Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  She bit her lip and willed her heart to steady its beating. She needed to get her responses under control. It was a matter of grave importance. She had played with fire last night, allowing herself to act on impulse, and she’d been lucky to escape unscathed.

  She might not be so lucky in the future.

  She had to inure herself to Rand’s presence. No matter how sparkly his eyes were or how endearing his dimples.

  Besides, she told herself, fixing a sconce with a wobbly candle, it was the day before her sister’s wedding. There was no time for idle chatter. Or long, adoring glances. Or hungry, steaming, passionate kisses.

  Apparently, she had no cause to worry. Rand seemed determined to stay out of her way. He hovered at the outskirts of all the activity, lending a helping hand here, a strong back there, a word of caution or praise where it was required.

  His charm was truly astonishing. In only a day, the clever knave had managed to weave himself neatly into the human tapestry of Rivenloch, like an earnest suitor.

  Or a wily fox.

  Which made him very dangerous indeed to the trusting folk of Rivenloch, folk like the maid who currently giggled as Rand bowed to her with exaggerated gallantry.

  Miriel narrowed her eyes and clapped the dust from her hands. It was time to intervene. She couldn’t afford to have lovesick, loose-lipped servants falling at his feet. There was no telling what secrets they might divulge.

  But just then the guards introduced the arrival of the first overnight guests for the wedding, and Miriel became embroiled in welcoming them. She made certain their horses were stabled, ordered refreshments for them, and invited them to make themselves comfortable by the hearth. Such duties always fell to Miriel, since she was the most congenial of the sisters.

  It was almost an hour before she spotted Rand again in the great hall, and when she saw with whom he was conversing, a sudden pang, sharp and unpleasant, tweaked her breast.

  Lucy Campbell.

  Lucy was trouble. She was too buxom for her own good, and she seemed to have difficulty keeping her twin assets inside her kirtle. She had a saucy smile and sly eyes she used to great advantage, and her rosy cheeks and unruly tresses always made her look as if she’d just come from swiving. Most of the time she had.

  Even worse, Lucy Campbell was an incurable gossip. She found it as hard to keep her lips together as her legs. Rand need only give her a wink, and she’d tell him anything he wanted to know.

  Lucy stood at the entrance of the buttery now, coyly tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, while Sir Rand leaned against the wall beside her, smiling and chatting.

  The sight made Miriel’s ears burn.

  It couldn’t be jealousy, she told herself. After all, Rand didn’t belong to her, not really. Their courtship was a farce, wasn’t it?

  But something about their open flirtation set Miriel’s blood to simmering.

  It must be anger. Lucy was her servant. Helena’s wedding was on the morrow. And the lazy wench was wasting precious time, wagging her tongue and fluttering her lashes at Miriel’s…at Sir Rand.

  Besides, she thought, making her way across the hall, wasn’t Lucy supposed to be courting Sir Rauve?

  “Lucy!” she snapped, startling the maid. “Have you started the cheese yet?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “Aye?” She doubted it. Lucy seldom did anything the first time she was asked.

  “Aye.”

  Miriel frowned. “What about the dovecote? Has it been cleaned?”

  “I did it yesterday, my lady.”

  Miriel blinked in surprise. What was wrong with Lucy? She wasn’t giving Miriel her usual brash replies. And it appeared the lass had finally learned to tie the upper laces on her surcoat. “The mead. Did you—”

  “The mead’s been brought up.”

  “Oh.” She glanced at Rand, who seemed taken aback by the harsh tone she was taking with Lucy. “Then what were you doing in the buttery?”

  Lucy’s face was the picture of innocence. “Just hanging the bacon up like you said, my lady.”

  “Hm. Well. Good.” But Miriel still felt as irritable as a cat in the north wind. She nabbed Lucy by the elbow and steered her away from Rand, out of his hearing. “So now you’ve decided to dawdle away the day,” she whispered, “flirting with the guests?”

  “I wasn’t dawdling,” Lucy hissed back, “and I wasn’t flirting. ’Twas him who started talking to me. What else was I supposed to do? Besides,” she said, her eyes taking on a dreamy cast, “you needn’t fret. I have my own man now. I won’t be stealing yours.”

