Knight's Prize (19 page)

"So
'twas two fully armed knights against one small thief?"

He
scowled. Somehow she was missing the point. "He was an amazingly elusive
small thief."

"Ah."

"By
the time I'd seen to their safety, the Mochrie men had already been
victimized."

Her
eyes widened. "Dear God! Were they wounded? Maimed? Killed?"

How
Miriel was managing to ruin his heroic tale, Rand didn't know, but she was
doing a fair job of leaching all the glory out of it.

"They
were
...
robbed."

"Oh."
Already the admiration in her eyes was dimming.

"Are
you sure you want to hear all this prattle?" he asked, letting his gaze
rove slowly over her lovely features. "I can think of much more
pleasurable things to do with my tongue."

Her
eyes glazed for a moment, and he saw her swallow. His words clearly had an
effect on her.

"Kiss
me," he urged in a whisper.

A
wrinkle of distress flitted across her brow. "I
...
I..."

"Just
one kiss," he breathed. "Then I'll finish the story."

She lowered
her gaze to his mouth, considering, then gave him an infinitesimal nod.
"One."

He
cupped her face in his hands and pressed a sweet, chaste kiss upon her mouth.

'Twas
well worth all the nicks and bruises he'd earned this morn to feel the healing
brush of Miriel's lips. Her mouth was soft and warm, a soothing balm for his
damaged pride, nourishment for his hungry body.

As
difficult as 'twas to restrain, he meant to keep his word. One kiss.

'Twas
Miriel who would not release him. With a faint sigh, she pressed more deeply
into his embrace, gathering his tabard in her fists. She nudged his mouth open,
sliding her lips over his, even delving the tip of her tongue within.

'Twas
like lightning jagged through his veins then, shocking him, paralyzing him. All
thought, all reason, all will deserted him. He could no more resist her than he
could have pulled away from charged steel. Nor did he wish to.

Only
the sudden flap of a swooping dove startled them apart. Miriel staggered back,
her stunned expression mirroring his own emotions. What occurred between them
seemed a mystery to them both, some strange force of nature that defied
explanation.

She
regained her composure before he did, blowing out a calming breath and wiping
the back of her trembling hand across her wet mouth. "One kiss," she
said, as much a reminder to herself as to him.

Rand
knew his animal craving would take much longer to subside, but he'd
make
it
subside if 'twas her wish. He couldn't afford to lose control here, where the
opportunities the dim privacy of the dovecote afforded were so inviting. Now
was not the time to be reckless.

"Where
were we?" he asked with a weak smile.

She
approached more cautiously this time, turning to incline her head back against
his chest. He wrapped one arm about her waist, his other about her shoulders,
letting his forearm rest lightly upon her bosom, and she reached up to drape
her fingers over that arm. Strangely, it seemed the most natural position in
the world. Anyone seeing them might have thought they'd been lovers for years.

"You
were telling me about The Shadow robbing you."

He
hesitated a moment, collecting his thoughts, then shook his head. "Not me.
He didn't rob me."

"He
didn't? Why not? Have you no coin?"

The
mischievous maid knew better. She'd rummaged through his belongings. "I
had coin. But after I was done with him, I imagine The Shadow decided 'twas not
worth his trouble."

"Done
with him?" Her fingers tightened on his forearm. "What did you
do?"

'Twas
hard for him to remember. Not only because everything had happened so quickly,
but because he was completely distracted by the tempting damsel in his arms.

He
didn't want to tell stories. He wanted to slide his palm from Miriel's shoulder
down to her breast, to cup her tender flesh in his hand and feel her sigh
against
...

"Rand?"

"Aye?"

"What
happened?"

He
swallowed hard. Perchance if he told the tale swiftly, they could move on to
more pleasant things. "Naught, really. I drew my sword, brandished it at
the outlaw. He yelped in terror and ran off into the forest."

"Indeed?
And for that he left you the tribute of a silver coin?"

He
winced. He'd forgotten about the silver coin. "Nay. I suppose 'twas a more
lengthy battle than that." He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. "I
just didn't want to bore you with all the fighting."

"I'm
not bored," she insisted. "I want to hear every last detail."

He
sighed. He was afraid of that. He couldn't remember every last detail. Still,
he supposed since he wasn't going to tell her the truth of the fight anyway, he
could tell her anything.

"As
soon as the women and children were safely off the path," he murmured,
breathing in the light, clean scent of Miriel's hair, "I turned to face
the robber." He let his thumb stroke slowly along the cap of her shoulder.
"He was squat and ugly, like a black beetle, fresh from the grave. And he
looked out from his ugly face with the beady black eyes of the Devil."

"Ugly?"

"Oh,
aye, as ugly as sin."

"I
thought The Shadow wore a mask."

His
thumb froze midstroke. "Aye. Right." He resumed stroking. "But
there are some creatures whose souls are so ugly, the ugliness oozes from every
pore of their bodies. I'm certain he was one of those creatures."

She
seemed satisfied with his explanation. But he'd have to be more careful. 'Twas
challenging to tell a rational story when one's cock was pressed against a
young maid's firm buttocks.

