“A Norman.”
Helena might have been a spirited fighter, but she knew when she was beaten. Narrowing her eyes with loathing, she bit out, “Fine.”
Then he released her.
She tumbled backward with the shock of sudden freedom, but when she rolled to her feet again, by some miracle, she held The Shadow’s knife in her grip.
By the Saints, he thought in grudging admiration, the maid was agile. Almost as agile as The Shadow himself.
Lord, he was fast, Helena thought, her heart pumping as she cautiously advanced with the knife. He’d blocked her punch almost before she realized she’d thrown it. He’d seized her wrists in one lightning-quick movement. And for a long, terrifying moment, he seemed to hold her at his mercy, his knowing gaze burning into her soul as if to say, you are mine.
It was unsettling.
He’d rattled her, caught her off her guard, used her impulsiveness against her. Which both ashamed and enraged her.
And yet, just as quickly, he’d let her go. His gloating grin of victory had faded. He held his palms up now in a gesture of peace.
She scowled in confusion, tightening her fist around The Shadow’s knife. What new trickery was this? She sensed it was more than sleeping arrangements he bartered for.
One thing was certain. Colin du Lac was an enigma.
“Sheathe your claws, kitten,” he said, casually retrieving his dropped coney from the floor and wiping the dirt from it with his sleeve. “You trust me now, remember?”
Helena frowned. She was a woman who liked the feel of cold steel in her palm and chain mail on her shoulders. They were things of substance, physical proof of power, of control. His oaths of honor and trust seemed as insubstantial as mist and as mutable as the moon. She couldn’t trust him…not truly. Nay, she would hold onto the knife, for it gave her the security that vague promises did not.
He shrugged, and then, to her amazement, pulled his dagger from his own belt and began carving up the coney, eating slices from the blade. She patted her girdle, where she thought she’d tucked the dagger for safekeeping. Bloody hell! How had he managed to reclaim it?
She decided he must have seized it as she went toppling backward. Which meant they were on equal ground now.
Reluctantly, she lowered her knife.
“Do you like trout?” he asked abruptly.
“What?”
“Fish. Trout. Those wiggly creatures that swim in the—”
“I know what trout are.” Lord, he was vexing. It was almost as if he enjoyed confounding her wits. She stuffed her knife into her girdle.
“Well? Do you?”
“Aye. I suppose.”
“Good.” He resumed eating in silence for several moments, as if that was the end of their conversation.
“Why do you want to know?” she finally demanded.
“Know what?”
“The trout,” she muttered. “Why do you want to know if I like trout?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t make it if you didn’t.”
She definitely got the impression he was thoroughly savoring her confusion. “You’re going to make trout?”
He finished off the meat and tossed the bones into the fire, where they kicked up fresh sparks. “Aye. Why not? On the morrow, you and I will go fishing, catch a few trout. I’ll fry them up for supper. Maybe we’ll find some watercress or purslane for a—”
“On the morrow,” she told him firmly, “we’ll be on our way back to Rivenloch.”
“You’ve changed your mind about the ransom?”
“Nay.” Then she added with a confidence she only half felt, “Deirdre will come today.”
“Ah.”
It was patronizing, that “ah,” and it piqued her ire. “She will. You’ll see.”
“Very well.” He crossed his arms and cocked his head at her. “But if she doesn’t, you owe me a fishing trip. Agreed?”
She let out an annoyed sigh. “Agreed.”
Helena couldn’t decide what it was about Colin du Lac that made her feel so…prickly. Perhaps it was his smug glances or knowing grins, his smooth-as-honey voice or the lithe way his body moved. It was as if each time he spoke, he blew a sultry, warm breath across her skin, making every hair stand on end. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. It left her feeling edgy and guarded and off-balance.
She would be glad when Deirdre came, even if she refused to give up her new husband. Helena was anxious to return to her life at Rivenloch, where she was second-in-command of the guard, men cowered in fear of her blade, and no one sent shivers across her flesh with mere words.
