tournament. Don’t you remember?”

  Her expression was perfectly guileless, but of course, she was lying. He’d never come to the tournament.

  He fought back a grin. If she could bluff, so could he. “My brain was very scrambled,” he admitted.

  They resumed walking toward the gate, and he smiled, wondering if the little imp made a habit of spying from the trees. Perhaps she singled out eligible bachelors so she could pounce on them before any other damsel at Rivenloch had an opportunity.

  Not that he minded. The lass was beautiful and charming, even if she was a conniving sprite. Indeed, if the woman he’d come to court proved as hostile as her sister Helena, Rand would gladly suffer the attentions of this sprite instead for a few days. He might even take his time hunting for the outlaw if it meant earning more of the damsel’s unbridled kisses.

  But as they passed the small audience gathered at the fence, Rand began to feel uneasy. Their looks weren’t just curious glances, but gape-mouthed, wide-eyed, gasping stares of disbelief.

  And suddenly a mortifying possibility wound its way into his thoughts.

  This was no ordinary lass. Not by the way she’d stood up to the lady of the castle. And not by the attention she was getting now.

  Almost afraid to ask, he tentatively cleared his throat. “Indeed, my lady, I fear my fall in the melee left my wits quite addled. Will you remind me again of your name?”

  Her forgiving smile didn’t quite mask the irritation in her eyes. “Of course,” she said sweetly. “’Tis Mirabel.”

  Rand grimaced. He’d walked straight into the little vixen’s trap. “Lady Miriel?” he ventured.

  “You do remember.”

  He sighed. “’Tis coming back to me now.”

  “Is it? Well, I hope you won’t forget it again if you’re to court me.”

  “By my spurs, I won’t,” he vowed. Nor would he forget that earthshaking kiss. In fact, since she’d granted him leave to woo her despite his blatant lie, he looked forward to many more. This mission was turning out far less unpleasant than he’d expected.

  Miriel’s heart was pounding. Not from the heady thrill of standing up to Helena. Not because she’d shocked the castle folk by walking past with a strange man upon her arm. Nay, her blood pumped through her veins with alarming fervor from the stranger’s kiss.

  Lord, what had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking. Like impulsive Helena, she’d acted with no regard for the consequences of her actions. If she’d known how weak-kneed and flutter-hearted one kiss would leave her, she would never have dared it.

  Of course, she didn’t intend to let him court her for long. Rand was a completely unsuitable suitor. The knave’s proclamations of love were as suspect as his fabricated account of the tournament. She would send him away.

  In a day or two.

  After she discovered what he’d been doing in the forest.

  By then, maybe she’d have tired of his kisses anyway.

  She hoped so. Faith, even now the gentle caress of his mouth lingered on her lips, making her yearn for more.

  “Allow me,” he murmured.

&
nbsp; Oh, aye, she’d allow him, she thought dreamily.

  But he only meant to open the gate of the practice field for her. With a polite bow, he pushed the hinged wattle aside.

  As they passed the stables, Miriel was half-tempted to lead him inside. There in the sweet straw they might find a quiet, dark corner in which to resume their kissing and, thus, her questioning.

  But as luck would have it, they’d already been spotted by more obstructionists. Striding purposefully toward them across the courtyard was her sister, Deirdre, accompanied by her husband, Pagan, and Helena’s betrothed, Colin.

  “Hold there!” Pagan barked.

  Deirdre gave him a sharp elbow, and he softened his tone. “If you please, Lady Miriel,” he amended.

  Miriel had no choice but to wait while the three of them ambled up, their curiosity as apparent as Deirdre’s thickening belly.

  “Who is this?” Pagan demanded, narrowing his gray-green eyes to study Rand as if he were a strange and unwelcome bug.

  Rand had much better manners. He extended his hand and gave a slight nod. “My lord, I am Sir Rand of Morbroch.”

  “Morbroch?” Pagan grunted with his usual eloquence. “Morbroch who attended the tournament?”

  Rand nodded again.

  “Hmph. I don’t remember you from the games.”

