Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  “One of his knives?” Miriel guessed.

  “Nay. A silver coin. A tribute to Rand’s worthy battle.”

  Helena smirked. “Pah! A tribute?”

  Miriel frowned. “A tribute? Is that what he said?”

  Deirdre nodded. “He apparently had quite a battle with the outlaw.”

  “Or so he claims,” Helena said dubiously.

  “I doubt he’d exaggerate,” Deirdre argued. “After all, there were a dozen witnesses.”

  “A tribute?” Miriel asked again.

  Helena chuckled. “Perhaps ’twas his very ineptitude that made him a unique challenge to The Shadow.”

  “Ineptitude?” Miriel arched a brow.

  Helena ignored her, jesting with Deirdre, “Maybe we should send children from now on to battle the robber if he’s so easily—”

  “Hel!” Deirdre gave her a chiding punch in the shoulder and nodded meaningfully toward Miriel.

  But Miriel was not offended.

  She was irate.

  Rand had managed to turn his morn’s frolic into a deed of heroic proportions, using the opportunity to garner instant glory among the castle folk and ingratiate himself into the ranks of the knights. Even her oldest sister was convinced he was a champion. How the bloody hell had the varlet done it?

  “I didn’t mean it, Miri,” Helena apologized. “It doesn’t matter if he can fight or not. You’ll always have us to protect you.”

  Deirdre frowned. “What Hel means to say is all that matters is that you love him. You love him, don’t you?”

  Miriel narrowed her eyes at the man grinning victoriously on the field. She’d wipe that smug smile off his face if she had to use every weapon in her arsenal. Molding her own mouth into a tight smile, she bit out, “Oh, aye. I love him very much.”

  Rand felt Miriel’s eyes on him as he spun and dodged and deflected some of Kenneth’s blows. He almost wished the beautiful lass would leave. It was difficult enough concentrating on his sparring—fighting well, but not too well, blocking some blows, but not all—without the weight of her adoring gaze upon him.

  Part of him itched to show off to her, to display the full measure of his skill, for most maids who beheld his speed and power were left with their mouths hanging open in awe. Most maids except for the maids of Mochrie, he supposed, who’d witnessed his sound beating at the hands of The Shadow this morn.

  He hadn’t intended to tell anyone about his altercation. But the bruises on his arms couldn’t be easily explained away, especially when Pagan eyed him with an accusing glare. As protective of Miriel as they all were, the man likely wondered if she’d given Rand those injuries, fighting off his advances.

  So he’d sheepishly confessed what had happened, figuring they’d hear the tale sooner or later from the Mochries anyway.

  It was a surprise to him that instead of jesting about his lopsided battle, the men of Rivenloch were amazed. They demanded to hear about the fight, blow by blow. Apparently, no one had sparred for quite so long a time with The Shadow. And when he told them the outlaw had left a silver coin to pay him for the pleasure, they were utterly astounded.

  It was embarrassing to Rand. Indeed, he got the impression that leaving the coin had been a gesture of mockery, not a tribute. But he wasn’t about to argue with the castle folk. If they wanted to make a hero of him, who was he to deny them?

  Besides, the story served to earn him instant respect among the knights, respect that would doubtless get him a prominent place at the wagering table this eve.

  Over Kenneth’s head, he glimpsed Miriel again at the fence. She was waving her hand, trying to garner his attention. He waved back, and Kenneth, thinking he meant to strike, shoved Rand’s arm away with his shield. Without thought, Rand responded at once. He spun away, then came around with the haft of his sword, punching Kenneth hard in the shoulder.

  Kenneth fell back, gripping his injured arm, his face pale with surprise.

  “Oh! Kenneth. Are you all right?” Rand silently cursed himself. He’d been so preoccupied with that smiling beauty at the fence that he’d completely lost his head. Bloody hell. He could have hurt Kenneth seriously.

  “F-fine.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” Rand said, only half-lying.

  Kenneth gave him a feeble smile. “You’ve got a mean clout anyway,” he said by way of encouragement.

