Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  She closed her eyes in bliss and nodded, willing to promise him anything if he’d continue touching her like that.

  Rand swallowed hard. Despite his considerate words, the wolf within him longed to give Miriel what she thought she desired, to throw caution aside, to dive atop her delectable body and sink into her welcoming softness.

  As he stretched out beside her on the pallet, though they didn’t touch, he felt the heat flowing between their naked bodies like liquid lightning.

  Though he’d bedded his share of wenches—innkeepers’ lusty daughters, saucy harlots, curious noblewomen—Rand had never lain with a virgin before, nor had he lain with a woman for whom he cared so much. He didn’t want to make a single mistake.

  He wove his fingers through her hair and pulled her close enough to kiss her. But the mischievous lass wasn’t content with a simple kiss. She slung her arm about his neck and insinuated herself into his embrace.

  Where they touched, a delicious warmth spread, and when she pressed the soft pillows of her breasts against him, it was as if their flesh melted together. It was an utterly blissful sensation, one in which he mustn’t lose himself if he was to remain gentle.

  He rocked them both over until he loomed above her. He could see by the lusty glaze of her eyes it wouldn’t take long to ready her for his penetration. Already her pulse throbbed, and her breath came rapidly. Already her nipples awakened under the light rasping of his chest. Already her plump lips grew moist with yearning.

  He reached down between them, parting the dewy petals of her woman’s flower, to ease the way for his passage.

  In spite of her promise, Miriel clutched at his shoulders, thrusting upward with her hips, trying to speed his trespass.

  “Aye,” she groaned, her voice throaty with longing.

  “Not yet,” he whispered.

  He began to rub slowly at the swollen bud of her need, his fingers made slick by the juices of her desire, and she arched up in invitation.

  Sweet Lord, it was an invitation he longed to answer. Soon, he promised himself, soon.

  Gradually, he increased the speed of his fondling, relentlessly urging her to higher and higher planes of passion, until she began to take the shallow, expectant breaths of impending release.

  Only then did Rand finally place his aching staff against her yielding flesh, nudging inward against her maidenhead.

  She was on the verge of climax when Rand breathed into her ear. “Forgive me.”

  The moment she shuddered under the distraction of the initial spasms of release, he plunged into her all at once. She stiffened, but never cried out, still caught up in the throes of climax.

  It was a mercy to take her thus, and yet Rand couldn’t help but regret tearing her frail flesh. While he shivered at the sheer bliss of being surrounded by all that softness, he was careful to remain still to let her body adjust to his invasion. It wasn’t an easy thing, when every instinct told him to strive against the slick, warm sheath of her enveloping womb.

  In the end, despite vowing to let him lead her in the dance of love, it was Miriel who instinctively initiated the slow withdrawal and penetration that began the most joyous coupling of Rand’s life.

  Never had he felt so tender, yet so fierce. He surrendered to Miriel’s rhythm, though she was like a novice rider, not yet used to walking, but determined to take off at a gallop across the undiscovered landscape.

  There would be time later to teach her the leisure of lovemaking. For now, he would knot his fingers in the mane of that wild mount called lust and hold on for the ride.

  Their passions rose so swiftly and with such force that their mating soon began to take on an animal ferocity. The pallet groaned with every thrust of their hips, as if echoing their savage cries. And when they began to ascend together the last steep hill of their sensuous journey, Rand felt the world around him fade and disappear. Now there were only his sharpening thirst, demanding to be slaked, and sweet Miriel, the beautiful woman who could quench the fire raging inside him.

  When the lass spontaneously threw her legs around him, digging her heels into his buttocks, his loins tightened in reaction, and for one desperate moment, he feared his passions might bolt, that he might leave her behind.

  But in the next magical instant, she arched upward, gasping in wonder, and the two of them crested desire’s peak as one.

  An intense bolt of lightning seemed to sear Miriel’s body as she found her pinnacle. Her body shook with thunderous tremors of release. She cried out with the sheer ecstasy of requited desire, while Rand’s bellow echoed her own satisfaction.

