While Miriel was applauding at the conclusion of a lute player’s performance, Rand spied a game of skill farther down the lane. Perfect, he thought. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her along. “Come on.”
She went willingly until she saw where he was going. Then she hesitated. “Knife throwing?”
“’Twill be fun,” he coaxed her.
“You know how I feel about warfare.”
He chuckled. “’Tisn’t warfare. ’Tis only a contest.”
“But I’ve never—”
“I can teach you.”
“Teach me?”
“Aye,” he told her proudly. “I’ve a keen eye with a blade.”
“Mm.”
He leaned Miriel’s weapon against the corner pole of the booth, then pressed a coin into the proprietor’s palm and selected three knives.
“I’ll show you how it’s done, then you throw the next three.”
He eyed the straw target five yards away, then flexed his fingers and picked up the first knife. He took a steadying breath, then, with a flick of his wrist, fired the weapon forward. The blade sank into the straw an inch from the center of the target.
Miriel clapped and gave a little cheer, but he knew he could do better than that.
He wiped his hand on his tabard, drying his fingers to help improve his grip, then picked up the second knife. This time when he hurled the weapon, it landed beside the first, a bladewidth’s closer to the center.
“You’re very good,” Miriel gushed.
But not good enough. He had to waken the competitive spirit in her. To do that, he needed to hit the mark in the dead center.
Taking a deep breath and concentrating hard on the target, he flipped the knife off the end of his fingers once more. This time it landed on the opposite side, just shy of the center.
He grumbled and shook his head.
Miriel hurried to assuage his humiliation. “You were so close. By the Saints, if that had been an attacker, you would have saved my life.”
“Here,” he said, selecting three knives for her while the proprietor pulled out the three Rand had fired.
“Are you sure…” Miriel began, moving reluctantly to the throwing line.
“I’ll help you.” He placed the first knife in Miriel’s hand, then stood behind her, wrapping his arms about her to guide her. It was an intimate position. The soft, fragrant cloud of her hair brushed his cheek, and her backside nestled against his loins. He was sorely tempted to spend the rest of the day teaching her to throw knives.
“Like this?” she asked, stiffening her wrist.
“Nay, like this.”
He loosened her taut grip with a gentle shake, then guided her through a couple of practice flings before he told her to let go of the blade. Her arm wobbled, and the knife sailed toward the target, lodging in the outermost ring.
She might have missed intentionally. He would have if he was trying to hide his talents. But to his amusement, Miriel seemed absolutely delighted with her performance.
“I did it!” she exclaimed. “I hit the target!”
His worries that she might be an expert marksman vanished. She was truly awful, and bless her heart, the poor lass didn’t even know it. Lord, she was precious, Rand thought, particularly when she spun in his arms to give him a victorious kiss on the cheek.
“Try again,” he said. “This time keep your eyes on the center of the target.”
Their arms moved as one again, and he helped her flick the blade forward. The knife landed one ring closer to the center, but by Miriel’s proud grin, one would have thought she’d thrown three bull’s-eyes.
Chuckling, he handed her the third knife. “Would you like to try it on your own now?”
“Aye,” she said, her eyes alight.
He watched as her face grew very serious and she blew out a few breaths, focusing hard on the straw. Then, after two false starts, she cast the blade forward. It missed the target altogether, landing in the back wall of the pavilion.
“Oh!” She clapped her hands in embarrassment over her mouth.
“That’s all right,” he assured her, digging in his purse again. “Shall we go another round?”
She whispered, “I don’t wish to damage the poor man’s pavilion.”
He laughed. “I’m certain my coin will cover the repairs. But this time, let’s make it more interesting. How about a wager?”
“A wager?”
“Aye. I have a fierce hunger again. If I win, we’ll go purchase eel pie.” She wrinkled her nose. “If you win, we’ll have chicken pasties.”
She considered the wager for a moment, her eyes gleaming in speculation. Then she nodded, meeting his challenge. “Done.”
