Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) (19 page)

“I insist you let them go.”

He didn’t answer her at once.  It was clear he both disbelieved and disapproved of her explanation.  Moreover, he likely bristled at the idea of her insisting on anything.

At long last he seemed to come to a decision.  With a dark scowl, he straightened to his full imposing height and tapped the willow rod against the palm of his left hand.  He narrowed his eyes to green slits.  “I’ve listened to you, damsel.”  Then he issued the grim order, “Now stand down.”

Deirdre’s heart sank as her ire rose.  Had all her words meant nothing?  She’d hoped Pagan might at least
try
to understand the Scots ways.

Of course, she had no intention of moving aside.  Not only did she owe the Lachanburn lads her protection, but she had no wish to face their father’s wrath when he discovered his proud sons had been publicly whipped.

“I won’t stand down,” she told him firmly.  “You’ll just have to flog me as well.”

Then, to her amazement, the corner of Pagan’s lip slowly curled up into a sardonic grin.  “You misunderstand, my lady.  You’ve won their freedom.”  He dropped the willow switch to the ground.  “Now stand down.”

Deirdre blinked, confused.

Apparently, a few bold Rivenloch folk had remained near despite Pagan’s orders, and they applauded now, much to his annoyance.  He impatiently motioned her to move out of the way.  Deirdre, stunned by her victory, staggered aside as he approached the whipping post, drawing his dagger.

“Heed me well, young pups,” he said to them as he cut their bonds.  “‘Tis only by the mercy of Lady Deirdre that you go free.  Take care I don’t catch you in the future, for I won’t be so merciful again.”  Freed from the post, the lads stood side by side, their thin frames and shock of orange curls making them look like twin candles topped by bright flame.  Their eyes shone wide and solemn as they gazed at Pagan.  He hiked their shirts back up over their narrow shoulders, and Deirdre heard him murmur, “Cover your heads next time.  That red hair of yours can be seen a mile away.”  Then, swatting them on their rumps, he sent them scurrying out the gate.

He glanced over at her then with a gruff frown, and she realized that despite his irritable mien, he was no more dangerous than a hound barking with its tail all a-wag.  Suddenly, she was surprised by a curious emotion she couldn’t name.  Admiration.  Or gratitude.  Or, God help her, fondness.  Some sensation that warmed her heart and lightened her spirits.  A sensation that left her feeling perilously unguarded.

Muttering a hasty “thank you,” she excused herself, retreating to the great hall.  There she helped Miriel attend to supper preparations and tried to persuade herself it wasn’t affection she felt for her husband, for that would be foolish.  Nay, it was simply appreciation of the fair-handed way he’d dealt with the Lachanburn lads and the joy of her own small triumph.

But when supper commenced, and Pagan arrived, dressed in his Norman braies and a pine-colored tunic that perfectly draped his magnificent frame and intensified the green depth of his eyes, her opinion was sorely challenged.

He caught her eye as he seated himself beside her, and she was startled by how richly verdant his gaze was tonight, like a Scots forest, beautiful and lush and vibrant.  Bloody hell, he looked as handsome as Lucifer.

She braced herself with a swig of perry cider.

He was in fine spirits as he jested with his men, but Deirdre felt each warm chuckle like a brazen caress that threatened her composure.  His knee contacted hers as they sat close upon the bench, and she noticed he seemed disinclined to move it.  His fingers brushed hers familiarly as he cut the venison in the trencher they shared.  The Norman seemed to insinuate himself into her domain at every opportunity.

By the time she surrendered her napkin and excused herself to her bedchamber, pleading an aching head, she felt violated.  Every inch of her skin prickled with current, like silk skirts in the north wind.

Maybe with luck, she thought, scurrying hastily up the stairs, slamming the door, and casting off her surcoat, she’d be asleep by the time Pagan came to bed, deaf and blind to his allure.

But the knave must have followed at her heels.  Scarcely had she hung up her clothes when he barged in at the door, making her jump like a child caught nibbling a tart.

He looked pleasantly surprised as his hungry eyes coursed slowly down her naked body.  She held her breath, enduring his lusty gaze.

After an interminable silence, she finally asked, “Do you intend to close the door, or is it your wish to put me on display for all the servants?”