Unfortunately, Colin’s predictions proved accurate. Deirdre never came. As Colin regaled her with tales of Pagan’s exploits, and she recounted some of her father’s grand battles, the shadows lengthened with the passing hours. While they nibbled at their cache of cheese and cherries and shared a cup of water, the last of the sun’s rays faded.
At least, when the forest finally darkened to a forbidding gloom, Colin had the decency not to mock her hopes.
“Go on,” she muttered, packing up the remaining cheese and stuffing it back into the satchel. “Say it.”
“What?”
“She didn’t come,” she said tightly. “You were right. I was wrong.”
He could have gloated then, but he didn’t. He only shrugged. “Perhaps tomorrow.” He yawned. “Meanwhile, I’m for bed. If we get an early start, we could be feasting on trout by midday.” He rubbed his palms together and winked at her. “Maybe we’ll even share some with your sister if she arrives in time.”
Colin’s childlike enthusiasm admittedly took some of the sting out of her disappointment. She did love trout. And if it weren’t for the fact that Colin was her hostage, that she was in the middle of political bartering, and that time was of the essence, she might indeed enjoy the challenge of hooking a fish or two.
Colin took the singed coverlet for himself and stretched out beside the hearth. “You can take the bed tonight.”
She creased her brow, not at his offer, but at his audacity. Was he actually dictating terms to her? Not that she minded the terms. The bed was preferable to the floor. “You’re sure your frail Norman bones can withstand sleeping on the ground?”
His lips curved up in a lazy grin. “I’d much prefer silk sheets and perfumed pillows, but ’twill do.”
He closed his eyes then, and she dragged the remaining coverlets to the pallet to make her own bed. Despite the welcome comfort of the straw-stuffed mattress, she was prepared for a sleepless night. She slid the slim knife from her girdle and wrapped her fingers about the handle.
She might have agreed not to tie Colin to the bed, but she’d never promised she wouldn’t lie awake all night, watching him. Which she fully intended to do.
Indeed, the last thought she had as her drooping eyelids fluttered shut was that she’d ultimately be much more alert if she allowed her eyes to close for just a brief moment.
Chapter 7
“Helena,” Colin whispered across the shadowy room.
Her soft snoring continued.
“Helena, psst.”
No response.
Dawn already lightened the sky. They should arise now. Their best hope of catching trout was to fish in the early morn, when the trout were hungriest.
“Helena, wake up.”
Still no answer. Lord, the woman slept like a rock. No wonder she’d wanted him tied up. He could have easily walked out the door, shouting a cheery farewell, while she dozed blissfully on.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then tossed back the coverlet and lurched to his feet. He arched his back, releasing the inevitable pops that came from sleeping on the ground, then ran a hand back through his messy hair.
“Hey, little Hel-fire,” he teased, “I think your hostage is escaping.”
Still she drowsed.
He smiled, then took a step closer, gazing down at her. How innocent she looked, her lashes lush against her cheek, her lips parted like a babe’s, her fi
ngers curled harmlessly beside her face.
“Is that cherry tarts I smell?” he whispered. “And smoked ham? Currant buns, warm from the fire, and sweet cheese flan?”
Her brow wrinkled slightly, but to his amusement, she didn’t stir.
His grin widened. “Wake up, wench! The Normans have come. Hurry, before they force you to wear perfume and sleep on silk sheets.”
To his amazement, even that didn’t rouse her. Shaking his head, he decided that as long as she dozed on, none the wiser, he might as well take advantage of her compliant state. He eyed her mouth, so supple, so inviting, and then lowered his head to taste her soft lips.
As soon as he made contact, she awoke, lashing out with the knife coiled in her fist. He recoiled and sucked in a breath of shock as the fine point sliced across his cheek. God’s bones! If his reflexes had been any slower, he might have lost an eye.
“Shite!”
Helena looked as startled as he was. “Get back!”
“Bloody hell!” He pressed a thumb to the edge of the wound. It stung like the devil. Why was it the tiny cuts that hurt the worst?
