“They’re not tiny. They’re…they’re…quite sharp.”
“Hm. Go on.”
Disconcerted, he tried to resume control of the story. “Whatever weapons he did or did not have—and ’twas impossible to tell what was stashed in his devil’s garb—he moved as fast as the wind.” To demonstrate, he quickly spun her around in his arms, gripping her by the shoulders and pinning her with a stare. “Like that.”
Her eyes were wide. “Were you…frightened?” Her gaze, seemingly of its own free will, slowly drifted down to his mouth then. And gradually, beneath the sultry dip of her eyelids, he saw her hunger grow.
His body answered with a surge of need that rose as relentlessly as a bubble in boiling oil. He gazed upon her succulent lips with longing. How he yearned to kiss that delicious, warm, nurturing mouth.
“What’s there to be frightened of?” he whispered, his thoughts straying far from The Shadow. “’Tis only a harmless…”
How their mouths met, Rand didn’t know. Like a lodestone to iron, they were simply drawn together. And once the kiss was begun, he never wanted it to end.
Miriel knew she was drowning. She felt the whirlpool of desire sucking her down into the depths and the waters of passion closing over her head. Yet she couldn’t do a bloody thing to stop them.
Nor did she want to.
This was the balance her body craved, the equilibrium of her chi. Though the sensation was as dizzying as the first time Sung Li had made her practice hanging upside down from a tree limb, it was somehow right.
Suddenly it didn’t matter what Rand was, what skills he concealed, what lies he told, what threat he posed. The way the blood was singing through her veins, the way her flesh felt afire with lust, the way her heart pounded against her ribs, she knew that this man was the completion of her circle, the yang for her yin.
Somehow her arms found their way about his damp neck, pulling him closer. The smell of sweat and leather and chain mail lingered on him. The scent was undeniably male, foreign, and intoxicating.
He tasted mildly of ale, but mostly of passion, and she drank deep from the font of his yearning to quench her own. Their tongues flirted and mated and danced together like courting butterflies. Their mouths feasted as if they fed on ambrosia.
With one hand, he found and untied the ribbon of her braid, loosening the weave until she felt the waves tumble down her back. Then, growling in soft approval, he delved his fingers into the mass, cradling the back of her head, his fingertips rubbing gently until her scalp tingled.
His armored chest was like a stone wall against her breasts, and she longed to tear away his tabard and strip off his chain mail to get to the supple man beneath.
She felt his fingers teasing at the back of her surcoat, descending over the ridges of her spine, while his other hand ventured over her hip. When it settled with a possessive grasp on her buttock, she gasped, but had no urge to pull away. Rather, she angled her hips more fully against him, melting into his embrace.
He groaned against her lips, and the sound sent a shiver of need through her already awakened womanhood. When his hand eased around to the front of her neckline, his fingers dancing along her collarbone, her nipples began to prickle with anticipation. Atop her surcoat his palm slipped, lower, lower, until he cupped her breast, hefting its weight tenderly in his hand.
Her emotions gone wild, she moaned at the sensation, relishing the ecstasy of his touch, yearning to tear away the fabric between them, thirsting for more.
He gave her more. As if he read her mind, he spread the laces of her surcoat and loosened the top, then, while she suffered in breathless expectation, he let his fingers venture beneath her garments, trailing gently over her burning flesh.
When he touched a fingertip to the sensitive crest of her breast, she gasped at the intensity of heat. And when the hand upon her buttocks curved down to intrude into the crevice between, it was all she could do to keep standing upright.
All else but desire vanished. The doves. The dovecote. Her inhibitions.
Rand was her meditation. He was her focus. She wanted to join with him, meld with him, climb inside of him until their souls tangled inextricably.
But Fate intervened.
Just as she was about to collapse in sensual surrender, the dovecote was abruptly flooded with an explosion of sunlight, harsh and blinding, that tore them violently apart.
“Hello?” It was Sir Rauve.
With practiced ease, Rand quickly slipped Miriel’s surcoat back into place and set her protectively behind him. “Sir Rauve.” His voice had the rough edge of unrequited desire.
