Pagan’s scowl deepened. What nonsense was Colin spouting now? The only use he had for small creatures was to eat them, and as for the harp...
“Pah! You’re late!” Lord Gellir barked abruptly.
Pagan looked up from his roast coney. God’s eyes, it was about time. Walking with measured leisure across the rushes toward the high table, their faces proud and lovely, were Miriel’s sisters. If they were this late to supper when he was lord, he decided, he’d let them go hungry.
Pagan thought he’d etched the blonde’s face upon his mind, but he saw that his memory did her an injustice. She wasn’t only beautiful. She was breathtaking. Stately and elegant now in a kirtle of sky-blue silk, she glided across the flagstones with the sure grace of a cat. Her sister followed, dressed in pale saffron, looking warily about, as if, given the right provocation, she might suddenly leap atop one of the tables.
Even Colin’s chatter dwindled off as the magnificent sisters made their way across the hall.
Unbidden, Pagan’s pulse quickened, and he felt the wound the blonde had dealt him throb beneath his tunic.
For hours, he’d imagined the look of utter shock on her face when she discovered his identity, relished her mortification when she realized what a foolish thing she’d done in attacking her future lord.
But his thirst for her humiliation was not to be quenched. Her countenance as she calmly met his gaze was as cool as ice. Not only did she seem unsurprised by his presence, but she looked utterly unashamed. The brazen wench! Had she known all along who he was? If so, then her actions had been cold and calculated. The witch had provoked him deliberately.
As she neared, her eyes glittering like icy stars, the anticipation of delicious vengeance hastened his heart. All afternoon, while his cut seeped and the breezes taunted his bare legs, he’d envisioned taming the wayward wench. He’d thought of locking her in the tower with nothing but bread and water. He’d imagined putting her in the stocks in nothing but her shift. He’d pondered cutting off an inch of her precious golden locks every day until she yielded to him. And now that his revenge was close enough to taste, it was only natural he should savor it like rare Spanish wine.
But somehow, as he watched her draw closer—her unbound hair shimmering in the candlelight, her bosom pressing gently against the low neckline of her kirtle, her lips full and ripe and rosy—thoughts of these punishments took on a distinctly sensual air. He was abruptly assailed by visions of her nibbling bread from his fingers as she knelt chained in the tower. He imagined her in those stocks, shivering in her shift as the wind whipped it to sinful transparency against her lithe curves. He saw his hands delving into her silken sunlit tresses as he drew that knife to slice them from her, inch by tortuous inch.
Curse his errant thoughts, they were heating his blood and awakening his cock. Damn! There was only one thing worse than being subjugated by a woman with a weapon, he decided, and that was being subjugated by one’s own lust for her.
“My eldest daughters,” Lord Gellir said by way of introduction, gesturing to them with a leg bone from his coney carcass.
Pagan briefly met the blonde’s gaze and gave her a careful nod. She apparently didn’t intend to disclose their earlier meeting. Then neither would he. But he noted that since he’d seen her last, she’d earned a tiny scratch along her cheekbone. He wondered where she’d gotten it.
“Sorry, Father,” the second sister said, taking a seat next to Merewyn...Mildryth...Margaret...
By the Saints, why couldn’t he remember his bride’s name?
“We were in the lists,” she added, turning a challenging glare upon Colin and him.
“Ah,” the lord said, munching on a scrap of meat. “Who won?”
“Helena won, Father,” the blonde beauty replied, slipping onto the bench between her sisters. “Of course, I let her win.”
“Let me?” Helena flared. “The hell you did. I—“
”Helena!” the youngest sister softly intervened. “We have...guests.”
“Oh,” Helena said, letting her gaze travel derisively up and down the pair of them as if she were sizing up warhorses for combat. “Aye.”
“This is Sir Colin du Lac,” Pagan’s bride politely continued, “and this...” She didn’t exactly shudder, but he could feel her distaste as she introduced him. “This is Sir Pagan Cameliard. Sir Colin, Sir Pagan, these are my sisters, Lady Helena and Lady Deirdre of Rivenloch.”