  Rand winced. Kenneth didn’t know the half of it. With a muttered apology, he clumsily fumbled his sword back into its sheath and excused himself to confront the damsel who was causing all this distraction.

  “You’re improving,” Miriel gushed, when he came up to the fence.

  Lord, she was breathtaking. This morn she wore a woad surcoat that perfectly matched her merry blue eyes. Her hair was pulled into a neat braid, threaded through with a matching ribbon, a ribbon he longed to untie so those dark auburn waves would tumble down her shoulders.

  She stepped up onto the lower wattle rung of the fence so their heads were level. “You’ll be able to best Pagan in no time,” she cooed.

  He chuckled, then used his teeth to tug off his leather gauntlet. He could best Pagan now if he wished to. He shook his head with affected modesty. “Hardly.”

  “Nay,” she insisted. “Even my sisters are impressed.”

  “Your sisters.” That made him laugh again. He still found it hard to believe they were allowed to wield swords at all. “And what about you?” He pulled off his second glove.

  She shyly dipped her eyes. “I was always impressed.”

  When she lifted her eyes again, they’d grown dark with longing. His own desires rose with astonishing speed, as her gaze touched him like flame touched to kindling. A lusty fire flared up inside him, a blaze that threatened to burn quickly out of control.

  He forced his voice to a steadiness he didn’t feel. “I thought you disapproved of fighting.”

  She leaned forward until she was inches away, then whispered, “’Tis not the fighting that impressed me.”

  “Indeed?”

  She slowly lowered her gaze to his mouth, then tucked her lower lip coyly beneath her teeth, leaving no doubt as to what impressed her about him.

  “Lady, you play with flame.”

  One corner of her cherry red lip drifted up in a knowing smile.

  It was a good thing he was wearing chain mail, or else his lust would have been displayed for all the world to see. Lord, he’d never wanted to kiss a maid so badly. Kiss her and caress her, lay her down in the grass and…

  “Come with me?” she beckoned.

  He barely found the strength to nod, but he had plenty to vault over the tiltyard fence.

  Rand figured he’d done what he’d set out to do this morn—met The Shadow and endeared himself to the Rivenloch knights. Tonight he’d play at the gaming table and do more investigation. In the meantime, there was plenty of time to engage in more rewarding pursuits.

  Miriel laced her fingers through his. She must be a wanton wench indeed, he decided, to overlook the fact that he was hot and filthy from the lists and probably reeked of leather and sweat. She tugged him along nonetheless, smiling in conspiracy as they passed the stables.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To a place no one will hear us.”

  He grinned.

  She stopped in front of the dovecote, announcing to any who might chance to hear, “Allow me to show you the fine doves the Cameliards brought with them, Sir Rand.”

  Rand’s mouth twitched with amusement. He wondered if she was fooling anyone. “By all means, my lady. There’s nothing I appreciate more than a fine dove.” As they entered through the oak door, he added softly, “And you, my love, are the finest dove I’ve ever seen.”

  The door closed behind them, leaving the interior dimly lit in stripes of sunlight where the vertical boards of the dovecote didn’t quite match. A ripple of coos rolled through the ranks of doves, and the sweet scent of fresh straw diminished the usually pungent dovecote odors.<
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  Miriel wasted no time. She ran her hands over the front of his tabard, pushing him gently back against the closed door to gaze lovingly up into his eyes.

  “I’ve never kissed a…a hero before,” she breathed.

  “A hero?”

  “Aye,” she said, moving her fingers over the tops of his shoulders as if to judge their width. “I heard what you did.”

  “That? ’Twas nothing.”

  “Oh, nay. ’Twas amazing.” She slid her palm up the side of his neck. “All the castle’s a-buzz.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, locking his fingers above the curve of her buttocks.

  He could tell her the truth—that he’d humiliated himself battling with The Shadow. That the outlaw had outwitted and outmaneuvered him at every turn. That the accounts of his heroics were greatly exaggerated.

  But it was rather pleasant enduring Miriel’s adoration. If she wanted to believe he was a hero, who was he to disappoint her?