  Colin chimed in, “He wasn’t in the joust.” His green eyes twinkled cheerily. “I remember all the contenders in the joust.”

  Deirdre squinted pensively while she nibbled on a crust of pandemain. “’Twasn’t the archery either.”

  “Nay,” Colin agreed, arching a proud black brow to add, “My Helena won the archery.”

  Pagan scowled and placed a threatening hand atop the pommel of his sheathed sword. “By what right do you lay a hand on Lady Miriel?”

  Miriel felt Rand tense beside her, and her ire rose. Pagan had served as lord of the castle less than a year, and yet he’d quickly adopted an imperious attitude.

  She smiled as sweetly as she could manage under the circumstances and gave Rand’s arm a doting squeeze, as if he were a favorite cousin.

  “Do none of you remember Rand?” She glanced at them expectantly. “Well, I suppose that’s no surprise.” Then she gazed fondly into Rand’s exquisite eyes and explained to him, “Lord Pagan was terribly distracted, it being his first tournament at Rivenloch. Sir Colin? He was half-blind with his affection for my sister, Helena. And Deirdre…well…” She confided in a whisper, “She is with child.” Then she tapped her forehead, indicating that Deirdre’s condition might have addled her brain.

  “What?” Deirdre squeaked.

  Before her sister could whip out a weapon and challenge her for the insult, Miriel ran a finger affectionately along Rand’s sleeve. “But I couldn’t possibly forget Sir Rand. He was injured in the first melee, you see, knocked witless. I took care of him in the Morbroch pavilion. We became…friends.”

  To her satisfaction, Rand followed her lead. “Great friends,” he said, giving her a wink. “Indeed, I believe this lovely damsel saved my life.”

  Pagan wasn’t swayed in the least by their touching story. “Why have you come back?”

  Rand hesitated only a heartbeat. “Miriel, my sweet, didn’t you tell them?”

  She smiled weakly. By the Rood! What was he up to?

  Clucking his tongue, he covered her hand on his arm with his own. “My timid little angel.” Then he told the others, “Lady Miriel asked that I return to court her.”

  “What?” Pagan blurted.

  Miriel held her breath.

  Colin began shaking his head in bemusement.

  Deirdre stared pointedly at Miriel, as if to divine the truth from her.

  Before anyone could speak, Miriel filled the silence. “That’s right. I wished him to return. In fact,” she added, her courage bolstered by virtue of having an accomplice, “I insisted he return. Now if you don’t mind, the poor man has traveled all morn and hasn’t had a morsel to eat.” Tugging him in the direction of the keep, she shook her head. “Some Rivenloch hospitality we’ve shown. God’s wounds! Helena greeted him with a sword.”

  Colin frowned. “You’ve met Helena?” At Rand’s nod, Colin briefly scanned him from head to toe. “And you have no scars to show for it?”

  Rand looked horrified. “I would never fight a woman, I assure you.”

  To Rand’s surprise, Colin chuckled. “Then, good fellow, you’ve chosen the right Rivenloch sister to court.”

  Pagan was not so amused. “No one’s given him permission to court her.”

  Anger simmered inside Miriel again. She needed no one’s permission. Who did Pagan think he was?

  Fortunately, Deirdre intervened before Miriel’s ire could come to a full boil. “I don’t see any harm in it,” she said, resting a calming hand atop Pagan’s formidable forearm. “He comes from a respectable household. They’re acquainted. And Miriel’s old enough. After all,” she reminded him pointedly, “she was nearly betrothed this summer to a man she didn’t love.”

  That man had been Pagan himself. He grunted at the pointed reference.

  Deirdre gave her a conspiratorial smile. “’Tis only fair she be allowed to make her own choice in this.”

  Pagan muttered something under his breath about headstrong Scotswomen.

  “Besides,” Deirdre added, “Sung Li will doubtless be nearby to keep them out of trouble.”

  As if her words had conjured the servant, Sung Li appeared in the middle of the courtyard, his arms laden with a platter of food.

  Miriel sighed. She’d won her way. Rand had permission to court her. But with Sung Li present, any opportunity to learn what Rand was up to by charming it out of him had disappeared.