Deirdre. Ah. From the Thor’s hammer hanging about her throat, he’d expected her name to be of Viking origin—something ugly like Grimhilde or Gullveig. He lowered his gaze. The piece still nestled there upon the sweet, supple flesh of her...
Colin found his voice first. “‘Tis a pleasure to meet you.”
Helena smirked with false courtesy, then shook out her napkin and draped it over her lap. She elbowed her sister and grumbled, “You know I’m your better, Deir. Let me win indeed.”
“Win?” Colin snapped up the bait. “Win what, my ladies?”
Helena turned to him then with her full attention, as if she’d been waiting for just this chance to shock him, and said distinctly, “Our sword fight.”
“Your sword fight?” Colin asked with a dubious smile. He doubtless thought "sword fight" was a Scots game of some sort. Pagan suspected otherwise.
Helena shot Colin a sly smirk. Pagan frowned, caring for neither her cunning or her cockiness. They were traits he’d have to guard against in the future. At least Deirdre, for all the ice in her veins, seemed honest and forthright.
Helena turned to face her father then, though she blatantly spoke for Colin’s benefit. “You should have seen it, Father. Deirdre came at me and would have lopped my head from my shoulders. But I threw aside her attack, jabbed left and thrust right, then ducked under, rolled forward, pinned her against the fence and set my blade at her throat.”
For the first time in his life, Colin was left speechless. But Pagan, his suspicions all but confirmed, looked to Deirdre. Her smile was one of smug reassurance. Oh, aye. It was true. The lasses were both accomplished swordswomen.
And now, by the queer prickling at the back of his neck, he began to understand why the King had offered him, Sir Pagan Cameliard, captain of the most highly respected Norman fighting force, this particular dish of sweetmeats. They were laced with a poison no man but the strongest could survive. Only the most clever, the most capable, the most competent commander of men could ever hope to tame these warrior wenches.
CHAPTER 4
"You've never heard of the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch?" Helena asked around a mouthful of boiled neeps.
One corner of Pagan's lip lifted in a sardonic smile. "Word of your exploits has not reached the greater world as yet," he drawled.
Deirdre raised her cup in a subtle salute. His barb had been well placed.
Helena, however, took exception at the insult. "Well, we've never heard of the Knights of Cameliard either."
Colin seemed genuinely surprised. "Nay?"
Pagan arched a brow. "Rivenloch is rather...remote."
Deirdre saw Helena's fist tighten around her knife and placed a restraining hand on her sister's forearm.
Indeed, she had to admire the Norman. He was quick-witted and cleverer than most. Indeed, she was beginning to wonder if the fighting force he boasted of even existed. It was likely just this pair of them sojourning across the land, calling themselves the "Knights of Cameliard" and inventing tales of daring exploits.
She let her gaze drift over Pagan's curious attire. The man was apparently as resourceful as he was witty. He’d used what could have turned into a humiliating episode to his advantage. He and his companion had found a pair of plaids somewhere, draped them over one shoulder and pinned them at the hip, in the Scots style, not only disguising their lack of trews, but endearing themselves to the people of Rivenloch by dressing like them.
At least, Deirdre reflected, she’d be wedding a man with brains.
As Helena continued torturing thei
r guests, trying to shock and horrify them with gruesome tales of her past battles, Deirdre sipped at her ale, studying the man who would soon be her husband.
He was incredibly well-favored. His hair, the color of gold-dusted chestnuts, spilled rampantly over his ears, down his neck, upon his brow. His sun-darkened skin seemed to glow in the firelight. The bones of his face were strong and broad, his stubbled jaw scarred faintly along its edge by what might have been a blade. His eyes, focused intently now on Helena, reminded her of Highland woods in the mist, gray and green and deceptive. A woman might lose her way in those woods, she reminded herself, tearing her gaze away to peruse the ale in her cup.
“He dresses all in black,” Hel was telling Colin du Lac, serving herself a second roast coney. “People call him The Shadow. He hides in the trees, waiting for victims, and no one has been able to...”
Deirdre let her gaze drift back to Sir Pagan Cameliard. As he listened to Hel’s tale of the local outlaw, likely as amused by her healthy appetite as by her story, he lazily ran his middle finger around the rim of his cup. Deirdre found herself spellbound by the movement. His hands looked brutal and heavy, marred by scars and calluses, yet to be capable of such subtle gestures...
