“Nay!” he said more forcefully than he intended. “Nay.” The thought of one of his depraved half brothers meeting innocent Miriel was unspeakable.
“Indeed?” She ran a finger lightly down his arm. “Are they more handsome than you?”
He caught her wrist before he realized she was only teasing him. At her gasp, he lightened his grip and raised her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. He clucked his tongue. “Handsome? Is that all you care about? I thought you loved me for my wit.”
Miriel did love his wit. But she wasn’t about to admit it. She was learning some very revealing things about Sir Rand, who might or might not be of Morbroch, and she didn’t want him to wander too far from their current conversation.
She affected an air of innocence. “Your wit? Oh, nay. ’Twas always about your appearance. Your languid eyes and your noble nose. Your toothsome smile and…”
“Go on. Say it.”
“What?”
“My dimples.”
“Your what?”
“My dimples. The ladies love my dimples.”
She knitted her brows. “Do you have dimples?”
He grinned and shook his head, displaying those very notorious assets. Lord, they were adorable.
“Tell me more,” she pleaded, spotting a scratch on his ear and dabbing a tiny bit of dill salve on it. “What were you like as a lad?”
He sighed. Rand apparently didn’t like to speak much about his youth, which meant it must have been unpleasant. In fact, she’d begun to doubt very much that he’d come from the Morbroch household at all. The Morbrochs were a jovial, well-meaning lot. Any man who’d kick a cat half to death would have been strung up by his thumbs.
“I suppose I was like any lad. Picked up a sword when I was two. Got my first horse at three. Stuck my nose where it didn’t belong a few times and earned a few scars. Kissed a lass when I was ten. Bedded my first wench—”
She whacked him on the back of the head.
“Ow!” He chuckled.
She popped a cork back into the vial. “You’re finished.”
“Finished?”
She arched a brow. “Unless you’ve got a hangnail that needs surgery.”
He grinned.
She gathered her jars, casting a sidelong glance at him as he donned his linen shirt, watching the splendid flex of his muscles. She might appreciate his wit, but the sight of his naked torso did something to her insides.
At long last she thought she’d untangled the mystery of Sir Rand of Morbroch. Indeed, he wasn’t who he claimed to be. But she knew now why he’d lied about his identity. And the moving truth of that lie left her with a soft, warm glow that threatened to melt her very soul.
As she headed toward the door, she paused to give him a fond smile and a subtle warning. “Don’t challenge The Shadow again. No man can best him. You’ll only hurt yourself trying.”
With that, she made a smug exit, secure in the knowledge that Rand was as harmless as he was charming.
He was no spy, no criminal, no foreign sapper scheming to undermine the castle. He was but a lost little lad looking for a home. Wherever he’d come from, his life had been miserable. He’d had a cruel father, an absent mother, and brothers of whom he preferred not to speak. It was clear to her now why he’d come to Rivenloch.
He needed to belong.
He’d likely heard that the illustrious knights of Cameliard had allied with the men of Rivenloch. For a warrior with talent, there was no force more desirable to join. But he could hardly ride up to the gates, a freelancer with no title or commendation and expect to be welcomed into the army. So Rand had journeyed here, arriving in the tabard of a trusted neighbor, to ingratiate himself into the fold of Rivenloch.
He’d lied about everything.
And he continued to lie.
But they were harmless lies.
He lied when, winning excessively at dice, he feigned fatigue and excused himself from the table.
He lied when, hearing her father’s tale about the Battle of Burnbaugh for the fourth time, he pretended great interest.
And he lied when he claimed he was no great fighter. Miriel knew better. Oh, aye, he’d appeared to improve until he was currently qualified to spar against Rivenloch’s best, Lord Pagan himself. But now she knew his apparent ineptitude had been a matter of courtesy. He’d intentionally downplayed his abilities in order to endear himself to the men.