  Rand wondered how many more surprises awaited him at Rivenloch. First he’d been challenged to battle by a warrior maid. Then the delectable Lady Miriel, who lied almost as smoothly as he did, had stolen a kiss. Now, unless he was mistaken, the ancient maidservant scurrying forward to deliver breakfast to them was a curiosity from the Orient.

  The shriveled, old, white-braided woman offered him pandemain loaves and soft ruayn cheese with a nod. “You must be hungry from your long journey.”

  How she guessed he’d had a long journey, Rand didn’t know. But he was hungry, and the fragrant steam of fresh-baked bread made his mouth water.

  “We’ll break our fast in the garden,” Miriel decided, clearly as anxious as he was to be away from her meddling kin.

  “When you’ve finished, Sir Rand,” Lord Pagan said, “come to the lists. You may as well make yourself useful. I assume you can handle a blade?”

  Rand knew better than to boast, especially when he was talking to one of the famed Knights of Cameliard. “I manage.”

  Pagan’s skepticism was evident, and he exchanged a glance with Deirdre that said as much.

  Rand smiled to himself. If they knew how skilled he was at swordplay, they’d probably be begging him to court Lady Miriel. A lady could ask for no better protector.

  The garden turned out to be a walled square adjacent to the practice yard. Though it was bleak and bare at this time of year, the odd little maidservant seemed determined to take Rand on a tour of every inch.

  “I am certain you did not see the garden,” she said, adding pointedly, “the last time you came to visit.”

  He and Miriel exchanged careful glances. Was the old woman aware of their deception?

  “Besides,” the maidservant told him, “if you learn what grows in the garden, tomorrow I can send you to fetch what I need for the wedding.”

  “Sung Li!” Miriel scolded. “He’s not a kitchen lad.”

  “Oh, aye,” the servant said. “He is your, what is it, friend?”

  As if to prove their relationship, Miriel looped her arm through his. “Rand is my suitor.”

  The impertinent maid only huffed once in disapproval, then led them down the garden path. “These are pasternak and rafens.”

  “Ah,” he said, feigning
interest, gulping down a warm morsel of bread.

  “And these are roses,” the old woman continued, adding with heavy sarcasm, “which you, of course, will be cutting to give to your…ladylove.”

  “Sung Li,” Miriel warned.

  They didn’t look at all like roses. At the moment, they were nothing but bundles of sticks with their heads chopped off.

  “Indeed?” Rand remarked. “My love, would you like a bunch of these thorny stems for your hair?”

  Miriel’s lips twitched with amusement, and she raised a defiant chin to Sung Li. “Perhaps I would.”

  The maidservant growled in displeasure, then resumed her tour.

  “Colewarts!” Rand called out as they passed the familiar white mounds that grew in every winter garden and graced every supper table in Scotland.

  “Every child knows colewarts,” the maid sneered. “They are common.”

  “Aye, most common, unlike my fair Miriel,” he cooed, half to amuse the woman on his arm, half to annoy the maidservant. Still, it was no lie. Lady Miriel was a rare sight, with her pale-as-cream skin, her crystal blue eyes, her dark, shining tresses, and that cherry-sweet mouth…

  “Wolfsbane.”

  “Wolfsbane?” he murmured distractedly, capturing Miriel’s gaze with his own. She bit her lip to keep from laughing, and he lowered his eyes to that succulent lip, making his desire to kiss her evident.

  Sung Li added with sarcastic hospitality, “Perhaps you would like to try some.”

  “Mm,” he said, still gazing at Miriel’s tempting mouth. “Maybe later.”

  “Hmph.” The old woman pointed to a row of strange plants with leaves like paddles. “You do not know what that is.”

  Feigning interest, he gave her his most earnest frown. “Nay.” But while Sung Li explained that they were kailaan, an honorable vegetable from her homeland, Rand glanced over at his beguiling companion. Her eyes had gone soft and dreamy, and he felt a swift tightening in his braies as a jolt of desire raced through him.