Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) (18 page)

“Come!” she gasped out.  “Have at me.  Again.”

He grinned and shook his head.  The warrior wench was more focused than a priest in a room full of harlots.  He doubted she’d even noticed they’d drawn an audience.  “Once more, but this will be the last match.”

From beyond her shoulder, Pagan glimpsed the men of Rivenloch, Deirdre’s men, observing the fight with keen interest.  For courtesy’s sake, he wouldn’t shame the lass by defeating her before her men.  And yet he dared not be seen to fall beneath her blade himself, lest the men lose faith in him.  Somehow he had to keep everyone’s honor intact.

With a sly smile, he removed his helm, tossed it aside.  Naturally, out of propriety, she did the same.  His pulse quickened as he beheld her face, aglow with sweat and rosy-cheeked, her lips parted with deep-drawn breath, her belabored expression so reminiscent of desire.  It was impossible to imagine, looking upon her now, that she was anything but pure woman.

Steeling his resolve, he saluted and squared off against her.

They fought back and forth a long while, and Pagan was careful not to take the advantage.  He knew Deirdre would eventually resort to one of her tricks.  Even when he knew it was coming, he couldn’t avoid falling prey to the wily foot she slipped behind his heel.  He tripped and fell with a thud onto his back.  Beyond the fence, he could hear the mixed responses of the men, the cheers of Rivenloch, the disgust of his own knights.  He lay there, coughing in the dust, while Deirdre stood above him in triumph.

Then she made the mistake of reaching down to help him up.

With calculated purpose, he seized her wrist and pulled her down on top of him, snagged one hand in her hair and planted a big, wet, indiscreet kiss on her astonished mouth.

Everyone laughed then at the jest.

Pagan would have ended it there, released her and helped her back up to her feet.  But after her initial shock, Deirdre, whether inflamed by battle or desire or an attempt to match his effrontery, answered his kiss with a passion as fast and fierce as her fighting.  She cocked her head and pressed her parted lips hard against his, seeking with her tongue as if she hungered for whatever he harbored within his mouth.

It was no jest now.  His blood, warm from battle, pumped into his loins in a molten rush.  The crowded faded from his awareness as pure sensation overtook him.

Deirdre, too, seemed oblivious to the world.  Groans born deep within her called to the beast inside him.  A drop of her sweat rolled down onto his face as their joined mouths spoke a common language, the language of desire.  And that desire, here on the hard ground of the tiltyard, raged with as much violence as their battle.

The loud creak of the tiltyard gate brought Pagan back to his senses.  He tore his mouth away from her.  For an instant, he thought he glimpsed disappointment in her eyes.

Faith, was it possible? 
Was
she disappointed?  Did she truly desire him?  Sweet hope filled his heart.

Then she, too, heard the intruders, and gave a soft, startled cry.  He released her, and she scrambled up, blushing fiery pink.  Before he could whisper farewell, she quickly gathered her wits and her weapons and rushed from the field.

“Good match, sir!” someone called.

“Well met, my lord!” said another.

Pagan bounded to his feet and cast one last longing look toward his departing bride.  It wasn’t mere lust he felt as he watched her, he realized.  Nay, the feeling went deeper than that.  By the Saints, he admired her.  Before she was out of hearing, he announced, “If you knights had as much devotion to practice as my wife, no army would dare approach Rivenloch.”

Fortunately she’d disappeared by the time Sir Benedict jested, “If you’d give
us
a little kiss, my lord, maybe we’d be more agreeable to the long practice hours.”

“Fifty lifts of the buckets, all of you,” Pagan charged.

The men groaned.

“One hundred if you complain.”

Deirdre’s fingers fluttered over her mouth as she hurried toward the keep.  Her lips were still wet, still warm.  God’s blood!  What had happened?  One moment she’d been battling Pagan with all the ferocity of a charging boar, and the next, she’d found herself reacting to his kiss with the same fervor.

And now she overheard Pagan praising her to his men.  To her consternation, a flush of pleasure rose in her cheeks.

That was absurd!  She’d never needed a man to tell her she was a capable warrior.  Besides, he was a knave who’d shamelessly tricked her into a kiss, curse his hide, a kiss that lingered pleasurably on her lips.

But she’d realized something, fighting him, that she hadn’t acknowledged in their bedchamber, something she’d wanted to deny the invading Norman, something she could no longer withhold.

She respected Pagan.

As much as he infuriated her with his cocky swaggering and cruel seduction and merciless humiliations, she respected the lout.

He was a man of strength, an incomparable warrior, of course.  But he was also a man of honor and fairness.  Diplomatic and dedicated.  A model of chivalry.

Curiously, she longed to impress him.  To have such a man praise her publicly was a heady honor indeed.

To have such a man
love
her...

Nay!  She’d not think of that.  It was just a kiss.  And one stolen for the amusement of his men.  Anyone who would mistake that for affection would be a fool.  No matter how it made her head swim and her pulse race.  Besides, a man so dedicated to warfare didn’t have time for love.  Lust, aye, but not love.  It didn’t matter that she’d glimpsed something suspiciously close to fondness in his gaze.  Such emotions could be falsified.

