When his fingers separated her moist folds, delving with delicate insistence into the slick, secret hollows, her emotions swelled like a rushing river, hurtling toward a precipice over which she couldn’t help but fall.
She had to do something to make him stop, no matter how much she longed to have him continue. And in the rising turmoil of her feelings, she could think of only one way to regain her advantage and control, one way to make him vulnerable and win the upper hand.
While he continued to pleasure her, she snaked one arm down below his waist and grabbed hold of his cock again. To her satisfaction, he sucked a hard breath between his teeth.
Now she had him, she thought. Just as in effective sparring, she’d quickly learned her opponent’s weakness and seized upon it.
For one fleeting moment, caught off guard, he stiffened, unable to continue assailing her, and she enjoyed the dominance, stroking his velvety staff like a favorite pet.
Too soon he recovered. This time he attacked her with a vengeance, holding nothing back. His fingers danced with frantic virtuosity between her legs until she felt her advantage slipping away as inevitably as the ocean tide.
Yet even while he coaxed her body to betray her, he thrust himself within her hand, sliding along her belly, making tortuous friction between them, to effect his own demise.
Without warning, a curious tension rose within her, like a bubbling spring trapped inside the earth. Her skin seemed to grow more and more taut, too tight for the exquisite fount that longed to burst from its fleshly prison.
Within her palm, his cock, slippery with sweat, hardened even more as he strove boldly against her.
Suddenly, a pleasure so intense it was almost pain made her arch upward. For a long moment, the world seemed to still while her ecstasy grew and grew, until she was tossed with the abrupt violence of a boulder from a catapult.
Her bones shuddered. Her muscles contracted. She moaned and cried out and sighed all at once as her body seemed to fly at breakneck speed on a course toward the heavens.
She was vaguely aware that he’d come along with her. Groaning with an animal passion that sent shivers along her spine, he, too, bucked wildly in the throes of desire, until her hands and belly grew slick with the proof of his release.
Afterward, Miriel lay limp beneath Rand, as limp as if he’d pinched the pressure point along her shoulder. She couldn’t move a joint. She could scarcely keep her eyes open. Indeed, the only proof she was yet living was the pulse hammering at her temples and the rapid breath rasping through her mouth.
Rand inclined his head to tenderly kiss her brow. She felt his shaky breath, heard his wordless murmur of affection against her forehead. But she had no strength to acknowledge him with anything except a weak smile that seemed permanently affixed to her face.
A curious apathy enveloped her as she drifted along in a pleasant fog. She didn’t care that she was lying naked on the floor of her office. She didn’t care that Rand loomed over her like a conquering hero. She didn’t even care that she’d probably behaved like a wanton.
She felt beautiful. And womanly. And powerful. And cherished.
It was just as her sisters had boasted. Being with a man who cared for you was wonderful. Lying with a man you loved was divine. Aye, she might grow to relish this lovemaking.
With her last ounce of will, she opened her eyes and gazed up at him. His face was so full of wonder, so grateful, so content, the sight of it filled her heart. Rand did care for her. She saw it in the adoring glow of his eyes. And that knowledge made her feel reckless and impulsive.
“I love you,” she breathed.
Rand’s heart stilled. No one had ever said that to him before. Not his mother. Certainly not his father. Not his motley assortment of half siblings. Not even the wenches from whom he occasionally purchased favors.
The words were strange to his ears. But whether it was from the memory of his wretched childhood or his current vulnerability in passion’s aftermath or simply the sincere affection in Miriel’s eyes, his heart grasped at the words as if they were a lifesaving timber in a stormy sea.
His throat thickened painfully, and his eyes threatened to well with tears.
Did he love her as well? Was it possible? He’d been prepared for her to cast him away when she was through with him. He’d never in a thousand years expected her to say she loved him. And now the idea of forging a permanent alliance with her presented an amazing possibility.
He might find a home here.