It made perfect sense. If he’d arrived at Rivenloch, a gifted warrior, capable of subduing the best knights, he would have made fast foes. By underplaying his talents, most of the men were only too eager to give him advice, help him better his skills, and ultimately take pride in witnessing his improvement.
It was genius. Yet it was hardly malicious, just as his apparent interest in capturing the scourge of Rivenloch, The Shadow, was benign. He seemed truly to wish to please Pagan and Colin, and he presumed that apprehending the local outlaw would secure a place for him among the knights.
What he didn’t know was that he’d already been accepted by her family. Her father treated him like a son. Colin and Pagan jested with him as if he were their brother. And her sisters no longer shot threatening glares at him every time he took Miriel’s hand. Indeed, they’d given him leave to take her to the fair unescorted at week’s end.
He’d charmed his way into their lives, and he was rapidly winning his way into Miriel’s heart.
Chapter 14
For Rand, the next few days proved unbearably frustrating. As much progress as he felt he was making in earning the trust of the folk of Rivenloch, he was getting no closer to identifying the outlaw.
If a lad seemed the right size, he was inevitably as hale as a horse. If Rand spotted someone favoring an injured leg, the person was inevitably too tall or fat or old or female to be The Shadow.
Not that he’d completely discounted the notion that the thief might be a woman. Dwelling among the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, he’d learned to keep an open mind.
But the one woman he’d definitely crossed off the list of possibilities was Lady Miriel.
Rand smiled as he watched Lord Gellir toss the dice once again, eliciting a loud outcry from the men crowded about the gaming table, followed by a shuffling of coin from loser to winner.
Lady Miriel had certainly made Rand’s trip to Rivenloch worth every penny of his reward. Now that Helena’s wedding was past, she seemed to have more time to spend with him.
She’d invited him on a pleasant walk around the lake two days ago. The air had been cool and still, with water striders skating along the surface of the deep green lake and, here and there, a trout splashing, breaching the waves to nip at an insect. Firs had hunched like washerwomen at the water’s edge, and slender reeds had shifted as frogs wriggled among them, startled by the passage of the strolling lovers. They’d supped on wine and cheese and pandemain in the shade of a tall pine…and the shadow of Sung Li, who’d insisted on accompanying them, despite complaining of her aching bones.
Yesterday, the three sisters had awakened Rand at dawn to take him fishing at the river. Despite a friendly rivalry that turned into a splashing fight among the four of them, they still managed to catch a few dozen trout, enough to grace the table at supper last night.
This morn, Miriel had challenged him to draughts. He’d chivalrously let her win, and when she discovered that, she’d made him play again. This time she’d defeated him on her own.
He smiled at the memory.
“What are you grinning about?” Colin asked, nudging him from his thoughts. “You just lost.”
Rand glanced down at the dice and shook his head. “Looks like I’m done for the night.”
It was just as well. So distracted was he by thoughts of Miriel that if The Shadow was sitting beside him right now in his black garb, Rand would never notice.
Sitting at her desk by candlelight, poring over the ledgers, Miriel found it difficult to make sense of the figures swimming before her.
&n
bsp; How it had happened, she didn’t know. Maybe it was the carefree stroll by the lake. Or the battle of splashes at the river. Or the silly games of draughts. Maybe it was Miriel’s instinctive desire to heal the wounds of a young lad with a miserable childhood. But in the last two days she’d fallen in love with Sir Rand.
The problem was, he was falling in love with her as well. And he didn’t have the slightest idea who she was.
He’d been attracted to the woman who flirted coyly with him, blushed easily, and wouldn’t harm a spider. If he ever discovered the truth…
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t tell him the truth. And yet she couldn’t hide forever.
Opening her eyes again, she reviewed the column of numbers for the tenth time, trying to make sense out of them.
Finally, exasperated with how long the accounts were taking this eve, she gave her head a stern shake and muttered, “Concentrate, you foolish mop. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can go upstairs.”
