Maids with Blades

Home > Romance > Maids with Blades > Page 61
Maids with Blades Page 61

by Glynnis Campbell


  She smiled weakly as he lifted his drink to toast her. This was not part of her plan. But she supposed it would have been rude to decline.

  A half hour and five toasts later, she wished she had declined. Even Deirdre noticed the pronounced list in her bearing.

  “Miri,” she whispered, “I think you’ve had enough to drink.”

  Miriel frowned. “I’ll decide when I’ve had enough to drink,” she whispered back.

  “Don’t act like a petulant child,” Deirdre hissed.

  “You’re acting like a child,” she hissed back.

  Deirdre only rolled her eyes, but Miriel sensed that her sister might be right. The problem with this tactic, she realized as she teetered a bit too close to Rand, rapping her flagon against his with a loud clunk, was that she wasn’t Helena. Helena could drink men into the rushes. Miriel felt dizzy after her second cup.

  But Rand was keeping up with her, cup for cup. Soon his brain would get as muddled as hers. Then she was sure he’d forget all about…

  What was it he was supposed to forget?

  She couldn’t recall, which suddenly seemed terribly amusing. She chuckled, while the hum of carefree conversation continued around her. Rand laughed at someone’s jest, and the blend of that delightful sound and the sweet wine flowing down her throat caused a fuzzy, buzzing feeling to wash over her like warm rain. Everything seemed so pleasant. The great hall was bright and cheery. The food was tasty and plentiful. Everyone was perfectly content. She didn’t know what she’d been so worried about.

  She giggled happily, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Holy Rood, had that burp come out of her?

  Rand grinned at her, and she grinned back. Lord, she thought, looking askance at him and running a finger lazily around the rim of her flagon, he was a handsome man. His eyes looked like polished topaz. The dimples in his cheeks were adorable. And his mouth…

  Sweet Mary, she wanted to kiss him.

  She was going to tell him so.

  She leaned close to whisper in his ear, balancing herself with a hand atop his leg. The sudden flare of his nostrils told her it was more than his leg she touched.

  She should have snatched her hand back at once. But the wine must have slowed her reflexes. And ruined her judgment.

  His loins felt warm and yielding beneath her palm, and her lips curved up as she remembered how dark and mysterious, forbidden and beautiful he’d looked to her when he’d unlaced his trews in the forest. Nay, she didn’t want to unhand him just yet.

  Rand felt pure lust shudder his bones. Surely Miriel hadn’t meant to touch him there. It was only a slip of her hand. But the naughty lass didn’t seem in a hurry to remove that hand.

  Not that he wanted her to. There was nothing quite as thrilling as the brazen touch of a desirable woman. Her palm cradled his rapidly swelling loins with gentle coaxing as she seduced him with her sultry gaze.

  Still, it was neither the time nor place for such play, not with a dozen pairs of watchful eyes studying Rand’s every move.

  It was his own fault, he supposed. It had been his idea to get her drunk in the hopes of loosening her tongue. There was something unnatural and highly suspicious about the way Miriel had snatched that flagon in midair, and he intended to find out how she’d acquired such reflexes.

  But Miriel was a wee lass, and a half dozen cups of wine were apparently enough to do more than loosen her tongue. Indeed, it seemed to have transformed the mild-mannered maid into a wild and wanton she-beast.

  Not that he minded. Especially when she gazed at him, as she did now, with fiery longing.

  But her father need only glance down, and her sisters need only glimpse Miriel’s expression, to determine what was afoot.

  With great reluctance, he caught her stray hand and moved it, gently but firmly, back to her own lap. As soon as he did, her brow furrowed with bewilderment, and her lower lip began to tremble.

  Her wide blue eyes filled with tears, and her delicate chin started quivering. He feared at any moment she might burst into loud sobs. Deirdre frowned, noticing her sister’s distress. Even at a distance, Sung Li’s accusing stare burned into Rand.

  He had to do something.

  He lifted her hand again to press it fondly against his cheek. “Miriel, my love,” he said in concern, “you look weary. Would you like me to escort you to your chamber now?”

