Knight's Prize (15 page)

How
he could have suspected her of being The Shadow, he didn't know. Miriel was
domestic and nurturing by nature. And irresistible, he decided, letting his
gaze rove down her lovely backside.

Harboring
thoughts of sweet revenge for her earlier ambush, he sauntered across the hall
and sneaked up behind her, then caught her about the waist. But instead of a
feminine gasp of pleased surprise, he immediately earned a sharp jab of her
elbow to his ribs that bent him in half and left him gasping.

"Oh!"
she exclaimed. "I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

For
a moment, he couldn't speak. The blow had knocked the breath from him. Lord,
the wench had sharp elbows, and he wasn't sure she sounded all that sorry.
There'd be a black bruise there on the morrow, certainly, even if the lass
hadn't actually cracked one of his ribs.

"I...
slipped," she said.

If
that was a slip, he'd hate to feel what she'd do if she
meant
to
hurt him.

"Nay,
'tis my fault," he wheezed. "I shouldn't have startled you. I'd
forgotten how quick you are."

"What
do you mean?"

"Your
reflexes."

"Mine?"
she squeaked. "I don't know what you're talking about. Sung Li says
I'm... clumsy."

"Clumsy?"
He caught his breath while he massaged away the bruise. The pain eased in a
moment, and he was able to straighten. "You didn't seem so clumsy the
other night when you caught my flagon in midair." He leaned close to
murmur, "Nor when you kissed me later on the stairs."

She
stiffened, blurting out, " 'Tis but a silly trick my sisters taught
me."

He
grinned. "The catch? Or the kiss?"

Her
cheeks pinkened. By the Saints, was there anything prettier than a maiden's
blush? "Neither. Both."

He
chuckled. Glancing about the hall to make sure no guardian's gaze was pinned on
him, he reached up to smooth a stray tendril of hair back from her brow.
"Then I must speak with your sisters, my love. They may have some very
interesting information to share."

She
ducked her head away, rejecting his placating gesture. "I thought you
had
talked
to them." Her words were innocent enough, but there was a subtle edge to
her voice as she added, "Haven't you spoken to nigh
all
the
ladies of Rivenloch, and Lachanburn, and Mochrie in the last two days?"

"Why,
my love," he said in soft surprise, "are you jealous?"

Her
eyes went all dewy and soft, yet Rand spied a gleam of devilry in her gaze, a
spark other men might not notice. She lowered her attention to his chest,
walking her fingers coyly up his surcoat. "‘Tis just that I'd rather you
spoke to
me."

He
almost laughed aloud, but instead dipped his eyelids in sultry approval,
edging closer to murmur, "And what would you have me say?"

Her
tongue slipped out the tiniest bit to lick her bottom lip, making him suddenly
long to do the same. Then she gave him a subtle shrug. "What did you say
to
them?”

"Who?"
His mind was already losing focus as he began to feel the full force of her
allure.

"All
those women."

He
gazed down at her tempting mouth, so pink, so wet, so inviting, and gave her a
knavish smile. "I told them I could not wait to run my fingers through
your hair, to press my lips to yours, to wrap my arms around your—"

She
gave him a scolding cuff on the arm. "You did not." She thrust out
her lip in a charming pout. "I'd wager you didn't speak of me at
all."

Forsooth,
she was right. He hadn't inquired about her. What was there to ask? He already
knew she was beautiful, sweet-natured, intelligent, delightful, and a bit
wicked. He didn't need to know more. Besides, he was on the trail of a
dangerous outlaw, not a desirable imp of a wench.

But
for a man to admit he could think of anything other than his ladylove when he
was supposed to be courting her was a mistake of the worst kind.

"Of
course I spoke of you, my love," he lied. "I'm hungry to know
everything about you. What your childhood was like. Where you like to wander.
What you like for breakfast. Your favorite color."

Her
eyes narrowed slyly. "What
is
my favorite color?"

Without
missing a beat, he trapped her gaze in his own and replied, "I'm hoping
'tis brown."

"Brown?"

"Aye,"
he told her, lifting the corner of his mouth in a wry grin, "the color of my
eyes."

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

Miriel
resisted the urge to groan. Instead, she forced a honey-sweet smile to her face
and cooed, "‘Tis my favorite color
now."

Curse
the varlet, he was destroying her
chi
again, and along with it, her judgment. She
couldn't tell, even staring directly into his eyes, whether he was telling her
the truth or not. Surely he wasn't serious, and yet the adoration in his gaze
seemed real. Was he genuinely lovestruck or just diabolically clever? 'Twas
difficult to discern.

But
if anyone could eventually ferret out the truth, 'twas Miriel. She'd find out
what he was up to even if she had to flirt shamelessly to do it.

"What
about you?" she asked, coyly lowering her lashes.

"Me?"

"What's
your favorite color?" He'd say blue, of course, the color of
her
eyes.

Instead,
the varlet let his gaze drift suggestively down to her lips. "Rose
red."

Her
heart fluttered at the uninvited memory of his kiss, and to her disgust, she
felt a blush heat her cheeks.

Bloody
hell. This was proving more difficult than she'd anticipated.

She
forced a nonchalant shrug. "The Mochrie maids have lips of rose red.
Perchance that's the reason you've been consorting with them."

