Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) (23 page)

Her glance was drawn upward, catching his suggestive smile.  Her cheeks grew hot, and her heart raced.  Lord, he was irresistible.  His sleepy grin was enchanting.  The ribald flicker in his eyes beguiled her.  Even the careless riot of his hair caused a thrill of lusty memory to course through her veins.  Faith, how would she ever manage to conceal her attraction to him?

Distraction, she decided.  Anything to take her mind off of him.  And the best distraction was sparring.

There was just one problem.  He obviously hadn’t come to fight.  “You have no armor.”

He shrugged.  “No time.  But that’s all right.  I can defend myself well enough to spar.”  Then he narrowed his eyes at her with feigned reservation.  “Unless you intend to strike to kill.”

Smiling weakly, she shook her head.  She was only lightly armed herself, wearing but a mail hauberk over her gambeson.  She sliced a challenge in the air between them.  “Shall we?”

Unsheathing his weapon, he opened the gate to the tiltyard for her, murmuring as she passed, "Are you sore today?"

Blood rushed to her cheeks.  He was a knave to ask such a thing.  Aye, there was a faint ache between her legs, but...

"Did the massage help?"

She blinked.  Her muscles.  Of course.  He meant her muscles.  Instantly contrite, she mumbled, "Aye.  Thank you."

Lord, it was going to be a challenge to keep her mind focused.

Contrary to her expectations, rather than distracting her from wayward thoughts, battling with Pagan brought them into sharper relief.  Never had she realized how like the act of mating sword fighting was—advancing, retreating, withdrawing, thrusting.  Pagan fought much as he coupled, with passion and skill and patience.  He moved with easy grace, and yet wasted no motion.  Every grunt, every lunge, every thrust reminded her of their tumultuous joining.  Soon, despite the residual ache between her thighs, despite the wrongness of place and time, despite her determination otherwise, her desire warmed as quickly as her blood.

Ravishing him was not a conscious decision on her part.

Indeed it started innocently enough.

The tip of her sword caught on his sleeveless surcoat and slashed the shoulder through, leaving the garment sagging.

“Pah!”  He threw his hands up in mock displeasure.  “‘Tis my best surcoat, damsel,” he growled.  But despite the vexed shake of his head, there was amusement in his eyes as he engaged her again.

Her heart racing at the impulsiveness that suddenly seemed to possess her, she attacked him again, this time ripping the opposite shoulder.  With only his leather belt to hold it up, the surcoat drooped from his chest, exposing the linen shirt beneath.

“What!” he exploded in surprise, reeling backwards.  “My lady, what do you—“

Before he could finish, she slipped her sword betwixt the laces of his undershirt and sliced them open.  The shirt slid from his shoulders, catching below his elbows.  Then, while he stood in open-mouthed awe, she swept his sword away with her blade, sending it clattering against the fence.

Breathless with her own aberrant daring, she rested the point of her blade against his chest, his magnificent chest, and prodded him back one step, two.

He frowned warily.  “Damsel, what is it you—“

”Go,” she said, her voice strangely hoarse.  “Into the stable.”

Hampered by what was left of his shirt, he nonetheless raised his hands in a gesture of concession, reminding her all too vividly of his surrender to her explorations last night.  Step by step, her heart cantering in her throat, she backed him through the stable doorway, all the while questioning her own sanity.

The sweet scent of fresh hay and the shadows of the stable interior welcomed and inspired her.  Her heart began to pound against her ribs, and the womanly core of her seemed to throb in synchronous anticipation.

He must have read her intentions in her eyes, for he let out a shudder that was half groan, half sigh as she backed him against the stable wall.

Her breath coming feverishly, she pinned him with her sword in one hand and used the other to reach for his belt buckle.  He clenched his jaw as a flick of her wrist unbuckled the leather.  His surcoat fell away, but his undershirt yet bound his arms.  She cast her sword aside, and the blade clattered against the stall, eliciting a soft whicker from one of the horses.  Then she seized the linen of his shirt in both fists and tore it in two.

“Ah, wife,” he sighed, his eyes growing liquid.

But her mood was far from tender.  The fighting had stirred her blood.  It was impossible to tame the wild currents raging inside of her.

“On your back,” she gasped, pushing at his chest with the flat of her palm.

He staggered, collapsing onto a mound of straw.  Then, rising up on his elbows, his clothing in shreds, his chest heaving, he riveted her with a stare of raw lust.

All the breath deserted her, and the air quivered with tension.  Acting on pure instinct, she knelt before him, scrabbling at his braies, tearing them away to free the handsome beast within.

