Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1)

by Glynnis Campbell

  Deirdre bit her lip, seriously considering the challenge. Her odds of besting Hel were good, since she fought with far more control than her quick-tempered sister. And Deirdre was impatient enough with Hel’s foolishness to take her up on her offer at once and see the matter settled. Almost.

  But there were still the spies on the hill to deal with. And unless she was mistaken, that was Miriel hastening across the meadow toward them.

  “Hush!” Deirdre hissed. “Miriel comes. We’ll speak no more of this.” Deirdre squeezed the water from her hair. “The Normans should arrive in a day or two. I’ll make my decision by nightfall. In the meantime, keep Miriel here. I have something to attend to.”

  “The men on the hill?”

  Deirdre blinked. “You know?”

  Hel lifted a sardonic brow. “How could I not? The sound of their drool hitting the sod would wake the dead. You’re sure you don’t need assistance?”

  “There can’t be more than two or three.”

  “Two. And they’re highly distracted.”

  “Good. Keep them that way.”

  “God be praised,” Colin said under his breath, "here comes the third." He nodded toward the delicate, dark-haired figure scampering across the grassy field sloping down to the pond, disrobing as she came. “Lord, she's a pretty one, sweet and small, like a succulent little cherry."

  Pagan had suspected the last sister might be missing a limb or several teeth or most of her wits. But though she looked frail and less imposing than her curvaceous sisters, she, too, possessed a body to shame a goddess. He could only shake his head in wonder.

  “Sweet Mary, Pagan,” Colin said with a sigh as the third maid jumped into the pond, and they began splashing about like disporting sirens. “Whose arse did you kiss? The King’s himself?”

  Pagan frowned, bending a stem of heather between his fingers. What had he done to deserve his pick of these beauties? Aye, he’d served David in battle several times, but he’d met the King in Scotland only once, at Moray. David had seemed to like him well enough, and Pagan had saved a number of the King’s men from walking into a rebel ambush that day. But surely that was no more than any commander would have done.

  "Why would David hand over such a prize?" he pondered aloud. "And why to me?"

  Colin snickered in amusement. “Come, Pagan, are you so unaccustomed to good fortune that you’d cast it away when it’s dropped into your lap?”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “Aye, something’s wrong,” Colin said, at last tearing his attention away from the three maids to focus on Pagan. “You’ve lost your wits.”

  “Have I? Or am I right to suspect there may be a serpent in this garden?”

  Colin’s eyes narrowed wickedly. “The only serpent is the one writhing beneath your sword belt, Pagan.”

  Maybe Colin was right. It was difficult to think straight when his braies were strained to bursting. “Tell me again, what exactly did Boniface say?”

  Pagan never rode onto a field of combat blind. It was what had kept him alive through a score of campaigns. Two days earlier he’d sent Boniface, his trusted squire, in the guise of a jongleur, to learn what he could about Rivenloch. It was Boniface who had alerted them to the daughters' intention to bathe in the pond this morn.

  Colin rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, recounting what the squire had reported. “He said the lord’s wits are addled. He has a weakness for dice, wagers high, and loses often. And, oh, aye,” he seemed to suddenly remember. “He said the old man keeps no steward. He apparently intends to pass the castle on to his eldest daughter.”

  “His daughter?” This was news to Pagan.

  Colin shrugged. “They’re Scots,” he said, as if that would explain it all.

  Pagan furrowed his brow in thought. “With Stephen claiming the English throne, King David needs strong forces to command the Border lands,” he mused, “not wenches.”

  Colin snapped his fingers. “Well, that’s it, then. Who better to command Rivenloch than the illustrious Sir Pagan? ‘Tis known far and wide that the Cameliard knights have no peer.” Colin turned, eager to get back to his spying.

  In the pond below, the voluptuous wench playfully shook her head, spattering her giggling sister and jiggling her weighty breasts in a manner that made Pagan instantly iron hard. Beside him, Colin groaned, whether in bliss or pain, he wasn’t sure.

  Suddenly realizing the significance of that groan, Pagan cuffed him on the shoulder.

  “What’s that for?” Colin hissed.