“Back!” She brandished the knife before her.
“I only—”
“Back!”
He obliged, staggering back a step, and she sat up, sweeping the hair out of her face with her free hand. Lord, he could see by the glaze in her eyes, she wasn’t even fully awake. She’d attacked him purely on reflex.
“By the Saints, wench! Put your weapon away. I was only trying to wake you.” He examined the smudge of blood on his thumb. “Satan’s ballocks, you sleep like the dead.”
“If I sleep so soundly, then why are you bleeding from my knife?”
He furrowed his brows. “You must have been dreaming of killing Normans.”
Apparently deeming him harmless, she slipped the knife back into her girdle. “Next time, try calling my name.”
He only shook his head.
“You owe me a fishing trip,” he grumbled.
His cut turned out to be shallow. It wouldn’t even leave a scar. But the memory would be forever engraved upon his mind. Never again would he attempt to rouse a sleeping Scots kitten with kisses.
The sun shot quarrels of light through the pines as Helena led him along the stream, crude fishing poles of stripped branches perched on their shoulders. Scotland was truly a beautiful country, Colin decided, with its rocky crags and magnificent waterfalls, its vast moors of purple heath and glens thick with fern. But Rivenloch, she was a jewel set in its middle, lush with forest and meadow, fed by myriad springs and brooklets that traversed the landscape like threads of silver cleverly embroidered on a surcoat. He saw now why the King wanted the land defended.
Helena seemed to know the countryside well. She led him to a spot where the stream widened into a deep pool, perfect for fishing.
Earlier, he’d carved primitive hooks out of wood, and now he attached them to the poles, knotting together fibers from the reeds growing beside the water to make lines.
As Helena baited her hook, skewering a squirming worm with nary a shudder, Colin had to smile. He wondered if all Scotswomen were so intrepid.
Soon they sat side by side upon the great boulder at the water’s edge, as companionable as lifelong friends, their lines tugging in the lazy current. No one would have guessed they were abductor and hostage.
A quarter of an hour later, Helena caught the first fish. With a satisfied cock of her brow and an expert flick of her wrist, she flipped the trout onto the grassy bank.
He couldn’t help but laugh in delight. “You’ve been fishing before.”
“A time or two,” she said, rising to retrieve her fish.
“Well, I was trying to be gallant, letting you make the first catch,” he teased. “But I see now you’re a wench to be reckoned with. I think I may have to issue a challenge.”
“A challenge?” She held the wriggling trout in one hand and casually dislodged the hook, as if it was something she did every day.
“Oh, aye. I challenge you to match me, fish for fish.”
“Match you? Already you lag behind.”
“Not for long,” he vowed.
“I’ve fished these streams all my life,” she boasted, tossing her catch upon the grass and returning to her post. “What would a Norman know about the ways of Scots trout?”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I suspect they’re much like Scots wenches.”
“Hmph.”
“Slippery. Elusive. Stubborn. Impulsive.” He dabbled his line above the dark shape circling gracefully beneath the water. “But tempt them with just the right bait…”
And at that instant, to Helena’s consternation, the trout took his line, and he hauled the wiggling fish up out of the water. “You see?” he said, grinning wide. “’Tis as easy as seducing a maid.”
Her mouth had opened in surprise. Now she clapped it shut. “Aye, if the maid’s as stupid as a fish.”
He chuckled, unhooking the fish and pitching it beside hers. “Well, we are even now.”
She caught the next two, though he argued they should only count for one since they were so small.
Indeed, Colin couldn’t ask for a more pleasant time than passing the morn in friendly rivalry with a beautiful maid. He stared surreptitiously at the lovely damsel with the flashing emerald eyes and sultry lips and wild mane of tawny hair. She was a prize indeed, a beauty made to grace a man’s bed. She bit at her bottom lip in concentration, and as he continued to watch her—her straw-colored skirts bunching about her bare ankles where she crouched on the rock, her gown gapping slightly to reveal the upper curve of her breast—he reconsidered. Oh aye, there was something that could make the morn even more pleasant, something the starving beast in his braies had done too long without.
