Authors: Sarah McKerrigan
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. Watch," she advised pointedly, "that
you do not get burned."
He
nodded. He understood now. 'Twas 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. 'Twas 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.
'Twould
not 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
was it Sung Li had called it?
Huo yao.
It
almost made him wish he
could
court her. Of course, 'twas a ridiculous
notion. She was a proper lady, 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." Mayhap 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 lamb's wool 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 'twas
starting to come back to her. Dear God, 'twas not possible, was it? Surely
she'd not 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.
'Twas
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.
She
bit her lip and willed her heart to steady its beating. She needed to get her
responses under control. 'Twas a matter of grave importance. She had played
with fire last night, allowing herself to act on impulse, and she'd been lucky
to escape unscathed.
She
might not be so lucky in the future.
She
had to inure herself to Rand's presence. No matter how sparkly his eyes were or
how endearing his dimples.
Besides,
she told herself, fixing a sconce with a wobbly candle, 'twas the day before
her sister's wedding. There was no time for idle chatter. Or long, adoring
glances. Or hungry, steaming, passionate kisses.
Apparently,
she had no cause to worry. Rand seemed determined to stay out of her way. He
hovered at the outskirts of all the activity, lending a helping hand here, a strong
back there, a word of caution or praise where 'twas required.
His
charm was truly astonishing. In only a day, the clever knave had managed to
weave himself neatly into the human tapestry of Rivenloch, like an earnest
suitor.
Or a
wily fox.
Which
made him very dangerous indeed to the trusting folk of Rivenloch, folk like
the maid who currently giggled as Rand bowed to her with exaggerated gallantry.
Miriel
narrowed her eyes and clapped the dust from her hands. 'Twas time to intervene.
She couldn't afford to have lovesick, loose-lipped servants falling at his
feet. There was no telling what secrets they might divulge.
But
just then the guards introduced the arrival of the first overnight guests for
the wedding, and Miriel became embroiled in welcoming them. She made certain
their horses were stabled, ordered refreshments for them, and invited them to
make themselves comfortable by the hearth. Such duties always fell to Miriel,
since she was the most congenial of the sisters.
'Twas
nigh an hour before she spotted Rand again in the great hall, and when she saw
with whom he was conversing, a sudden pang, sharp and unpleasant, tweaked her
breast.
Lucy
Campbell.
Lucy
was trouble. She was too buxom for her own good, and she seemed to have
difficulty keeping her twin assets inside her kirtle. She had a saucy smile and
sly eyes she used to great advantage, and her rosy cheeks and unruly tresses
always made her look as if she'd just come from swiving. Most of the time she
had.
Even
worse, Lucy Campbell was an incurable gossip. She found it as hard to keep her
lips together as her legs. Rand need only give her a wink, and she'd tell him
anything he wanted to know.
Lucy
stood at the entrance of the buttery now, coyly tucking a stray tendril of hair
behind her ear, while Sir Rand leaned against the wall beside her, smiling and
chatting.
The
sight made Miriel's ears burn.
It
couldn't be jealousy, she told herself. After all, Rand didn't belong to her,
not really. Their courtship was a farce, wasn't it?
But something
about their open flirtation set Miriel’s blood to simmering.
It
must be anger. Lucy was her servant. Helena's wedding was on the morrow. And
the lazy wench was wasting precious time, wagging her tongue and fluttering
her lashes at Miriel's... at Sir Rand.
Besides,
she thought, making her way across the hall, wasn't Lucy supposed to be
courting Sir Rauve?
"Lucy!"
she snapped, startling the maid. "Have you started the cheese yet?"
"Aye,
my lady."
"Aye?"
She doubted it. Lucy seldom did anything the first time she was asked.
"Aye."
Miriel
frowned. "What about the dovecote? Has it been cleaned?"
"I
did it yesterday, my lady."
Miriel
blinked in surprise. What was wrong with Lucy? She wasn't giving Miriel her
usual brash replies. And it appeared the lass had finally learned to tie the
upper laces on her surcoat. "The mead. Did you—"
"The
mead's been brought up."
"Oh."
She glanced at Rand, who seemed taken aback by the harsh tone she was taking
with Lucy. "Then what were you doing in the buttery?"
Lucy's
face was the picture of innocence. "Just hanging the bacon up like you
said, my lady."
"Hm.
Well. Good." But Miriel still felt as irritable as a cat in the north
wind. She nabbed Lucy by the elbow and steered her away from Rand, out of his
hearing. "So now you've decided to dawdle away the day," she whispered,
"flirting with the guests?"