Rand was upstairs, likely losing more silver to her father. She smiled, thinking it was a good thing The Shadow had tossed him that coin after all. The poor man might need it before long. Especially if, as he’d done with her in draughts earlier today, he was losing intentionally.
She focused on the ledger before her, softly murmuring the numbers aloud, scrawling figures onto the parchment by the candles’ flicker.
Indeed, so riveted was her attention upon the page that she didn’t hear the intruder entering the room.
“So this is your office,” he called softly.
She started so abruptly that she knocked over the vial of ink. She’d stood, spun halfway round, and raised her arms into the ready stance, when she realized who it was. Hastily, she lowered her arms, then clapped a hand to her bosom.
“Shite,” she said under her breath.
“Sorry.” With a grimace of apology, he rushed forward to tip the ink vial upright again. Ink had spilled over the linen tablecloth, but thankfully not onto the ledger.
Regardless of her startle, it was more than fright that made the blood gallop through her veins as she eased back down onto her chair. The sight of Rand—tall, powerful, handsome Rand—his dark hair curling seductively about his ears, his skin golden in the candlelight, his eyes shining with amusement and adoration—set her pulse racing.
And the fact that they were alone together in the private sanctum of her workroom, where she need only close the door to ensure complete seclusion…
Sweet Mary, the thought made her mind stray with wanton abandon.
“You work too hard,” he remarked.
For a moment she could only stare at him in wonder. He was the first person to notice. The rest of the castle folk, her sisters included, seemed to think she came down here to dawdle or nap. They didn’t understand how demanding her work was.
Rand came up behind her, placed his hands upon her shoulders, and began massaging at her tense muscles. “’Tis nearly midnight, my love.”
“Is it?” Her voice cracked, unsettled by the perilous pleasure that sang through her body at the touch of his hands. His soothing ministrations quickly began to seduce away her caution. She closed her eyes, and a soft moan escaped her, unbidden.
He chuckled. “Do you like that?”
Aye, she liked it. His hands were strong, and his fingertips quickly found the places where she was most tight. He rubbed persistently at them, as if forcing them into submission, and yet she felt neither the will nor the desire to resist.
With a final caress down her back, he said, “I’m afraid I’ve made more work for you with my gaming.”
When she spoke, her voice sounded almost like it belonged to another woman, one more languorously mellow than her. “Did you unbalance my books, you irksome knave? Have you robbed my father of all his coin?”
“Nay, he won a good bit of mine.”
“He won?” She smiled. “My father never wins.”
“He did this eve, beat me soundly.”
“Play him again tomorrow eve, and I’m certain you’ll win it all back.”
“Indeed? And how will you account for that?”
She shrugged. “I always find a way to balance it.”
“It looks difficult.” He pointed to the ledger. “What are all these scratchings?”
She gave him a lazy grin. There was another first. Nobody took much interest in her accounting, as long as the castle was running smoothly. No one ever even looked in her ledgers. But she had a great respect for the amazing system of numbers, and the thought of showing Rand her work was exciting.
“Can you read?” she asked.
He hesitated.
“That’s all right,” she hastened to assure him. “Most knights I know can’t.”
His forehead took on a troubled wrinkle. “I can read my name. Not much else.”
“Come, pull up a stool, and I’ll show you.”
Miriel had one moment of misgiving, where she wondered if his interest, too, was a polite lie, if he only feigned fascination to please her. But soon they were hunched together over the ledgers, thigh to thigh, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, while she pointed enthusiastically to the entries she’d just made.
“’Tis almost what Sung Li would call karmic,” she explained. “The figures in the right column must always balance those in the left.”
“What does it say?”
“This is a record of what we’ve spent. Here is the wine we purchased from the abbey for Helena’s wedding. And here is the amount for the spices.” She ran a finger down the listings. “The priest’s compensation. A new cook pot. Silk sheets.”
“Silk sheets?”
Miriel chuckled. The sheets had been a wedding gift, a jest on Deirdre’s part, mocking Helena’s complaints about her spoiled Norman husband. “A gift for the bride and bridegroom.”
