Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) (14 page)

God’s eyes!  She wondered if the man might sleep through a battering ram at the door.

Very well, she thought, if he was too lazy to get up, she’d be only too happy to go about her usual activities without his interference.

Even the noise of chain mail being dragged from her oak chest didn’t stir Pagan.  She shook her head in disgust.  What use was an illustrious, battle-seasoned Norman knight if the enemy could steal up on him at a full charge?

She collected her things and slipped out the door, resisting the urge to slam it as she left.

She had to wade through dozens of dozing Normans scattered in the great hall till she found a Rivenloch squire she could jostle awake to help arm the men.  Her knights slept in the armory, and she roused five of them as well, the five who were not too drunk to stand.  It was obvious by their sullen glares that they were none too happy to be wakened at so early an hour.  But she countered their complaints, telling them it was their own fault if they'd imbibed too much drink with the Normans and caroused half the night away.  It was essential for the men of Rivenloch to be prepared for battle at all times of the night and day, particularly since news of another English attack, this one at Cruichcairn, had reached Rivenloch.

Soon she was sparring happily in the tiltyard, clashing blades with her men, inventing new maneuvers, crowing in victory as she cornered Malcolm against the fence.

In high spirits, she recklessly invited the lot of them to attack her at once.  Of course, for the sake of courtesy, they advanced in turn.  Not even the most capable warrior could effectively battle five at a time if they came from all sides.  But it was nonetheless a challenge for her, and her arm soon ached from clang after jarring clang of steel.  The action thrilled her to the bone, and the victory was exhilarating.  For Deirdre, there was no diversion more thoroughly engaging than swordplay.

So lost in unbridled joy was she, indeed, that she was late to notice the wretched brutes who came to interrupt her play and spoil her mood.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

Pagan grumbled and scrubbed at his eyes.  Shite!  Who was pounding on the door?  It wasn’t until he sat up that he remembered where he was.  Pale sunlight bathed the chamber, but he felt as if he hadn’t slept a wink.  He glanced at the bed beside him.

Gone again.  Damn!

Bang, bang, bang, bang!

“Bloody hell!” he growled, knowing it must be one of his knights, coming to drag him from bed.

Bang, bang, bang!

“Just a...”  He stripped the linen sheet from the bed in a wad and plodded toward the door.

Bang, bang...

Before another blow could land, he snatched open the door.  “What!”

It wasn’t one of his men.  It was Miriel.  And she almost fell into the room as her fist fell on empty air.  Her shocked gaze coursed immediately down his naked body, and he quickly clutched the sheet over the most offensive parts.

“I...I...”  She seemed to collect herself then and met his eyes.  Her face took on a serious expression.  “I think you’d better come.”

The somber aspect of her eyes shook him.  “What is it?”

“They won’t listen to me.  They won’t listen to anyone.”

“Who?  Who won’t—”

“Hurry!”  She turned her back, obviously waiting for him to dress.  “Hurry, or someone’s bound to be killed!”

What the bloody hell was she talking about?  He dared waste no time asking her.  Instead, he wriggled into his long shirt, threw the plaid over his shoulder, and buckled on his sword.  “Where?”

“The tiltyard,” she said.

He catapulted past her and down the stairs, his heart in his mouth.  He would have called his men to arms in the great hall, but curiously, none of them were there.  All that remained were wenches and servants and children.  Even the armory was empty.

He raced out into the courtyard and crossed the grassy expanse toward the fenced tiltyard.  When he arrived, he could only stare in awe.  What he saw was too incredible to comprehend.

About a half dozen Rivenloch men in chain mail lay upon the ground as if dead, their shields discarded, their swords silent upon the sod.  The Knights of Cameliard, most of them only half-dressed, none of them armed, stood in a rough semi-circle upon the field.  And against the fence, Sir Rauve and Sir Adric restrained a furious, spitting, wild-eyed Deirdre.  She was dressed in full armor except for a helm.  As she thrashed her braid loose and waved her sword rampantly, her eyes flashed with murderous intent.

Pagan couldn’t begin to guess what had transpired.  He couldn’t even summon the words to ask.

Fortunately, Sir Rauve volunteered an explanation.  “My lord,” he bit out, his voice straining as he fought to contain his slippery captive, prying the sword from her grip and tossing it away.  “We’ve rescued your bride.”

Rescued?  She couldn’t have looked
less
like a grateful maiden in distress.

“Rescued!”  Deirdre cried.  “You stupid, overgrown f-“

Rauve diplomatically clapped his hand over her mouth before she could finish.

But Pagan was more concerned with the Scots knights strewn about the tiltyard.  “Are they...”

“Oh, nay!” Rauve scoffed.  “Just gave them a light tap, we did.  Ballocks, we weren’t even armed.  They just—“  He let out a sudden yowl and snatched back his hand.  Deirdre not only had claws, Pagan noted, but teeth.

Sir Adric continued.  “They were attacking her, my lord.  Their own mistress.”  He shook his head in disbelief.  “Five of them against one wench.”

Deirdre wrenched against their grasp.  “You imbeciles!  Crack-brained fools!”

