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

by Glynnis Campbell

  She compressed her lips, as contrary as a child. Even now, with fire in her eyes and her mouth tight with mutiny, she was truly the most exquisite creature he’d ever beheld. Her tresses cascaded over her shoulders like the tumbling froth of a highland waterfall, and her curves were more seductive than the sinuous silhouette of a wine-filled goblet.

  She eyed him doubtfully, as if she suspected he might use the water to drown her on the spot.

  He supposed she had a right to doubt him. Only moments ago, in Pagan’s chamber, he’d threatened to, what was it? Take her where no one could hear her scream and break her of her wild ways at the crack of a whip? He winced, recalling his rash words.

  “Listen,” he confided, lowering the ewer, “I said I wouldn’t punish you until the marriage is accomplished. I’m a man of my word. As long as you don’t force my hand, I’ll do you no harm this eve.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, she parted her lips. He carefully poured a small amount of water into her mouth. As she swished the liquid around, he got the distinct impression she longed to spew it back into his face. But with his blade still at her throat, she didn’t dare. Leaning forward, she spit into the rushes.

  “Good. Come.”

  When they'd first arrived, Pagan’s betrothed had given them a tour of the Scots castle that would be their new home. Rivenloch was an impressive holding, probably magnificent in its day, a little worn, but reparable. The outer wall enclosed an enormous garden, an orchard, stables, kennels, mews, and a dovecote. A small stone chapel sat in the middle of the courtyard, and a dozen or more workshops slouched against the inner walls. A grand tiltyard and practice field stood at the far end of the property, and the imposing square keep at the heart of the holding included the great hall, numerous bedchambers, garderobes, a buttery, a pantry, and several cellars. It was to one of the storage rooms beneath the keep that he now conveyed his captive.

  Placing Helena before him, he descended the rough stone steps by the light of a candle set in the stairwell’s sconce. Below them, small creatures scuttled about on their midnight rounds. Colin felt a brief twinge of remorse, wondering if the cellars were infested with mice, if it was cruel to lock Helena in there, if she was afraid of the creatures. Just as quickly, he decided that a knife-wielding wench prowling about in a man’s chamber, prepared to stab him in his sleep, was likely afraid of very little.

  They’d almost reached the bottom of the stairs when the damsel made a faint moan and, as if her bones had melted away, abruptly withered in his arms.

  Knocked off-balance by the sudden weight against his chest, he slammed into the stone wall with one shoulder, cinching his arm around her waist so she wouldn’t fall. To prevent a nasty accident, he cast his knife away, and it clattered down the steps.

  Then she slumped forward, and he was pulled along with her. Only by sheer strength was he able to keep them from pitching headlong onto the cold, hard flagstones below. Even so, as he struggled down the last few steps, the coverlet snagged on his heel and slipped sideways on her body. He lost his grip upon her waist and made another desperate grab for her as her knees buckled.

  His hand closed on something soft and yielding as he slid off the last step and finally found his footing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Colin had fondled enough breasts to recognize the soft flesh pressed sweetly against his palm. But he dared not let go for fear she’d drop to the ground.

  In the next instant, she roused again, drawing in a huge gasp of outrage, and Colin knew he was in trouble. Luckily, since he’d received his share of slaps for past fondlings, he was prepared.

  As her arm came around, not with a chiding open palm, but a fist of potent fury, he released her and ducked back out of range. Her swing was so forceful that when it swished through empty air, it spun her halfway around.

  “Holy...” he breathed. Had the maid not been drunk, the punch would have certainly flattened him.

  “Y’ son of a...” she slurred. She blinked, trying to focus on him, her fists clenched in front of her as she planned her next strike. “Get yer hands off me. I’ll kick yer bloody Norm’n arse. Swear I will. S-“

  Her hands began to droop, and her eyes dimmed as she swayed left, then right, staggering back a step. Then whatever fight she had left in her fizzled out like the last wheezing draw on a wineskin. He rushed up, catching her just before she collapsed.

  Cradled against his flank, all the fury and fight gone out of her, she looked less like a warrior maid and more like the guileless Helena he’d first spied bathing in Rivenloch’s pond, the delectable Siren with sun-kissed skin and riotous tawny hair, the woman who’d splashed seductively through his dreams.

  Had that been only this morn? So much had transpired in the last few weeks.

  A fortnight ago, Sir Pagan had received orders from King David of Scotland to venture north to Rivenloch to claim one of Lord Gellir’s daughters. At the time, the King’s purpose had been a mystery. But now it was clear what he intended.

  King Henry’s death had left England in turmoil, with Stephen and Matilda grappling for control of the throne. That turmoil had fomented lawlessness along the Borders, where land-hungry English barons felt at liberty to seize unguarded Scots castles.

  King David had granted Pagan a bride and thus the stewardship of Rivenloch in the hopes of guarding the valuable keep against English marauders.