  She blinked at him as if he’d spoken to her in another language, then gushed hopefully, “My chamber?”

  Of course, that brought the table to silence. Several sets of expectant eyes suddenly glared at him. And the gleam of desire that flared anew in Miriel’s eyes didn’t help. Her family no doubt imagined he’d offered to ravish her.

  “Miriel?” Deirdre asked.

  Miriel wasn’t going to help matters, not with her lusty gaze. He’d have to clarify his intentions himself.

  “After all,” he told her, loudly enough for everyone to hear, including that prying Sung Li, “you have a busy day on the morrow. You need your sleep.”

  “Sleep?” Miriel complained. “But I don’t—”

  Quickly, sure she was about to say something incriminating, Rand helped her up from the table.

  Before he could make his escape, Deirdre caught his sleeve and muttered between her teeth, “You’ll guide her up the stairs, no more. Leave her at the door, or else you’ll feel the prick of my blade this night.”

  He pretended great affront. “Of course.”

  Nonetheless, Helena, in sisterly accord, pinned him with her own threatening glare of warning.

  Then he bade everyone a hasty farewell and whisked Miriel away on his arm.

  It was no easy feat. She shuffled and swayed, tripping over her skirts. Whatever remarkable reflexes she’d employed earlier to catch his flagon in midair were gone.

  He smiled and shook his head. He’d have to remember not to encourage her to imbibe so freely again. At least not in the company of others.

  They awkwardly climbed the stone stairs. Miriel alternated between leaning heavily on him and bracing herself against the wall, giggling every few steps.

  “Wait,” she gasped, pushing him against the inner wall. “There’s somethin’…I wanna tell you.”

  He grinned. As drunk as she was, she was still adorable. And alluring. And incorrigible.

  She frowned, concentrating, trying to remember what she wanted to say. Then it came to her. She patted his chest and looked up into his eyes with serious intent. “I wanna kishoo.”

  The corner of his lip drifted up in amusement. Kishoo?

  He caught her chin and ran his thumb lightly over her bottom lip. “If I give you a kiss, will you tell me a story?”

  “A story?” Her eyelids dipped, whether from the effects of the wine or the touch of his fingers, he wasn’t sure.

  “Aye, a story of Rivenloch.” He cradled the fine curve of her jaw. “Something adventurous.” He let his fingers drift up to caress the smooth skin beneath her ear, sending a visible shiver through her. “I know. Tell me a story about…The Shadow.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why…why d’you wanna hear about him?”

  He shrugged. “Between my time in the tiltyard and at supper, I’ve already heard all the glorious exploits of Lord Pagan and Sir Colin.”

  She smirked.

  “Will you tell me a story, my love?” he murmured, toying with the soft curls at the back of her neck.

  Her brow creased in a tiny frown, as if she battled against the pleasure of his touch. “All right. But first I wanna kishoo.”

  He was more than happy to oblige. He might have assured Deirdre he’d only guide Miriel to her door, but he’d made no promise concerning what they might do on the way there. Slipping one hand around her narrow waist, he pulled her up close, against his chest and his belt and the beast in his trews, which was growing bolder by the moment.

  She gasped, and he caught the gasp in his mouth, swooping down upon her with purposeful desire. He’d thought to give her a brief-yet
-powerful kiss, one that would disarm her quickly, so that she could get on with her tale.

  It was not to be. Once he tasted the wine-sweet nectar of her lips, the liquid honey of her tongue, the naive yet worldly ambrosia of her naked desire, he was lost.

  Lust set fire to them both, igniting their blood as swiftly as summer wheat struck by lightning.

  She slanted her mouth to delve more deeply, sighing his name between kisses, pressing closer until he could feel the yielding rounds of her breasts, the smooth curve of her ribs, the tempting angle of her hips.

  Never had he burned so brightly, so fast. Never had he so quickly lost control.

  He knew he should cease. There was plenty of time for dalliance later. He was wasting precious time that could be better spent gathering information.

  But he couldn’t stop himself. He felt as if he’d slipped off a precipice, and there was nothing he could do to halt this interminable slide. His desire raged like an avalanche. She clung to him as if for her life, weaving desperate fingers through his hair. She panted thirstily as she drank from the font of his passion, and he sipped from her in turn, growing rapidly dizzy from the intoxication of her kiss.

