Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  “And what about these?” Sung Li demanded smugly, nodding to a bed of plants resembling large green roses.

  Growing weary of Sung Li’s game, Rand rolled his eyes, making Miriel giggle.

  Sung Li whipped around, planted her fists on her hips, and snapped, “You zhi!”

  Rand furrowed his brow, trying to appear serious. “You zhi,” he repeated.

  Miriel giggled again, this time freely. It was a delightful sound, and her teeth shone as white as pearls. “Sung Li just called you a child.”

  Rand arched a brow of disbelief at the impertinent maid, who nodded in curt agreement.

  “A child?” Simple mercenary he might be, and a bastard by birth, but he was a proper knight. No servant had the right to insult him.

  “You are both children,” Sung Li decided.

  The impudent maid was asking for a beating.

  But before he could chastise her, Miriel barked, “Sung Li!”

  The maid threw her hands up in frustration. “I am done with you. You do not listen to me today, Miriel. Tell me when you have grown up.”

  With an imperial swish of her skirts, the tiny maid brushed past them and out the gate.

  Rand couldn’t be more glad to see the old crone go. It was obvious that Lady Miriel desired him, and the wanton wench was probably accustomed to getting what she wanted. He was only too happy to oblige. Particularly because it served his purposes so well.

  After the gate slammed shut, he turned to the lovely lass, perusing her slowly from head to toe. “You look all grown up to me.”

  “Do I?” she asked coyly.

  “Oh, aye,” he murmured, with a lazy grin. “You feel like a woman.” He raised her hand and rubbed it gently against his cheek. “You smell like a woman.” He bent close and inhaled the flowery fragrance of her hair. “And you definitely taste like a woman.” He lowered his gaze to her mouth and hungrily licked his lips, then dipped his head until his breath caressed her jaw. “Even if you spy on people like a naughty child.”

  He nipped at her lips once, twice, then engaged her fully, sinking into the kiss as she made a soft moan of pleasure. Releasing her fingers, he cupped her face in his hands, reveling in the silky texture of her skin, the soft sweep of her hair, the delicate shell of her ear.

  His loins pulsed as she eagerly responded, opening her mouth for him, tilting her head, spreading her fingers across his chest. She was definitely a woman who knew what she wanted, and she knew how to get it. Encouraged by her enthusiasm, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, delving tenderly between her teeth with his tongue.

  He slid his palm along her spine until his hand rested at her waist. But he hungered for more. Pressing the bulge in his braies against her belly, he slipped his hand down farther to urge her close, cupping the sweet curve of her buttocks.

  The next thing he knew, the earth was yanked out from under him. He was laid out flat on his back. And beside him was the patch of—what was it? Ah, yes, kailaan.

  Chapter 4

  “What the…?”

  Miriel looked down at him with a mixture of satisfaction and horror. She hadn’t wanted to do that. Indeed, her heart was still racing with the thrill of kissing Sir Rand. But she couldn’t allow him such liberties, for if she did, she feared she might forget all about her real motives for courting him.

  “Sweet Mary!” she exclaimed in faux surprise. “Did you trip over the roses?”

  Of course he hadn’t tripped over the roses. He’d tripped over the foot she’d swept behind his heel.

  He blinked and sat up, utterly perplexed.

  Before he could think too much on what had happened, she reached down to help him up. “Perhaps you fainted from hunger. Would you like another piece of pandemain? Sung Li left the platter.”

  “I’m not hungry,” he said as he struggled to his feet, studying the ground, trying to ascertain what had tripped him.

  “You’re not?” She brushed the dirt from his shoulder, then said carefully, “You seemed hungry in the forest.”

  He looked keenly at her. “Indeed? What makes you say that?”

  She gulped. When Rand smiled, he was irresistibly handsome. His dimpled cheeks were boyish, and his eyes twinkled like stars. But now, pinning her with a dark, questioning stare, he seemed possibly dangerous.

  She forced a nonchalant shrug. “Isn’t that what you were doing in the woods? Hunting for something to eat?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, and she got the feeling he was trying to read her thoughts. Then he lightened his grip on her hand and let amusement creep into his gaze. “You know perfectly well what I was doing in the woods, sweetheart.”