A real home with an adoring wife and children, castle folk who respected him, brotherhood in an elite fighting force, and no more cause to lead the life of a bastard vagabond, selling his services to the highest bidder.
It was almost too incredible to imagine.
Yet he’d lose it all if he couldn’t find the strength to answer the lass.
His voice cracked over the unfamiliar words. “I love you, Miriel.”
Chapter 16
Sparring with Pagan and Colin in the tiltyard, Rand thought he’d never felt more alive. He held back nothing, spinning and lunging and charging with unmitigated exuberance, barely able to keep up with the clever swordsmen.
But one glance at the lovely lass standing at the fence, and he knew he was wrong about the sparring. It was Miriel who made him feel most alive.
Grinning hugely at her, he almost got his head lopped off as Pagan came round with his blade.
“Pay heed!” Pagan yelled at him. “And you!” he commanded, pointing the tip of his sword at Miriel. “Stop distracting my man.”
My man. Rand liked the sound of that. He’d never been anyone’s man. He’d only belonged for a short while to whoever paid the price for his services.
“Do you mind, my lord?” Rand asked Pagan, nodding toward Miriel.
Pagan rolled his eyes and shook his head, sheathing his sword and turning away to seek out someone else to badger.
Rand put away his own weapon and loped up to the fence.
“I was looking for you earlier,” he called out.
“I’ve been doing the accounts.”
He cocked his head quizzically. “I went to your office. It was locked.”
Indeed he’d been trying to steal into her office for four days now to take a look at those ledgers. If the room wasn’t sealed up like a tomb, then Sung Li was standing guard at the doorway. One would think there was a king’s treasure stored inside. Miriel was definitely hiding something.
“I lock the door sometimes when I need to concentrate,” she said. As he drew near, her clear blue eyes took on an unmistakable smoky hue. She wanted him. “Otherwise I might get…distracted.”
The lass wore a simple brown kirtle today, but the plain garment didn’t diminish her beauty in the least, especially when Rand could so vividly remember what she looked like beneath it.
His loins responded at once, and he gave her a rueful laugh. The damsel was insatiable. They’d stolen kisses and caresses in every secluded corner of the keep. But this was not the time or place for trysting.
He hooked one foot on the lowest wattle crossbar of the fence.
She grasped the back of his neck, pulling him forward to give him a sound kiss.
As they rested their brows together, he murmured, “I’m sweaty. I haven’t shaved. And I stink.”
“Love is blind,” she whispered.
He grinned. “And apparently unable to smell as well.”
She licked her lips. “Perhaps a roll in sweet-smelling hay would—”
He chuckled deep in his throat. “The stables?”
She shrugged.
“Little imp,” he chided, but already his cock was rising at the promise of feminine attention. He made a cursory surveillance for witnesses, then nodded to her. “You go first.”
With a devilish twinkle in her eyes, she strolled casually away from the tiltyard. Rand turned his back on her, pretending sudden interest in the sword battle going on between Sir Rauve and Kenneth. Then, after a reasonable span
of time, he walked purposefully toward the stables, as if he intended to check on his horse.
When he arrived, she peered out at him from beneath a pile of straw in an empty stall, looking coy and wanton and adorable.
“Miriel, you naughty wench,” he chided, “what have you done with your clothes?”
She wasn’t completely naked. She still wore her thigh-high woolen stockings, which actually made her look even more wicked. They were no deterrent. He found plenty of exposed skin to touch and lick and devour.
As for him, when she began to pleasure him beneath his chain mail with her adoring hands, he had to bite his knuckles to keep from bellowing in rapture.
So intense was his climax that he feared he might frighten the horses and set the straw afire. Only her soothing caresses afterward brought him back to normalcy.
As she knelt before him, slipping her kirtle back on over her head, she murmured, “Indeed, I came to tell you I’ve an abundance of work today.”
He smiled, easing up on his elbows to look at her. “You have a most interesting way of telling me. I wish you’d do so every day.”
