Knight's Prize (14 page)

Now,
sighing for the hundredth time, he scratched the back of his neck and resumed
his pacing. 'Twas a preposterous idea, and yet...

"Good
morn," came a sudden voice immediately behind him.

Rand
almost leaped out of his braies. How Miriel had managed to sneak up on him, he
didn't know. But when he turned to give her a stern scolding, words failed him,
and his suspicions about her scattered like chaff in the breeze.

She
looked as lovely as a rose. She was attired in a surcoat of deep red, cut low
across her shoulders to expose her creamy skin. A small ruby hung from a silver
chain about her neck, dangling above her bosom as if to taunt him. Part of her
shining hair was caught up in a fantastic labyrinth of tiny braids, while the
rest spilled down her back in enticing curls. But her most beautiful aspect was
the mischievous twinkle in her dancing blue eyes.

************************************

Miriel
grinned smugly, taking wicked delight in having startled Rand, doubly
delighted she'd taken extra care with her appearance this morn, for she'd
obviously left the gaping varlet off balance.

Her
own troubled
chi
she'd
restored this morn with meditation and
taijiquan.
She felt prepared now to
face the handsome knave with a clear head and a steady heart. She wasn't about
to let Sir Rand of Morbroch ruffle her calm.

"My
lady, you look..." he began.

She
arched a brow. Was he going to gush out some commonplace, insincere, overly
honeyed compliment now? 'Twas what a man pretending to be a suitor would do.
And by his heated gaze as he perused her, he might even half mean what he said.

^You
look... well rested," he decided.

Her
brow creased in disappointment. "Well rested?" she echoed. Was that
the best he could manage? Mayhap she wasn't as fair as Deirdre or as voluptuous
as Helena, but she'd spent nigh an hour on her tresses alone.

Then
she spied the spark of devilry in his eyes. The lout was baiting her
intentionally.

He
grinned and leaned toward her, whispering, "You look breathtaking."

Despite
her best efforts, her pulse quickened as if she believed him, and she found
herself giving in to the smile she couldn't control.

Curse
the varlet. He might not be as duplicitous as she was, but he was damned good
at it. Sweet Mary, 'twas going to be a long and challenging day.

************************************

Helena's
wedding passed in a hazy blur. Miriel couldn't remember afterward anything that
was said. Mayhap 'twas because Rand hovered so close to her during the
ceremony, distracting her with his masculine warmth and the subtle spicy scent
of his skin.

Or
perchance 'twas the fact that as they stood together in the crush of witnesses
while Helena and Colin recited their vows, Rand made clandestine love to her
hand, twining his fingers through hers, stroking the back with his thumb,
tracing delicate patterns on her palm, until she thought she might swoon with
desire.

There
wasn't a blessed thing she could do to stop him, not without attracting the
undue attention of her protective sisters.

She
couldn't snap at him. She couldn't slap his hand away. And she definitely
couldn't give him an upward chop to the chin, followed by a foot sweep that
would lay him flat on the floor of the chapel.

Somehow
Miriel made it through the ceremony without fainting and without resorting to
violence. But the wedding feast proved an even greater challenge. From the
moment Rand and she sat together at the high table, he began playing to the
hilt his role as her devoted suitor.

"Allow
me, my lady," he cooed, feeding her a sweetmeat from his fingers.

She
smiled sweetly and accepted the bite, but not without a warning nip of her
teeth.

He
sucked in a startled breath, drawing a sharp frown from Deirdre.

"Sweetheart,"
he chided affectionately, "take care you do not bite the hand that feeds
you."

Now
Helena was staring at them as well. Miriel forced a smile to her lips. "
'Twas but a love nip, I assure you."

"Mm."

Helena
rolled her eyes as Rand clasped Miriel's hand in his, pressing a fond kiss to
her knuckles. Miriel had no choice but to allow him the trespass as his thumb
brushed slowly to and fro over the tops of her fingers, simultaneously
arousing and distressing her.

With
his free hand, he picked a bottle up from the table. "More wine,
darling?"

She
longed to guzzle the entire bottle. Mayhap that would settle her rapidly
fraying nerves. But Deirdre was keeping a watchful eye. So instead, she gave
him a playful swat. "Are you trying to get me drunk, my love?"

He
nuzzled her hair. "Only on my affections, sweetheart."

Now
Deirdre rolled her eyes, and Miriel had to bite her tongue to keep from gagging
on the cloying syrup of his words.

He
released her hand and set the bottle down. For one moment, Miriel had a
reprieve from his assault. Then he casually wound the end of one of her tiny
braids betwixt his thumb and fingers. Slowly but surely he began to reel her
closer.

Miriel
clenched her teeth. She might need to keep up appearances, but she wasn't about
to be hauled in like a salmon. With a twinkle in her eyes that was more mischievous
than fond, she coiled her own finger in a curl at the nape of his neck,
gradually tightening it until he winced in pain.

When
he sent her a bewildered glance, she withdrew her hand, pretending innocence.

He
let go of her braid as well, and for a moment, she imagined she'd made her
point, that he'd gotten her message. Until he began casually to stroke the top
of her shoulder where the red fabric met her bare flesh, back and forth, back
and forth.

Miriel's
hand tightened upon her eating dagger. She raised it slowly from the table.