“Sir Rand?” Rauve ventured.
Miriel, shaken and confused, hid behind Rand, trying to bring a semblance of order to her hair and surcoat.
Before Rand could answer, Sir Rauve continued in a low growl, “Lucy? Is that you?”
“Tisn’t Lucy, Rauve,” Rand answered quickly.
“Oh.” After an awkward silence, he added, “I was supposed to meet Lucy here.”
“She’s not here.”
“All right then. Sorry.”
Another long silence ensued before finally Rand said, “Goodbye, Rauve.”
“Oh. Aye.”
By the time Sir Rauve left, Miriel’s heart had almost recovered from the shock of his intrusion. But the abrupt slap of sunlight had done more than just startle her. It had shed light upon her own foolishness.
She’d lost her mind. Her control. Her balance. How Rand had tricked her into believing he was the completion of her spirit, she didn’t know. But now, by the clear light of day, despite the deep pool of seduction she’d fallen into, she realized it had all been an illusion.
Quivering with humiliation and self-disgust, she knotted the laces of her surcoat, smacked the dust from her skirts, and prepared to bid him a curt farewell.
She expected a smug grin from him when he turned around, a knowing arch of his brow, a self-satisfied smirk. After all, he must believe he had her at his mercy now.
Nothing prepared her for the truth of his mood when their gazes met. His eyes shone as softly as candlelight, smoky with longing, tender with regret. His nostrils flared with residual ardor, and his lips were parted and swollen with kissing. But the gentle understanding in his regard caught her completely off guard.
She’d feigned attraction from the time she was a little girl. Whenever she wanted a favor from the men of Rivenloch, she coyly dipped her eyes, bit her lip, smiled demurely. But the look on his face wasn’t feigned. She was sure of it. And it was more than mere lust.
A sparkle of wonder lit his eyes, wonder and a curious affection, an affection impossible to falsify.
Rand might have left her helpless with desire.
But she’d shot him straight through the heart.
Chapter 12
The evening fire crackled and snapped on the hearth. Miriel gazed into the flames, running a lazy finger around and around the rim of her flagon. Beyond her, servants tossed the bones from supper to the growling hounds, while upon the walls, shadows leaped in the flickering firelight, as if they danced to the soft strains of Boniface’s lute. But Miriel’s thoughts were miles away.
What if she was wrong about Rand? What if he did have feelings for her?
Aye, he’d invented the tale about meeting her at the tournament and returning to court her. But what if his deceptions had begun to take on a life of their own?
Maybe he was falling in love with her.
It was enough to confound her wits.
Usually she could read a man in an instant. She could spot insincerity in the eyes, hear dishonesty in the voice, detect the slightest departure from the truth just from the way a man carried himself.
But Rand was an enigma. Either he was exceptionally good at deception, or he wasn’t deceiving her. It was impossible to tell. Ever since that earth-tilting, soul-shaking kiss in the dovecote, she’d begun to doubt her own judgment.
She couldn’t forget the look on his fa
ce as they’d parted, the strange mixture of longing and vulnerability in his eyes, an expression too open and honest, too uncertain, too sincere, to be anything but genuine. An opportunity had been lost with Sir Rauve’s interruption, and the regret in Rand’s gaze was more than simple disappointment.
If he meant what his eyes revealed, if he truly cared for her, if his courtship turned out to be real, Miriel sensed her world would never be the same. It would be set a-tilt, like a spinning toy wobbling wildly off its axis, which was a thought both terrifying and exhilarating.
Boniface’s tuneful virelai was drowned suddenly as a roar of protest went up at the gaming table. Miriel glanced up. One of the two Herdclay brothers, stragglers from Helena’s wedding, had won yet again.
She sighed. She was glad they were leaving tomorrow. The Herdclays had a nasty habit of draining their flagons every time either of them won, which they were doing frequently this eve, and so the drunken pair was becoming increasingly rude and obnoxious as the evening progressed.