  She collapsed then—boneless, spent, and completely vulnerable. She couldn’t even muster the strength to lift her eyelids. Yet despite the weakness that afflicted her every muscle, she felt curiously safe in Rand’s arms, protected and precious. He might dominate her physically, looming over her with superior strength and weight, but he, too, had surrendered in her embrace.

  As she lay panting afterward, her nerves still buzzing with sexual energy, she realized she’d never felt more alive, more vital. This was perfect balance, perfect yin and yang. Not only of her body, but of her soul as well. Where they were joined, she still throbbed with the thrill of his invasion. Pressed chest to chest and hip to hip, it almost seemed they were one being.

  “Did I hurt you?” he breathed against her ear.

  “Nay.” It had been only a small sting, like the nick of a woo diep do. Indeed, it was the unfamiliar intrusion into her most private place that shocked her more. She hand’t expected to feel so…possessed.

  He pulled away slightly, easing out a fraction of an inch. But now that she was accustomed to the feel of him, she was reluctant to have him leave. With the little strength she had left, she hooked her heel over his backside and held him close.

  “Stay,” she bade him softly, and he complied.

  When she lazily opened her eyes, he was staring down at her with some inexplicable expression. Wonder. Or joy. Or surprise. Whatever it was, it pleased her, and she smiled up at him.

  His face slowly bloomed into a grin, and Miriel, suddenly in a playful mood, she reached up to touch one of his dimples.

  He must have been in a playful mood as well, for he furrowed his brow in mock seriousness, and told her, “I got that in a knife fight with the devil.”

  “Oh, aye?” Her lips twitched as she moved her finger to the other dimple. “And this one?”

  “He’s very fast, the devil is.”

  “And fond of symmetry, ’twould seem.” There was a real scar, a small notch, along his jaw. She touched it with a fingertip. “What about this one?” Then she added, “The truth.”

  “The truth?”

  “Aye.”

  “I fell off a horse and hit a fence.”

  “You fell off a horse?”

  “I was three winters old,” he explained.

  She nodded. Now that she’d shared her battle scars with him, it seemed only right that she learn his as well. As he’d done, she lifted her head and placed a kiss upon the healed wound.

  High on the opposite brow, just beneath the hairline, was a thin white mark. “And here?”

  “A robber split my brow.”

  She winced, bending his head down to kiss the scar. Then she searched his face with her fingers, pushing back his hair, rubbing over his lightly stubbled chin, while he patiently suffered her attentions. She found a long, shallow slash at the side of his neck.

  “This?”

  His eyes turned grave, and she almost wished she hadn’t asked him.

  “My…father.”

  “Your father?”

  He seemed suddenly uncomfortable, and again she wished she’d bitten her tongue. The last thing she wanted to do was spoil the carefree mood. But he answered her anyway.

  “’Twas an accident. He…he slipped with his sword when we were sparring.”

  She sensed there was more to the story than that, but perhaps it was for another time. Hoping to distract h
im from his solemnity, she nuzzled his neck, tickling him with her hair, and planted a kiss on the old injury.

  Lying back, she let her fingers spread across the lovely expanse of his chest, searching for flaws. There were none. But the cap of his shoulder bore a jagged scar a few inches long. “Here?”

  “Arrow wound.”

  She frowned. That seemed unlikely. A blade wound might be thus gnarled if it was inflicted with a cruel twist of the wrist, but arrow wounds were generally clean.

  As if he perceived her thoughts, he added, “The point had to be dug out.”

  A strange unexpected surge of protectiveness rose in her as she imagined someone gouging into Rand’s flesh. She muttered, “The physician must have been a butcher.”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “I was the physician.”

  She looked into his beautiful brown eyes. Surely he wasn’t serious. But as she stared at him, he gave her a sheepish shrug.

  She shook her head in amazement. What a remarkable man he was. Miriel prided herself on having a high threshold of pain, but she couldn’t imagine digging an arrow point out of her own shoulder. With renewed respect, she pressed a reverent kiss upon his damaged skin.