  “Tell me what happened,” she pleaded, turning about in his embrace so that her head rested against his chest and her backside snuggled against his loins. “Everything. Leave out nothing.”

  He grinned, propping his chin on the top of her head.

  “As you wish, my lady.” He slipped his chin down then until he was murmuring against her hair, so she could feel his breath stir her ear. “The woods were dark and sinister,” he began in a whisper, “as quiet as death.”

  “As quiet as death? I thought you were there with the Mochrie maids.”

  “True.” He decided, “But they were chattering in very soft voices…when all of a sudden, in the middle of the forest, I began to feel,” he said, disengaging his hands, “a prickling at the back of my neck.” He let one hand steal up her back, then fluttered his fingers along her nape. She shivered.

  “Naturally I moved a hand to my hilt.”

  He clasped his hands again above her waist. She covered them with her own. Her palms felt smooth and delicate on his battered knuckles.

  “I glanced through the trees, searching for an intruder, watching for the slightest flutter of a leaf or bowing of a limb. But nothing moved in the branches.”

  “Not even sparrows?”

  Indeed there had been sparrows. He remembered wondering which flitted and chittered about more, the sparrows or the Mochrie maids. But he shook his head. Sparrows would detract from the drama of the tale. “’Twas too early in the morn for sparrows.”

  “What about—”

  “Or mice. Or squirrels. Or anything else.”

  “Owls.”

  “Nay. No owls.” He frowned. Was the lass purposely trying to ruin the story?

  “Go on.”

  He cleared his throat, then purred, “I have somewhat of an instinct for danger. And that instinct told me we were being followed. With bated breath, I crept slowly forward, step by step, my knuckles gripped tightly around the haft of my sword until…” He jerked his arms suddenly, startling Miriel into a squeak. “There he was. He’d leaped onto the path out of nowhere. The Shadow.”

  Miriel turned in his arms again, facing him with eyes full of fright. “You must have been terrified.”

  He looked down at her with stern stoicism. “A man dares not give in to terror at a time like that.”

  She sighed reverently. “What did he look like? Was he as they describe? Was he all in black?”

  “Oh, aye, as black as a raven’s wing, small but fleet, as deadly as the Reaper.”

  “What did you do?”

  “First I made certain the ladies and children were safe.”

  She frowned curiously. “And did The Shadow wait patiently by while you did that?”

  He paused. There was no getting around the fact that The Shadow had managed to cut two purses before Rand could even lay a hand on the villain. “While I was ensuring their safety, the two men of Mochrie were doing valiant battle with the thief.”

  “So ’twas two fully armed knights against one small thief?”

  He scowled. Somehow she was missing the point. “He was an amazingly elusive small thief.”

  “Ah.”

  “By the time I’d seen to their safety, the Mochrie men had already been victimized.”

  Her eyes widened. “Dear God! Were they wounded? Maimed? Killed?”

  How Miriel was managing to ruin his heroic tale, Rand didn’t know, but she was doing a fair job of leaching all the glory out of it.

  “They were…robbed.”

  “Oh.” Already the admiration in her eyes was dimming.

  “Are you sure you want to hear all this prattle?” he asked, letting his gaze rove slowly over her lovely features. “I can think of much more pleasurable things to do with my tongue.”

  Her eyes glazed for a moment, and he saw her swallow. His words clearly had an effect on her.

  “Kiss me,” he urged in a whisper.

  A wrinkle of distress flitted across her brow. “I…I…”

  “Just one kiss,” he breathed. “Then I’ll finish the story.”

  She lowered her gaze to his mouth, considering, then gave him an infinitesimal nod. “One.”

  He cupped her face in his hands and pressed a sweet, chaste kiss upon her mouth.

  It was well worth all the nicks and bruises he’d earned this morn to feel the healing brush of Miriel’s lips. Her mouth was soft and warm, a soothing balm for his damaged pride, nourishment for his hungry body.

  As difficult as it was to restrain, he meant to keep his word. One kiss.