At least Rand was a polite participant. He played beside her father, neither gloating at his wins nor cursing at his losses. The Rivenloch men seemed to have welcomed him into the fold, chuckling with him, elbowing him, coaching him as he wagered against Lord Gellir.
Even her sisters had taken a liking to Sir Rand. Deirdre seemed to believe there was hope for him as a suitor, though perhaps it was only that in her delicate condition, her heart had grown tender. Helena, far less confident in Rand’s warrior skills, still appeared to consider him a decent man, one worthy of friendship, if not her complete respect.
Only Miriel had doubts, and even those were diminished every time she glanced at Rand this eve, at his laughing eyes and his bright smile, his unruly hair and his tempting mouth.
Why could she not trust him?
Perhaps because he was too much like her.
Miriel kept secrets. Secrets about what she was capable of, what she knew, and what she did. Secrets about her strength and her nature and her xiansheng, Sung Li. She wielded secret authority over castle affairs. She even maintained a secret passageway from the keep.
What secrets did Rand harbor? Were his secrets merely innocent stretches of the truth or the fabrications of a master of deception?
She watched him as he surrendered two more silver coins to Lord Gellir. Rand shrugged modestly, taking his loss in stride, while his fellow players clapped him on the back in consolation. Then, as if summoned by her gaze, he glanced toward Miriel, giving her a fond wink before returning to the game.
Sweet Mary, even that small gesture hastened her pulse. Images of the dovecote flashed through her mind with breathless speed and in sharp relief, piercing through more rational thoughts.
Remembering his kiss, her lips tingled. Recalling the warmth of his breath, her ears hummed with desire. Her breasts, as if feeling again the gentle touch of his hands, tightened and strained at her gown. She shivered. Low in her belly, desire reared its hungry head.
Hoping to wash away the lusty memories, she tossed back a generous swig of ale. It was unwise to let pleasure interfere with reason.
Gathering her wits, she regarded Rand again, this time with cool, calm, collected calculation.
She mentally listed his attributes. He was kind. Good-natured. Respectful. Honorable. Generous. Patient. His manner at table was polite. He was a courteous listener. He was gentle with animals. And children. And her.
She sighed. How could he not be sincere? It was almost impossible to believe such an innocent and comely face could conceal such a devious trickster.
Yet the same might be said for Miriel.
Miriel wasn’t malicious. Or conniving. Or cruel. But she was devious in her way. Despite her sense of discipline, she knew there was always the possibility she could choose not to exercise discretion. Which would make her dangerous indeed.
Was Rand dangerous? Did he have powers he might misuse? Or was he, as she wanted to believe with all her heart, pure in his motives?
Coming up behind Miriel, as silent as a cat, Sung Li observed, “He wagers as skillfully as he fights.”
Miriel smirked. “He’s losing almost every round.”
“Is he?”
Miriel frowned at Sung Li. Was that sarcasm in the old man’s voice, or was he only being mysterious again?
“Or,” Sung Li added with a meaningful lift of his brows, “is he sacrificing his coin only to win something more valuable?”
“What do you mean?”
“He is losing intentionally.”
Miriel didn’t want to admit it, but watching him over the last hour, playing with the men of Rivenloch and the Herdclay brothers, she’d suspected that as well. It seemed like every wager Rand made where he won three shillings, in the next round, he’d lose four.
“By losing,” Sung Li explained, “he has won the friendship of your father.”
Sung Li was right. Lord Gellir was treating Rand with almost fatherly affection, ruffling his hair, patting his forearm. “Perhaps he’s only being charitable,” Miriel suggested.
“Perhaps you are being charitable,” Sung Li replied. “You have a weakness for this boy that is blinding you.”
“He’s not a boy. And I’m not blind.”
“Hmph.”
Rand tossed a glance her way again, accompanied by a lopsided grin that showed off one of his adorable dimples, and it was all Miriel could do not to melt on the spot.
Sung Li shook her head in disgust. “Blinded by a pretty face.”
“He’s not pretty. He’s…” He was splendid. Magnificent. Heart-stoppingly beautiful. Like a dark angel. Or a Roman god. But she wouldn’t say that to Sung Li. “Adequate.”