  He lifted himself higher on his arms, allowing her access to his belly. At his lowermost rib was a dark bruise. She slid her thumb lightly across the place. “This is new.”

  “Ah,” he said, glancing down at it. “That’s from my battle with The Shadow. ’Tis nothing.”

  A secret smile curved her lips. Naturally he’d say that. He’d never admit The Shadow had bested him.

  She glanced again at the black bruise. She wasn’t about to disengage from her enjoyable position to kiss him there. His loins were warm upon her, and every time he shifted, his prickly hair brushed tantalizingly against her sensitive woman’s mound, arousing her. Instead, she pressed a kiss to her fingertips and touched the bruise.

  Before she could withdraw her hand, he took hold of it, guiding her down his belly. There was smoky mischief in his eyes as he pressed her fingers against the verge of his curly thatch where his inner thigh met his loins. She was surprised to discover a small ridged scar there.

  She didn’t hear his convoluted explanation for that injury, for she was too distracted by what lay just a few inches away, the place where their two bodies converged. Joined together there, they seemed one creature, and the sight excited her. Her muscles tensed around him as she began, incredibly, to crave him once again.

  Ignoring his chatter, she boldly moved her hand inward until she touched the place where they were united, the velvety flesh of his cock and her own soft, womanly folds. He shivered once at her touch, and she felt his staff stir inside her.

  “Lady, you sore tempt me,” he whispered, “to embark on another ride.”

  “Mm. This time, I’ll hold the reins.”

  And so she did. She rolled him over and rode astride him, slowly at first, languorously rising and falling upon the saddle of his hips, enjoying the delicious tug of his flesh within hers. But her slow ride soon turned into a rollicking, rocking gallop. Her eager movements jostled her breasts and tangled her hair as she tossed her head in rapture.

  Rand’s eyes were closed tight, his jaw clenched, his brow beaded with sweat. He seemed to suffer an agony of pleasure. Watching his beautiful, tortured face increased the intensity of her passions, and very soon she found herself riding toward that cliff’s edge, leaping off into the deep chasm of release.

  He followed her, furrowing his brow as if in anguish while every muscle tightened with amazing power. When he found his own climax, he cried out like a wounded man, pumping deeply into her still-contracting womb. When he was spent, he relaxed beneath her, trembling like a weary palfrey after a hard day’s ride.

  Her heart swelled then, both with the heady thrill of controlling the wild steed of their desire and with the affection she felt when she looked down at Rand. He lay quiet now, as limp as a shipwrecked sailor washed up on the shore. Yet there was no mistaking his bridled strength. A moment ago, he’d raged like a thunderstorm. Yet now he seemed as vulnerable as a child.

  Overwhelmed by a flood of tenderness and weary from lovemaking, she sank onto his chest, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and closed her eyes.

  His arms enfolded her, and the sound of his heartbeat, her complete satiation, and the warmth of the sunlight streaming in the window combined to make a lullaby that sent her drifting off to a pleasant oblivion. There she dreamed of wet kisses and sparkling brown eyes and marrying Sir Rand.

  Rand had no bones left in his body. He was sure Miriel had melted every one. Never had he felt such fierce joy, such utter completion. By the Saints, it was almost as if he had been a virgin till this moment.

  Miriel had taken him to a place he’d never been before, to a safe harbor of love and acceptance. And he didn’t want to sail away from that harbor. Indeed, making love to her felt so right that he didn’t want to lie with another woman the rest of his life.

  It was a startling realization, yet he’d known for several days now that if she was willing, and if her family approved, he intended to make Miriel his bride. He’d have never been able to accept the gift of her virginity otherwise. He’d grown to appreciate Rivenloch—the lush landscape, the engaging castle folk, the magnificent fighting force. But his love for Lady Miriel exceeded everything else.

  How he’d persuade her kin to let her wed a bastard, he didn’t know. He had to trust that his fighting skills, his friendship, and his loyalty would be enough to convince them of his worth.

