Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  He flashed them a sheepish smile. He could hardly be blamed for the Mochries’ friendliness. It wasn’t his fault if women were enchanted by his dimples.

  “The Shadow?” one of the Mochrie maids asked, fluttering her lashes. “I haven’t seen him with my own eyes. But I’ve heard—”

  “He’s not of this world,” another lass intoned mysteriously, laying a hand upon Rand’s sleeve.

  The first maid nodded in accord.

  The woman beside her shivered. “He must be terribly dangerous.”

  “Terribly,” agreed a fourth maid, pressing her hand against her breast. “I’d be so frightened to meet him in the wood.”

  “Indeed,” said the first. “We’re only gentle maids after all.” She bit her lip in a helpless gesture.

  The second woman slipped her fingers along Rand’s sleeve, as if measuring the muscle beneath. “I wager you’d not be frightened, Sir Rand.”

  The others cooed in agreement, and Rand’s smile became taut as he felt the knot of adoring females close about him.

  From the corner of his eye, he spied rescue. Miriel was emerging from the cellar. Eager to extricate himself from the bevy of clucking admirers, he waved his hand toward her in greeting.

  She glanced up, but when she saw him in the middle of the fawning Mochrie maids, her eyes narrowed, and she turned up her nose, ignoring him completely to visit with other guests.

  The wretched imp! Surely she could see he was trapped. One of the Mochrie women clung to his sleeve, another had seized his hand, and they were all chattering away at once, winding words around him like silk ribbons.

  “My ladies,” he said, gently withdrawing his hand, when he could finally slip a word in, “I must take my leave now.”

  A flurry of protests went up, and it was another long while before he could make himself heard. Eventually he managed to tug loose of their clutches, but only by vowing to accompany them through the woods on the morrow.

  That was fortuitous indeed, for he’d been seeking an excuse to travel through the forest in the hopes of encountering The Shadow.

  Beaming with success, he passed by the hounds, giving one of them a scratch behind the ears, as he watched Miriel making her dutiful rounds about the hall.

  She checked to make sure no one’s cup was empty and ruffled one of the scruffy red heads of the Lachanburn children. She squeezed the hand of a withered old woman and pushed a teetering trencher back from the edge of the table. She scooped up a wee child who’d tripped and banged her knee, then turned to straighten a garland hanging on the wall.

  How he could have suspected her of being The Shadow, he didn’t know. Miriel was domestic and nurturing by nature. And irresistible, he decided, letting his gaze rove down her lovely backside.

  Harboring thoughts of sweet revenge for her earlier ambush, he sauntered across the hall and sneaked up behind her, then caught her about the waist. But instead of a feminine gasp of pleased surprise, he immediately earned a sharp jab of her elbow to his ribs that bent him in half and left him gasping.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

  For a moment, he couldn’t speak. The blow had knocked the breath from him. Lord, the wench had sharp elbows, and he wasn’t sure she sounded all that sorry. There’d be a black bruise there on the morrow, if the lass hadn’t actually cracked one of his ribs.

  “I…slipped,” she said.

  If that was a slip, he’d hate to feel what she’d do if she meant to hurt him.

  “Nay, ’tis my fault,” he wheezed. “I shouldn’t have startled you. I’d forgotten how quick you are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your reflexes.”

  “Mine?” she squeaked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sung Li says I’m…clumsy.”

  “Clumsy?” He caught his breath while he massaged away the bruise. The pain eased in a moment, and he was able to straighten. “You didn’t seem so clumsy the other night when you caught my flagon in midair.” He leaned close to murmur, “Nor when you kissed me later on the stairs.”

  She stiffened, blurting out, “’Tis but a silly trick my sisters taught me.”

  He grinned. “The catch? Or the kiss?”

  Her cheeks pinkened. By the Saints, was there anything prettier than a maiden’s blush? “Neither. Both.”

  He chuckled. Glancing about the hall to make sure no guardian’s gaze was pinned on him, he reached up to smooth a stray tendril of hair back from her brow. “Then I must speak with your sisters, my love. They may have some very interesting information to share.”

