Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  Rand had thought The Shadow impressive yesterday, but he was even more astonishing today. The brothers put up an admirable fight for their winnings, attacking with their swords in a coordinated effort from both sides of the robber. But they were no match for The Shadow’s quick maneuvering, his uncanny balance, his unusual attacks and defenses, the way he seemed to bound off trees and dance on air.

  Rand saw now why the Mochrie maids had been so smitten by the outlaw. And why the folk of Rivenloch were in no hurry to capture the thief. He was truly amazing to behold.

  Indeed, so caught up was Rand, watching the brothers try in vain to prevent The Shadow’s attack, that he almost missed his chance to catch the villain.

  Within moments, The Shadow tossed one brother into the shrubs and laid the other out flat on his belly, both without suffering a scratch. He tucked their cut purses into some secret fold of his garb as he came down the path toward Rand.

  Rand needed to act now. Taking a silent breath, tightening his grip on his sword, he prepared to waylay the thief.

  Just as he flexed his knees to spring, a thunk sounded in the trunk beside him, distracting his eye for an instant. But that instant was everything.

  In the moment he glanced at the slim black knife, something hit his wrist hard, loosening his grip on his sword. He managed to hold on to the weapon, but a second impact caught the back of his legs, and he fell to his knees on the forest floor while a flash of black passed before his eyes.

  He dared not slash blindly forward with his sword. He meant to capture The Shadow, not slay him. Instead, he swung his left fist round, intent on striking whatever part of the robber was within reach. Incredibly, he swung at empty air.

  The nimble thief had leaped up to grab hold of a branch overhead, lifting his legs to dodge Rand’s blow. Now he swung backward, with the clear intent of kicking Rand on his forward swing.

  Rand perceived the attack in time. He threw himself to the right, dropping his sword, and turned swiftly to catch the robber about the legs. Then he gave a hard yank, loosening the man’s grip on the branch.

  The Shadow fell forward into the brush with Rand’s arms still clamped around his legs. For one victorious moment, Rand thought he’d done it. He’d single-handedly captured the notoriously elusive outlaw.

  But the cursed thief was as slippery as a trout. Despite Rand’s steely grip, The Shadow managed to squirm and twist and wriggle free, his parting insult a swift kick to Rand’s chin.

  Though the impact was sudden, rocking Rand’s head back, it wasn’t a disabling blow. Indeed, Rand got the impression, as the castle folk had said, that the outlaw wouldn’t truly injure anyone.

  But that didn’t mean he wasn’t still a menace.

  Rand snapped up his discarded sword and prepared to engage the man again.

  Undaunted by his near capture, The Shadow sprang to his feet, standing on the path with his legs flexed and his arms raised, ready for combat.

  Rand, torn between accomplishing his mission in the most expedient manner or following the rules of chivalry, opted for chivalry. The Shadow was unarmed. In all fairness, Rand couldn’t use his blade against him. He cast aside the weapon and made fists of his hands instead.

  “Come on, monkey,” he goaded. “Fight like a man.”

  “Get him!” one of the Herdclay brothers prodded.

  “Aye, make him pay!” the other chimed in.

  Rand gave them a cursory glance. It wasn’t chivalry that kept them from helping him, he was sure. It was a lack of courage.

  He looked back at The Shadow. As if he was enjoying himself immensely, the outlaw cocked his head and beckoned Rand with his finger.

  Rand prided himself on being a quick study. Though he had limited experience battling The Shadow, already he’d begun to note the man’s fighting style. He was crafty and swift, using clever dodges and inflicting blows with the accuracy of a well-fired arrow. And he used his feet. His feet. It was a curious way to spar indeed.

  But Rand had the definite advantage of size and strength. If he could manage to land just one powerful blow, he’d send the outlaw to oblivion long enough to shackle him.

  With that in mind, Rand lunged forward and threw a hefty punch at the man’s head.

  But where his head was one moment, it wasn’t the next. Worse, as his fist flew past The Shadow’s head, the man somehow seized Rand’s arm and shoved him even farther, using his own momentum to push him off-balance.