“Are you going to pull it out,” she asked, “or are you just teasing the poor thing?”
Given the bent of his thoughts, her question stunned him. For a moment, he could only stare at her, wondering at her candor. Then he followed her gaze toward the water. A large trout tugged at his line, swimming in figure eights beneath the surface.
Bemused, he quickly dragged it from the stream. It took far longer for him to drag his thoughts back to fishing.
Meanwhile, the impudent wench, in the time it took him to unhook the fish and unearth a worm for bait, caught two more trout.
As she sent yet another worm to a watery grave, he asked, “Shall we make the challenge more interesting?”
She smirked. “Sounds like the desperate ploy of a man about to lose.”
“Maybe,” he agreed. “But what about this? Whoever catches the most trout by the time the sun reaches the tops of the trees…”
“Aye?”
A thousand sinful possibilities flooded his mind, but he voiced none of them. Helena still wielded The Shadow’s knife, and he was in no mood to be skewered. “Wins a rousing song of victory from the loser.”
“A song?”
“Aye, something triumphant and stirring.”
She shook her head. “I don’t sing.”
“If you win, you won’t have to,” he said, grinning.
“True.”
“Is it a wager then?”
“Very well.” The hint of a smile played about her mouth. “But you’d better not frighten away the Scots trout with your Norman singing.”
“When I sing, my lady,” he bragged, “the woodland creatures gather round to give ear.”
A bit of a laugh escaped her, and he suddenly longed to hear more of the sound. There were few songs as enticing as a woman’s heartfelt, carefree laughter.
Indeed, a new challenge reared its head, one that piqued his sense of competition. He might owe Helena a song by midmorn, but in turn, he’d see that she rewarded him with a laugh.
Colin du Lac was amusing, Helena had to admit. Even if he was a varlet. And a Norman. And a philanderer.
He’d also been true to his word. Of course, she would have expected as mu
ch from any of her knights of Rivenloch. But Colin’s honor came as a surprise, given that he was a foreigner and her hostage. He’d made no attempt to escape, though he could have when she’d carelessly dozed off last night in the cottage. And he hadn’t harmed her. Indeed, she regretted she’d lashed out at him in surprise this morn. He’d obviously meant to kiss her, and a very wicked part of her was curious as to how a Norman’s kiss differed from a Scotsman’s.
Still, she couldn’t afford to feel the way she was beginning to feel. Companionable. Empathetic. Merciful. Humane.
She had to remind herself, as she stole fleeting glances at the handsome knave with the brawny shoulders, unruly black mane, and dancing eyes, that he was the enemy. They might pass the hours in blissful leisure now, but when Deirdre arrived, Colin du Lac had to become a sacrificial pawn in her game, no more.
By the time the sun topped the trees and their contest was over, Colin had snagged two more trout. But that was still one less than Helena’s catch for the morn, making her the victor.
He grumbled in jest. “I still say those two fry can hardly be counted. They wouldn’t fill a child’s belly.”
“If you don’t want to sing…”
“Nay, nay, nay. I’m a man of honor. I owe you a song, and a song I shall give you.” He set aside his fishing pole and furrowed his brow. Sitting cross-legged beside her on the boulder while she dangled her legs idly over the edge, he stared pensively into the water. “Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat and began to sing. His voice was not unpleasant, though he certainly was no minstrel. But what he lacked in melody he more than made up for in volume.
“All praise to Helena of Trout,
Who’s proved her worth this day!
She boldly took her pole in hand,
Ere any could say her nay,
And bravely braved the deadly deep—
Sea monsters for to slay.”
A giggle escaped her. Sea monsters?
He paused to glare at her with mock severity, then resumed his song.
“The first foul fish to find its fate
Lay hidden in a shoal,
But Helena, the clever maid,
Knew how to bait a hole,
While Colin languished troutless,
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