Rand's
fingers suddenly froze on her shoulder as he eyed the blade. "My
love," he said conversationally, despite a tense smile, "allow
me."

He
placed his hand over hers on the dagger. For a moment they fought for control
of the weapon.

"Miri?"
Helena's brow furrowed with concern, and the entire table fell silent. Bloody
hell. If Helena suspected Miriel was in the slightest distress, she'd jump up
from the bench, draw her sword, and fight Rand atop the tables.

So
with a silent sigh of defeat, Miriel relaxed her grip on the dagger and let
Rand take it from her.

"One
slice or two?" he asked innocently, the dagger poised over the meat in
their shared trencher.

"One,"
she replied, adding between clenched teeth, "my love."

Reassured,
Helena and Deirdre and everyone else returned to their supper, blissfully
unaware that while they made merry around her, Rand was secretly waging war
upon Miriel's senses.

'Twas
when he slipped his hand beneath her tresses and began stroking her gently at
the base of her skull, sending tingles of pleasure shivering along her spine,
that she knew she was in trouble.

Through
weighted lids, she spied Sung Li at one of the lower tables. He was scowling at
her. She blinked, trying to clear her thoughts. Her
xiansheng
had
once told her that the wise warrior knew when to retreat.

Perchance
now was the time. If she removed herself physically from Rand's presence,
mayhap she could gather her wits again.

"I...I'm
going to check on the mead," she said, her voice more ragged than she expected.

"Hurry
back," he replied with a wink.

************************************

Rand
had to admit he was rather enjoying this game of cat and mouse. Miriel was a
wickedly clever lass, but she'd cornered herself into a far more intimate
relationship with him than she'd intended. Which didn't trouble Rand in the
least, though it apparently set Miriel's teeth on edge.

He
leaned back to watch her walk away from the table. She strode briskly, as if
fleeing a snarling dog, her hips twitching, her skirts snapping behind her like
a red sail. He grinned. A mischievous, quick-witted imp she might be, but the
lovely lass with the feminine curves was no skulking outlaw. He'd been a fool
to imagine it.

Meanwhile,
he needed to find out who the real villain was. Since Miriel had excused
herself, 'twas a good opportunity to make conversation with some of
Rivenloch's guests.

Unfortunately,
no matter how skilled Rand was at eliciting information, he quickly discovered
one could get no blood from a stone.

He
listened halfheartedly while one of the Lachanburn men retold his encounter
with The Shadow.

"...
black as coal... fleet as a fox... leaving a wake as chilling as the North
Sea..."

Another
Lachanburn lad volunteered, "No bigger than a child."

And
a third chimed in, "But the cleverest acrobat you've ever seen."

Rand
nodded. He was getting nowhere. They all told the same tale. Mayhap he'd have
more luck with the women.

The
ladies of Mochrie were delighted to make his acquaintance, forsooth so visibly
delighted that Miriel's sisters began firing accusatory glares Rand's way.
Deirdre and Helena might not deem him a suitable suitor for their little
sister, but they certainly didn't approve of his flirting with other maids
while he claimed to be courting Miriel.

He
flashed them a sheepish smile. He could hardly be blamed for the Mochries'
friendliness. 'Twas not his fault if women were enchanted by his dimples.

"The
Shadow?" one of the Mochrie maids asked, fluttering her lashes.
"I've not seen him with my own eyes. But I've heard—"

"He's
not of this world," another lass intoned mysteriously, laying a hand upon
Rand's sleeve.

The
first maid nodded in accord.

The
woman beside her shivered. "He must be terribly dangerous."

"Terribly,"
agreed a fourth maid, pressing her hand against her breast. "I'd be so
frightened to meet him in the wood."

"Indeed,"
said the first. "We're only gentle maids after all." She bit her lip
in a helpless gesture.

The
second woman slipped her fingers along Rand's sleeve, as if measuring the muscle
beneath. "I wager
you'd
not be frightened, Sir Rand."

The
others cooed in agreement, and Rand's smile became taut as he felt the knot of
adoring females close about him.

From
the corner of his eye, he spied rescue. Miriel was emerging from the cellar.
Eager to extricate himself from the bevy of clucking admirers, he waved his
hand toward her in greeting.

She
glanced up, but when she saw him in the midst of the fawning Mochrie maids, her
eyes narrowed, and she turned up her nose, ignoring him completely to visit
with other guests.

The
naughty imp! Surely she could see he was trapped. One of the Mochrie women
clung to his sleeve, another had seized his hand, and they were all chattering
away at once, winding words around him like silk ribbons.

"My
ladies," he said, gently withdrawing his hand, when he could finally slip
a word in, "I must take my leave now."

A
flurry of protests went up, and 'twas another long while before he could make
himself heard. Eventually he managed to tug loose of their clutches, but only
by vowing to accompany them through the woods on the morrow.

Which
was fortuitous indeed, for he'd been seeking an excuse to travel through the
forest in the hopes of encountering The Shadow.

Beaming
with success, he passed by the hounds, giving one of them a scratch behind the
ears, as he watched Miriel making her dutiful rounds about the hall.

She
checked to make sure no one's cup was empty and ruffled one of the scruffy red
heads of the Lachanburn children. She squeezed the hand of a withered old woman
and pushed a teetering trencher back from the edge of the table. She scooped up
a wee child who'd tripped and banged her knee, then turned to straighten a
garland hanging on the wall.