  Miriel blushed at the memory. She hadn’t meant that.

  “And anytime you’d like to take another peek at what’s in my braies…”

  She nervously withdrew her hand. “Sir, we’ve only begun to court,” she chided. “You move too swiftly. I’m a maiden, after all. Maybe later, when we’re better acquainted—”

  “Better acquainted?” He plucked up a tendril of her hair and wound it around his finger. “Why, my lady, I’d have thought, looking after me night and day in Morbroch’s pavilion, you’d be very well acquainted with my every aspect.”

  Lord, the deceit dripped off his tongue as smoothly as honey from a comb. She’d never looked after him. She’d invented that. And he knew it. Indeed, she was beginning to wonder if the scheming varlet had ever come to Rivenloch at all.

  He raised the lock of her hair and kissed it. “At any rate, forgive me, my lady, if I frightened you. I’ll try to temper my passions in the future.” He stroked her cheek with the back of one finger. “Though ’tis devilishly hard.” Then he leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Devilishly. Hard.”

  There was no mistaking his meaning. God’s blood, he was a knave. She should have cracked him across his handsome face for such vulgarity. But that wouldn’t serve her purposes. If she meant to wheedle information from him, she had to play his game. So she gave him a deceptively timid smile.

  “Fear not, dear heart.” He gave her a benign kiss on the brow. “I’ll take my leave now before your ill-tempered maid reports that we’re unaccompanied. Your kin do not seem the understanding kind, and since I’ve been summoned to the tiltyard…” He sighed. “’Twill seem an eternity till we meet again.”

  With a sly grin and a cursory but suggestive appraisal of her from head to toe, he saluted and strode out the garden gate. Miriel was gratified to note that the varlet’s tabard bore an incriminating stain where he’d landed bottom first in the mud.

  No sooner had Rand gone than she started plotting. She had to find out what mischief he intended. Where were his things? She’d seen a pack of supplies on his horse. Something in that pack might give her a clue as to his business. What had happened to it?

  It was likely still with the horse.

  Scattering the remaining pandemain for the birds, Miriel stole from the garden and made her way toward the stables. Peeping inconspicuously around the corner of the kennel toward the practice field, she glimpsed Rand crossing swords with Pagan. Deirdre and Helena leaned against the fence, looking on. Out of curiosity, she watched him for a moment.

  He wasn’t very good.

  Not that it mattered. It wasn’t as if he was going to be her husband. But she could see that his clumsiness aggravated Pagan, and her sisters were murmuring together in concern.

  She supposed she shouldn’t have judged them so harshly. They could sometimes be unbearably smothering, but it was only because they cared for her. It was her own fault in a way for pretending to be so helpless all these years. Yet what else could she do? It was that very perceived vulnerability that enabled her secretly to control the workings of Rivenloch, to gain access to rumors leaked by careless servants, and to run surveillance on suspicious strangers like Rand without attracting attention.

  She was in charge of the castle accounts, but not even her sisters appreciated just what that entaile
d. She managed all the goods and services, doled out and collected payments, monitored the supplies of grain and cloth, ale and arms, meat and firewood. And she made certain the accounts were always balanced, not an easy feat, particularly with her father’s penchant for wagering. The fact that she made it look easy fooled everyone into believing she was essentially powerless.

  Which was why, when she casually ambled by the stable lad and into the stables with a timid smile, he only bobbed his head and let her pass, not even curious as to her business.

  Once she found Rand’s mare, her nonchalance vanished. It was a spirited creature, and she had to calm the beast several times with soothing murmurs and gentle pats to the neck before she could access the rest of the stall.

  His things were in the far corner—the pack, a thick wool blanket, his saddle. She dragged the heavy satchel through the straw into the sunlight, crouching to take a look inside.

  Most of the pack’s contents were common enough, not incriminating in the least. There were spare clothes, an iron cooking pot, a spoon, a firestone, a wooden cup, a few knives, rope, things any traveler would carry on the road. Farther down were strips of linen and a bundle of herbs, probably for medicinal purposes. Rummaging deeper, she found a small purse full of silver and a pair of worn leather gloves. Then her fingers alit upon a heavy metal chain.