  By the time he staggered around, The Shadow stood braced for action again.

  “Come on, man!” one of the Herdclays yelled. “Show him what you’re made of.”

  “Send that black devil back to Hell!”

  Rand ground his teeth. When he was done with The Shadow, he’d enjoy taking on the cowardly brothers as well.

  Rand eyed his opponent, trying to discern the best approach. Growing up a bastard in a noble household had taught him skills beyond those learned by most knights. He knew how to fight with his fists, how to wrestle, how to use crude weapons no honorable knight would touch.

  With a menacing growl, he hurtled forward, intending to tackle the robber. Half-expecting the man to step aside at the last instant, he spread his arms wide, like a fisherman casting a broad net.

  To his surprise, The Shadow didn’t step aside. Instead, he took the initial impact of Rand’s tackle, then rolled suddenly backward upon the ground, taking Rand with him. The man planted his feet in Rand’s stomach as they tumbled together, and Rand felt his legs fly up in the air and his head dive toward the earth. In self-defense, he curled into a ball. When he hit the ground, instead of breaking his neck, he landed with a bone-jarring roll along his spine.

  He thought The Shadow would escape through the woods then, just as he had the day before. Maybe the outlaw would even toss another silver coin to him, thanks for the bout. For one ludicrous moment, Rand wondered if he could retire from his mercenary work and make a living sparring with The Shadow every few days. Then he rattled the thought out of his head and rose to reevaluate the situation.

  The Shadow had stood his ground rather than flee. He must be enjoying the skirmish.

  But for Rand, it was a serious matter. His livelihood depended upon his reputation. He couldn’t afford to fail in this endeavor. Too many lords knew of his mission. If he succeeded, he might be called upon again for his services. But if he failed…

  He thrust the idea straight out of his head. He couldn’t afford to fail.

  It seemed The Shadow’s greatest skill was using Rand’s own strength against him. So he’d give him none of that strength. Indeed, he’d prod the outlaw into attacking him first this time.

  He weaved his head about and threw a few light punches, luring The Shadow close.

  When the robber’s attack at last came, it wasn’t from his fist, but from his cursed foot. Rand reared back his head in time to dodge the full impact, but The Shadow had already seized the advantage, advancing on him, backing him up along the path.

  Rand blocked a few blows from his attacker, blows that were not made with his fists, but with his open hands. Curiously, they were just as driving and powerful.

  Finally, the robber repeated his kick again, and this time Rand was ready for it. He jerked his head out of range, but using both hands, he seized The Shadow’s foot, trapping him in midkick.

  He might have been able to simply lift the outlaw up at that point, he was so light, dangle the man from his ankle while he used his other hand to retrieve the shackles from his belt.

  But The Shadow had another strategy in mind. The moment Rand lifted, the thief’s other leg scissored up and over, flipping him backward in the air and giving Rand a solid whack on the jaw as he tore free of his grip.

  Rand, acting on blind instinct, lunged forward to make a last desperate grab at his prey. Whatever his arm contacted, it knocked the thief off-balance in midflip. When The Shadow came down, his knee struck the edge of a sharp rock on the trail.

  Rand winced in empath
y. It would make a nasty bruise if it hadn’t cracked the fellow’s kneecap. But Rand wasn’t about to lose his advantage. He dove forward, trying to catch the injured varlet in a restraining embrace.

  But the instant Rand’s fingertips brushed black cloth, the thief, as if his wound was of no consequence, bounded up into the trees again, clambering from limb to limb until he disappeared in the woods.

  “Oh, fine,” one of the brothers complained.

  “No thanks to you,” the other muttered at Rand.

  “’Twasn’t your coin, after all.”

  On his hands and knees on the trail, within a hairbreadth of catching his prey, only to lose him in the wink of an eye, Rand had little temper and less patience.

  He narrowed grim eyes at the brothers, and growled, “I suggest you leave before I knock your empty heads together.”

  He was right. They were cowards. With indignant haste, they turned tail and hied down the path.

  When they’d gone, Rand rocked back onto his heels. But just as he was about to lever himself to his feet, something caught his eye.