The men began to grumble amongst themselves.  Clearly they expected not condemnation, but gratitude, from the object of their rescue.

Pagan held up a hand for silence.  Everyone but Deirdre obeyed.

“Let me go, you halfwits!” she spat.

Pagan nodded to Rauve, and they released her.

Cursing under her breath, she tossed her head and shoved them aside to make her way to the fallen knights.  Pagan would have let her pass then, but as she swept past him, she gave him a hateful glare, as if he were somehow to blame.  Irked, he caught her arm.

“Unhand me, sirrah!” she snapped.

“Explain.  What’s this about?”

“You tell me.  What kind of barbarians are you fostering, Norman?”

His head ached, and he’d had enough of her insults this morn.  His grip tightened.  “Do not disparage my knights, wench.”

“Knights?  How can they call themselves knights when they have wrought
this
?”  She gestured toward the Scots lying motionless upon the ground.

“Then tell me.  What happened?”

“Your
knights
attacked mine,” she snarled.  “Viciously.  And without provocation.”

“What?” Rauve cried in disbelief.  “‘Tisn’t the way of it at all, my lord.”

Adric added, “We saved her, my lord.  We saved her from harm.”

“Dolts!” she fired back.  “I was never in danger.  My men know perfectly well how—“

”Cease!  All of you!”  Pagan barked.  He was starting to understand what had transpired, and already he saw the beginnings of his first major battle with his new bride.  He blew out a forceful sigh.  “You were sparring with them?”

She lifted her proud chin.  “Of course I was sparring with them.  Do you truly believe my own men would attack me?”

“Sparring?” Adric asked.

Rauve’s jaw dropped.  “What?  Oh, nay, nay, my lord.”  He vehemently shook his head.  “'Twas a full assault.  They were on her five at a time.  Heavily armed.  Sharpened blades.  Nothing held back.  ‘Twas hardly sparring.”

“Oh?”  Deirdre sneered at him.  “And what do
Normans
spar with?  Willow twigs?”

Rauve spat into the dust.  “I’ll tell you what Normans do
not
spar with.  We do not spar with wenches.”

Deirdre’s eyes narrowed then, and Pagan saw a dangerous gleam enter them.  “Maybe you’d like to try,” she challenged.

“What the...”  Rauve looked horrified, as if she’d suggested he swallow a live kitten.

Pagan had to stop the nonsense.  “Listen!  The next man to draw a sword will answer to me.”

Rivenloch and Cameliard were allies now, after all, and by the King’s order, it was up to Pagan to merge Scot and Norman forces into a cohesive army.  He had no time for childish quarreling.  Nor did he have the patience for a wife who wished to play dangerous games with men twice her size.

Besides, he still stung from Deirdre’s rejection for the second night in a row.  If the wench wanted a bit of...lunge and thrust...he’d be only too happy to oblige her in their chamber.

“Rauve, help these men off the field.  Let them rest.  We’ll get a fresh start in the afternoon, training the Scots.”  He clucked his tongue, then muttered, “‘Twill doubtless be a challenge to whip them into shape, considering that even fully armed, they couldn’t defend themselves against half-dressed men.”

Deirdre seldom lost her temper.  It was a point upon which she prided herself.  Unlike Helena, she maintained control of her emotions, relying upon her head instead of her heart.  But this morn, her restraint was sorely tested.

At Pagan’s insult, she stiffened.  How dared he ridicule the knights of Rivenloch?  It was his own men who’d stupidly misjudged the situation, causing this mess.  And how dared he speak so casually of “whipping them into shape,” as if they were a bunch of beardless lads who’d never swung a blade?  As if she and Helena hadn’t spent the last two years honing the skills of the knights themselves?  His counsel and his experience she welcomed.  But how dared he assume that merely because he’d married into Rivenloch, it was now his occupation to command its army,
her
army?

These were
her
men, damn him! 
Her
knights.

With icy fury, she stooped down and retrieved her fallen sword, then slowly turned and faced him, raising the blade.  So the next to draw a sword would answer to Pagan?  She’d do so gladly.

His men immediately froze, some of them swearing softly in awe, reinforcing her suspicion that they were a bunch of cowards.

“‘The Scots’ need no training from you, sirrah.”  She eyed his knights, who now stood in gape-mouthed anticipation.  “Nor from your cowering men.”

A tiny muscle ticked in Pagan’s jaw, and for a long while he only stared at her, his expression unreadable.  Her mouth curved up in a slow, scornful smile as she realized Pagan didn’t have the ballocks to fight her in front of his men.

But just as she’d decided he was going to cede defeat, he surprised her by drawing his sword.

“Clear the field!” he ordered.

All around him, his men hastened to comply, some of them carrying the still unconscious men of Rivenloch between them.

It was a pity he’d dismissed them.  She longed to prove, not only to Pagan, but to an audience of his knights, that the Scots were made of stern stuff.

All the while the Cameliard knights hurried to vacate the field, Pagan fixed a grim gaze upon her.  She met him, stare for stare, as long as she could.  But the unflinching courage and raw determination in his eyes were most unnerving.  She resorted to distracting him with words.