  She tugged it out of the satchel and held it up to the light. She frowned. There, clanking before her eyes, was a rather sinister pair of iron shackles.

  The chiding cluck of a tongue behind her startled her, making her shove the shackles quickly back into the pack.

  “Find something useful?” She glanced up to see Rand looming over her, his arms crossed over his chest, a smirk on his face.

  God’s blood! How had he managed to steal up on her like that?

  “I… I…” she floundered. “Why aren’t you sparring with Pagan?”

  He shrugged. “His patience wore thin.” He arched a brow. “Why are you rifling through my things?”

  “I wasn’t rifling.” She gulped. That was exactly what she was doing. “I was…” Inspiration hit. “I was just wondering,” she said softly, dipping her eyes and running an idle fingertip around the opening of the satchel, “if you might have…brought me something.”

  The doubtful squint of his eyes said he wasn’t convinced by her excuse, but he gave her the benefit of the doubt anyway. “You mean a token of my affection? A lover’s gift of some kind?”

  She sucked her lower lip beneath her teeth, a shy gesture that always brought out the protectiveness in men.

  But he only chuckled, then hunkered down beside her, stuffing his things back into the pack. “Greedy lass.”

  Miriel pretended embarrassment, but as he closed the top of the satchel and propped it against the stable wall, she couldn’t help but feel a shiver of unease. Why would he carry such a grim item as a pair of shackles?

  He rubbed his chin. “A while ago, I heard one of the maids say something about a fair.”

  “A fair? Oh, aye, in the town. In a fortnight.” She narrowed her gaze, trying to discern what he was plotting.

  “I promise I’ll buy you something there, my sweet.” He caught her chin affectionately between his thumb and finger. “A gift fit for the loveliest damsel in all Scotland.”

  Her smile quavered uncertainly. Never mind his engaging grin. The man carried shackles in his pack. What the bloody hell was he up to?

  He cocked his head and squinted one eye. “Unless, of course, you’ve stolen the silver from my satchel.”

  She gasped, pretending great offense. “What? You think I would steal another’s coin?” Yet even as she reacted in hurt, she felt a warm glow flush her cheeks. She had been rummaging through his belongings, after all. He had every right to be suspicious.

  Aye, Rand thought, the pretty little damsel was definitely a thief. She’d probably stolen dozens of hearts with that innocent smile and those wide blue eyes that could summon tears at the slightest provocation.

  Rand wasn’t fooled for a moment. He knew her kind well. She was the kind of woman who used her affections for barter, trading adoring glances and kisses for silk ribbons and precious jewels, bleeding one lover dry of resources, then moving on to the next. She was the sort of wench he could love and leave without remorse. Which was perfect for his plans.

  Still, the lass was a bit too curious for his comfort.

  “I’m jesting,” he assured her with a wink, holding out his hand for hers.

  She placed her hand tentatively in his palm, and he stood, helping her to her feet. He dusted the straw from her skirts, taking secret pleasure in swatting her on the backside as he did so, eliciting a gasp from her.

  He feigned innocence, unhanding her, then bent to retrieve his pack. “Will you show me where I’m to put my things?” he asked, then added slyly, “Somewhere they’ll be…safe.”

  The maid blushed again, though whether from shame or anger, he couldn’t tell. “Of course.”

  He shouldered the satchel and followed Miriel to the keep.

  Pagan had given Rand permission to bed down with the other knights in the great hall, though after Rand’s poor display of swordsmanship, the disappointed lord would have likely preferred that he sleep with the hounds. Now, admiring the gentle sway of Miriel’s hips as she walked across the courtyard before him, Rand wished he’d arranged to share a pallet with the tantalizing damsel.

  In time, he promised himself. Though Miriel was definitely a woman of passion, she was also a tease. She was the sort of wench to throw herself at him like a wanton in one moment, only to plead her virginity the next.