Her own garments thwarted her.  She couldn’t remove her hauberk quickly enough.  With a cry of frustration, she struggled to loosen her swordbelt, but her desperate fingers fumbled at the task.

His hands took over, and he tossed the belt aside.  Then she tried to work her arms out of the hauberk.

“Never mind,” he bid her.  “Just lift it up.”

She gathered the chain mail in her arms, hefting its considerable weight, and Pagan reached beneath and swiftly rent her linen trews, the last barrier between the two of them.

Deirdre could wait no longer.  Her blood was afire.  Her skin craved his touch.  Her loins ached with need.  She straddled him and lunged forward, impaling herself on his swollen cock.

“Ah!” he cried out, arching his head back as if she’d mortally stabbed him.

Her mouth fell open in wonder.  There were no words to describe the rapture of their union, the heady triumph of command as she held him there, then her unfettered bliss as she initiated the motion of coupling, rocking to a current as old as the sea.

The links of her chain mail jangled with every thrust, like a timbrel accompanying their tempestuous dance.  Her blood, already warm from battle, simmered now like lava in her veins.  The exquisite friction of his flesh within hers made her swell with insurmountable yearning.  A strange buzzing began in her ears, rising in volume and power, encircling her in sensual music, a portent of euphoria to come.

He braced his palms on her shoulders as she sat astride him, trying to slow her.  “I can't...wait...” he gasped.

Why he wished to wait, she didn’t know.  She wanted him
now
.  She seized his wrists and forced his arms back, plunging forward and trapping his hands in the straw beside his head.

This seemed to upset him more.  “Ah, God, wench!”  His eyes darkened with helpless lust.  “Ah, God!”

But she didn’t care.  This was
her
tryst.  Today she’d have delicious vengeance.  Today she was his master.

Her chain mail pooled upon his chest now, undulating in waves of increasing speed.  He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head aside.  His jaw clenched, as if he tried to stem the inevitable tide.  Deirdre, however, kept her eyes open.  She wanted to witness his defeat, his surrender, his humbling.

A drop of sweat dripped from the tip of her nose onto his cheek, and suddenly his body froze.  Beneath her hands, his fists tightened, and a grimace of intense agony twisted his face.  The sweet sight catapulted her own passions beyond redeeming.  And as he arched and thrust and bellowed with his release, she followed him victoriously into the violent melee.

Moments later, spent, Deirdre sprawled stop him, listening to his slowing heartbeat, awash in feelings she scarcely understood.  Aye, she felt powerful.  And dominant.  And smug.  But she hadn’t won vengeance, and she never would, for she discovered the triumph of lovemaking was not hers alone.  It was a triumph they shared, like two well-matched opponents whose every battle was destined to end in victory for both.  It was a curious thing.

“You’ve slain me, my lady,” he murmured in exhaustion.

She smiled.  “Nay.  I can still hear your heart beating.”

“Aye, my heart beats for you.  But I assure you, the rest of me is dead.”

Her smile broadened.  “I know a way to bring the dead to life.”  She ran mischievous fingers up along his ribs.

He snatched her hand at once, groaning.  “Oh, nay.  Mercy, I beseech you.”

She took pity on him, nestling harmlessly once more against his chest.  His arms circled about her, and for a peaceful moment, they drifted together.

“Do you know how amazing you are?” he whispered against her hair.

His words flustered her.  She didn’t know how to answer him.

But before she was compelled to reply, he clasped the back of her neck in one gentle hand.  “I am truly pleased ‘tis you I chose to wed.”

She lifted her head and frowned at him.  “You did not choose me,” she corrected.  “I chose you.”

“Indeed?”  His eyes sparkled coyly, enigmatically.

“Aye,” she assured him.

He raised rueful brows.  “I suspect ‘twas more of a... sacrifice than a choice.”

She traced the scar upon his chest.  “I am not...unhappy with my sacrifice.”

“Not unhappy.”  His chuckle made her words sound weak, inadequate.  He added wryly, “I’m glad to hear it.”

She settled back down to listen to his heart.  It was a comforting sound, strong and steady and soothing.

He stroked her hair.  “You know, I was thinking...”

“Aye?” she said sleepily.

He furrowed thoughtful brows.  “Maybe
one
sparring drill a day is not enough to—“

She rose up and gave him a playful swat on the arm.  “Greedy varlet.  You would—“

His hand abruptly moved up to cover her mouth.  He’d heard something.  She stilled instantly.

Pagan was grateful for Deirdre’s warrior instincts.  She'd sensed danger as well.  She knew when to be quiet.