She clucked her tongue, but he could tell his words pleased her. “’Tis just that I won’t be able to go riding after all.” She’d promised to take him riding today along the boundaries of Rivenloch.
He wiggled his brows lasciviously. “Oh, I think we already went riding.”
Her eyes widened in feigned shock. “Sirrah!”
He gave her a wink, then began to lace up his braies. He forced a serious furrow to his brow. “Very well. We’ll go tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow?”
She studied him for a moment, and though he tried to keep his expression stern, she divined the gleam of mischief in his gaze at once.
“Oh, nay, we won’t, you varlet.” She gave him a light shove. “You know very well tomorrow is the fair, and you are honor-bound to take me.”
He affected a sigh. “No riding tomorrow?” He rocked his hips back and forth suggestively.
She smacked him on the shoulder, fighting back laughter.
Then he rose, dusted off his tabard, and helped her to her feet.
“I’ll leave first,” she decided, her mind already shifting to her work. “I have to speak to the cook. One of the lads seems to be stealing provender from the kitchen.”
“Wait.” Amused, he snagged her arm before she could rush off, then clucked his tongue. “You’ve obviously never trysted in a stable before.”
She frowned.
He turned her around backward. Her hair was strewn with incriminating straw. He carefully picked out the pale stems, then kissed her on the top of the head and gave her a dismissive swat toward the door.
She tried to send him a withering glare as she left, but failed. He shook his head. She might have no straw left in her tresses, but by the lusty glow of her countenance there was no mistaking what she’d been doing. He hoped she wouldn’t run into that meddling guardian of hers before her telltale flush faded.
Apparently she narrowly missed Sung Li. When Rand emerged several moments later, he spied the old woman hobbling along the practice field. Her joints must still trouble her, though she wasn’t limping as heavily now as a few days ago.
Seeing the shriveled old maidservant reminded Rand that, as ludicrous as it might be, he needed to follow up on the possibility that Sung Li was The Shadow.
He might not be able to get to the ledgers, but now was the perfect opportunity to search Sung Li’s quarters. While she toddled around the practice field, and Miriel was busy with household affairs, Rand could steal into their chamber and look for evidence.
Aside from Miriel’s office and rooms containing precious stores, the doors of Rivenloch stood unbarred, which was an amazement to Rand. As a child, he’d had to sleep curled up around his belongings, lest his greedy siblings steal them. As a mercenary, he never dozed without one hand on his purse and the other on his sword. Yet here, no one lived in fear of losing their things, unless one included the provender the kitchen lad had filched. Thus when Rand casually loped up the steps and along the passage to Miriel’s chamber, he knew he’d find it open.
He’d imagined her room would be a reflection of the maid herself—neat, pretty, adorned in soft colors, with subtle feminine touches. Flowers painted on the plaster walls perhaps. Or bottles of scent lined up on a table. Butterflies embroidered along the edge of her coverlet. Or hair ribbons hung on pegs.
But when he stole through the door, swiftly closing it behind him, he thought he’d found the wrong chamber.
There were ribbons in several colors hung on pegs on the wall. And a few bottles sat atop an oak table. The room was definitely tidy. But it looked nothing like the bedchamber of a lord’s daughter.
Indeed, it looked like an armory.
Upon two walls hung an array of weapons the like Rand had never seen. Several wide-bladed short swords and long poles with notched heads flanked one end of the display. Beside them hung jointed sticks, flails, and daggers of all sizes with blades, both toothed and smooth, some as broad as an axe, some no wider than a nail. Against the second wall were propped what appeared to be a sharpened shovel, a scythe, a forked staff, and a pole with a large crescent blade atop it. Small plates of steel forged into shapes resembling stars and forks and circles formed a ring around a bronze shield depicting the face of some grimacing beast. And finishing off the display was a collection of metal-spined silk fans, painted not with flowers, but with snarling, curve-clawed, sharp-toothed dragons.