Her heart fluttered inexplicably, and she laced her fingers around her own cup to still their trembling.
As Hel droned on about the mysterious thief who lived in the forest, she saw Pagan’s mouth shift almost imperceptibly. What had been a grim line of disapproval now softened until the corners curved slightly upwards.
Deirdre raised her eyes in surprise. God’s wounds, the man was staring at her. And smiling. A secret, knowing smile full of dire promise and palpable threat.
She glanced away, clenching her silver cup so tightly in her fist that she felt the soft metal yield. She might have to marry the man, but she’d never let him believe he had any manner of control over her.
Nor would she ever reveal that she found the idea of wedding him to be anything less than completely loathsome.
Nay, she had to seize the reins now, before he took them in his own hands and bore her away to some dark lair to wreak his revenge.
She took a deep, steadying breath, set her cup upon the table, and interrupted Hel’s graphic discourse, which was turning poor, weak-hearted Miriel as white as her napkin.
“So, Father,” she said without preamble, “have you had the marriage documents drawn up?”
He nodded. “Oh, aye,” he said around the wad of neeps in his mouth, “drawn up, settled, and signed.”
Deirdre exchanged a frown with Hel. “Settled?”
“Signed?” Hel asked, nearly choking on a bite of meat.
“Aye,” he told them happily. “No need to worry, Edwina. I’ve called the priest, and we’ll have the wedding come morn.”
Deirdre winced as he called her by their mother’s name. “Morn? But we’ve not been consulted, Father. Which of us—“
”I’ve agreed to wed him,” Miriel said in a rush.
For a full three heartbeats, Deirdre and Hel could only stare at their little sister.
“What?” Deirdre finally managed in a whisper of disbelief. “But Miriel... There must be some mis-”
Hel slammed her fist on the table, rattling the dishes. “Nay!” She rounded on Pagan. “Curse you, Norman. Could you not wait to meet all three of us? Did you have to choose so hastily?”
Miriel set her fingertips lightly upon Hel’s forearm. “Helena, don’t be angry with him. ‘Twasn’t his choice," she said softly. “‘Twas mine.”
Another silence ensued as Miriel’s words sank in.
“Your choice,” Hel finally echoed in amazement.
Deirdre said nothing. She felt suddenly ill, as if her world had been spun awry. One look at Miriel’s wide blue eyes and her quivering lips told her the truth. Her little sister had sacrificed herself before Deirdre ever had the chance.
Hel whipped around to their father and hissed, “How could you let her do this?”
“Helena!” Deirdre snapped at her ill-mannered sister. As irresponsible as the old man had been of late, he was still their lord. He deserved their respect. Deirdre spoke to him as evenly as she could. “The troth has been signed and sealed then?”
“Oh, aye, all taken care of,” her father cheerfully replied, oblivious to their distress. "We'll have the wedding in the morn."
She turned a grim gaze upon Hel, whose eyes smoldered like coals, and told her, “Then what’s done is done.”
A ponderous silence filled the air then, relieved only by the soft clatter of cups and knives and the busy chatter of the common folk at the lower tables. They supped on, ignorant of the drama taking place among the nobles, all but Sung Li, who, Deirdre noted, watched the proceedings from a distance with an almost eery intensity.
Hel continued to hold her tongue, as did Deirdre. Pagan had obviously approved the match. It was to his benefit, after all, to wed meek Miriel, a young lass who would never contest his authority.
But Deirdre didn’t intend to let that happen. Though she kept up a serene mien, inwardly her thoughts churned as furiously as a milkmaid late to rise. By supper’s end, she had a plan.
“By th’ Sain’s, I’ll no’ stan’ fer it,” Helena slurred, lending irony to her words by sliding off the edge of Deirdre’s bed and landing with a thump on the rush-covered planks of her bedchamber.
Deirdre rescued Hel’s half-empty cup of wine before it could spill, then grabbed her sister under the arms and hauled her upright again onto the bed.