Muffled voices came from the tiltyard.  Men’s voices.  He strained to hear.  Then he recognized them.  His own knights, Rauve and Adric.

He removed his hand from Deirdre’s mouth, leaving a finger upon her lips to silence her while he listened.

“Come on, be a good lad,” Rauve coaxed.  “I’ll pay you back in a fortnight’s time.  You know I will.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Adric grumbled.

There was a sound of clinking coins.

“‘Tisn’t my fault, you know,” Rauve said.  “That thief in the wood sneaked up on me like a, like a...”

“Like a shadow?  That’s what they call him, you know.  The Shadow.  What were you doing, ranging around the wood anyway?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Adric echoed.  “You weren’t alone,
were
you?  Was it the milkmaid or the serving girl?”

“Mouthy knave, ‘twasn’t either of them.  That’s why I can’t figure out how he stole up on me.”

“Well, you deserved to be robbed,” Adric said, “after that sweet Lady Miriel made such a kind request for us to return our winnings, and you
kept
yours.”

“That’s the cruelty of it.  I swear, I was so deep in my cups, I don’t even
remember
winning.  When that robber found the silver in my pouch, I had no idea where it came from.”

“Until Lady Miriel reminded you.”

“Nay, until the little damsel I took in the wood reminded me.  She saw me win it.”

“I knew it!” Adric crowed.  “You
did
tryst in the wood.”

Their voices grew louder, and Deirdre started fidgeting.  Pagan knew if his knights walked in, there would be no way of hiding the truth of what had transpired here.  After all, clothing was strewn everywhere, Deirdre’s hair was festooned with straw, and Pagan couldn’t wipe the self-satisfied grin off of his face.  It was useless to jump up in panic and try to hide.

But, of course, that would be Deirdre’s intention, and it was pointless to try to stop her.  She scrambled up to her feet and retrieved her sword from the floor.  Then, to his surprise, she turned to face the intruders, placing herself between them and him as if she might protect his honor.  Indeed, it was most touching, albeit unnecessary.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Rauve said as his shadow fell across the stable entrance.  “All black like Lucifer the thief was.  Fast as the Devil, too, whist-whist-whist, leaping, kicking.  Still, I could’ve caught the bastard if I hadn’t been protecting my lady love.”

“The Scots say he can’t be caught,” Adric said.  “They say he’s not of this world.”

“Well, if he’s not of this world, then what does he need my silver for?”

Rauve filled the doorway then and, like a trusty knight of Cameliard, as soon as he laid eyes on Deirdre, drew his blade.

She began concocting a tale at once.  “Go!  Get Sir Pagan some clothing.  His...his horse has attacked him and...and he’s torn his surcoat.”

Pagan didn’t know what was more amusing, Deirdre’s pathetic attempt at lying or Rauve’s expression of disbelief, given that his horse stood placidly munching hay in the adjoining stall.  But Pagan burst out in a peal of laughter that threatened to shake the dust from the rafters.

The scowl Deirdre turned on him could have melted steel.

“My lord?” Rauve asked, clearly confused.

Pagan grinned, grabbing a handful of straw to shield his nakedness as he sat up.  “Fetch me new garments, lads.  And braies for Lady Deirdre.  And both of you, not a word about this or I’ll have your heads.”

Deirdre turned a most adorable shade of pink.

“Aye, my lord.”  Rauve’s face was a mask of decorum as he sheathed his sword, having doubtless been in many such awkward situations himself.

As for Adric le Gris, that knowing smirk would cost him extra duties in the armory later, Pagan vowed.

Eventually, Deirdre’s dignity was restored, and despite her suspicions that the entire castle would soon learn of their perfidy, Rauve and Adric were true to their word.  There was no snickering among the servants, no whispering in the armory.  And if Pagan was a bit saddened by the likelihood that she’d never make the mistake of ravaging him in the stables again, he took comfort in the fact that she didn’t seem to mind molesting him everywhere else.

Thoroughly.

Repeatedly.

Exhaustively.

The days were spent in relative harmony now, with only scattered disagreements.

Pagan remained firm in matters of castle defense.  There were reports now of a few rogue English lords who'd joined forces, forming a veritable army that was attacking castles along the Border.  So Pagan set teams of fletchers to making arrows day and night, and the armorer's forge was seldom cool.

But he bowed willingly to Deirdre’s expertise regarding the Scots’ curious system of justice.  He didn't question her when she praised a lass who'd blackened a boy's eye, nor did he raise a brow when she forced two constantly quibbling Norman maids to share a single stool for a day.