“And what are these figures?” He pointed to the numbers on the right.
“This column records the coin that increases the coffers.”
He scowled. “There is much less on this side.”
For a man who couldn’t read, he was quite observant. “Aye, fewer listings, but the amounts are greater. Here are the earnings from selling wool to the abbey. Here is the collection of rents. And here are the winnings from the wagering after the wedding feast.”
“I see.” His arm went around her shoulders as he pointed to the page. “And where do you record the losses?”
Miriel froze. “The losses?”
“Aye.”
No one had ever asked her that. Most of the castle folk couldn’t read or do sums, so they took no interest in Miriel’s books. “Well,” she hedged, “as you know, the men of Rivenloch always return their winnings to the coffers.”
“But what about the Mochries, the Herdclays?”
Miriel licked her lips. Since Rand couldn’t read, she supposed she could make up anything, and he’d believe it. She pointed to an entry recording the purchase of tallow candles and said, “The losses go here, in the left column.”
“Hm.”
Miriel hated lying to him, but Rand was getting too inquisitive. After all, she could hardly explain to him that she never bothered recording Rivenloch’s losses. Nor why.
“By the Saints,” she said lightly, “all this must be dreadfully boring for you.”
With that, she snapped the ledger shut.
“Not at all, my love,” Rand assured her. Indeed, Miriel’s bold deception was anything but boring. He was glad he’d made the detour into her office. This manipulative accounting was very suspicious indeed. “How could I be bored when you’re here beside me?” He gave her an unctuous grin.
The wily wench had lied to him about the ledger.
Of course, he’d lied to her about not being able to read.
He knew why he’d deceived her. But what was she hiding? Why were there no entries for the silver that her father wagered away? Were his losses an embarrassment to Miriel that she didn’t wish to record? Or something more devi
ous? Something having to do with a certain woodland outlaw?
He hoped it was the former. It pained him to imagine that the lovely maid beside him with the wide blue eyes and the guileless smile somehow contrived insidious accounting plots from the confines of her humble office.
It troubled him even more deeply to imagine that Miriel might be in league with The Shadow.
But he had to get to the truth. And to do that, he’d have to employ more deception.
Rand had long ago discovered that a coaxing voice and a gentle touch brought out the honesty in women. He supposed it softened their resolve to lie to him. As much as he hated using such knavish manipulation on a woman for whom he truly cared, it was far more effective than threats.
Besides, he consoled himself, it wasn’t as if Miriel hadn’t employed the same kind of trickery herself. It was she, after all, who had seized him by the tabard and forced a kiss upon him that first day.
Rand coiled his fingers in the delicate curls at the nape of her neck, and murmured, “Would it be too wicked to admit I was pleased to find you alone here?” He saw her skin shiver deliciously under his touch, and his own flesh tightened in response. “Indeed, I feared that meddling maidservant of yours would chase me away.”
“Sung Li?” Miriel’s voice was rough and low. She was definitely savoring his caresses.
He dragged his fingertip up along the side of her neck to trace the rim of her ear, delighting at the shuddering sigh he elicited.
“Aye.” He bent close to nuzzle the lobe of her ear. Lord, she smelled as luscious as sun-drenched roses. “What ails the wench anyway? She’s been limping about the keep like a lame hound.”
He felt foolish asking the question. The notion that Sung Li might be the one he’d injured, that Miriel’s doddering maid was in sooth an agile outlaw with the reflexes of a cat, was absurd. But Rand had earned his reputation for thoroughness by following every lead, even absurd ones. He wasn’t ready to rule out any possibility.
“She’s an old woman,” Miriel said on a sigh, “with old bones.”
“Ah.” He pressed a kiss against Miriel’s throat, reveling in the fragrance of her skin, in the rapid pulse that beat there. “Do you not keep a store of medicines to relieve such suffering?” he murmured, knowing full well she did. She’d treated him with them only a few days ago.
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