  When he bedded her, it would be on her terms. And he would bed her. There were few who could resist Rand when he put his charm to work. In another day, maybe two, he thought with a lusty grin, he’d have Lady Miriel wrinkling his sheets and cooing his name in the most dulcet tones.

  Entering the great hall of Rivenloch, Rand was impressed. Myriad bright banners and silver shields graced the walls. Fresh rushes imparted a sweet scent to the chamber, and tallow candles set in sconces gave the hall a warm, welcoming glow. Servants scurried to and fro, tending to the fire on the hearth, scrubbing soot from the plaster walls, carrying buckets and baskets and bundles across the hall, climbing up the tower stairs, descending to the storerooms below.

  “Preparations for the wedding feast,” Miriel explained, as they passed a pair of maids polishing the oak trestle tables with rags and a pot of beeswax.

  Rand nodded. The ceremony in two days might prove fortuitous indeed for his mission. What thief could resist lightening the purses of departing wedding guests, who were likely to be suffering from the groggy aftereffects of their merrymaking? If Rand kept a close watch on the woods the morn after the feast, he was sure to catch the robber.

  “You can keep your things here,” Miriel told him, opening a large oak chest along the wall that was filled with several similar satchels.

  As Rand dropped his belongings inside, a young lad approached and bobbed his head. “My lady, the wine’s arrived from the monastery, but Cook says it’s short.”

  “Short? How short?”

  The lad screwed up his face, trying to remember. “Twoscore?”

  Miriel gasped. “Twoscore? Are you sure? ’Tis only half what I asked for.”

  “Aye, twoscore short.”

  While Miriel chewed at her lip, considering what to do, another servant came up, an old woman with a face like a dried apple.

  “That God-cursed spice monger,” she groused. “He’s wantin’ more coin for his goods now.”

  Miriel furrowed her brows. “Well, he can’t have more coin.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “And?”

  “He says it cost him more this time, on account of his ship was attacked by miscreants.”

  “That’s not my concern.”

  The wrinkled old woman shrugged, and Miriel clenched her teeth in frustration.

  Then a
couple approached, a stout woman looking smug as she hauled up a stick of a man who worried his doffed hat in his hands.

  “Go ahead,” the woman said, “tell the lady what ye’ve done.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady,” he said, “but one of the hounds got loose and…and…”

  The woman crossed her arms over her generous chest. “Pissed all over the table linens, he did.”

  “He didn’t mean to,” the man argued. “Besides, what were they doin’, hangin’ up on the bushes?”

  “They were airin’, ye big dolt.”

  Miriel held up her hand for silence, then turned to Rand. “I’m sorry.”

  “You have your hands full.”

  “I’m in charge of the castle accounts,” she explained. “I’m likely to be quite busy over the next two days with the wedding preparations.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Not really. Unless you’d like to interrogate the hounds.”

  He grinned at her dry wit. “’Tis such lovely weather, my love, I think I’ll take a stroll about the countryside, get to know your magnificent Rivenloch.” Taking a few things from his satchel, he nodded to the others, excusing himself from their company, but not before hearing the stout woman echo in wonder, “My love?”

  Rand smiled to himself. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. Not only had he managed to secure an excuse for being at Rivenloch, an excuse that was young and desirable and lovely to look upon, but it seemed the lass was too preoccupied to pay him much mind, which meant he had the freedom to track the outlaw at his leisure.

  He wasted no time. Armed with his sword, a pair of daggers, and the shackles, and taking along his silver in order to remove temptation from that overcurious Miriel, he set out to explore the forest on foot.

  The woods of Rivenloch were beautiful in a fey, wild way. Moss covered the stones and the trunks of the sycamores and cedars, muffling the sounds of his footfalls as he searched along the leafy path. Beside him, fern fronds bowed under the weight of dragonflies, and overhead, rust-colored squirrels leaped from branch to branch with cheeks full of acorns. Toadstools clustered like bald-pated old men at the foot of ancient oaks. The mist had all but vanished, and here and there, where shafts of sunlight shot to the ground, a lizard or a mouse might pause in its scurrying to soak up the precious warm rays.