  “That’s for leering at my bride.”

  “Which one’s your bride?”

  They both returned their gazes to the pool.

  Pagan would be forever appalled at the lapse of his warrior instincts at that moment. But by the time he heard the soft footfall behind him, it was too late to do anything about it. Colin never heard it at all. He was too busy feasting his eyes. “Wait. I see only two now. Where’s the blonde?”

  Behind him, a feminine voice said distinctly, “Here.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Pagan didn’t dare turn to look. Her blade pressed firmly against a pulsing vein in his throat. Beside him, Colin sputtered in surprise and toppled backwards to stare up at her, and if Pagan hadn’t been furious with himself for letting down his guard, he might have laughed at the sight.

  “Are you lads not a bit old to be spying upon maids at their bath?” Her voice was throaty and mocking. “I thought to find beardless boys up here, not men full grown.”

  The clever wench must have skirted round the base of the hill, climbed up, then descended behind them. Humiliation burned Pagan’s ears, and it was only made worse by the fact that instead of coming to his aid, Colin half-reclined upon his elbows with an awestruck expression that told him the blonde was even more beautiful at this proximity. He wondered if she was still naked.

  “You’re not from here,” she guessed. “What are you doing on these lands?”

  Pagan refused to answer. He owed the woman no explanation. “These lands” would soon belong to him.

  But Colin, the traitor, was easily charmed out of his silence. “We meant no offense, my lady,” he said when he’d gathered his wits, “I assure you.” He grinned, making his emerald eyes dance in a way that never failed to beguile the wenches. “You see, we’re friends of Boniface...the jongleur.”

  While Colin kept her entertained, Pagan took advantage of the distraction to slip his hand slowly down his side and along his calf. If he could retrieve the dagger from his boot...

  Colin raised his brows in feigned innocence and chattered on. “An innkeeper told us he’d passed this way. We only wished to meet up with him. We never meant to intrude upon—“

  The sword point suddenly dug into the flesh of Pagan’s neck, in violent contrast to the lilting sound of the woman’s voice, which poured over him like heather honey. “That had better be an itch you’re reaching for.”

  He clenched his fist. Damn! He was a warrior, a commander of knights. To be held at sword’s point by a maid... God’s wounds, it was humiliating. And doubtless Colin would never let him hear the end of it. “What do you want?” he growled.

  “What do I want?” she mused. “Hmm. What do I want? I think...” She swung the sword down to slap Pagan's thighs irreverently with the flat of the blade. But before he could react, she had it back at his throat. “Your trews.”

  Choked laughter came from Colin’s quarter.

  She chuckled softly in return. “Yours as well.”

  Colin's smile froze upon his face. “Me? You want me to take off my...trews?”

  “Aye.”

  Pagan’s ire rose. “Halfwit!” he snapped at Colin, who actually looked to be enjoying this exchange. “Seize her sword. Bloody hell, she’s only a woman, a bit of a thing. Are you going to cower there like a—“

  Colin laughed. “She’s not a bit of a thing at all, are you, lass? Besides, if the lady wants my braies, I’ll be glad to oblige.” Colin stood, dropped hi
s sword belt, stepped out of his boots, and began loosening the ties of his hose. “After all, ‘tis only fair. I had a peek at her best parts.”

  Colin’s enthusiasm as he stripped off his hose and braies only fueled Pagan’s anger. But to both of their surprise, when at last Colin stood brazenly before her, his staff stretching his long tunic out like the center pole on a pavilion, the woman seemed indifferent to his manly display.

  With her free hand, she scooped up his discarded sword belt and heaved it down the hill, where it tangled in a clump of thistles. “Now you,” she said, prodding Pagan with the point of her sword.

  Pagan thought not. Colin might consent to playing the lady’s pet, grinning there like a fool in naught but his tunic, but Pagan was not about to concede anything to a woman over whom he would shortly become master.

  “Nay,” he said.

  “Come now,” she urged. “‘Tis fitting payment for your spying.”

  “‘Tis no crime to spy upon that which is so wantonly displayed,” he chided. She’d already wounded his knightly pride. He wasn’t about to let her win a battle of wills as well.