  Despite the King’s sanction, Pagan had proceeded with caution. He’d traveled with Colin in advance of his knights to ascertain the demeanor of the Rivenloch clan. The Normans might be allies of the Scots, but he doubted they’d receive a hearty reception if they arrived in full force, like a conquering army, to claim the lord’s daughter.

  As it turned out, he was right to be wary. Their reception, at least by the daughters, had been far less than hearty. But by God’s grace, by midday on the morrow, after the alliance was sealed by marriage, peace would reign. And the Scots, once they were made merry with drink and celebration, would surely welcome the full complement of the Knights of Cameliard to Rivenloch.

  Helena gave a snort in her sleep, and Colin smiled ruefully down at her. She’d offer him no word of welcome. Indeed, she’d likely prefer to slit his throat.

  He bent to slip one forearm behind her knees and hefted her easily into his arms.

  One of the small storerooms looked seldom used. It held little more than broken furnishings and tools, piles of rags, and various empty containers. It had a bolt on the outside and a narrow space under the door for air, which meant it had likely been employed at one time for just this purpose, as a gaol of sorts. It was an ideal place to store a wayward wench for the night.

  He spread the coverlet atop an improvised pallet of rags to make a bed for her. She might be an assassin, but she was also a woman. She deserved at least a small measure of comfort.

  After he tucked the coverlet about her shoulders, he couldn’t resist combing back a stray tendril of her lush golden-brown hair to place a smug kiss upon her forehead. “Sleep well, little Hel-hound.”

  He exited, closing and bolting the door behind him, and then sat back against it, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. Perhaps he could steal one last hour of sleep before morning.

  If all went well, by afternoon the deed would be done, and the rest of the Cameliard company would arrive. Once Pagan was decisively wed, it would be safe to release Helena.

  He marveled again over the curious Scots maid. She was unlike any woman he’d ever met—bold and cocksure, yet undeniably feminine. At supper, she’d boasted of being an expert swordswoman, a claim none of her fellow Scots had disputed. And she’d regaled him with a tale of the local outlaw, trying to shock him with gruesome details that would have unnerved a lesser woman. She’d exhibited the most unbridled temper when her father announced Miriel’s marriage, cursing and slamming her fist on the table, her outburst checked only by the chiding of her older sister. And her appetite... He chuckled as he remembered watching her smack the grease f
rom her fingers. The damsel had eaten enough to satisfy two grown men.

  And yet she inhabited the most womanly form. His loins swelled with the memory of her naked in the pond—the flicker of her curved buttocks as she dove under the waves, the gentle bounce of her full breasts as she splashed her sisters, her sleek thighs, narrow waist, flashing teeth, the carefree toss of her sun-streaked hair as she cavorted in the water like a playful colt...

  He sighed. There was no use getting his braies in a wad over a damsel who currently slumbered in drunken oblivion on the other side of the door.

  Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Helena was unique. Intriguing. Vibrant. He’d never met a woman so headstrong, so untamed. As fresh and wild as Scotland itself. And as unpredictable.

  Indeed, it was fortunate Pagan had chosen quiet, sweet, docile Miriel for a bride, and not Helena. This wench would have been a handful.

  More than a handful, he considered with a wicked grin, recalling the accidental caress he’d enjoyed moments ago. Damn, she had a delectable body. Maybe he could eventually charm the maid into allowing him to take further liberties. His loins tingled at the thought.

  Earlier, when he’d foiled her assassination plans, imprisoned her in his arms, and, in the flush of anger, threatened to break her, she’d skewered him with a green glare as raging hot as an iron poker. But she’d been besotted and desperate and not in her right mind.

  By the time she awoke in the morn and recognized what she’d done in a drunken furor, she’d likely blush with shame and weep with regret. And when, by the light of day, she realized the mercy this Norman had shown her—his patience, his kindness, his compassion—she might feel more agreeable to his advances. Indeed, he decided, his mouth curving up in a contented smile as he drifted off to sleep, maybe then she’d welcome his caress.

  About The Author

  Born in Paradise, California, Glynnis Campbell has embraced her inner Gemini by leading an eclectic life. As a teen, she danced with the Sacramento Ballet, worked in her father’s graphic arts studio, and composed music for award-winning science films. She sang arias in college, graduating with a degree in Music, then toured with The Pinups, an all-girl rock band on CBS Records. She once played drums for a Tom Jones video and is currently a voice-over actress with credits including “Star Wars” audio adventures, JumpStart educational CDs, Diablo and Starcraft video games, and the MTV animated series, “The Maxx.” She now indulges her lifelong love of towering castles, trusty swords, and knights (and damsels) in shining armor by writing historical romances featuring kick-arse heroines. She is married to a rock star, is the proud mom of two grown-up nerds, and lives in a part of L.A. where nobody thinks she’s weird.

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