He grinned, easing the door shut.   Then he lowered his brows in chiding accusation.  “You sprinted up the stairs rather quickly for a maid with a...what was it?  An aching head?”

She lifted her chin to answer, but could think of nothing to say in her defense.

He smiled again, then leaned back against the door and began to remove his boots.  “Dare I hope you’re eager for my bed this eve?”

Her breasts tightened in the chill air.  At least she hoped it was the chill air.  As coolly as she could, she told him, “You may hope all you wish, but ‘twill not make it so.”

Unaffected by her jab, he tossed his boots toward the foot of the bed, then hauled his tunic and undershirt off together.  Deirdre’s eyes were instantly drawn to the cut she’d given him.  It was healing well, which relieved her.  Indeed, the thin scar did nothing to diminish the perfection of his body.  His chest was smooth and taut, covered with thick muscle, and his shoulders were broad enough to pull an oxcart.  God’s eyes, even at this distance the sight of him made her knees weak.

She drew in a shaky breath.  Then, with false imperturbability, she climbed under the coverlet into her pallet, taking the middle of the bed so he’d be unlikely to join her.“About the incident today...” she said, eager to talk of something,
anything
, other than the bristling tension between them.

“Incident?”  He began untying the points of his braies.

She cleared her throat.  “With the Lachanburn lads.”

“Aye?”

“There will be...many things about Rivenloch you don’t understand.”

He chuckled.  Lord, his smile was brilliant, dazzling.  “You Scots
are
a different sort,” he agreed.

“You can’t expect to change the ways of the people.  You can’t bend the Scots to your will.”

His grin turned devious.  “Ah, my lady, I’d be content to bend just one Scot to my will.”  He sat down upon the edge of the bed, his weight drawing her toward him.  “Perhaps with a kiss?”

Her breath caught.  So
that
was why he’d come charging up the steps after her.  He still thought she owed him a kiss.  But she knew better.  She’d given him his due in the tiltyard.  And thank God she had, for she doubted she could withstand another, not with the way her heart hammered as he regarded her with those knavish green eyes.

“Maybe your memory is faulty,” she said smugly.  “You received your payment this morn.”

He froze, his hands at the waist of his loosened braies.   “That?” he said with a smirk.  “That was no kiss.”

“Oh, aye, ‘twas.”

“Nay.”  He glowered warily.  “Nay.  That quick peck?  That didn’t count.”

“Quick peck, my arse.  It
did
count.”

“How could you call that—“

”A kiss?”

“‘Twas not a kiss!”

“Oh, it seemed very like a kiss.  Your lips on mine?  Aye, ‘twas a kiss.”

“Lucifer’s ballocks!”  He furrowed stormy brows at her.   “‘Twas stolen.  The kiss you owe me is one given freely.”

“That was not part of the bargain.”

He shot to his feet, his eyes narrowed dangerously, and she saw his chest rise and fall deeply with each frustrated breath.  But they both knew she was right.  She owed him nothing this eve.

Still, as he tied the points of his braies, wrenching them so hard he ripped one loose, she realized the violence of which he was capable.  As he shoved his arms back into his shirt with a low growl, she recognized the depth of his fury.  And when he slammed the door behind him, rattling the weapons on the wall, she understood that there was a limit to his patience.  One day, she feared, he’d take what was his, vow or not.

Pagan kicked the wall of the stable, startling his horse.  The beast whickered once, then returned to contentedly munching oats.  But Pagan’s mood was not so easily pacified.  He paced back and forth, kicking up bits of straw and dust and mouse droppings.

He was fed up with Deirdre’s slippery wiles and empty enticements.  He’d not fall victim to her guile again, have her tease him with her luscious body, only to repulse him when his loins throbbed with need.  Pagan was no fool.  Deirdre might feel the flutterings of desire, but at this snail’s pace, she’d frustrate him long past the bounds of madness.  He refused to spend another restless night beside his God-given wife, longing for what she wouldn’t give him...

Yet.

Soon she’d succumb to him.

He knew it.  He’d felt the smoldering in her body when he’d stolen that kiss.  It wouldn’t take much to kindle what was there into a fiercely burning fire.  But in the meantime, her stubbornness and his honor kept them deadlocked in longing.

