Authors: Sarah McKerrigan
"Or
so he claims," Helena said dubiously.
"I
doubt he'd exaggerate," Deirdre argued. "After all, there were a
dozen witnesses."
"A
tribute?" Miriel asked again.
Helena
chuckled. "Perchance 'twas his very ineptitude that made him a unique
challenge to The Shadow."
"Ineptitude?"
Miriel arched a brow.
Helena
ignored her, jesting with Deirdre, "Mayhap we should send children from
now on to battle the robber if he's so easily—"
"Hel!"
Deirdre gave her a chiding punch in the shoulder and nodded meaningfully
toward Miriel.
But
Miriel was not offended.
She
was irate.
Rand
had managed to turn his morn's frolic into a deed of heroic proportions, using
the opportunity to garner instant glory among the castle folk and ingratiate
himself into the ranks of the knights. Even her oldest sister was convinced he
was a champion. How the bloody hell had the varlet done it?
"I
didn't mean it, Miri," Helena apologized. "It doesn't matter if he
can fight or not. You'll always have us to protect you."
Deirdre
frowned. "What Hel means to say is all that matters is that you love him.
You love him, don't you?"
Miriel
narrowed her eyes at the man grinning victoriously on the field. She'd wipe
that smug smile off his face if she had to use every weapon in her arsenal.
Molding her own mouth into a tight smile, she bit out, "Oh, aye. I love
him very much."
************************************
Rand
felt Miriel's eyes on him as he spun and dodged and deflected some of Kenneth's
blows. He almost wished the beautiful lass would leave. 'Twas difficult enough
concentrating on his sparring—fighting well, but not too well, blocking some
blows, but not all—without the weight of her adoring gaze upon him.
Part
of him itched to show off to her, to display the full measure of his skill, for
most maids who beheld his speed and power were left with their mouths hanging
open in awe. Most maids except for the maids of Mochrie, he supposed, who'd
witnessed his sound beating at the hands of The Shadow this morn.
He
hadn't intended to tell anyone about his altercation. But the bruises on his
arms couldn't be easily explained away, especially when Pagan eyed him with an
accusing glare. As protective of Miriel as they all were, the man likely wondered
if she'd given Rand those injuries, fighting off his advances.
So
he'd sheepishly confessed what had happened, figuring they'd hear the tale
sooner or later from the Mochries anyway.
'Twas
a surprise to him that instead of jesting about his lopsided battle, the men of
Rivenloch were amazed. They demanded to hear about the fight, blow by blow.
Apparently, no one had sparred for quite so long a time with The Shadow. And
when he told them the outlaw had left a silver coin to pay him for the
pleasure, they were utterly astounded.
'Twas
embarrassing to Rand. Forsooth, he got the impression that leaving the coin had
been a gesture of mockery, not a tribute. But he wasn't about to argue with the
castle folk. If they wanted to make a hero of him, who was he to deny them?
Besides,
the story served to earn him instant respect among the knights, respect that
would doubtless get him a prominent place at the wagering table this eve.
Over
Kenneth's head, he glimpsed Miriel again at the fence. She was waving her hand,
trying to garner his attention. He waved back, and Kenneth, thinking he meant
to strike, shoved Rand's arm away with his shield. Without thought, Rand
responded at once. He spun away, then came around with the haft of his sword,
punching Kenneth hard in the shoulder.
Kenneth
fell back, gripping his injured arm, his face pale with surprise.
"Oh!
Kenneth. Are you all right?" Rand silently cursed himself. He'd been so
preoccupied with that smiling beauty at the fence that he'd completely lost his
head. Bloody hell. He could have hurt Kenneth seriously.
"F-fine."
"I
don't know what happened," Rand said, only half-lying.
Kenneth
gave him a feeble smile. "You've got a mean clout anyway," he said by
way of encouragement.
Rand
winced. Kenneth didn't know the half of it. With a muttered apology, he
clumsily fumbled his sword back into its sheath and excused himself to confront
the damsel who was causing all this distraction.
"You're
improving," Miriel gushed, when he came up to the fence.
Lord,
she was breathtaking. This morn she wore a woad surcoat that perfectly matched
her merry blue eyes. Her hair was pulled into a neat braid, threaded through
with a matching ribbon, a ribbon he longed to untie so those dark auburn waves
would tumble down her shoulders.
She
stepped up onto the lower wattle rung of the fence so their heads were level.
"You'll be able to best Pagan in no time," she cooed.
He
chuckled, then used his teeth to tug off his leather gauntlet. He could best
Pagan now if he wished to. He shook his head with affected modesty.
"Hardly."
"Nay,"
she insisted. "Even my sisters are impressed."
"Your
sisters." That made him laugh again. He still found it hard to believe
they were allowed to wield swords at all. "And what about you?" He
pulled off his second glove.
She
shyly dipped her eyes. "I was always impressed."
When
she lifted her eyes again, they'd grown dark with longing. His own desires rose
with astonishing speed, as her gaze touched him like flame touched to kindling.
A lusty fire flared up inside him, a blaze that threatened to burn quickly out
of control.
He
forced his voice to a steadiness he didn't feel. "I thought you
disapproved of fighting."
She
leaned forward until she was inches away, then whispered, " 'Tis not the
fighting that impressed me."