“Adequate enough to lead you into danger.”
Miriel’s cheeks pinkened. Her adventure with Rand in the dovecote had felt dangerous indeed. But she was a woman of strong control. Rand might be able to stir her senses and touch her heart, but when and if it came to true danger, she was more than capable of defending herself.
A sudden cackle of triumph arose from the gaming table, accompanied by grumbles from the losers. The Herdclays had managed to move a good portion of the silver to their side of the table, and they had no qualms about gloating over their win. Rand laid a consoling hand atop Lord Gellir’s sleeve, but Miriel’s father was already drifting off to sleep at the table.
Miriel sighed. After she had one of the servants put Lord Gellir to bed, she’d add up his losses. She’d leave sorting out the accounts for the morrow.
Sung Li slitted his eyes, scrutinizing the Herdclay brothers. “They are like young cocks, crowing over a tiny patch of ground.”
“’Tisn’t a ‘tiny patch of ground.’ It looks like they’ve won close to twenty shillings off my father.”
Sung Li scowled. “I am glad the vermin are leaving.”
“Aye.” She allowed herself a mischievous smile. “Though they’d certainly better be careful with their coin on the road. ’Twould make a nice prize for The Shadow.”
“Do you think The Shadow would risk another robbery so soon, now that he has a challenger?”
“A challenger? You mean Rand?” She smirked. “The Shadow was amusing himself with Sir Rand. No one’s ever challenged The Shadow and won.”
Sung Li grew silent then, and Miriel could only guess at his thoughts. With his belief in karma, he probably half hoped the Herdclays would somehow meet with misfortune, whether at the hands of the The Shadow or someone else.
Miriel had to agree. They were a vexing pair. The fact that they would gleefully gloat over snatching the last bit of silver from an ailing old man whose only joy in life was gaming made them deserving of whatever ill befell them.
The sun was not yet awake. But Rand had already positioned himself behind a mossy oak near the entrance to the woods. The Herdclays would be passing this way soon.
Three Rivenloch lads at the gaming table last night had been of a similar build to The Shadow. If one of them was indeed the outlaw, the m
an would know the Herdclay brothers’ winnings had been substantial. He’d also know that they’d be traveling through the forest this morn, just the pair of them.
This time Rand planned to follow the travelers secretly and at a distance. First of all, he suspected the brothers wouldn’t appreciate his escort, taking it as an insult. Second, Rand knew that two men were a much more tempting target than three. And third, though he was loath to admit it, he needed every advantage to battle The Shadow, including the advantage of surprise.
Waiting was the hardest part. He allowed himself a yawn, only to have it cut off abruptly as an owl swooped past his head, close enough to ruffle his hair.
He abruptly froze. Perhaps the owl had been frightened from its perch by an outlaw in black. For several long moments, he heard his own pulse in his ears as they strained at every rustle of leaves, every whisper of branches. But no robber sprang from the trees.
It was a full hour later when the sun and the Herdclays at last made their appearance. The brothers tromped noisily down the path, still boasting about their success of the night before. It would be easy to follow them. They were so preoccupied, listening to the sound of their own voices, that they’d never hear him. Indeed, the loud varlets made such an easy target, he was almost tempted to rob them himself.
When they neared the place where he’d encountered The Shadow before, Rand silently drew his sword and scanned the trees, ready this time to catch the outlaw unawares. But The Shadow didn’t strike.
Nor did he strike at the next curve in the path. Nor where the trail dipped as it passed by a spring. Nor in the dense thicket of hazel where a robber could easily hide.
Rand had decided The Shadow must have overslept, missing a prime opportunity for profit, when he heard an indignant yelp from one of the men.
He stole forward, keeping out of sight, until he glimpsed a black wraith slip between the brothers on the path ahead.
The Shadow.
His heart pounding with the thrill of the chase, Rand nonetheless forced himself to patience. He ducked behind a pine, peering through the branches, as the outlaw proceeded to confront the Herdclays.
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