  Her voice gained a hard edge. “Take off your trews. Now.”

  “Nay,” he said just as stonily.

  Though the blade never moved from his neck, the woman shifted behind him, bending down to whisper in his ear. “You are dangerously arrogant, sirrah.” Her warm breath sent a shiver through him, and the scent of her freshly washed skin was perilously distracting. But he refused to acknowledge her.

  At his silence, she circled around to the front of him, crouching until she was directly in his line of vision. He had no choice but to look at her. What he saw made his heart stagger and his mouth go dry.

  Thank God, she was no longer naked, or else lust would have crushed all the will from him. Even so, his rage melted instantly, and it was difficult for him to form thoughts, much less words.

  She was as beautiful as a dewy summer morn. Her hair, drying now into wavy tendrils, seemed painted with sunshine, and her eyes shone as clear and blue as the sky. Her skin was so golden, it looked like it would be warm to the touch, and her lips were a pale pink that Pagan longed to make rosier with kisses. He lowered his eyes to the sweet hollow between her breasts. A silver Thor’s hammer hung from a chain there, in harsh contrast to her delicate flesh.

  Her voice was soft now. “Is it truly worth your life?” There was a curious flutter in her eyes, as if she didn’t quite believe he would refuse her demands.

  He swallowed hard. If she’d thought to disarm him with her beauty, it was a commendable ploy. And it worked to some extent. But as he continued to gaze upon her gentle, lovely, feminine face, he realized a significant truth, glimpsed a chink in her armor. For all her boldness and brash words, she was only a woman. And a woman’s heart was tender, compassionate.

  The blade menacing his throat was but her plaything. She would never use it on him. She was a wench, no more dangerous than a kitten, incapable of such violence.

  “You won’t slay me,” he breathed, challenging her gaze.

  A frown flickered across her brow. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

  Pagan didn’t believe her for an instant.

  Colin, troubled by the serious turn of the exchange, broke in with a chuckle. “Peace, friends. We needn’t let this become so grave a matter. Come, take off your braies like a good lad, eh, Pagan?”

  At his words, faint alarm streaked across the maid’s features like lightning, vanishing again so quickly that Pagan wondered if he’d imagined it.

  She drew herself to her feet then, towering before him like a conqueror. Colin was right. She was hardly a bit of a thing. Indeed, she must stand almost as tall as he. And her voice was as commanding as her height. “Your trews, sirrah. Now.”

  Pagan narrowed his eyes at her hips, which were encircled by a knight's heavy, iron-buckled leather sword belt, yet draped in a damsel’s soft blue kirtle.

  “Nay,” he challenged.

  A long silence grew between them, charging the air like a growing current before a storm.

  And then lightning struck.

  It was so unexpected and so swift that at first Pagan didn’t feel it.

  “Holy Mother!” Colin gasped.

  An instant later, a sharp sting burned across Pagan’s chest.

  It was impossible. Unfathomable.

  Stunned, he lifted his fingers to the place. They came back bloody.

  The wench had cut him. The sweet-faced, soft-voiced, azure-eyed wench had sliced his flesh.

  Before he could gather his wits to launch a counterattack, she whipped the blade back up to his throat, and he was forced to crouch there like a wounded animal while blood from the shallow cut seeped into his sliced tunic.

  He’d been wrong about her. Utterly wrong. No remorse softened her cool stare. No pity. No mercy. She might well kill him without blinking an eye.

  Never had he seen such strength of will in a woman. And only in the most ruthless warriors had he glimpsed such icy resolve. It both impressed and infuriated him. Huddling there, helpless, glaring at her in silent rage, he couldn’t decide which he felt for her, admiration or hatred.

  “Sweet Mary,” Colin said hoarsely to the woman, “do you know what you’ve done?”

  Her stare never wavered. “I gave him fair warning.”

  “Oh, lady,” Colin said, shaking his head, “you’ve baited the bear now.”

  “‘Tis but a scratch,” she told him, narrowing her gaze upon Pagan and adding, “to remind him who wields the sword here.”