  Miriel felt a blush warm her cheeks. “What were you talking about then?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. He was just asking about Rivenloch. The castle. The castle folk.”

  “Did he ask you anything about me?”

  “Nay.”

  Miriel couldn’t help but be displeased. Blessed Mary, she’d known Rand less than two days, and already she’d spied upon him twice and rummaged through his pack. Where was his natural curiosity?

  “Was there something else?” Lucy asked.

  Miriel shook her head. Then she reconsidered. “Aye. There is. Take a cup of ale to Sir Rauve. He’s been working hard in the tiltyard.”

  “Aye, my lady.” The way Lucy’s eyes lit up as she rushed off, one would have thought Miriel had asked her to sit at the king’s table.

  Maybe one day Miriel would find a man who made her eyes glow like that, the way Helena’s did when she looked upon her bridegroom, the way Deirdre’s did when she talked about her husband.

  Sir Rand certainly didn’t make Miriel’s gaze go soft. Nay, he elicited completely different emotions in her. Suspicion. Amusement. Irritation. And inexplicable desire.

  Shivering with the memory of his kisses, she turned to see where her welcome, yet unwelcome, suitor had gone. There he was, emerging from the cellar stairs. And he wasn’t alone. Not one, but two giggling maidservants accompanied him as he carried a sack of oats over his shoulder, merrily proceeding across the hall and out the door.

  She felt the hackles rise along her neck. What was the bloody knave up to? Was his goal to flirt with every maid in Rivenloch by sundown?

  She didn’t care. Truly she didn’t. And she’d say those words over and over in her mind until she believed them.

  Her only interest in Sir Rand was to learn what his business was at the keep. She intended to find out what he’d been talking about with the women of Rivenloch. Once she discovered that, and why he’d come to the castle, she’d discard him like a stale trencher.

  Chapter 9

  By the time the cock crowed on the wedding morn, and the rising sun started to paint the frosty sod with silver, Rand found himself pacing the damp courtyard in front of the chapel in finery he’d borrowed from Sir Colin, as lost in his thoughts as the bridegroom himself.

  Where was Miriel? Nearly all the rest of the castle folk had gathered already for the ceremony. She should be here.

  The front gates opened, and Rand stopped, gazing toward the motley cluster of guests spilling through the entrance. They were Rivenloch’s neighbors. Perhaps he’d obtain useful information from them regarding The Shadow.

  He figured he’d spoken to just about everyone in the keep yesterday. Between offering his aid in the great hall in the morn and lending a hand in the kennel, dovecote, stables, mews, and armory in the afternoon, he’d managed to exchange at least a few words with each of the several dozen Scots and Norman servants of the household and several of the nobles as well.

  All the servants agreed that The Shadow was small, wore black, and was as quick as lightning, though few had actually laid eyes on him. No one had been seriously hurt by the outlaw. Maybe that also helped to explain their reluctance to pursue him. If The Shadow had never harmed or stolen coin from any of them, why should they begrudge the thief his livelihood?

  Indeed, if Rand hadn’t heard the witness of several lords, he might have suspected The Shadow was
but a legend, like George and the Dragon, or Beowulf. The robber seemed to possess powers no mortal man could claim. Rand had heard little to illuminate the true character of the outlaw he sought.

  Until he’d spoken alone late last eve with Lord Gellir. The old man had been reminiscing by the fire, and Rand had asked him if he’d ever seen The Shadow himself. The lord’s eyes had lit up with mischief, and he’d given Rand a sly grin.

  “I believe we’ve all seen The Shadow,” he said enigmatically. “The outlaw walks among us, oh, aye, right under our noses.” Then he snickered into his beard as if at some private jest.

  Unfortunately, that was all Rand could pry out of the old man. After that, Lord Gellir’s feeble mind started to wander, and soon he’d drifted off to sleep.

  But with that one statement, he’d given Rand the impression that not only was The Shadow in league with the folk of Rivenloch. He might indeed be one of them. Someone small and agile and swift. The idea left Rand tossing half the night, considering the possibilities. But the one that kept coming back to haunt him, no matter how absurd, and no matter how he tried to banish it from his thoughts, was that he was quite familiar with someone at Rivenloch who was small and agile and swift.