To his satisfaction, his first two casts landed in the inner circle, and he made a bull’s-eye on the last throw.
Miriel shook her head, sure she’d already lost their contest. She picked up the first knife, biting her bottom lip in concentration. She stood with the wrong foot forward, and Rand stopped her to correct her form. She nodded, studied the target, then squeezed her eyes shut and fired the knife. It stuck at the edge of the straw, missing the target altogether.
At her frown of disappointment, Rand handed her the second knife. “This time, keep your eyes open,” he suggested with a grin.
She’d still walk away victorious. He’d give her the prize for his bull’s-eye, a ribbon for her hair. But he couldn’t deny that his mouth was watering as if he already tasted that eel pie.
Then something amazing happened. With a rapid twist of her wrist, Miriel flung the blade forward, and somehow, miraculously, it landed in the dead center of the target.
She let out a whoop of triumph, and even the proprietor stared at her, doubtless grateful that the blade hadn’t lodged in any part of his body.
The man leaned over the booth toward Rand. “Novice’s luck,” he assured him.
Rand presumed as much, too, until she threw the last knife. It flew to the bull’s-eye with such deadly speed and aim, knocking the first blade askew, that it took Rand’s breath away. That blade might have been thrown by a hired assassin, so true was its flight.
“Did you see it?” she cried, clapping her hands together in glee. “Oh, I wish my father could have seen it.”
“’Twas remarkable,” Rand agreed, feeling slightly queasy. “You’re certain you’ve never thrown a knife before?”
“Me?” She laughed.
The proprietor of the booth shook his head. “Never seen a novice throw two bull’s-eyes.”
“I was greatly motivated,” she said.
“You like ribbons, m’lady?” the man asked, holding out the selection to let her choose her prize.
“Nay,” she confided with a wink, “I truly despise eel pie.”
True to his word, Rand bought them chicken pasties, though he hadn’t much appetite. There was no denying now that Miriel possessed skills that a woman professing to detest warfare definitely should not have. The question was what to do about it.
He tried to keep a calm head as they sat together under an oak tree, sharing their supper. Perhaps he was leaping to conclusions. Just because she could throw knives didn’t mean she was The Shadow. Her talent might be a family trait. After all, Miriel’s sisters were expert swordswomen. It stood to reason that Miriel might have inherited some of her father’s skills as well.
He wondered what would happen if he bluffed, told her he knew who The Shadow was? Would a glimmer of telltale fear enter her eyes?
He swallowed his last bite of pasty and brushed the crumbs from his lap, then caught Miriel’s hand in his. “My lady, I have something to confess.”
“Aye?”
He watched her eyes carefully. “I know something about…The Shadow.”
She blinked once, but her gaze revealed nothing. But as he continued to stare at her in silence, horror dawned slowly in her eyes. Her mouth formed an “O” of surprise, and she withdrew her hand.
Hell, Rand thought, he was righ
t. Miriel was The Shadow. It was written all over her face.
“Are you…are you…” she began, breathless.
He mentally finished her sentence for her. Going to tell my family? Going to turn me in? Going to see that I hang for my crimes?
“Are you The Shadow?” she whispered.
“Me?”
Her eyes were wide with fear as she nodded.
“Me?” How she’d twisted his intent around so quickly, he didn’t know, but the absurdity of her assumption made him laugh out loud. “Of course not!”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not The Shadow, Miriel.”
She looked at him with wary eyes. “Then what do you have to confess?”
Lord, she was either genuinely puzzled or brilliantly dissembling. He couldn’t tell which.
“Wait!” she said suddenly, placing her hand upon his forearm. “Don’t tell me. I know.”
He waited. Perhaps she was going to reveal herself now. Outlaws often blurted out confessions when their perfidy was discovered.
She shyly lowered her eyes. “You wish to confess that your recent encounter with The Shadow, your close brush with death, has made you realize how valuable life is.”
Rand furrowed his brows. What was the maid going on about? That wasn’t at all what he wished to confess.