"I
wasn't dawdling," Lucy hissed back, "and I wasn't flirting. 'Twas him
who started talking to me. What else was I supposed to do? Besides," she
said, her eyes taking on a dreamy cast, "you needn't fret. I have my own
man now. I won't be stealing yours."
Miriel
felt a blush warm her cheeks. "What were you talking about then?"
She
shrugged. "Naught. He was just asking about Rivenloch. The castle. The
castle folk."
"Did
he ask you anything about me?"
"Nay."
Miriel
couldn't help but be displeased. Blessed Mary, she'd known Rand less than two
days, and already she'd spied upon him twice and rummaged through his pack.
Where was
his
natural
curiosity?
"Was
there something else?" Lucy asked.
Miriel
shook her head. Then she reconsidered. "Aye. There is. Take a cup of ale
to Sir Rauve. He's been working hard in the tiltyard."
"Aye,
my lady." The way Lucy's eyes lit up as she rushed off, one would have
thought Miriel had asked her to sit at the king's table.
Mayhap
one day Miriel would find a man who made her eyes glow like that, the way
Helena's did when she looked upon her bridegroom, the way Deirdre's did when
she talked about her husband.
Sir
Rand certainly didn't make Miriel's gaze go soft. Nay, he elicited completely
different emotions in her. Suspicion. Amusement. Irritation. And inexplicable
desire.
Shivering
with the memory of his kisses, she turned to see where her welcome, yet
unwelcome, suitor had gone. There he was, emerging from the cellar stairs. And
he wasn't alone. Not one, but
two
giggling maidservants accompanied him as he
carried a sack of oats over his shoulder, merrily proceeding across the hall
and out the door.
She
felt the hackles rise along her neck. What was the bloody knave up to? Was his
goal to flirt with every maid in Rivenloch by sundown?
She
didn't care. Truly she didn't. And she'd say those words over and over in her
mind until she believed them.
Her only
interest in Sir Rand was to learn what his business was at the keep. She
intended to find out what he'd been talking about with the women of Rivenloch.
Once she discovered that, and why he'd come to the castle, she'd discard him
like a stale trencher.
Chapter 9
By the
time the cock crowed
on the wedding morn, and the
rising sun started to paint the frosty sod with silver, Rand found himself
pacing the damp courtyard in front of the chapel in finery he'd borrowed from
Sir Colin, as lost in his thoughts as the bridegroom himself.
Where
was Miriel? Nearly all the rest of the castle folk had gathered already for the
ceremony. She should be here.
The
front gates opened, and Rand stopped, gazing toward the motley cluster of
guests spilling through the entrance. They were Rivenloch's neighbors.
Perchance he'd obtain useful information from them regarding The Shadow.
He
figured he'd spoken to just about everyone in the keep yesterday. Between
offering his aid in the great hall in the morn and lending a hand in the
kennel, dovecote, stables, mews, and armory in the afternoon, he'd managed to
exchange at least a few words with each of the several dozen Scots and Norman
servants of the household and several of the nobles as well.
All
the servants agreed that The Shadow was small, wore black, and was as quick as
lightning, though few had actually laid eyes on him. No one had been seriously
hurt by the outlaw. Mayhap that also helped to explain their reluctance to
pursue him. If The Shadow had never harmed or stolen coin from any of
them,
why
should they begrudge the thief his livelihood?
Indeed,
if Rand hadn't heard the witness of several lords, he might have suspected The
Shadow was but a legend, like George and the Dragon, or Beowulf. The robber
seemed to possess powers no mortal man could claim. Rand had heard little to
illuminate the true character of the outlaw he sought.
Until
he'd spoken alone late last eve with Lord Gellir. The old man had been
reminiscing by the fire, and Rand had asked him if he'd ever seen The Shadow
himself. The lord's eyes had lit up with mischief, and he'd given Rand a sly
grin.
"I
believe we've
all
seen
The Shadow," he said enigmatically. "The outlaw walks among us, oh,
aye, right under our noses." Then he snickered into his beard as if at
some private jest.
Unfortunately,
'twas all Rand could pry out of the old man. After that. Lord Gellir's mind
started to wander, and soon he'd drifted off to sleep.
But
with that one statement, he'd given Rand the impression that not only was The Shadow
in league with the folk of Rivenloch. He might indeed
be
one
of them. Someone small and agile and swift. The idea left Rand tossing half the
night, considering the possibilities. But the one that kept coming back to
haunt him, no matter how absurd, and no matter how he tried to banish it from
his thoughts, was that he was quite familiar with someone at Rivenloch who was
small and agile and swift.