Authors: Sarah McKerrigan
He
staggered back to discover one of those devilish stars stuck in the back of his
leg. When he reached down to pull it out, her fist whipped out from beneath the
pallet, coming down hard atop his hand. The blow drove his hand down onto the
sharp point of the star, and he groaned in agony.
Sick
with the reality that his lovely Miriel had done this, that she'd intentionally
caused him such excruciating pain, he crawled into the corner to extract the
miserable weapon from his flesh, dizzied by the spurt of blood that issued
forth from his hand.
Able
to see the entire room from his vantage point, he took a moment to tear a piece
from his undershirt and bind the bleeding wound. As he wrapped the cloth around
his burning palm, he glimpsed Miriel's arm reaching out from under the bed like
a stealthy wraith toward his broadsword.
He
should have dove forward, claimed the weapon, held it to her throat, and forced
her to surrender. Then he might have made her listen. Then he might have found
out why she was trying to slay him.
But
he had neither the heart nor the will. He hurt, inside and out, from the wounds
of her hatred.
Instead,
he let her claim his blade while he tied off his makeshift bandage with his
teeth, then watched her as she jumped nimbly to her feet, holding the weapon in
two hands before her.
"Miriel?"
But
she wouldn't speak to him. And neither, did he suspect, would she listen. There
was too much anger, too much fear, too much desperation in her eyes. She was
beyond reason.
When
he stood to face her, she took a swing at him, close enough to make him flinch.
On her return swing, he ducked under the blade and charged her, bowling her
over onto the floor. The thought of inflicting harm upon her was distasteful,
but he had to do what he needed to survive.
The
weapons Miriel wielded were deadly, and 'twas clear she had every intention of
using them.
Even
flat on her back, she had remarkable defenses. She drove her knee up hard,
catching the point of his chin. When he reeled back, she plowed her fist into
his belly, stealing the breath from him.
When
she started across with his blade again, intent on beheading him, he had no
choice but to strike her forearm with full force, causing her to drop the
sword. Even so, he winced as her bones gave beneath his blow.
"Yield,"
he gasped, hoping she would surrender then.
But
she seemed bent on killing him, with or without his sword.
She
skittered away beneath the pallet, and he picked up his fallen blade,
struggling to his feet. Someone had to put an end to this. He didn't want to
hurt Miriel, but neither did he want to die.
************************************
Miriel
quivered beneath the pallet, cradling her bruised forearm. This was not going
well at all.
What
had started as a simple assassination was now mortal combat. Now she had to
kill or be killed. And unless she could recover them somehow, she'd exhausted
her supply of weapons.
"Come
out Miriel," Rand's voice rasped.
She
steeled her jaw. Of course he wanted her to come out. She made a much better
target when she wasn't huddled beneath the pallet.
She
watched the silhouette of his boots as he strode past once, twice, like a
restless cat standing guard at a mouse's hole. Then he retreated, and she heard
the squeak of a stool.
"I'm
sitting down," he told her. "My sword is on the floor before me. I
just want to talk, Miriel."
She
didn't trust him for a moment. Talk? Everything he'd ever told her was a lie,
from
my name is Sir Rand of
Morbroch
to
I
love you.
She
no longer believed anything he said, including
I won't hurt you.
He
intended to kill The Shadow. For the reward.
She scowled,
shutting out painful memories, concentrating on the dilemma at hand.
She
had no weapons.
He
knew exactly where she was.
His
sword might be lying on the floor, but if she came out of hiding, he could snap
it up in one instant and run her through in the next.
What
could she do?
Sung
Li had taught her that the most lethal weapon was the mind. Even a more
powerful, more seasoned, more expert opponent could be outwitted. Miriel
wondered if she could outwit Rand la Nuit.
What
would take away his killer instincts? What would bring him to his knees? What
would make him forget all about murdering The Shadow? What would leave him most
vulnerable?
She
narrowed her eyes. Of course.
She
began with a light sniffling, just enough to make hi
m
lean
forward on the stool. Then she progressed to soft
sobs,
muffled in her hands.
"Miriel?"
She
smiled grimly. He was like a coney, sniffing at a snare. There was something
about a woman's weeping that could reduce the most heartless man to a quivering
lump.
She
wept harder, more pathetically, and she heard him rise from the stool.
"Miriel,
are you all right?"
With
one last, long, piteous wail, she drew back her legs and watched as he crouched
down to look under the bed.
"Miriel,
don't cry. I'm not going to—"
She
cut off his words with a hard kick to his face. Then, before she could see the
results of her violence, she rolled out from under the pallet and onto her
feet.
Searching
for a weapon, any weapon, she found a crockery pitcher and cracked it down hard
along the edge of the table, making sharp shards of the rim. Armed again, she
turned to Rand.
He
lay silent on the ground. His face was bloody. His body was splayed across the
planks, unmoving.