Hel swayed for a moment, then continued her ranting. “We mus' do somethin’, Deir. We mus' take care o’ those mis’rable sons o’...sons o’...”
“Sons of Normans?” Deirdre prompted, refilling Hel’s cup.
“Aye,” Hel sneered, angrily snatching the cup and downing another generous gulp. She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, and Deirdre’s eyes widened as the long silk tippet swept perilously close to the flame of the tall candle beside her bed.
Deirdre lifted her own still-full cup. “Aye, here’s to the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch. May we always triumph.”
Hel nodded, her chin quivering with pride as she banged her cup against Deirdre’s. They drank together, but while Helena drained her cup, Deirdre took only a small sip. She needed her wits about her tonight.
Hel’s eyes rolled drunkenly, and her empty cup dropped onto the bed. Deirdre hoped her sister might swoon into slumber then and there. Then again, Hel could drink most men into the rushes. After a moment, Hel sighed and started muttering again, inventing vile new names for the Normans.
Deirdre glanced out her chamber window. The full moon was yet framed within the stone sill, but it moved steadily upwards. She had to hurry Helena along. There wasn’t much time.
She retrieved and filled Hel’s cup once more. “Let’s drink to Miriel.”
“Poor Miriel,” Hel wailed. “I tell ye, Deir, if that bloody knave ever lays a han’ on her, I swear...I swear...”
“Aye, let us swear to it then. If he touches her...” She raised her cup.
“We’ll kill ‘im,” Hel snarled. She gulped down a generous swallow, then slammed the cup down upon the chest at the foot of the bed.
Deirdre paused, then took a thoughtful sip. Pagan would never touch Miriel. Deirdre wouldn’t give him the chance.
“Ooh,” Hel exclaimed, pressing a hand betwixt her legs, likely in dire need of a chamberpot. “I better go.” She belched, then giggled and pushed herself up off the pallet, swayed for a moment until she could get her bearings, and slogged toward the door. “G’night. An’ don’ forget, Deirdre. You swore. You swore.”
The last Deirdre saw of Helena, she was swaggering and staggering and slurring along the hall to her own chamber, where she would hopefully find her chamberpot in time. With any luck, after that she’d fall upon her bed in a stupor and doze away half the morn.
Now Deirdre had to take care of her littlest sister.
Separating Miriel from
her meddlesome servant would be difficult. The strange little maid followed her everywhere, like a duckling scurrying after its mother.
But there was no time to waste. Deirdre gathered up the small satchel of supplies from her chamber and started toward Miriel’s room. As much as it grated against her sense of honor, Deirdre supposed she would have to deceive her little sister. It was for her own good.
Standing before the door with her hand raised, Deirdre hesitated. Was she doing the right thing? Maybe Miriel would be content with Pagan for a husband. Maybe her very sweetness would bring out the decency in him. Maybe she’d grow to cherish him, and he’d bow to her gentle nature.
Then she remembered the wicked smile Pagan had flashed her at supper, the one full of knowing menace. Nay, the man was too clever, too conniving to even comprehend that kind of innocence. If he was allowed to marry Miriel, he’d crush her heart as carelessly as a moth in his fist.
Resolute, she knocked upon the door.
Miriel was not yet dressed for bed, but, as predictable as the sun’s setting, Sung Li was laying out the linen dressing gown that she always insisted Miriel wear to bed. Deirdre could see by the modest old woman’s wrinkled pout that she was displeased at the intrusion.
“Deirdre, come in.” Miriel opened the door to allow her entrance.
Deirdre was tempted to simply grab her and run. It was so much more direct and honest than all this trickery. But Sung Li, for all her obsequiousness, could, when she had a mind to, make a commotion louder than a coop of hens threatened by a fox, chattering away in her odd and rapid tongue, and the last thing Deirdre needed was a flock of servants descending upon them.
“I bring a message from your...from Sir Pagan,” Deirdre lied. “He...” Demands your presence? Nay, that sounded too harsh. “Requests your company.”
“Now?” Miriel’s brow creased in puzzlement.
Deirdre could feel Sung Li’s mistrustful gaze upon her. She’d never been very good at lying. She nodded. “I’m to take you to him.”
Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) Page 4