She leaned in closer and looked coyly up at him. “You’ve learned that what’s precious to a man can be swept away…” She snapped her fingers. “In the blink of an eye.”
He smiled uneasily. Where was she going with this?
She returned his smile, then inclined her head against his with an affectionate sigh. “I know, my dearest Rand. You wish to confess that you can’t bear the thought of living the rest of your years apart from the woman you love.”
Rand almost choked on astonishment. He was still reeling in speechless surprise when Miriel circled her arms about his neck and planted a deliberate kiss upon his mouth.
Now what the bloody hell was he supposed to do? The conniving little imp had deliberately cornered him.
Not that it was an uncomfortable corner. Indeed, her arms felt wonderfully right about him, her lips sweet and warm, her soft, adoring gaze most flattering.
But, damn the wench, she’d backed him into a spot where he couldn’t budge. She might have used mere words to do it, but she was no less deft than The Shadow when it came to rendering a man helpless.
“Miriel.”
“Rand?” She lowered her gaze to his mouth and hungrily licked her lips.
He sighed. “That’s exactly what I wished to confess.”
Miriel decided she must share her father’s penchant for gambling. She’d taken a huge risk, using her feminine wiles, wagering everything to pull Rand away from the subject of The Shadow and steer him toward the subject of marriage.
Thankfully, the wager had paid off.
And as Rand obliged her with a deep, soul-melting kiss, the reality of what she’d won began to sink in.
“Marry me, my lady,” he murmured against her lips.
She flashed him a mischievous grin. “I’ll have to think about it.”
He lifted a menacing brow. “Think quickly, or else I’ll withdraw my offer.”
Before she could gush out a reply, he began to rain kisses all over her face.
“Well?” he said between feverish pecks. “What say you?”
So intense and overwhelming was his assault that she could scarcely gasp for breath between his kisses.
“No word, wench?” he demanded. “Will you tell me aye?”
“Aye!” she managed to cry at last, laughing in delight as he nuzzled at her ear. Her heart felt as if it danced for joy, and her body felt lighter than air.
Finally, he paused in his attack long enough to clasp her face between his palms. His expression was very serious, but his gaze was soft and adoring, and as he continued to stare deeply into her eyes, his mouth slowly widened into a brilliant smile, complete with irresistible dimples.
Then, as impulsive as she, he grabbed her wrist, hopped to his feet, and tugged her up. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“I believe I owe you a love token, my lady.”
Pausing just long enough to grab her shang chi, she trailed gladly after him toward jewelers’ row.
His gift was a wedding ring, a beautiful entwined silver piece that the jeweler said was a lover’s knot. It looked curiously foreign on her hand, but knowing what it meant, that she belonged to Rand and that he belonged to her, made it seem perfect encircling her finger.
Of course, Rand wouldn’t let her wear it. Not yet. On the day they were wed, he told her, when they made their marriage vows before the people of Rivenloch and the priest, then he’d slip it on her finger and promise his everlasting love.
She could wait. After all, once he placed it on the finger leading straight to her heart, once they became man and wife before God, she knew she could no longer harbor secrets from him.
The grin wouldn’t fade from Rand’s face as he held Miriel’s hand. What was happening between the brightly painted players on the stage before him, he didn’t know. He was preoccupied with the lovely damsel sitting beside him, who watched the performance with rapt fascination.
It was the most amazing day. A fortnight ago, he’d never imagined that the Lord of Morbroch’s mission would earn him such a priceless reward.
That Miriel had coerced him into asking for her hand seemed somehow appropriate. The lass was completely unpredictable and impulsive, just as when she’d seized him that first day and demanded a kiss. Marriage to her would be an endless series of adventures and surprises, he was sure.
It would also be a serious responsibility. He’d never been responsible for another person. On his own, he’d always made his bed where he lay, found supper where he could, lived each day at the whim of the wind. He was unaccustomed to the rigors of castle life, where one kept regular hours and followed strict codes of conduct.