  She ducked her head away, rejecting his placating gesture. “I thought you had talked to them.” Her words were innocent enough, but there was a subtle edge to her voice as she added, “Haven’t you spoken to nearly all the ladies of Rivenloch, and Lachanburn, and Mochrie in the last two days?”

  “Why, my love,” he said in soft surprise, “are you jealous?”

  Her eyes went all dewy and soft, yet Rand spied a gleam of devilry in her gaze, a spark other men might not notice. She lowered her attention to his chest, walking her fingers coyly up his surcoat. “’Tis just that I’d rather you spoke to me.”

  He almost laughed aloud, but instead dipped his eyelids in sultry approval, edging closer to murmur, “And what would you have me say?”

  Her tongue slipped out the tiniest bit to lick her bottom lip, making him suddenly long to do the same. Then she gave him a subtle shrug. “What did you say to them?”

  “Who?” His mind was already losing focus as he began to feel the full force of her allure.

  “All those women.”

  He gazed down at her tempting mouth, so pink, so wet, so inviting, and gave her a knavish smile. “I told them I couldn’t wait to run my fingers through your hair, to press my lips to yours, to wrap my arms around your—”

  She gave him a scolding cuff on the arm. “You did not.” She thrust out her lip in a charming pout. “I’d wager you didn’t speak of me at all.”

  Indeed, she was right. He hadn’t inquired about her. What was there to ask? He already knew she was beautiful, sweet-natured, intelligent, delightful, and a bit wicked. He didn’t need to know more. Besides, he was on the trail of a dangerous outlaw, not a desirable sprite of a wench.

  But for a man to admit he could think of anything other than his ladylove when he was supposed to be courting her was a mistake of the worst kind.

  “Of course I spoke of you, my love,” he lied. “I’m hungry to know everything about you. What your childhood was like. Where you like to wander. What you like for breakfast. Your favorite color.”

  Her eyes narrowed slyly. “What is my favorite color?”

  Without missing a beat, he trapped her gaze in his own and replied, “I’m hoping ’tis brown.”

  “Brown?”

  “Aye,” he told her, lifting the corner of his mouth in a wry grin, “the color of my eyes.”

  Miriel resisted the urge to groan. Instead, she forced a honey-sweet smile to her face and cooed, “’Tis my favorite color now.”

  Curse the varlet, he was destroying her chi again, and along with it, her judgment. She couldn’t tell, even staring directly into his eyes, whether he was telling her the truth or not. Surely he wasn’t serious, and yet the adoration in his gaze seemed real. Was he genuinely lovestruck or just diabolically clever? It was impossible to tell.

  But if anyone could eventually ferret out the truth, it was Miriel. She’d find out what he was up to even if she had to flirt shamelessly to do it.

  “What about you?” she asked, coyly lowering her lashes.

  “Me?”

  “What’s your favorite color?” He’d say blue, of course, the color of her eyes.

  Instead, the varlet let his gaze drift suggestively down to her lips. “Rose red.”

  Her heart fluttered at the uninvited memory of his kiss, and to her disgust, she felt a blush heat her cheeks.

  Bloody hell. This was
proving more difficult than she’d anticipated.

  She forced a nonchalant shrug. “The Mochrie maids have lips of rose red. Perhaps that’s the reason you’ve been consorting with them.”

  “Are their lips rose red?” he asked, arching a brow. “I couldn’t tell. They never stopped flapping them long enough.”

  Miriel bit back a smile. The Mochrie women were notoriously chatty. She asked casually, “And what were they flapping on about now?”

  Glancing quickly about for witnesses, he caught her chin between his thumb and finger, tipping her head up to gaze lustily into her eyes. “Nothing nearly as engaging as the conversations we have, my love.”

  She gently tugged out of his grip. This was not going well. The varlet was turning her every inquiry into a flirtation.

  “Well, whatever they said must have been fascinating indeed,” she countered. “It seemed you could hardly tear yourself away.”

  He grinned and gave her nose a patronizing swipe of his fingertip. “I’m beside you now, my jealous little darling. ’Tis all that matters.”

