Sir Rauve nodded, wasting no time and mincing no words. “And what type of business do you have at Rivenloch, sir?”
The man grinned companionably. By the Saints, Miriel thought, his smile was absolutely stunning, wide and bright, complete with endearing dimples. “That depends on who’s asking.”
Sir Rauve drew himself up to his impressive height. “Sir Rauve of Rivenloch, Knight of Cameliard, defender of this keep.”
“Sir Rauve.” The stranger put his hand forth in greeting. “I am Sir Rand of Morbroch.”
Morbroch. Miriel knew that name.
When Sir Rauve only eyed him with suspicion, he added hopefully, “You might remember me from the tournament last month?”
Miriel frowned. The Lord of Morbroch had attended the tournament at Rivenloch with a half dozen knights. She recognized the crest on the man’s tabard now, a boar’s head on a ground of sable. But she didn’t recall Rand. And his was a face she wouldn’t have easily forgotten.
At Sir Rauve’s lack of response, Rand withdrew his hand and lowered his eyes with a sigh. “Then again, perhaps not. I was knocked witless in the melee. Didn’t recover for two days.”
Miriel caught her lip beneath her teeth. That might be true. Someone was always getting knocked witless in a melee.
But Sir Rauve wasn’t convinced. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Why am I here?” Rand’s brows wrinkled in charming discomfiture as he scratched at his temple. “’Tis a matter of some…delicacy. I’d rather not say.”
Sir Rauve crossed his beefy arms over his chest. “And I’d rather not let you pass.”
“I see.” Rand took a deep breath and let it out in a bracing rush.
In that instant, Miriel saw his hand drift subtly yet purposefully toward the hilt of his sword. By the wink of danger in his eyes, she suddenly feared he was about to do something rash, like single-handedly challenge the two knights to battle.
But at the last moment, he hooked his thumb harmlessly into his leather sword belt and flashed them a sheepish grin. “If you must know then, sir…I’ve come…courting.”
Miriel raised a brow. Courting? Then why had he been foraging through the leaves as if he were tracking prey?
“Courting?” Young Kenneth made a moue of displeasure, as if he’d said he’d come to swallow live eels.
Sir Rauve only grunted.
“Aye.” Rand let out a long, lovesick sigh that would curdle honey. “You see, I fear one of Rivenloch’s bright angels has stolen my heart.”
Miriel scowled. If there was one thing she despised, it was sappy proclamations of love, especially when they were full of deceit, as this one was. Rand might have said the words, but she could tell by the amused glimmer in his eyes that he meant none of them.
But, of course, the guards didn’t know the difference. Men could never smell deception the way a woman could.
“One of Rivenloch’s angels?” Sir Rauve growled, jutting out his bearded chin. “Well, it had better not be Lucy.”
Both Miriel’s brows shot up. Lucy? This was a surprise. Was the bearish Sir Rauve admitting a fondness for saucy Lucy Campbell?
Kenneth issued his own warning. “And if you’ve come for Lady Helena, ’tis too late. She’s to wed in two days.”
“Fear not,” Rand said with a lighthearted chuckle. “’Tis neither, good sirs.”
When the varlet pressed a hand to his chest as if to still the beating of his beguiled heart, Miriel couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. Who was this alleged ladylove then? The widow Margaret Duncan? Joan Atwater? Young Katie Simms?
“I fear my hapless heart has been claimed,” he gushed, “by none other than the youngest daughter of Rivenloch…”
Miriel almost choked on her surprise.
Her? He’d come for her? How could that be? God’s blood, she didn’t even know the man.
Apparently, he didn’t know her either. He finished on a dramatic sigh of pure adoration. “Lady Mirabel.”
Chapter 2
As soon as he breathed the name, Rand sensed something was wrong. The long silence was telling.
“You mean Miriel?” the younger knight asked.
Rand blinked, his composure thrown. Satan’s ballocks! How could he have gotten the wench’s name wrong? “Aye, Miriel.” He furrowed his brows in confusion. “Is that not what I said?” He smiled in chagrin. “I fear I’m a bit nervous.”