"Indeed?"
She
slowly lowered her gaze to his mouth, then tucked her lower lip coyly beneath
her teeth, leaving no doubt as to what impressed her about him.
"Lady,
you play with flame."
One
corner of her cherry red lip drifted up in a knowing smile.
'Twas
a good thing he was wearing chain mail, else his lust would have been displayed
for all the world to see. Lord, he'd never wanted to kiss a maid so badly. Kiss
her and caress her, lay her down in the grass and
...
"Come
with me?" she beckoned.
He
barely found the strength to nod.
Vaulting
over the tiltyard fence was another matter.
Rand
figured he'd done what he'd set out to do this morn—met The Shadow and endeared
himself to the Rivenloch knights. Tonight he'd play at the gaming table and do
more investigation. In the meantime, there was plenty of time to engage in more
rewarding pursuits.
Miriel
laced her fingers through his. She must be a wanton wench indeed, he decided,
to overlook the fact that he was hot and filthy from the lists and probably
reeked of leather and sweat. She tugged him along nonetheless, smiling in
conspiracy as they passed the stables.
"Where
are you taking me?"
"To
a place no one will hear us."
He
grinned.
She
stopped in front of the dovecote, announcing to any who might chance to hear,
"Allow me to show you the fine doves the Cameliards brought with them, Sir
Rand."
Rand's
mouth twitched with amusement. He wondered if she was fooling anyone. "By
all means, my lady. There's naught I appreciate more than a fine dove." As
they entered through the oak door, he added softly, "And you, my love, are
the finest dove I've ever seen."
The
door closed behind them, leaving the interior dimly lit in stripes of sunlight
where the vertical boards of the dovecote didn't quite match. A ripple of coos
rolled through the ranks of doves, and the sweet scent of fresh straw
diminished the usually pungent dovecote odors.
Miriel
wasted no time. She ran her hands over the front of his tabard, pushing him
gently back against the closed door to gaze lovingly up into his eyes.
"I've
never kissed a
...
a hero
before," she breathed.
"A
hero?"
"Aye,"
she said, moving her fingers over the tops of his shoulders as if to judge their
width. "I heard what you did."
"That?
'Twas naught."
"Oh,
nay. 'Twas amazing." She slid her palm up the side of his neck. "All
the castle's a-buzz."
He
wrapped his arms around her, locking his fingers above the curve of her
buttocks.
He
could tell her the truth—that he'd humiliated himself battling with The
Shadow. That the outlaw had outwitted and outmaneuvered him at every turn.
That the accounts of his heroics were greatly exaggerated.
But
'twas rather pleasant enduring Miriel's adoration. If she wanted to believe he
was a hero, who was he to disappoint her?
"Tell
me what happened," she pleaded, turning about in his embrace so that her
head rested against his chest and her backside snuggled against his loins.
"Everything. Leave out naught."
He
grinned, propping his chin on the top of her head.
"As
you wish, my lady." He slipped his chin down then until he was murmuring
against her hair, so she could feel his breath stir her ear. "The woods
were dark and sinister," he began in a whisper, "as quiet as
death."
"As
quiet as death? I thought you were there with the Mochrie maids."
"True."
He decided, "But they were chattering in very soft voices
...
when all of a sudden, in the midst of
the forest, I began to feel," he said, disengaging his hands, "a
prickling at the back of my neck." He let one hand steal up her back, then
fluttered his fingers along her nape. She shivered.
"Naturally,
I moved a hand to my hilt."
He
clasped his hands again above her waist. She covered them with her own. Her
palms felt smooth and delicate on his battered knuckles.
"I
glanced through the trees, searching for an intruder, watching for the
slightest flutter of a leaf or bowing of a limb. But naught moved in the
branches."
"Not
even sparrows?"
Forsooth
there
had
been
sparrows. He remembered wondering which flitted and cluttered about more, the
sparrows or the Mochrie maids. But he shook his head. Sparrows would detract
from the drama of the tale. " 'Twas too early in the morn for
sparrows."
"What
about—"
"Or
mice. Or squirrels. Or anything else."
"Owls."
"Nay.
No owls." He frowned. Was the lass purposely trying to ruin the story?
"Go
on."
He
cleared his throat, then purred, "I have somewhat of an instinct for
danger. And that instinct told me we were being followed. With bated breath, I
crept slowly forward, step by step, my knuckles gripped tightly around the haft
of my sword until..." He jerked his arms suddenly, startling Miriel into
a squeak. "There he was. He'd leaped onto the path out of nowhere. The
Shadow."
Miriel
turned in his arms again, facing him with eyes full of fright. "You must
have been terrified."
He
looked down at her with stern stoicism. "A man dares not give in to terror
at a time like that."
She
sighed reverently. "What did he look like? Was he as they describe? Was he
all in black?"
"Oh,
aye, as black as a raven's wing, small but fleet, as deadly as the
Reaper."
"What
did you do?"
"First
I made certain the ladies and children were safe."
She
frowned curiously. "And did The Shadow wait patiently by while you did
that?"
He
paused. There was no getting around the fact that The Shadow had managed to cut
two purses before Rand could even lay a hand on the villain. "While I was
ensuring their safety, the two men of Mochrie were doing valiant battle with
the thief."