  “But, my lady,” Colin pressed, “do you know who—“

  ”Let it be,” Pagan interrupted, staring back at her and allowing a subtle, wicked smile to lift one corner of his mouth. “I’ll do as the lady wills.”

  For now, he thought. But in a few days, nay, by morn, he would claim Rivenloch for his own. He’d chosen his bride now. Come the morrow, he’d marry the third sister—the small, delicate, biddable-looking one, the one who appeared as if she wouldn’t hurt a flea. As for this wench, he’d lock her up for her impertinence. He couldn’t wait to see the ice of her composure crack when he informed her she’d be spending the next month in Rivenloch’s dungeon.

  Deirdre’s heart pounded fiercely, but she willed her bones not to tremble. The slightest quiver in her gaze could prove deadly. She’d come this far, and now, knowing who she faced, she dared not back down, lest the Norman presume she was the kind of woman he could intimidate.

  Still, she wished she’d dealt with his defiance more diplomatically. Responding with such a blow was unworthy of her. It was the kind of violence more suited to quick-tempered Helena. It shamed Deirdre to admit she’d been startled from reason. But hearing the name Pagan attached to the man she’d thought only a harmless, mischievous knave had come as a shock. And enduring the steadfast scrutiny of those smoldering eyes—so fearless, so insolent, so bold—had utterly unnerved her. In alarm, she’d lashed out at him.

  She’d expected to dispense with the spies quickly and easily. On first approach, she’d correctly guessed that the grinning black-haired varlet was benign, and so she’d trained her sword upon the other, more dangerous-looking man. But she’d underestimated the full extent of his cunning. And though she’d rather die than admit it to anyone, when she’d finally glimpsed Pagan’s face, she’d been more than a little shaken by the fact that he was the most handsome man she’d ever beheld. Indeed, she’d expected the coming Norman steward to be far more...stewardly. And far less young, far less magnificent.

  Even now, it was difficult to look upon him, standing before her but a sword’s length away, without noting the gray-green allure of his eyes, the rich tousle of his tawny curls, the strong angle of his jaw, the curving mouth that seemed to beckon...intriguing her...enticing her...inviting her to...

  She jerked her gaze back to his eyes. Lord, what was she thinking? It didn’t matter that he was handsome. This was her foe. This was the Norman bastard who’d come
to claim her castle and her lands. A hot shiver coursed uninvited through her body as she remembered what else he’d come to claim.

  She forced her brows into a frigid scowl. Had he discerned her distraction? The wavering of her resolve? Indeed, a subtle light altered his gaze. It might well be amusement. Or satisfaction. Neither boded well.

  She steeled herself as he pulled off his boots, unbuckled his belt, and began tugging at the points of his hose, all with deliberate leisure. Bloody hell, her palms were sweating. The haft of the sword was slippery in her hand. If she wasn’t careful, it would slide out of her grasp.

  “Make haste,” she muttered.

  His eyelids dipped with suggestive insolence as he removed his hose. “Patience, my lady,” he murmured.

  She longed to strike him again, but fought the urge. He mustn’t learn how he provoked her or she’d hold no sway over him. Ever.

  Still, against her will, her gaze kept flitting to where his fingers now deftly loosened the laces of his trews. His knuckles were battle-scarred, but his hands moved with a sure grace and dexterity that made her knees go strangely weak.

  Then, without ceremony and before she could brace herself, he hauled his trews down.

  She gulped. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen scores of naked men before. Spending half her days in the armory, it was inevitable. But even the glance she gave his briefly exposed nether parts rattled her, for though he seemed generously endowed, he was also flaccid, proving he wasn’t moved by her beauty, as other men invariably were. Which meant she had one less weapon in her arsenal.

  Bloody hell.

  His eyes sparkled dangerously, like sunlight on a raging sea. “Now what?” he asked softly, holding his braies aloft. “Do you wish to see if they fit you?”

  If he thought to insult her, he failed. From the time Deirdre had wielded her first sword and worn her first chain mail, she’d suffered ridicule from men and women alike. She was hardened by years of insults, which she’d learned to answer, at first with a blade and later with indifference.