He
nuzzled her hair and whispered, "Before I could even raise my blade, the
villain hurtled forward like a charging boar, his sharp teeth bared."

"The
Shadow has sharp teeth?"

"Nay,
a boar has sharp teeth."

"What
did The Shadow have?"

"What
do you mean?"

"A
sword? A mace? A flail?" She tightened her grip, bracing for the worst.
"A war hammer?"

He
scowled. "I think he might have had one of his knives."

"You
mean one of those tiny black daggers?"

"They're
not tiny. They're
...
they're
...
quite sharp."

"Hm.
Go on."

Disconcerted,
he tried to resume control of the story. "Whatever weapons he did or did
not have—and 'twas impossible to tell what was stashed in his Devil's garb— he
moved as fast as the wind." To demonstrate, he quickly spun her around in
his arms, gripping her by the shoulders and pinning her with a stare.
"Like that."

Her
eyes were wide. "Were you
...
frightened?" Her gaze, seemingly of its own free will, slowly drifted down
to his mouth then. And gradually, beneath the sultry dip of her eyelids, he saw
her hunger grow.

His
body answered with a surge of need that rose as relentlessly as a bubble in
boiling oil. He gazed upon her succulent lips with longing. How he yearned to
kiss that delicious, warm, nurturing mouth.

"What's
there to be frightened of?" he whispered, his thoughts straying far from
The Shadow. " 'Tis only a harmless..."

How
their mouths met, Rand didn't know. Like a lode-stone to iron, they were simply
drawn together. And once the kiss was begun, he never wanted it to end.

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

Miriel
knew she was drowning. She felt the whirlpool of desire sucking her down into
the depths and the waters of passion closing over her head. Yet she couldn't do
a bloody thing to stop them.

Nor
did she want to.

This
was the balance her body craved, the equilibrium of her
chi.
Though
the sensation was as dizzying as the first time Sung Li had made her hang
upside down from a tree limb, 'twas somehow
right.

Suddenly
it didn't matter what Rand was, what skills he concealed, what lies he told,
what threat he posed. The way the blood was singing through her veins, the way
her flesh felt afire with lust, the way her heart pounded against her ribs, she
knew that this man was the completion of her circle, the
yang
for
her
yin.

Somehow
her arms found their
way
about his
damp neck, pulling him closer. The smell of sweat and leather and chain mail lingered
on him. The scent was undeniably male, foreign, and intoxicating.

He
tasted mildly of ale, but mostly of passion, and she drank deep from the font
of his yearning to quench her own. Their tongues flirted and mated and danced
together like courting butterflies. Their mouths feasted as if they fed on
ambrosia.

With
one hand, he found and untied the ribbon of her braid, loosening the weave
until she felt the waves tumble down her back. Then, growling in soft approval,
he delved his fingers into the mass, cradling the back of her head, his
fingertips rubbing gently until her scalp tingled.

His
armored chest was like a stone wall against her breasts, and she longed to tear
away his tabard and strip off his chain mail to get to the supple man beneath.

She
felt his fingers teasing at the back of her surcoat, descending over the ridges
of her spine, while his other hand ventured over her hip. When it settled with
a possessive grasp on her buttock, she gasped, but had no urge to pull away.
Rather, she angled her hips more fully against him, melting into his embrace.

He
groaned against her lips, and the sound sent a shiver of need through her
already awakened womanhood. When his hand eased around to the front of her
neckline, his fingers dancing along her collarbone, her nipples began to
prickle with anticipation. Atop her surcoat his palm slipped, lower, lower,
until he cupped her breast, hefting its weight tenderly in his hand.

Her
emotions gone wild, she moaned at the sensation, relishing the ecstasy of his touch,
yearning to tear away the fabric between them, thirsting for more.

He
gave her more. As if he read her mind, he spread the laces of her surcoat and
loosened the top, then, while she suffered in breathless expectation, he let
his fingers venture beneath her garments, trailing gently over her burning
flesh.

When
he touched a fingertip to the sensitive crest of her breast, she gasped at the
intensity of heat. And when the hand upon her buttocks curved down to intrude
into the crevice between, 'twas all she could do to keep standing upright.

All
else but desire vanished. The doves. The dovecote. Her inhibitions.

Rand
was her meditation. He was her focus. She wanted to join with him, meld with
him, climb inside of him until their souls tangled inextricably.

But
Fate intervened.

Just
as she was about to collapse in sensual surrender, the dovecote was abruptly
flooded with an explosion of sunlight, harsh and blinding, that tore them
violently apart.

"Hello?"
 
‘Twas Sir Rauve.

With
practiced ease, Rand quickly slipped Miriel's surcoat back into place and set
her protectively behind him. "Sir Rauve." His voice had the rough
edge of unrequited desire.

"Sir
Rand?" Rauve ventured.

Miriel,
shaken and confused, hid behind Rand, trying to bring a semblance of order to
her hair and surcoat.

Before
Rand could answer, Rauve continued in a low growl, "Lucy? Is that
you?"

"‘Tisn't
Lucy, Rauve," Rand answered quickly.