“
My
knights would never flee in such fear,” she said, glancing at his men, emptying the tiltyard.  “They scuttle from the field like beetles from a fire.”

“They likely fear for
you
, my lady,” he said calmly.

She smirked.  It was a childish boast, one she’d expect from an unseasoned fighter.  “Well, they needn’t.  You and I know I’m quite handy with a blade, don’t we, sirrah?”

His brow clouded.  “Do not address me in that manner.  You may say ‘my lord’ or call me by my given name.  But you will not use that term of disrespect again.”

“When you earn my respect,
sirrah
, then I’ll oblige you.”

His sword whipped up to her throat with such speed that it whistled on the air, making her gasp involuntarily.  God’s eyes!  She’d never seen a thing move so rapidly.

“You have much to learn about respect,” he said.  “‘Tisn’t about who is faster or stronger or who has defeated more men in battle.  ‘Tis about honor.”

Deirdre gulped in spite of herself.  Her heart fluttered against her ribs.  She still couldn’t fathom how his sword had come to be at her throat so quickly.

“Now,” he said, giving the field a quick perusal.  “They’re gone.  Will you withdraw your challenge?”

She scowled at him.  “Nay.”

“I’ve dismissed all the witnesses,” he said, “to spare you the shame of surrender.”

“Surrender?”  She didn’t believe him for a moment.  No one was that chivalrous.  She narrowed her eyes, trying to guess his thoughts.  He
had
ultimately prevailed over her yesterday, but she hadn’t been an easy conquest.  “Nay, I think you’re afraid of me.  You’re afraid to lose to a woman before your men.”

To his credit, he didn’t laugh at her, but a grimace of irony crossed his face.  With a subtle shake of his head, he withdrew.  “Fine.  Give it your best.”

He swished his blade through the air a couple of times before settling into a defensive stance.

Indeed, his confidence
was
unnerving, even for Deirdre, who’d already battled him once and had faced down far more threatening opponents, opponents who were better armed and dressed in more than a tunic and plaid.  And now that he’d mentioned honor, curse him, she supposed she should offer him a fairer fight.  “I’ll wait while you don armor.”

He shook his head.

She frowned.  “I won’t have you report that our fight was unjust.”

“Oh, I don’t plan to report our fight at all, but...”  He gave a slight nod of his head and murmured, “Thank you for the courtesy.”

She sniffed.  It was no less than any knight would do.

With a nod, she planted her feet, raised her weapon, and began the shortest sword fight of her life.

Pagan was eager to put an end to this foolishness and even more eager to crawl back into bed for a few more hours of sleep.

Deirdre had to learn that a woman her size could never prevail against men like the Cameliard knights.  She was determined, aye, relentlessly so, and she had a few cunning tricks at her disposal, but her enthusiasm far exceeded her skills and strength.  Pagan had toyed with her in their first fight.  It was a matter of courtesy and custom to match an opponent's level in a friendly battle.  Probably all of Deirdre's rivals did so, humoring her into a false self-confidence that could ultimately prove deadly.

He locked gazes with his beautiful, foolhardy bride.  It was an unpleasant task, but he had to disarm the lass before she hurt herself.

He didn’t bother engaging her with his blade.  Instead, he caught her sword arm at the wrist and, using his other hand, pried the weapon free with brute strength.  Then he seized her by the front of her tabard, shoved her up against the wall of the stable, and pressed forward until he stood eye to eye with her.

He could see her pulse race in the throbbing vein at her neck.  Her breathing was shallow and erratic, her mouth half open in shock.  But contrary to his expectations, there wasn’t an ounce of fear in her eyes.  He couldn’t say why, but somehow this pleased him.

He was close enough to feel the heat of battle coming off of her, close enough that her breath mingled with his, close enough that it was a temptation to bridge the tiny gap between them and prove his point with a triumphant kiss.

But he had to settle their arrangements here, once and for all.

“
Now
do you think I’m afraid of losing to you?”

She swallowed, still obviously shaken.

“Would you not agree,” he said, “that I’m more than capable of protecting the keep?”

She frowned and chewed at her lip.

“And after the incident this morn, do you not trust that my men will guard you with their lives?”

After a long moment, she gave him a reluctant nod.

“Then let me do what I’m here to do,” he told her.  “I’m the best defense you have.”

“You may be bigger,” she murmured.  “And stronger.  And more seasoned.  But I know this castle.  I know this land.  And I know my people.  You can’t discount my experience.  I know best how to command my knights.”

Pagan knew he should argue with her, but he was beginning to feel like a hound slavering over a bone just out of its reach.  His loins couldn’t help but respond when Deirdre was so temptingly close and soft and seductive.  The feel of her spirited body against his chest, the erotic glow of her skin, the cool fire of her eyes, the scent of leather and chain mail mingling incongruously with flowers, drove him half mad with desire.

“You know, my lady,” he whispered, lowering his gaze to her inviting lips, “I’d be more inclined to let you play at being a soldier, were you more inclined to play at being my wife.”

She gasped.  Her gaze hardened as she spoke between clenched teeth.  “My affections are not for barter.”

“Pity,” he said, giving her a rueful smile.  “You might find your affections are worth a great deal.”