  So caught up was he in the pleasurable whorl of sensations and emotions that he didn’t notice they were no longer alone.

  “So!”

  The sound startled him so severely that he wrenched backward, banging his head on the wall. He had his dagger halfway out of its sheath before he noticed it was only Sung Li.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, resheathing the dagger and rubbing at his bruised skull. Lord, that cursed maidservant must have traveled on ghost feet, so quiet was she.

  Miriel wasn’t frightened. She was furious. “Sung Li!” she scolded.

  The old woman ignored her to address Rand. “Is this what honor means to the knights of Morbroch?”

  He couldn’t help but color at her remark.

  “’Tisn’t his fault, Sung Li,” Miriel said, weaving a bit on the step. “’Twas my idea.”

  Sung Li pursed her withered lips. “You have no ideas. You are drunk.”

  Miriel’s exaggerated gasp only lent truth to her words.

  “You’re right,” Rand agreed, reaching out a hand to steady Miriel. “I should not have taken advantage of her weakness.”

  “Weakness?” Miriel challenged. “I’m not weak!”

  Before Rand could apologize, indeed, before he could even think, Miriel did something to crumple the back of his knee, and somehow his heels went out from under him. The next thing he knew, he was sitting flat on his arse on the hard stone step, groaning in pain and wondering how he’d gotten there.

  “Miriel!” Sung Li snapped.

  “Oh,” Miriel said, clapping her hand to her cheek. “I prob’ly shouldna done that.”

  Sung Li scowled and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Sorry,” Miriel told him. Then she assured the maid in a loud whisper, “’S’okay. He won’t remember anything. He’s drunk.” She bent down toward him and gave him a sloppy wink. “You’re drunk.” She staggered up the rest of the stairs then, waving. “G’night.”

  When she was out of sight, Sung Li stared at him as if weighing the consequences of beating him to a bloody pulp on the spot. And as strange as it seemed, even though the tiny woman’s head barely reached his as she stood one step below and he sat on the stair, Rand began to wonder if she might be capable of doing just that.

  These were peerless women, the women of Rivenloch. They were strong-boned and strong-willed. And they engaged in curious mating rituals—challenging men to duels, holding bridegrooms hostage…leaving decrepit maidservants to rough up prospective suitors.

  “’Twon’t happen again, Sung Li,” Rand assured her.

  Her black eyes focused suddenly in on him, like a knife thrown into his heart. “Oh, aye. It will.” The shining intensity of her gaze made him uneasy. ’Twas as if she probed his very soul. “There is an ember between you,” she intoned. “But this ember, it does not make fire.” She lifted her snowy brows. “It makes huo yao.”

  Rand frowned. Her words were likely just old womanish nonsense. But he was intrigued.

  “Huo yao,” she repeated, scowling as she searched for a suitable translation. “Fire…metals. Fire minerals.”

  “Firestone? Flint?” he tried.

  She shook her head impatiently. “You have no word. But it is more powerful than fire. You should beware,” she advised pointedly. “Watch that you do not get burned.”

  He nodded. He understood now. It was just Sung Li’s version of the same warning he’d received from Miriel’s siblings. Numerous times. Miriel must be the most precious gem in Rivenloch’s crown, for they all rushed to protect her.

  From hurt.

  From harm.

  From him.

  No wonder the poor lass resorted to trapping men in the forest before they had to undergo inspection by her family.

  Sung Li swept past him then, ascending the stairs with almost silent grace. Rand remained on the step for a while, kneading his banged buttock. It was pathetic. He had yet to engage The Shadow, but between the trials of the tiltyard and the rigors of courting, already he was thoroughly battered and bruised.

  It wouldn’t be so, he decided, if he weren’t so utterly distracted by that slip of a maid with the chestnut tresses and the twinkling blue eyes. He didn’t know what she’d done to sweep him off his feet, but he was sure it wouldn’t have happened if he’d been paying attention to something other than her flushed cheeks, her rosy lips, her heaving bosom…

  God’s wounds, he decided, wincing as he pushed himself up to stand, the pain was worth it. Miriel was not only beautiful. Not only desirable. She was unique. With no other woman had he felt such—what had Sung Li called it? Huo yao.