  But Miriel wouldn’t release him. With a faint sigh, she pressed more deeply into his embrace, gathering his tabard in her fists. She nudged his mouth open, sliding her lips over his, even delving the tip of her tongue within.

  It was as if lightning jagged through his veins then, shocking him, paralyzing him. All thought, all reason, all will deserted him. He could no more resist her than he could have pulled away from charged steel. Nor did he wish to.

  Only the sudden flap of a swooping dove startled them apart. Miriel staggered back, her stunned expression mirroring his own emotions. What occurred between them seemed a mystery to them both, some strange force of nature that defied explanation.

  She regained her composure before he did, blowing out a calming breath and wiping the back of her trembling hand across her wet mouth. “One kiss,” she said, as much a reminder to herself as to him.

  Rand knew his animal craving would take much longer to subside, but he’d make it subside if that was her wish. He couldn’t afford to lose control here, where the opportunities the dim privacy of the dovecote afforded were so inviting. Now was not the time to be reckless.

  “Where were we?” he asked with a weak smile.

  She approached more cautiously this time, turning to incline her head back against his chest. He wrapped one arm about her waist, his other about her shoulders, letting his forearm rest lightly upon her bosom, and she reached up to drape her fingers over that arm. Strangely, it seemed the most natural position in the world. Anyone seeing them might have thought they’d been lovers for years.

  “You were telling me about The Shadow robbing you.”

  He hesitated a moment, collecting his thoughts, then shook his head. “Not me. He didn’t rob me.”

  “He didn’t? Why not? Have you no coin?”

  The mischievous maid knew better. She’d rummaged through his belongings. “I had coin. But after I was done with him, I imagine The Shadow decided ’twasn’t worth his trouble.”

  “Done with him?” Her fingers tightened on his forearm. “What did you do?”

  It was hard for him to remember. Not only because everything had happened so quickly, but because he was completely distracted by the tempting damsel in his arms.

  He didn’t want to tell stories. He wanted to slide his palm from Miriel’s shoulder down to her breast, to cup her tender flesh in his hand and feel her sigh against…

  “Rand?”

  “Aye?”

  “What happen
ed?”

  He swallowed hard. Perhaps if he told the tale swiftly, they could move on to more pleasant things. “Nothing, really. I drew my sword, brandished it at the outlaw. He yelped in terror and ran off into the forest.”

  “Indeed? And for that he left you the tribute of a silver coin?”

  He winced. He’d forgotten about the silver coin. “Nay. I suppose ’twas a more lengthy battle than that.” He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I just didn’t want to bore you with all the fighting.”

  “I’m not bored,” she insisted. “I want to hear every last detail.”

  He sighed. He was afraid of that. He couldn’t remember every last detail. Still, he supposed since he wasn’t going to tell her the truth of the fight anyway, he could tell her anything.

  “As soon as the women and children were safely off the path,” he murmured, breathing in the light, clean scent of Miriel’s hair, “I turned to face the robber.” He let his thumb stroke slowly along the cap of her shoulder. “He was squat and ugly, like a black beetle, fresh from the grave. And he looked out from his ugly face with the beady black eyes of the devil.”

  “Ugly?”

  “Oh, aye, as ugly as sin.”

  “I thought The Shadow wore a mask.”

  His thumb froze midstroke. “Aye. Right.” He resumed stroking. “But there are some creatures whose souls are so ugly, the ugliness oozes from every pore of their bodies. I’m certain he was one of those creatures.”

  She seemed satisfied with his explanation. But he’d have to be more careful. It was challenging to tell a rational story when one’s cock was pressed against a young maid’s firm buttocks.

  He nuzzled her hair and whispered, “Before I could even raise my blade, the villain hurtled forward like a charging boar, his sharp teeth bared.”

  “The Shadow has sharp teeth?”

  “Nay, a boar has sharp teeth.”

  “What did The Shadow have?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A sword? A mace? A flail?” She tightened her grip, bracing for the worst. “A war hammer?”

  He scowled. “I think he might have had one of his knives.”

  “You mean one of those tiny black daggers?”