But he looked forward to the discipline. Perhaps that was what had been missing in his life—a sense of purpose, a sense of belonging. He belonged now—to the lovely damsel clinging to his hand with childlike trust. And he intended to become worthy of that trust.
His heart swelled with a reckless longing to please Miriel. He wanted to bring light to her eyes, to make her world safe and blessed and bright. Was that what love felt like? If so, he could see why men did foolish things in the name of love. For at the moment, he’d gladly do anything to bring a smile to her face.
The first thing he’d do was befriend Sung Li. For reasons known only to her, the old maid seemed to detest Rand. Ordinarily he wouldn’t care. She was only a servant, after all. But the grumpy old woman was obviously beloved by Miriel. It was important that Rand learn to care for her, even if she never warmed to him.
Second, he’d settle his doubts concerning The Shadow once and for all. He needed to catch the outlaw, to uncover his identity, to complete his mission.
And one day, he’d reveal his secrets to Miriel. But for now, did it matter he was a bastard? Did it matter he was a mercenary, not Sir Rand of Morbroch, but Rand la Nuit? Did it matter he’d come to Rivenloch, not to court her, but to catch an outlaw?
Nay, he decided. All that mattered was that he loved Miriel, and he wanted to make her his wife. The rest he’d tell her soon enough.
He raised Miriel’s clasped hand to his lips for what must have been the fiftieth time. She giggled over something the players were doing, and he turned his attention to the stage.
The two ruffians were having some sort of mock quarrel involving a huge fish, slapping each other with the thing. Rand thought their play looked familiar. Aye, he’d seen the men before, shared ale with them, in fact. In Stirling maybe. Or Carlisle. As he continued to watch the humorous spectacle, grinning as the players punched and dodged, leaped and collided in a well-practiced dance, the most brilliant idea began to worm its way through his brain.
Chap
ter 20
When Miriel returned to the now-deserted stage with the pair of ales she’d fetched for herself and Rand, she was surprised to find him chatting with the gaudily dressed players. Curious, she held back, watching their interaction at a distance. The three of them seemed to be conducting some serious surreptitious transaction, made ludicrous by the fact that two of them had faces painted in as many colors as a bastard’s coat of arms.
While she watched, Rand slipped something into their palms, gave them a nod farewell, then glanced up to see her approach. He beamed at the sight of her, and the instant she beheld those enchanting dimples, all her suspicions vanished.
She handed him his ale, deciding she was too cynical by far. Rand wasn’t up to mischief. He’d probably given the players a few coins for their entertainment, no more.
She didn’t give the matter another thought.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in bargaining and feasting, watching wrestlers and pipers and mummers, strolling hand in hand down the winding lanes of leatherworkers and jewelers, swordsmiths and chandlers, spice merchants and vendors of holy relics. After a delightfully exhausting day, they sauntered home to Rivenloch, as Sung Li wished, before nightfall.
Rand announced their wedding plans at supper. With perfect chivalry, he first formally asked her father’s permission for her hand. Unfortunately, Lord Gellir, his wits more rattled tonight than usual, seemed highly confused by the whole affair, unclear as to who was to wed whom. But where Lord Gellir faltered, Pagan, Colin, Deirdre, and Helena intervened. They gave Rand and Miriel their enthusiastic blessing and hearty cheers.
Sung Li, too, offered quiet congratulations, but Miriel could tell his words were empty. He was displeased. And that angered Miriel immensely.
She silently cursed the peevish old man for his rudeness to Rand. After all, Rand was making a great effort to be kind this eve. He’d helped Sung Li to his seat. He’d assured Sung Li that Miriel would still require the maid’s services after they were wed. He’d even told the surly old worm that if he truly disapproved of their marriage, Rand would gladly listen to his grievances.
Still Sung Li offered him a cold reception, and by the end of supper, Miriel was becoming sorely tempted to use her new shang chi on the rude old fool.
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