  It almost made him wish he could court her properly. Of course, it was a ridiculous notion. She was a noblewoman, the daughter of a lord. And he was little more than a vagabond with a bastard’s name and a borrowed title. He wandered the land, taking work where he found it, making as many enemies as he made friends. He was unfit to be any woman’s bridegroom, noble or not.

  But that didn’t keep him from dreaming now and again of settling down, of leaving behind his mercenary ways and finding a sweet young lass to warm his bed and bear his children, to stoke the fires of his hearth and his heart, and, aye, he thought with a grin, to knock him on his backside every once in a while when he needed it.

  Chapter 8

  “What will you tell him?” Sung Li demanded.

  Miriel cringed and buried her head beneath the coverlet. “Quiet.”

  Everything hurt this morn. Her head. Her eyes. Even her teeth. And Sung Li had seen fit to yank open the shutters to blinding sunlight when Miriel had just closed her eyes for the night.

  “What will you say?” Sung Li nagged, pulling the coverlet down despite Miriel’s protests.

  “I don’t know,” she whined. “What difference does it make? He probably won’t remember anyway. ’Twas only one cup.” Maybe now Sung Li would leave her alone, let her go back to sleep.

  “Cup? Cup? What cup?”

  Lord, Sung Li sounded like a chicken, a chicken with a very loud, insistent cluck.

  “The flagon he dropped. The one I caught.”

  Sung Li shook her hard by the shoulder, rattling her already sore joints. “Wake up.”

  Miriel finally whimpered in surrender. “What?”

  “And what you did on the stairs?”

  “What stairs?” Miriel pressed her fingertips against her pulsing temples.

  “You do not remember?”

  Miriel scowled against the encroaching sunlight. She did remember something. Something on the stairs. Something pleasant.

  Oh, aye, she’d been kissing Rand.

  Her lips curved up with the memory. He’d tasted wonderful—like honey, nay, like wine. His arms had enclosed her as warmly as a soft lambswool cloak. And she’d felt the thick dagger of his manhood
pressing against…

  “This is what you will say,” Sung Li commanded.

  Miriel sighed.

  Sung Li continued, “It is only a silly trick my sisters taught me.”

  Miriel frowned. Something else had happened on the stairs, and now it was starting to come back to her. Dear God, it wasn’t possible, was it? Surely she hadn’t been that drunk. But as her memory began to return with increasing clarity, she realized that, aye, she’d been that drunk. Rand had accused her of being weak, and she’d knocked the poor man on his arse. “Oh.”

  “Oh.” Sung Li shook his head in disgust. “Is that all you say? Oh?”

  “I’m sorry, xiansheng.”

  She was sorry. In her drunkenness, she’d done the very worst thing. She’d endangered Sung Li. Now she understood what he was telling her, what he was asking her to do. She nodded, practicing the lie. “’Tis only a silly trick I learned from my sisters.”

  Sung Li grunted, as minimally satisfied as he ever was with her performance. “Now get up. We do taijiquan.”

  Miriel groaned.

  As it turned out, Miriel didn’t need her rehearsed lie after all. She didn’t see Rand all morn. Preparations for Helena’s wedding kept her bustling about the great hall and everyone else out of her way. Fortunately, Sung Li had brewed her an herbal infusion to relieve most of her ills, so she was able to function with reasonable efficiency.

  She supervised the servants as they first polished and swept, then decorated the hall with cedar boughs and holly berries and sprigs of purple heather. She made certain there were plenty of candles, as well as linens and cups for guests. And she kept a written account of all the provender leaving the buttery and storerooms to make sure none found its way into private quarters.

  It was late morn when Rand finally made his appearance at the entrance of the great hall. Miriel’s heart seized suddenly at the sight of his boyish smile and merry brown eyes. A wave of sensual memory assailed her at once. She could instantly imagine the taste of his lips, the texture of his hair, the smell of his skin.

 

‹ Prev