This seduction was turning into a war between the two of them.  Clearly, Deirdre was determined to choose the field of battle and set the rules of engagement.  But it was a deadly mistake to give her the upper hand.  Nay, Pagan must seize the reins of this runaway warhorse of desire and steer it toward a domain where he was master.

Without her knowing.

But how would he accomplish that?

He stopped pacing and hunkered down to make a bed of straw in an empty corner of the stable.  It would be a chilly night.  Indeed, he’d been tempted to grab a milkmaid on his way to the stables to keep him warm.  But he recalled what had happened the last time he’d tried to tryst with a servant.  And so he resorted to burrowing into the straw for warmth while he considered his battle strategy.

The first key to combat was knowing one’s enemy.

What did he know about Deirdre?

She seemed to respond most favorably in the tiltyard when he treated her like an equal—challenging her, spurring her on, expecting no less than her best.  And ironically, once he began treating her like a man, she became even more enticing to him.  He’d trained her hard this morn, thinking to expose her feminine weakness, and she’d astonished him by working harder than his own men.

Yet beneath her armor, Deirdre possessed the soft curves of a lady.  Near her unbending spine beat the gentle heart of a maid.  He’d glimpsed her tenderness when she’d sacrificed herself for her sister, when she’d cared for her father, when she’d intervened for the Lachanburn lads.  Deirdre might think like a man, but she sensed things like a woman.  She could be offended or impressed or hurt or pleased as easily as any female.

And therein lay his dilemma.

He was content to treat her as an equal, for she was as worthy and wise and loyal as any man he’d ever known.

But he’d never wanted to bed a man.

It was unsettling.  One moment he found himself clapping her affably on the back, and the next he longed to drag her into the nearest stairwell, tear off her gown, and ravish her.

How could a man fight a foe who was a constantly changing target, whose tactics were as unpredictable as thistledown in the wind, who in one moment charged onto the field like a berserker, and in the next, blushed at the prospect of being caught in a kiss?  How could one vanquish a foe that would not be forced or reasoned with or lured into surrender?

He asked himself those questions long into the night, while the moon cast a blind eye on the world below, and the stars tumbled across the sky like bright dice, divining the course of fate.  Finally he slept, leaving his question for the reckoning of dreams.

With the revealing light of dawn, his answer came.  He opened his eyes to find he was no longer alone.  Miriel’s strange Oriental maidservant was staring down at him.

He sat up with a sharp gasp.  Her expression was mildly amused, and her small hands were clasped before her in a gesture of patient waiting.  How long she’d been standing there, watching him sleep, he didn’t know, but the fact she’d come upon him unawares was highly unsettling.

“What is it?” he asked gruffly, scrubbing the straw from his hair.

She clucked her tongue.  “You will never make sons for Rivenloch this way,” she said bluntly, “sleeping with the horses.”

Pagan’s jaw came unhinged.  Why the sisters put up with such an impudent servant, he didn’t know, but he refused to endure Sung Li’s insolence.  “That is not your affair.”

Undaunted, the woman continued, shaking her head.  “You are a foolish, foolish man.”

Pagan’s temper rose.  “Guard your tongue, wench, or I’ll—“

”That is your mistake,” she told him.  “You are too much a warrior.  Always you answer with threat.”

Pagan’s hands itched to throttle the rude servant.  Of course, now he couldn’t, for that would make Sung Li unequivocally right.  He settled on a fierce scowl.

“Listen or do not listen,” she said with a shrug.  “It is up to you.  But I have the answer you seek.”

He got to his feet, towering over her so she’d not forget who was her master.  “What answer?”

“There is only one way to claim her body,” she said smugly.

Pagan was stunned by the old woman’s perception.  Did she possess some mystic clairvoyance, or had he been talking in his sleep?  He rubbed pensively at his stubbled cheek, torn between listening to what might be sage advice and hauling Sung Li out the stable door for her impertinence.  But the truth was, determined to prevail over his intractable wife and eager to claim his bride, Pagan was frustrated enough to consider anything.  He crossed his arms in challenge, sneering, “And how is that?”