  A fresh drop of bright blood adorned the rock where the outlaw had struck his knee.

  He reached forward to touch it with a fingertip, then rubbed the slick substance between his finger and thumb.

  The Shadow had been injured in his fall, despite his spry departure. That meant his identity should be easy to uncover. All Rand had to do was find out which of the men at the gaming table currently suffered from a limp.

  Chapter 13

  Why Sung Li had been hobbling about the castle all day, Miriel didn’t know. He refused to tell her what ailed him. It was strange that he should be afflicted at all. Indeed, it was her xiansheng who had taught her the herbs and meditations and pressure points to stave off pain. Miriel used the knowledge extensively whenever she suffered sparring injuries, thus her tolerance for pain was high. Otherwise, she’d be limping about the keep herself.

  But there was no point in asking Sung Li about his discomfort. He disliked being reminded of his own frailty.

  It was admittedly easy to put Sung Li’s troubles out of her mind anyway, since her head spun wildly with thoughts of Sir Rand of Morbroch.

  Who the devil was he?

  Certainly not the mild-mannered, kindhearted, sentimental suitor he pretended to be.

  The fool had gone after The Shadow again this morn, only this time he’d returned with more than a few scrapes and bruises. Which was why she was now perusing the storeroom shelves for her jars of healing herbs.

  Surely the varlet hadn’t been hurt that badly. He’d broken no bones, only lost a little blood and bruised a bit more than his pride. But he was insisting on playing the wounded soldier, which meant she was obliged to play the healing maid.

  She sighed, tapping her finger on a vial of carmine thistle extract, then thoughtfully bit her lip. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad a thing to tend to Rand’s injuries after all. It was said that men sometimes made bedside confessions to a nurse they’d never utter to a priest. Maybe when he was under her tender care, she’d find out who the real Rand of Morbroch was.

  Satisfied with her harvest of medicines, she tucked in an extra bottle of colchicum for Sung Li. The stubborn old man might not want to admit his joints troubled him, but surely he’d avail himself of a cure left in his reach.

  She found Rand in the armory, talking with Colin and Pagan.

  “Indeed, I didn’t expect to run into the outlaw at all,” Rand was telling them as she stood outside, listening. “I only followed the Herdclays to make sure they did no mischief.”

  “They were a pair of overblown ballocks, weren’t they?” Colin said.

  “The worst sort,” Pagan agreed.

  “I’m almost glad they got robbed,” Colin added.

  “But you shouldn’t have tangled with The Shadow alone,” Pagan told Rand. “You might have come back with worse injuries than these.”

  “And for what?” Colin scoffed. “A bit of silver that didn’t belong to the louts in the first place.”

  “I guess I wasn’t raised to run away from a fight,” Rand murmured.

  “Even when you’re…overpowered?” Pagan asked as diplomatically as possible.

  Rand replied with a humorless bark of laughter. “In my household, I was always overpowered.”

  Miriel frowned. What did he mean by that? In his household? Wasn’t he raised in the household of Morbroch? And overpowered? The knights of Morbroch were fine fighters, but Rivenloch had defeated them soundly at the tournament. Rand couldn’t have been overpowered by them.

  A hundred questions suddenly clamored in her head.

  She swept through the doorway, unprepared for the fact that Rand was standing there, bare from the waist up. With a tiny gasp that almost made her drop her vials, she quickly averted her eyes, but not before the image of his broad, bronze chest burned itself indelibly into her brain.

  “Lady Miriel,” Pagan said with a nod.

  Colin smirked, tossing Rand his shirt. “Hello, Miri.”

  “Ah, my angel of mercy, come at last,” Rand sighed, bunching the shirt before him in a manner that only half-covered that glorious expanse of golden skin.

  She tightened her jaw. She mustn’t give in to the foolish flutterings of her heart. She’d seen men’s chests before. Rand’s was no different.