It was enough that he afforded her some level of respect.  With mutual respect, they might make a good marriage.  Still, she considered, there were many men she respected.  None had ever made her heart beat so recklessly.

It was a dangerous thing, this...fondness.  She’d lost control in the tiltyard, all because of a kiss.  If she melted at the mere touch of his lips, how would she steel herself against more intimate contact?  She must, of course, fight him at every turn.  Though she’d ceded command of the army to Pagan, she hadn’t surrendered control of Rivenloch.  Nor would she...ever.

As testament to that promise, Deirdre intended to devote the rest of the day to helping Miriel sort out the affairs of the household.  With the addition of so many Normans to Rivenloch, there were still permanent quartering issues to address, provisions yet to purchase, and new servants to direct, in addition to the usual conflicts arising between the castle folk and crofters that needed solving.

But to Deirdre’s exasperation, as she set about making changes and issuing commands, she discovered that Pagan had already sunk his claws deeply into the workings of Rivenloch.  When she ordered a pair of Scots servants to beat the dust from the tapestries, they told her it had already been done at Pagan's command.  When she tried to set three Norman maids to mending surcoats, they complained that Pagan had directed them to launder the linens.  The kitchen lads, who she meant to have scour pots, had been sent to the loch to fish.  By Pagan.

The man seemed to countermand her every order.  He reassigned servants on a whim, moved and removed the furnishings at will, and to her horror, had already torn down the very walls of some of the outbuildings.  She thought she’d seen the worst of his interference as she stared at the demolished blacksmith shed, its rotted, splintered timbers lying on the sod like charred bones.

But nothing could prepare her for the spectacle taking place in the courtyard as she rounded the corner of the west tower.  A small crowd circled the castle’s whipping post.  She frowned.  That post was seldom used.  At Rivenloch, most disobedience was punished by assigning unpleasant chores to offenders or charging stiff fines of goods or coin.  Though the post had served as a site of execution on rare occasions, it was employed primarily now as a cautionary symbol, one a parent might use to threaten a child into compliance.

Peering between the onlookers, Deirdre spied two young lads lashed to the post, face to face.  Their shirts hung loose from their hips, baring their pale, scrawny backs, as yet unmarked.  But they quivered with fear as a willow switch whipped through the air nearby like a hungry falcon swooping down to feed.  Deirdre couldn’t see the boys’ faces, but her heart plummeted as she immediately recognized their flaming red hair.

Bloody hell.

Pagan whisked the switch once more through the air, preparing to mete out the first boy’s punishment.  But his hand was stayed by a feminine shriek.

“Nay!”

He sighed.  It was an unpleasant chore, he thought, chastising lads whose backs had probably never felt the rod before.  That was the reason he undertook the task himself rather than hand it over to some ham-fisted warrior like Sir Rauve d’Honore who might be overzealous in his blows.  Now to have some frail-hearted maid interrupt his dispensation of justice...

“Stop!” she cried.

He turned toward the sound with a disapproving scowl, then cursed under his breath.  It was Deirdre, breaking through the startled crowd with all the wild-eyed fury of a rampaging Viking.

His fist tightened on the switch.  Why did she have to appear now?  Why did she have to challenge him at every turn?

“Get back!” he snapped.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” she bellowed.

Pagan could almost feel the hackles rise along his back.  He admired Deirdre’s spirit, aye, and her courage, but he wouldn’t suffer a woman to rail at him nor tell him how to manage the affairs of the castle...
his
castle.

“Wife!” he barked.  “Out of the way.”

The audacious wench ignored his warning.  Hurtling forward, she flung her arms around the youngest boy, shielding him with her body.

“Nay,” she bit out over her shoulder.

A lesser man would have let the first blow land upon her rebellious back to teach her a lesson about insubordination.  But chivalry saved Deirdre from the full force of his temper.  Instead, he whipped the willow switch through the air so it whistled past her, startling the lad, who began to whimper within her embrace.

“Move!” he commanded.  “You stand in the way of justice.  These varlets must be disciplined.”

“You won’t touch them.”

God’s bones, she was a stubborn wench.

“This is not your concern, damsel,” he warned her.  “I’ve rendered judgment upon these thieves.  Now I undertake their punishment.  If your stomach is too weak to endure the sight, then go inside and hide your eyes.  Leave me to my task.”

Pagan watched her back stiffen, bone by bone, as she straightened in unmitigated mutiny and snarled at him over her shoulder.  “Never.”

A hush fell, as chill and sudden as winter frost.  For one weighted moment, no one dared speak or move.

Pagan, his forbearance stretched to its limit, finally cracked the silence.  His words rang with icy menace.  “There is room for three at the whipping post, my lady.”

He took some perverse satisfaction at the soft gasp that sizzled through the crowd like a shock of lightning.

But that satisfaction was short-lived.  While the castle folk believed his threat, it was clear that Deirdre did not.  She turned until she faced him squarely, then lifted her chin and dared him, “Go ahead.”