“As you should be,” Sir Rauve said. “You have heard of the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch?”
“Warrior Maids?” Disquiet tingled at the base of his skull. Who the hell were the Warrior Maids? He was beginning to suspect there were details about this mission that Morbroch had omitted, details that were going to make his generous reward seem like a pittance by the time he was done. “Oh, aye, certainly,” he bluffed. “Who hasn’t?”
The younger knight’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll give him two hours,” he said to Sir Rauve.
“With Helena’s warm welcome?” Sir Rauve shook his head. “One hour.”
Rand glanced from one man to the other. What the devil were they talking about?
“Come along then,” Sir Rauve said. “If you hurry, you can be on the road back to Morbroch before noon.”
“Back? But I’ve only…”
The guards exchanged knowing smirks before they turned to go, and Rand fought the urge to knock their insolent heads together. He supposed it was his own fault. He’d chosen to play the lovesick lad. Now he’d become the butt of their jest.
“I hope you’re good with a blade,” the young knight called over his shoulder, grinning.
Rand smiled back grimly. Good with a blade? He could have drawn his sword and run the lad through before that mocking grin left his face. But experience had taught him it was wise to keep one’s best weapons hidden until they were necessary.
He wondered how soon his blade would be needed. Already this undertaking was proving troublesome. He’d hoped to spend a few days at Rivenloch, courting the lady for appearance’s sake, a few more secretly hunting the thief, and have his prey well in hand by the end of the week so he could return to collect the rest of his silver from Morbroch.
What he didn’t want were complications. Already, the idea of leading an innocent maid down the path of courtship when he had no intention of wedding her left a sour taste in his mouth. Not to mention the fact that he’d be spending a great deal of time with a lass about whom he knew nothing.
Morbroch had assured him that the damsel was comely and sweet and, most important, malleable, that she’d easily play into his hands. But now he wasn’t sure he entirely trusted Morbroch.
Retrieving his mount’s reins, he clucked to urge the animal forward.
As far as he knew, Miriam might be a sharp-tongued shrew. Or a pouting child. Or an old crone with rotting teeth and shriveled breasts. He shuddered inwardly.
He’d gone a good five yards when he suddenly remembered the wench in the tree. He turned back, scanning the heavy-laden cedar branches overhead, still unable to see anyone amid the thick green. But he could sense her presence.
He grinned. “Farewell, imp,” he called softly, blowing her a kiss. Then he turned to face whatever fate awaited him at Rivenloch Castle.
The moment he’d called her Mirabel, Miriel’s eyes had flattened with displeasure. If the knave was going to claim infatuation with her, he could at least have the decency to get her name right.
Yet despite her irritation, another part of her was intrigued. Numerous men in the past year had expressed an interest in Miriel, but none had dared request to court her. Between Sung Li guarding her like a mother hen and her warrior sisters greeting any suitors with a blade, men tended to keep their distance. Only Pagan Cameliard had gone so far as to offer Miriel marriage, albeit a marriage of political convenience, and even he had been usurped by Deirdre, who was now happily wed to him and plump with his babe.
Her sisters would doubtless have this prospect slinking back to Morbroch with h
is tail between his legs quicker than she could say, pleased to meet you.
She couldn’t let that happen. The man had been up to some mischief here in the woods, and she needed to know his true intentions.
Still, it was a shame, she thought as she leaned her cheek against the soft moss covering the cedar, watching the three men below converse. He was rather handsome. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow, and he looked nearly as tall as Rauve. Between his brilliant smile, his perplexed brows, and his adorable dimples, he was surely the most attractive man she’d ever seen. His eyes sparkled like dark topaz. His voice was at once soothing and arousing. And his tousled chestnut hair seemed to beg for the untangling touch of her fingers.