  Maybe a little more muscled. A little wider. A little more sculpted, indeed rather like the flawlessly formed body of Adonis. But…

  Tossing her head impatiently, she forced her feet forward. She was here to treat his injuries and collect information, no more. With single-minded purpose, she pushed down on his rock-hard shoulder, pressing him onto a bench so she could take a look at his wounds.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  One side of Rand’s mouth curved upward in a slow grin. Behind her, Colin stifled a laugh.

  Pagan cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should return to the lists, Colin.” He added sternly, “Behave, Rand, or I’ll never hear the end of it from my wife.”

  Rand gave him a salute, and Miriel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Lord, even when they weren’t present, her sisters posted guard over her.

  When Pagan and Colin had gone, Rand brushed a finger across his lower lip. “Here, my love,” he whispered.

  Despite her best intentions, Miriel’s heart skipped a beat. Lord, the varlet was wasting no time. Her gaze drifted down to his tempting mouth, parted in invitation, and she bit the corner of her lip.

  “I think it’s split,” he said.

  For a moment she only stared at him. Then she gave a quick shake of her head. “Of course.” She rummaged through her containers, finding the fenugreek balm. She dabbed a bit on her fingertip and smoothed it across his lip.

  “Got a good whack on the chin,” Rand admitted, “though nothing seems cracked.”

  She pressed gently over the area. He winced as she found a tender spot. “Just a bruise.”

  “You know, I was thinking on the way back to the keep,” he said as she applied rosemary ointment along his jaw, “you’re lucky you didn’t run into The Shadow yourself that day you met me in the woods.”

  Her finger slipped in the salve, and she jabbed him in the cheek. “Oh. Sorry.” Bloody hell, she had to be more careful. She dabbed away the excess ointment. “Why do you say that?”

  “You both seem to have a curious penchant for hiding in the trees.”

  Rand studied Miriel closely from the corner of his eye. Aside from a subtle twitch of her lip, she exhibited no noticeable reaction to his comment.

  Not that he expected one. But it had occurred to him as he’d come limping back from his encounter with the agile outlaw that The Shadow wasn’t the only person he’d met among the branches of the Rivenloch wood.

  It was an absurd idea, he knew. There was no way Miriel could be The Shadow. Miriel was sweet, delicate, helpless. She disliked combat. It was impossible to imagine that the tenderhearted maid treating his injuries with s
uch gentle hands could have inflicted them upon him. Nay, she wasn’t The Shadow.

  Still, he would have liked to take a peek at her knee.

  “I wasn’t hiding in the trees,” Miriel told him, swabbing some oily substance on a scrape atop his shoulder. “I was rescuing a kitten stuck on a branch.”

  He smiled. She was good. She hadn’t even stumbled over the lie. But he knew better. A kitten stuck on a branch would have been meowing as relentlessly as a Mochrie maid. “Rescuing a kitten?”

  “Aye.” She shrugged. “You’re a knight. I’m sure you’ve come to the rescue of helpless creatures before.”

  An unpleasant recollection suddenly popped into his head, making a crease between his brows. “I saved a cat once when I was a lad. The poor thing had been kicked half to death by my father.”

  She stiffened, and suddenly he wondered if he’d said too much. But she soon resumed her ministrations, circling behind him to examine his bruised backbone. “Your father must have been a cruel man.”

  He shrugged. “No worse than most, I suppose.” He hoped he lied as smoothly as she did. Indeed his father had been a drunken brute, an evil, conniving, selfish boor who had terrorized his childhood.

  “And your mother?”

  Rand’s memories of his mother were bittersweet. She’d never mistreated Rand. Indeed, she’d seen that he was raised in his father’s noble household. But she’d been blind to her lover’s abuses and, in the end, too weakhearted to be faithful. “My mother died when I was fourteen.”

  “Ah. Do you have brothers? Sisters?”

  He frowned over his shoulder. “What an inquisitive maid you are today.”

  She shrugged. “You know everything about my family. I know nothing of yours.”

  “Ah. Well, I have four brothers.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “I mean, tell me about them. What are they like? Are they overbearing like my sisters, or do they worship the ground you walk upon?” He winced as she slathered some stinging paste on the back of his shoulder. “Would I like them?”