The onlookers gasped again, and Pagan narrowed his eyes.  For one ignoble moment, as he studied her beautiful, willful features, he regretted not bedding her the very first moment he’d seen her.  Surely laying claim to her body would have brought her to heel more quickly.

But as his gaze lingered upon her brave, vibrant, resolute face, he realized Deirdre wasn’t just any wench to be bedded, tamed, and conquered.  She was his wife.  And she was an extraordinary woman.  A woman accustomed to power and control.  A woman unafraid to wield a blade.  A woman who’d served as steward of Rivenloch.  A woman deserving of his respect, deserving of her own opinions.

Ballocks.

Now he supposed he’d have to listen to those opinions.

But not in front of a bunch of gape-jawed onlookers with prattling tongues.

“Leave us!” he commanded.  “All of you.”

The crowd reluctantly dispersed, muttering as they scurried off, likely wondering if their new steward was about to beat his wife to a bloody pulp.

When they’d gone, Pagan returned his attention to Deirdre.  She stood firm, her azure gaze as steady as a destrier’s gait, but he glimpsed uncertainty in the clenching of her fists.  She also apparently suspected he might beat her to a bloody pulp.

Unable to hold onto his anger in the face of her fear, he shook his head in self-mockery.  Was he making a grave error, inviting a woman’s counsel?  He prayed not.  Aye, he’d honor Deirdre by listening to what she had to say, but he wouldn’t be swayed by her words.  He still had to have the final authority.  “Well, then, my lady, if ’tisn’t your weak stomach,” he drawled, “what is your objection?”

Her fists unclenched in relief.  “I know these lads.  They’re the sons of Lachanburn, to the north.”

He sniffed.  It wasn’t her stomach then.  It was her heart.  But one couldn’t afford to be dissuaded from upholding justice by one’s heart.  “‘Tis no matter whose sons they are.  They’re thieves.”

She creased her brow.  “Thieves?”

He nodded.

“What is their crime?”

“They stole Rivenloch property.”

“What property?”

He nodded toward the stables, where the pair of shaggy russet cows were tethered.

“That’s all?” she asked.

He started.  “What do you mean, that’s all?”

“Just two cows?”

He frowned, annoyed.  What did she mean by “just”?  “Aye,” he said, adding pointedly, “two cows that might feed the castle all winter.”

She only stared at him, as if struggling to find the right words.  “Let the lads go,” she finally said.

“What?”

“Let them go.  We have the cattle back.  Let them go.”

This, he thought, was why one didn’t heed the counsel of a woman.  He sternly shook his head.  “They must face the consequences of their actions or they will never learn.”

“You don’t understand.”

“
You
don’t understand.  If you don’t whip the dog that bites you, ‘twill bite again.”

“You’ve already frightened them enough.  See how they quail?”  She gestured to the boys, who had craned their necks around to watch the curious exchange.

“They quail now, but halfway home, they won’t remember their fear.  A few welts will serve to remind them.”

Deirdre blew out a hard breath.  Damn the meddlesome Norman!  If he’d just kept his nose out of castle affairs and left matters of the law in her hands, she wouldn’t be standing here now, caught precariously between the sons of her foul-tempered neighbor and a bloodthirsty Norman’s willow switch.  And she wouldn’t have to waste time now explaining Scots cattle raids to a man who probably flogged children for snatching tarts from the kitchen.

But curse his hide, she supposed Pagan
was
the steward of Rivenloch now, he
was
wielding the rod, and he
had
hesitated long enough to listen to her.  Sooner or later, she’d have to teach him the Scots ways.  She might as well begin now.

“They’re not thieves,” she said.  “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”  He tossed up his hands.  “They were caught with their ropes about the cows’ necks, leading the beasts over the hill.”

She grimaced.  “‘Tisn’t that simple.”

He rapped the willow switch impatiently against his thigh.  “Then I suggest you explain quickly.  Your delay of their whipping only increases the lads’ torment.”

She bit the corner of her lip.  It was difficult to explain to an outsider.  “They took the cows as...retribution.”

“Retribution.”

“Aye.”

“For?”

“For the two we stole last year.”

“What!” he erupted.

She knew he wouldn’t understand.  “Will you...  Just let them go.  I’ll explain it to you later.”

“Nay.  Explain it now.”

“Look,” she said.  “If you keep them here, their father will...worry.”  Indeed, their father would likely demand Pagan’s head on a plate, but she wouldn’t tell him that.  “Lachanburn will send his men to search for them.  If they discover we hold them behind Rivenloch’s walls...”

But Pagan seemed fixated on the idea of cattle raiding.  “You stole two of
their
cows?”

She sighed.  “‘Tis the Scots way.  They steal our cattle.  We steal theirs.  ‘Tis been so for generations.”

Pagan blinked, as if she’d told him the world was made of ruayn cheese.

“Stealing cattle,” she continued, “is a matter of...friendly rivalry for the lads of Rivenloch and Lachanburn.”

He stared hard at her, doubtless wondering if the Scots were completely daft.  “Unbelievable,” he muttered.