  She clenched her teeth against the urge to bite his finger. Curse the wily fox. He was stealing his way out of her trap again. She forced her tight mouth into an innocuous smile. “But what could you have possibly asked them to spur them to such lengthy discourse, my love?” She added for good measure, “Why, I can hardly get the Mochrie maids to put two words together.” It was a blatant lie. The Mochrie women would wag their tongues at the drop of a pin. But Rand wouldn’t know that.

  “Ah,” he said. “What subject do women most like to speak on?”

  Miriel waited for his answer with bated breath while she made silent guesses. Secret love affairs? Hidden wealth? Castle defenses?

  He chuckled. “Themselves, of course.”

  Miriel didn’t find him amusing. And she didn’t believe him for an instant. “Indeed?” she asked lightly. “And these maids, the ones who told you all about themselves, what were their names?”

  He blinked.

  She figured as much.

  While he continued to stall, she flashed him a deceptively sweet smile, kissed her own fingertip, then pressed it against his damningly silent mouth.

  Clucking her tongue, she swept away, back to her spot among her sisters at the high table. Despite her smug departure, she was far more troubled than she dared let on. Rand of Morbroch was proving a challenging opponent.

  Miriel recognized his evasive tactics, for she’d used them herself. Over the years, to protect her own secrets, she’d learned to dodge in and out of probing interrogation by her sisters or her father through deflection, distraction, and maintaining a calm demeanor. The skills required were not unlike those used in effective combat, the fighting principles Sung Li had taught her.

  But she’d never been faced with anyone who understood and employed the tactics against her. It was maddening, as frustrating as trying to catch a mud-slick piglet. The two of them seemed cut from the same cloth, and after thrusting and dodging as expertly with words as any warrior with a sword—simpering, mincing, pouting, flirting, fawning—Miriel was completely fatigued and no nearer to uncovering his secrets.

  Worse, she began to fear that Sir Rand of Morbroch was better at this game of deception than she was.

  Chapter 10

  Dawn found most of the household still abed, exhausted from the revelry of the night before. Not Rand. He was on a mission. Today might be the day he at last came face-to-face with The Shadow.

  By the fire, he wolfed down a breakfast of buttered oatcakes and watered ale, glancing about the hall at the remains of last eve’s celebration—broken cups, wilted flowers, snoring hounds with full bellies, melted candles, discarded bones, and here and there an intrepid mouse searching for food among the rushes.

  It appeared Miriel would have a lot of accounting to do. A smile blossomed on Rand’s face, albeit a weary one, as her beautiful, mischievous, irresistible image materialized in his thoughts.

  His ladylove was proving an admirable adversary. It was difficult enough, juggling the real pursuit of a criminal with the feigned pursuit of a lover. But when lust and jealousy rose up to complicate matters, and when relentless Miriel kept probing closer and closer to the truth, Rand found himself in a position of dissembling faster than a priest caught in a brothel.

  Not that he minded a little harmless lying. It was part of his work. He refused to feel guilty about it. Besides, Miriel wasn’t exactly without sin herself. Lies slipped off her tongue as easily as water from a swan’s back.

  He’d known women like Miriel before. As adoring as they seemed, once they’d won him to their affections, they’d let him go without shedding a tear. For them, the conquest was everything.

  He understood. His own livelihood was based on the hunt. There was nothing more thrilling than circling around and closing in on one’s prey, outwitting and ultimately capturing that quarry.

  Meanwhile he’d have to suffer through a seduction that left his mouth dry, his heart pounding, and his ballocks aching with unrequited desire.

  At least this morn he’d get a respite from Miriel’s charms. According to the scowling Sung Li, who must have risen with the chickens, the lass was still lying abed, and nay, she did not wish to be disturbed.

  The Mochrie maids, on the other hand, were only too eager to meet their escort. They descended the stairs in a flurry of chatter, making Rand wonder if they ceased talking when they slept. His presence in the great hall pleased them almost as much as it displeased Sung Li, who immediately scurried back up to Miriel’s chamber, probably to report to her mistress what a philandering scoundrel he was.