  Now, sighing for the hundredth time, he scratched the back of his neck and resumed his pacing. It was a preposterous idea, and yet…

  “Good morn,” came a sudden voice immediately behind him.

  Rand almost leaped out of his braies. How Miriel had managed to sneak up on him, he didn’t know. But when he turned to give her a stern scolding, words failed him, and his suspicions about her scattered like chaff in the breeze.

  She looked as lovely as a rose. She was attired in a surcoat of deep red, cut low across her shoulders to expose her creamy skin. A small ruby hung from a silver chain about her neck, dangling above her bosom as if to taunt him. Part of her shining hair was caught up in a fantastic labyrinth of tiny braids, while the rest spilled down her back in enticing curls. But her most beautiful aspect was the mischievous twinkle in her dancing blue eyes.

  Miriel grinned smugly, taking wicked delight in having startled Rand, doubly delighted she’d taken extra care with her appearance this morn, for she’d obviously left the gaping varlet off balance.

  Her own troubled chi she’d restored this morn with meditation and taijiquan. She felt prepared now to face the handsome knave with a clear head and a steady heart. She wasn’t about to let Sir Rand of Morbroch ruffle her calm.

  “My lady, you look…” he began.

  She arched a brow. Was he going to gush out some commonplace, insincere, overly honeyed compliment now? It was what a man pretending to be a suitor would do. And by his heated gaze as he perused her, he might even half mean what he said.

  “You look…well rested,” he decided.

  Her brow creased in disappointment. “Well rested?” she echoed. Was that the best he could manage? Maybe she wasn’t as fair as Deirdre or as voluptuous as Helena, but she’d spent almost an hour on her tresses alone.

  Then she spied the spark of devilry in his eyes. The lout was baiting her intentionally.

  He grinned and leaned toward her, whispering, “You look breathtaking.”

  Despite her best efforts, her pulse quickened as if she believed him, and she found herself giving in to the smile she couldn’t control.

  Curse the varlet. He might not be as duplicitous as she was, but he was damned good at it. Faith, it was going to be a long and challenging day.

  Helena’s wedding passed in a hazy blur. Miriel couldn’t remember afterward anything that was said. Maybe it was because Rand hovered so close to her during the ceremony, distracting her with his masculine warmth and the subtle spicy scent of his skin.

  Or perhaps it was the fact that as they stood together in the crush of witnesses while Helena and Colin recited their vows, Rand made clandestine love to her hand, twining his fingers through hers, stroking the back with his thumb, tracing delicate patterns on her palm, until she thought she might swoon with desire.

  There wasn’t a blessed thing she could do to stop him, not without attracting the undue attention of her protective sisters.

  She couldn’t snap at him. She couldn’t slap his hand away. And she definitely couldn’t give him an upward chop to the chin, followed by a foot sweep that would lay him flat on the floor of the chapel.

  Somehow Miriel made it through the ceremony without fainting and without resorting to violence. But the wedding feast proved an even greater challenge. From the moment Rand and she sat together at the high table, he was playing the role of her devoted suitor to the hilt.

  “Allow me, my lady,” he cooed, feeding her a sweetmeat from his fingers.

  She smiled sweetly and accepted the bite, but not without a warning nip of her teeth.

  He sucked in a startled breath, drawing a sharp frown from Deirdre.

  “Sweetheart,” he chided affectionately, “take care you don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

  Now Helena was staring at them as well. Miriel forced a smile to her lips. “’Twas but a love nip, I assure you.”

  “Mm.”

  Helena rolled her eyes as Rand clasped Miriel’s hand in his, pressing a fond kiss to her knuckles. Miriel had no choice but to allow him the trespass as his thumb brushed slowly to and fro over the tops of her fingers, simultaneously arousing and distressing her.

  With his free hand, he picked a bottle up from the table. “More wine, darling?”

  She longed to guzzle the entire bottle. Maybe that would settle her rapidly fraying nerves. But Deirdre was keeping a watchful eye. So instead, she gave him a playful swat. “Are you trying to get me drunk, my love?”