How terrible would it be, she mused with a guilty blush, to play along with his overtures, to overlook the likelihood that he had ulterior motives, and let him court her anyway? To let him put his broad hands upon her waist…press gentle kisses upon her mouth…whisper endearments in her ear…unsheathe that dagger in his trews again and…
In the next moment, she was wrenched back to her senses. The men were leaving. But as they turned down the path, and the horse’s tail flipped in farewell, Rand paused, angling his head to look directly up at her. Of course, he couldn’t quite see her through the thick cedar boughs. But the impact of his gaze made a queer shiver go through her. And when he blew her a kiss, she almost felt the warmth of his breath upon her lips.
The instant they were out of sight, she clambered down and raced back through the woods the way she’d come.
Maybe Sir Rand of Morbroch was a knave and a varlet and a cad. Maybe he was entirely unfit and unqualified as a suitor. But the man was definitely up to some mischief. And if it meant she had to pretend to be receptive to his advances to discover the nature of that mischief, then by the Saints, she’d do it. For the good of Rivenloch.
She didn’t need anyone’s approval. Who she courted wasn’t for her sisters to decide. Or her father. Or her xiansheng.
When she finally burst from the passageway into her workroom, her heart pounding from the thrill of the chase, she was so distracted, she nearly crashed into her servant.
“Oh!” She started guiltily. “Sung Li.”
“Breakfast.” He thrust a platter of bread and cheese at her.
“I’ll eat it later.” She tried to skirt around the old man, but he subtly blocked her way.
“You must eat now, keep up your strength.”
Miriel pursed her lips. Why did everyone think they could issue commands to her, even her servant? “I have no time, Sung Li.”
One of his white brows arched up in silent accusation. “Yet you have time to take a walk in the woods.”
Miriel scowled in exasperation. “Fine.” She snatched up the cheese, bit off a hunk, then shoved a chunk of bread into her mouth, so large she could barely talk. “Satisfied?”
Sung Li’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You are a foolish, foolish child.”
With a growl of anger, she pushed past Sung Li and opened the door of the workroom.
“Once and for all,” she declared, her words muffled by the wad of bread, “I am not a child!”
Then she slammed the door behind her.
Rand stood in the middle of Rivenloch’s enormous practice field with his arms crossed self-consciously over his chest. He’d drawn the glances of many a wench in his two dozen years, but none to match the scrutiny to which he was now subjected.
So this was Helena, Muriel’s sister. She was a comely lass, with her emerald eyes, wild tresses, and generous breasts. If not for the armor and the menacing sword buckled about her hips, not to mention the Cameliard bridegroom she had waiting somewhere, she might have been dangerously tempting.
At the moment, however, all he could think about was the fact she was circling him like a stable master shopping for a horse, narrowing her eyes at his chest and staring at his legs, alternately nodding in satisfaction and clucking her tongue in disfavor. He half expected her to pry open his mouth and take a good look at his teeth.
“So you’ve come to court Miriel?” she asked, stopping in front of him and crossing her arms in challenge.
Miriel. Not Muriel. Or Miriam. Or Mirabel. Damn it, he had to remember the lass’s name. “Aye, with your permission.”
Since their father, Lord Gellir, was feeble of mind, Miriel’s suitors were apparently required to seek the approval of her two older sisters.
“Do you think you can protect her?” she asked.
“Protect her?”
“Can you fight?”
He stifled a smile. He’d been a mercenary for six years. Of course he could fight. “If need be.”
Then in one fluid movement, she drew her sword and faced him. “Prove it.”
His arms fell out of their fold. Surely she wasn’t serious. He furrowed his brow. Maybe it was a trick.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she urged.
He glanced toward the spectators. Sir Rauve and his companion were there, a couple of other knights, a wee lad sucking his thumb, and a trio of maidservants. None of them looked surprised by Helena’s challenge.
“My lady, I don’t think—”
“Come on, fight me.” She poked his chest with the point of her sword.
He retreated a step. Bloody hell! She was serious.
“With all due respect, my lady, I cannot—”
“Cannot what? Protect Miriel? Then you may not court her.”
“Of course I can protect her, but—”
“Then prove it.” Reaching across with her left hand, she tugged his sword from its sheath. “Show me.” She handed him the weapon, hilt first.