  Rand couldn’t stop the old woman’s tongue-wagging, but with luck, he might apprehend The Shadow today. Once that task was accomplished, Rand could drop his false pretenses, give Miriel what they both wanted, or at least a reasonable taste of it, then wish her a fond farewell and be on his merry way back to Morbroch to collect his reward.

  There was a good chance he could achieve his goal this morn. If, as he suspected, the robber was knowledgeable about the wedding guests, aware of their comings and goings, he’d know the Mochries were an easy target. They’d won considerable silver last night, gambling with Lord Gellir, and there were only two men-at-arms in their party, so they wouldn’t put up much of a fight. What thief could resist such tempting prey?

  There were a dozen of them altogether—five maids, two men, three children, an old woman, and himself. As they set off through the forest, the men took the fore and rear of the line, with Rand in the middle, which greatly pleased the infatuated maids. But after a quarter of an hour of listening to unceasing prattle and jangling giggles, he almost wished he’d taken up a different post. He could hardly hear himself think, much less listen for intruders.

  He nonetheless kept his gaze roving through the trees, alert to any shifting shadow or telltale turn of a leaf. Twice he was fooled by startled quail bursting from the underbrush. Once he thought he saw a suspicious flicker in the branches, but it turned out to be a reflection off one of the women’s medallions.

  As time wore on, he began to doubt that he’d meet the robber. Perhaps he’d chosen the wrong clan. Maybe The Shadow preferred to attack travelers who were fewer in number. Perhaps Rand should have followed the Lachanburns instead.

  Then, just as they passed through a sunlit glade, he heard the man at the head of the line draw in a sharp breath. Rand’s hand went instantly to his sword.

  When the man stopped walking, the line compacted, each traveler colliding with the one in front, trapping Rand in the middle.

  Rand was not a man to draw hasty conclusions. Anything could have frozen the man in his tracks. A wild boar. An English scout. A silver coin on the path.

  But before he could even poke his head around to see what lay before them, a whisper of fearful awe traveled back like a fleet breath of chill wind.

  “’Tis The Shadow.”

  “Shadow.”

  “The Shadow.”


  By the time Rand extricated himself from the crowd of bodies and drew his sword, the Mochrie man at the fore was already lying, belly down, on the ground.

  Rand’s nostrils flared. God’s blood! Was he dead?

  Nay, the fallen man’s fingers scrabbled weakly in the mulch. He was only stunned.

  And standing over him, a purse already cut and clutched in his gloved fist, was the outlaw known as The Shadow.

  True to legend, he was attired all in black, from his supple leather gloves to his soft leather boots. His legs and arms were swathed in layers of black cloth, which continued around his head, leaving one narrow slit for air and two more for his eyes. Over it all, he wore a kind of close-fitting, sashed surcoat, a deceptively made garment that might conceal a multitude of weapons.

  But Rand wasn’t daunted. Though The Shadow bore a startling resemblance to the devil, it was clear he was a mortal, and a rather small-framed mortal at that.

  “Halt!” Rand barked, raising his sword.

  The thief glanced up long enough for Rand to glimpse a dark gleam in his shrouded eyes. Then the man sprang with sudden, inexplicable agility, leaping and swinging through the branches to land beside the man at the rear of the line.

  Rand wheeled about. The thief was fast. But Rand was surely faster. This time he wouldn’t wait for the knave to make a move. He charged forward, brandishing his blade.

  Before he took two steps, The Shadow had waylaid the second Mochrie man as well, twirling him halfway round to force his arm up behind him, then cutting his purse and catching it before it dropped to the ground.

  While Rand watched in amazement, the robber shoved the man headfirst into a tree trunk, knocking him out, tucking both purses into whatever pockets his strange garb contained. Then he faced Rand, cocking his head as if to ask if Rand was certain he wished to challenge him.

  Rand was no coward. The man might be fast, but he was small. His only weapon was a slim dagger against Rand’s broadsword. In this instance, brute force would prevail.