The
only sound in the chamber was the rasp of her breathing, though it seemed her
heart pounded like a drum as she stood ready with the broken crockery.
Gradually,
she lowered the pitcher. Had she kicked him so hard? Was he unconscious? Was he
dead?
The
possibility, as desirable as it had been a moment ago, horrified her now,
sinking into the pit of her stomach like a ball of lead.
Dear
God. what had she done? Had she truly killed a man? Had she killed... her
betrothed?
She
took one cautious step nearer. Fresh blood glistened upon his lip. His jaw
sagged sideways. And naught indicated he was alive. No flutter of eyelashes.
No rise and fall of his chest. No pulse visible in his throat. No whisper of
breath from between his lips.
She
swallowed hard and stepped closer.
Jesu,
had she slain him?
It seemed
impossible. Yet that had been her intent. 'Twas why she'd come into his
chamber, to seek out the man who had lied to her, betrayed her, then turned in
her beloved
xiansheng
to
be executed, all for money. She'd meant to kill him.
And
now it appeared she had.
She
should feel victorious. Instead, she trembled as the weight of his lost soul
settled upon her shoulders and uninvited tears welled in her eyes.
God
help her, she'd adored him. As foolish as 'twas, she
had.
And
now she'd killed the only man she'd ever loved.
Swallowing
down the thick lump in her throat, she forced herself to forget what she had
done, steeled herself for what was to come.
Sung
Li would be disappointed in her. It didn't matter that she'd done it for her
xiansheng,
that
she meant to save Sung Li's life. He would never forgive Miriel for taking
vengeance in his name.
Revenge is a fool's weapon,
he
always said,
a weapon born
not of reason, but of passion.
She
couldn't tell him what she'd done in the name of passion. Not at first.
Somehow, she'd find a way to rescue him from the dungeon and make sure they
were well away from Morbroch before she confessed that she'd killed his captor.
Taking
a steadying breath and wiping a stray tear from her cheek, Miriel inched
closer, bending down to make sure he was dead.
************************************
Rand
waited in agony, resisting the urge to breathe, resisting the need to assess
his damaged face, resisting the instinct to curl into a protective ball as his
attacker neared.
He'd
been a fool. She'd drawn him into her trap, feigning tears, only to betray him.
But two could play that game.
He
supposed he deserved a bloodied nose for falling prey to such an obvious ruse,
but love had blinded him. He'd made the mistake of believing Miriel would react
like a woman when in sooth she reasoned like a warrior. He wouldn't let it
happen again.
The
moment he sensed Miriel draw near, felt her breath upon his cheek, he sprang
into action. Encircling her ankles with his arms, he jerked her feet out from
under her, sending her tumbling against the foot of the pallet. Then he
struggled to a crouch, spitting the blood from his cut Up, edging one hand
behind him to locate his sword.
But
just as his fingers discovered the blade, she crashed something against the
side of his head, and he lurched sideways from the impact.
Blinking
back the black clouds that wanted to overwhelm his vision, he caught her by
the throat in one desperate fist and found his sword with the other.
She
punched and kicked at him while he lifted her with
one arm,
half-strangling
her in his grasp. But with all the other injuries she'd dealt him, he scarcely
felt her pummeling.
He
tossed her onto the bed, and she immediately scrabbled backward until she came
up against the plaster wall. With a snarl of rage and frustration, he swept his
weapon up to her throat, pinning her at sword point.
For
a long while they only stared at each other, their eyes flashing fire, their
breath wheezing in the quiet night, neither one backing down, neither one
blinking.
There
was no fear in her gaze, only hatred and bloodlust.
He
knew now why she wanted him dead. She'd discovered who he was. She'd learned
of his lies, his false pretenses, his deception. She'd trusted him, and he'd
betrayed her. And there was no storm more violent than a woman betrayed.
'Twas
his fault. He couldn't blame her. He was a fool to have believed that when she
learned the truth about him, learned that he was not Sir Rand of Morbroch, but
Rand la Nuit, a bastard mercenary, learned that he'd come, not for Miriel, but
to hunt The Shadow, somehow love would conquer all.
But
Rand could see by the blaze in her eyes that not only did she no longer love
him. She despised him. Enough to want him dead. And if he didn't kill her now,
she would surely slay him at the first opportunity. Bloody hell, she already
thought she
had
killed
him.
He'd
been in such predicaments before. Men he'd had no quarrel with he was sometimes
forced to kill, else they would hunt him down and deliver him into the Reaper's
hands.
But
he'd never killed a woman. He'd never killed anyone undeserving. God's eyes,
he'd never killed anyone he loved.
He
didn’t think he could.
It
didn't
matter that his body was covered with slashes
from
her weapons.
It
didn't matter that his back throbbed and his hand stung and his nose felt like
it was naught but a mass of splinters.
It
didn't matter that she'd turned on him like a rogue hound, snarling and
snapping at the hand that had once offered her loving caresses.