"Are
their lips rose red?" he asked, arching a brow. "I couldn't tell. They
never stopped flapping them long enough."

Miriel
bit back a smile. The Mochrie women
were
notoriously chatty. She asked casually,
"And what were they flapping on about now?"

Glancing
quickly about for witnesses, he caught her chin between his thumb and finger,
tipping her head up to gaze lustily into her eyes. "Naught nearly as
engaging as the conversations
we
have, my love."

She
gently tugged out of his grip. This was not going well. The varlet was turning
her every inquiry into a flirtation.

"Well,
whatever they said must have been fascinating indeed," she countered.
"It seemed you could hardly tear yourself away."

He
grinned and gave her nose a patronizing swipe of his fingertip. "I'm
beside you now, my jealous little darling. 'Tis all that matters."

She
clenched her teeth against the urge to bite his finger. Curse the wily fox. He
was stealing his way out of her trap again. She forced her tight mouth into an
innocuous smile. "But what could you have possibly asked them to spur them
to such lengthy discourse, my love?" She added for good measure,
"Why,
I
can hardly get the Mochrie maids to put two words
together." 'Twas a blatant lie. The Mochrie women would wag their tongues
at the drop of a pin. But Rand wouldn't know that.

"Ah,"
he said. "What subject do women most like to speak on?"

Miriel
waited for his answer with bated breath while she made silent guesses. Secret
love affairs? Hidden wealth? Castle defenses?

He
chuckled. "Themselves, of course."

Miriel
did not find him amusing. And she didn't believe him for an instant.
"Indeed?" she asked lightly. "And these maids, the ones who told
you all about themselves, what were their names?"

He
blinked.

She
figured as much.

While
he continued to stall, she flashed him a deceptively sweet smile, kissed her
own fingertip, then pressed it against his damningly silent mouth.

Clucking
her tongue, she swept away, back to her spot among her sisters at the high
table. Despite her smug departure, she was far more troubled than she dared let
on. Rand of Morbroch was proving a challenging opponent.

Miriel
recognized his evasive tactics, for she'd used them herself. Over the years, to
protect her own secrets, she'd learned to dodge in and out of probing
interrogation by her sisters or her father through deflection, distraction, and
maintaining a calm demeanor. The skills required were not unlike those used in
effective combat, the fighting principles Sung Li had taught her.

But
she'd never been faced with anyone who understood and employed the tactics
against
her.
'Twas
maddening, as frustrating as wrestling a mud-slick piglet. The two of them
seemed cut from the same cloth, and after thrusting and dodging as expertly
with words as any warrior with a sword—simpering, mincing, pouting, flirting,
fawning— Miriel was completely fatigued and no nearer to uncovering his
secrets.

Worse,
she began to fear that Sir Rand of Morbroch was better at this game of
deception than she was.

Chapter 10

Dawn
found most of the household
still abed, exhausted from
the revelry of the night before. Not Rand. He was on a mission. Today might be
the day he at last came face-to-face with The Shadow.

By
the fire, he wolfed down a breakfast of buttered oatcakes and watered ale,
glancing about the hall at the remains of last eve's celebration—broken cups,
wilted flowers, snoring hounds with full bellies, melted candles, discarded
bones, and here and there an intrepid mouse searching for food among the
rushes.

It
appeared Miriel would have a lot of accounting to do. A smile blossomed on
Rand's face, albeit a weary one, as her beautiful, mischievous, irresistible
image materialized in his thoughts.

His
ladylove was proving an admirable adversary. 'Twas difficult enough, juggling
the real pursuit of a criminal with the feigned pursuit of a lover. But when
lust and jealousy rose up to complicate matters, and when relentless Miriel
kept probing closer and closer to the truth, Rand found himself in a position
of dissembling faster than a priest caught in a brothel.

Not
that he minded a little harmless lying. 'Twas part of his work. He refused to
feel guilty about it. Besides, Miriel wasn't exactly without sin herself. Lies
slipped off her tongue as easily as water from a swan's back.

He'd
known women like Miriel before. As adoring as they seemed, once they'd won him
to their affections, they'd let him go without shedding a tear. For them, the
conquest was everything.

He
understood. His own livelihood was based on the hunt. There was naught more
thrilling than circling around and closing in on one's prey, outwitting and
ultimately capturing that quarry.

Meanwhile
he'd have to suffer through a seduction that left his mouth dry, his heart
pounding, and his ballocks aching with unrequited desire.

At least
this morn he'd get a respite from Miriel's charms. According to the scowling
Sung Li, who must have risen with the chickens, the lass was still lying abed,
and nay, she did not wish to be disturbed.

The
Mochrie maids, on the other hand, were only too eager to meet their escort.
They descended the stairs in a flurry of chatter, making Rand wonder if they
ceased talking when they slept. His presence in the great hall pleased them
almost as much as it displeased Sung Li, who immediately scurried back up to
Miriel's chamber, probably to report to her mistress what a philandering
scoundrel he was.

Rand
couldn't stop the old woman's tongue-wagging, but with luck, he might apprehend
The Shadow today.
 
Once that task was
accomplished, Rand could drop his false pretenses, give Miriel what they both
wanted, or at least a reasonable taste of it, then wish her a fond farewell and
be on his merry way back to Morbroch to collect his reward.