  He cradled the lovely lass against his shoulder while she dozed. The sound of her slow breathing was comforting, like the soft patter of rain on thatch, and her breath warmed the place over his heart. He rested his chin atop her head and idly rubbed a lock of her hair between his thumb and finger, marveling at its silky texture.

  She was an amazing woman. On the surface, she seemed as fragile as a rose. But the more time he spent with her, the more he realized that the frail flower had a stem made of steel.

  Maybe other men would be repelled by such a maid. They preferred their wives docile, mild, and compliant. But Rand admired women of strength and wit, courage and conviction. Though he was still only beginning to graze the surface of Miriel’s character, and though she seemed to take great pains to hide her brave and independent nature, he sensed she was such a woman.

  He saw it in the mischievous twinkle of her innocent eyes, heard it in the clever lies she told without blinking, felt it in her brazen, passionate lovemaking.

  Miriel was a singular woman. Maybe, he dared to hope, she was unconventional enough to look past his bastard birth and forgive his past sins as a common mercenary. He was half noble, after all. His father might be a drunken monster, but he was a lord. And as for Rand’s occupation, he would gladly give it up for a place in Rivenloch’s army.

  Maybe he could prove worthy of Miriel’s love.

  The precious damsel sighed in her sleep, and her hand curled upon his chest as if laying claim to him.

  He didn’t mind. Not at all. There was nothing he wanted more than to belong to Miriel of Rivenloch.

  Chapter 18

  Miriel was accustomed to getting her way. No matter how submissive she appeared, she could manipulate her way into almost anything. So while she mimicked Sung Li’s taijiquan postures by the light of the rising sun, her mind was a thousand miles away, musing over the ways she could entice Sir Rand to ask for her hand.

  It had to be soon. Miriel was not naive. She knew there was a slim possibility he’d planted a babe in her womb yesterday. Indeed, the idea that she might already carry his child was curiously pleasing.

  “Do not smile,” Sung Li intoned over his shoulder. How the old man could tell she was smiling, Miriel didn’t know. Perhaps he had eyes at the back of his head.

  She tried to comply, but all she could think about was the soul-shaking intensity of coupling with Rand the day before and the heart-melting pleasure
of lying in his arms afterward. She never wanted to lose that bliss.

  Sung Li lunged slowly to the right, and Miriel mirrored the movement, though her legs quivered from the exertions of yesterday’s lovemaking.

  She couldn’t tell anyone what she’d done, of course. Not her sisters. Or Sung Li. Especially Sung Li. They would call her careless and irresponsible for surrendering her maidenhead to a man not yet wedded to her.

  But she intended to remedy that. Very soon.

  Sung Li swept his arm out in a broad arc. She shadowed him. At least, she thought she shadowed him. But when he whipped his head around, and snapped, “Pay heed!”, she realized she was using the opposite arm.

  He scowled in disgust. “You are not worthy of your master today.”

  She gulped. He was right. She wasn’t concentrating. “I am sorry, xiansheng.”

  “We are finished,” he said with solemn finality.

  Her face fell. “Aye, xiansheng.” She wanted to counter him, to apologize, to somehow make amends for the insult. But it was useless to argue with Sung Li once he’d made a decree.

  The fact that he’d cut their exercises short was a serious chastisement for Miriel. From the very first moment he’d come home with her, he’d explained that his life from that day forward would be dedicated to her, that he would train her in the ancient and sacred ways of his people. He made her realize it was a precious gift he gave her, a secret knowledge few were privileged to learn. It was a great affront to Sung Li for her to give less than her complete attention to his instruction.

  Perhaps he would forgive her tomorrow, but for now he was clearly finished with her. He snatched his maidservant’s garb from the hook on the wall and shook out the skirts with a sharp snap before donning them over his linen trews.

  Miriel bowed respectfully to him, then sat forlornly on the bed, letting guilt seep into her bones.

  “The Night will swallow the Shadow soon,” Sung Li said, so faintly that Miriel hardly heard him.

  “What?”