  He nuzzled her hair. “Only on my affections, sweetheart.”

  Now Deirdre rolled her eyes, and Miriel had to bite her tongue to keep from gagging on the cloying syrup of his words.

  He released her hand and set the bottle down. For one moment, Miriel had a reprieve from his assault. Then he casually wound the end of one of her tiny braids between his thumb and fingers. Slowly but surely he began to reel her closer.

  Miriel clenched her teeth. She might need to keep up appearances, but she wasn’t about to be hauled in like a salmon. With a twinkle in her eyes that was more mischievous than fond, she coiled her own finger in a curl at the nape of his neck, gradually tightening it until he winced in pain.

  When he sent her a bewildered glance, she withdrew her hand, pretending innocence.

  He let go of her braid as well, and for a moment, she imagined she’d made her point, that he’d gotten her message. Until he began casually to stroke the top of her shoulder where the red fabric met her bare flesh, back and forth, back and forth.

  Miriel’s hand tightened upon her eating dagger. She raised it slowly from the table.

  Rand’s fingers suddenly froze on her shoulder as he eyed the blade. “My love,” he said conversationally, despite a tense smile, “allow me.”

  He placed his hand over hers on the dagger. For a moment they fought for control of the weapon.

  “Miri?” Helena’s brow furrowed with concern, and the entire table fell silent. Bloody hell. If Helena suspected Miriel was in the slightest distress, she’d jump up from the bench, draw her sword, and fight Rand atop the table.

  So with a silent sigh of defeat, Miriel relaxed her grip on the dagger and let Rand take it from her.

  “One slice or two?” he asked innocently, the dagger poised over the meat in their shared trencher.

  “One,” she replied, adding between clenched teeth, “my love.”

  Reassured, Helena and Deirdre and everyone else returned to their supper, blissfully unaware that while they made merry around her, Rand was secretly waging war upon Miriel’s senses.

  It was when he slipped his hand beneath her tresses and began stroking her gently at the base of her skull, sending tingles of pleasure shivering along her spine, that she knew she was in trouble.

  Through weighted lids, s
he spied Sung Li at one of the lower tables. He was scowling at her. She blinked, trying to clear her thoughts. Her xiansheng had once told her that the wise warrior knew when to retreat.

  Perhaps now was the time. If she removed herself physically from Rand’s presence, maybe she could gather her wits again.

  “I…I’m going to check on the mead,” she said, her voice more ragged than she expected.

  “Hurry back,” he replied with a wink.

  Rand had to admit he was rather enjoying this game of cat and mouse. Miriel was a wickedly clever lass, but she’d cornered herself into a far more intimate relationship with him than she’d intended. Which didn’t trouble Rand in the least, though it apparently set Miriel’s teeth on edge.

  He leaned back to watch her walk away from the table. She strode briskly, as if fleeing a snarling dog, her hips twitching, her skirts snapping behind her like a red sail. He grinned. A mischievous, quick-witted imp she might be, but the lovely lass with the feminine curves was no skulking outlaw. He’d been a fool to imagine it.

  Meanwhile, he needed to find out who the real villain was. Since Miriel had excused herself, it was a good opportunity to make conversation with some of Rivenloch’s guests.

  Unfortunately, no matter how skilled Rand was at eliciting information, he quickly discovered one could get no blood from a stone.

  He listened halfheartedly while one of the Lachanburn men retold his encounter with The Shadow.

  “…black as coal…fleet as a fox…leaving a wake as chilling as the North Sea…”

  Another Lachanburn lad volunteered, “No bigger than a child.”

  And a third chimed in, “But the cleverest acrobat you’ve ever seen.”

  Rand nodded. He was getting nowhere. They all told the same tale. Maybe he’d have more luck with the women.

  The ladies of Mochrie were delighted to make his acquaintance, indeed so visibly delighted that Miriel’s sisters began firing accusatory glares Rand’s way. Deirdre and Helena might not deem him a suitable suitor for their little sister, but they certainly didn’t approve of his flirting with other maids while he claimed to be courting Miriel.