After Rand snapped his jaws shut again, he glanced around the rest of the chamber. It was definitely Miriel’s room. Those were her hair ribbons. There, draped across the chest at the foot of the bed, was the green surcoat he’d slipped off her shoulders yesterday. And the two lower corners of the deep red swag above the bed were embroidered in gold with the letter M.
For a moment, all he could do was stare at the room’s furnishings and the jarring juxtaposition of her sheer white linen underskirt hung on one wall beside what looked like Neptune’s vicious trident.
What the devil was going on here?
And maybe just as intriguing, he thought, his gaze drifting longingly toward the keen edge of one of the short swords, how effective would that weapon be?
He eyed it speculatively. It was a handsome piece, sleek and smooth, its blade broad and flat with subtle carvings near the haft, the grip featuring a steel loop that enclosed the hand. He wondered how light it was. It certainly hadn’t the reach of a broadsword, but maybe its speed compensated for its lack of length.
There was only one way to find out.
The sword was light, much lighter than his own, and he found that because of its reduced size, he could wield it with more control. It would be useless against a longer blade, but for close combat…
Of course, that pole with the crescent at its end could finish off a foe before he got within sword’s reach. Rand hung the short sword back on the wall and hefted the peculiar spear. He tested the edge with his thumb. God’s bones, it was sharp enough to slice a man in half.
He was carefully replacing the piece when two short-handled forks caught his eye. He took the forearm-length weapons off the wall, testing their balance. They were likely intended for use as a pair, but curiously, the tips were blunted. They couldn’t be much of a stabbing weapon.
He returned them to their place, then studied the curious metal stars. These were sharp, their points honed to an almost transparent edge. But there was no handle, no grip. How were they used? Surely holding such a weapon was only inviting it to be embedded in one’s palm.
And the segmented spear farther along the wall, seven pieces of wood connected with links of chain, how was that employed? Was it used like a flail, swung over one’s head?
He took the piece off its hook. It was a heavy thing and quite long. Perhaps it was a weapon to be used on horseback. If a rider swung the thing in a great circle, none could draw near enough to attack. He took hold of t
he last segment, held it over his head, and began swinging it slowly so it circled about his feet. Gradually he increased the speed until it was twirling about him at knee level, then higher. It would make an excellent weapon, for the impact of that last chunk of wood at high speed would be heavy indeed.
An instant later, he found out just how heavy.
The chamber door swung open suddenly, startling him. When his arm jerked back, the whirling device wobbled off course and struck the post of Miriel’s bed with a loud thunk, making a dent in the oak.
Rand didn’t believe he’d ever blushed in his life, but he did now as Miriel and Sung Li stepped in, and he was caught, not only trespassing, but making a fool of himself and damaging the furnishings.
For a long moment, Miriel stared at him, stunned, and he stared back, mortified, as the weapon, dangling from his guilty hand, snaked about him, finally coiling lifelessly on the floor. Then Sung Li charged forward.
“You zhi!” she spit, snatching the weapon from his hand. “Have you no courtesy?” The old woman glared at him and raised the linked spear. For one moment, he thought she might use it on him. If she did, he supposed it would be no more than he deserved.
“I’m…I’m sorry.” He was sorry. He knew better than to touch another’s weapons. It was only that for a warrior like himself they were so irresistibly unusual and intriguing. He’d lost his head.
“These are mine,” Sung Li snarled in no uncertain terms. “You do not touch them. Ever.”
He blinked. The weapons belonged to Sung Li? What would an old maidservant need with weapons like these? Unless she liked to disguise herself as a woodland outlaw…
Sung Li hung the segmented spear back up on the wall and answered his unasked question. “They belonged to my ancestors. They are sacred. Nobody touches them.”
He nodded. Of course.
Sometimes Rand let his imagination get the better of him. Withered old Sung Li didn’t cavort through the forest, wielding the bloody things. They simply hung on the wall. He supposed he should have guessed they belonged to the Oriental maid by the strange markings on them, marks that looked like the scratchings of a hen.
Maids with Blades Page 70