He took the sword, but refused to wield it. “My lady, ’tis not a matter of—”
Her sword slashed toward him so swiftly that it was all he could do to block the blow with his own blade. Reeling in astonishment, he almost missed deflecting her second strike as well. He stepped back, but she followed, her weapon swinging with such unexpected speed that he could scarcely keep it from biting him.
This couldn’t be happening, he marveled. He couldn’t be sparring with a lady. It was unseemly. And undignified. And unchivalrous.
Naturally he could have beat her soundly. He was far more powerful than she and surely far more experienced, no matter how quickly she moved. But he dared not unleash the full measure of his strength.
“My lady, I beg you, stop!”
She jabbed him in the shoulder. “What? No ballocks?” she taunted.
“God’s breath! I won’t fight with a woman.”
“And what if that woman means to kill you?”
Her eyes glinted like green fire, and he wondered if she did mean to kill him. Perhaps that was what Sir Rauve meant when he predicted Rand wouldn’t last an hour.
Still, when he’d earned his spurs, he’d sworn to do no harm to a lady. He might be a half-Scots bastard and a lowly mercenary, but he proudly upheld the vows of knighthood.
So, praying he was making the right choice, he cast his sword to the ground in surrender.
“Helena!” came a scream from outside the lists.
He glanced away from Helena’s eyes, which had taken on a wicked gleam, and looked toward the source of the outburst. A lovely little lass was rushing across the sward, her unwieldy blue skirts gathered in her fists, her unbound hair streaming out behind her like a dark pennon. Her face was beautiful, as delicate and pale as an apple blossom, but her pretty features were twisted with worry.
“Don’t kill him!” she cried, skidding to a stop beside the others at the wattle fence.
Helena called back over her shoulder. “I wasn’t going to kill him.” One corner of her lip curved up. “I was only going to maim him.”
Miriel wasn’t about to let Helena slice one hair from Rand’s head. “Nay!” She hoisted up her skirts and began scrambling over the wattle fence.
“My lady.” Sir Rauve seized her shoulder, trying to stop her. “’Tis best you stay out of it.”
His patronizing tone tested Miriel’s good nature. Nonetheless, she managed to smile sweetly at his restraining fist as she bit out, “Unhand me, you great oaf.”
His black eyes widened in surprise, and he let her go at once.
As she rushed across the field, it was all Miriel could do to keep her temper in check. Curse it all! She’d had enough of being treated like a helpless babe. It had been she who’d saved Rivenloch from the English, after all. It had been her secret passageway. Her weapons. And her genius. Even if no one knew it. She wasn’t an infant to be coddled and swaddled in a smothering mantle. Especially not by a sister only a few years older than she.
Helena was going to ruin everything.
As Miriel drew near, Helena sighed, her gaze softening in condescension. “Silly lass, I was only going to teach him a lesson.”
Maybe it was the years of being silent when Miriel wanted to scream. Or pretending she was helpless when she could easily overcome men twice her size. Or standing in the long shadow of her illustrious sisters. Whatever the reason, against all Sung Li’s training in self-control, counter to everything she knew about the importance of serenity, contrary to her usual complacent behavior, when Miriel felt the blood simmer in her veins, she acted on pure impulse.
With a great heave of rage, she shoved Helena away.
Surprise made Helena stagger backward, but her warrior instincts were strong. Out of habit, she swept the point of her sword to Miriel’s throat, eliciting a huge gasp from the onlookers at the fence, who’d never seen anyone brandish a weapon at meek Miriel.
Equally stunning was the speed with which a second blade knocked Helena’s aside.
It was Rand’s dagger that did the deed, and both Miriel and Helena swiveled their heads toward him in awe.
The exchange happened so fast, Miriel hardly knew what to say. And poor Rand, his brow creased with confusion and distaste and amazement, stood suffering in indecision, his fingers clenching reflexively around the dagger handle.
Helena’s wonder quickly turned to disgust. She silently fumed, her pride doubtless stinging from the fact that Rand had gained the upper hand. Her humiliation was made complete when Sir Rauve called out from the fence, “Do you require assistance, my lady?”
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