Knight's Prize (28 page)

Rand
clucked his tongue. "What a pair of liars we are."

"Liars?
I don't know what you're talking about." Feeling rather self-assured,
having challenged Sung Li and won, she ambled up to Rand and coyly walked her
fingers up his tabard. "It seems I do have time for a ride after
all."

Her
own daring excited her, and 'twas only magnified by the gleam of pleasure that
flared in Rand's gaze.

"Indeed?"
His voice was rough with desire, and there was no doubt when their gazes met
just what kind of ride they intended.

She
smiled at the way his eyes shone, dark and inviting and full of affection, and
suddenly she knew she'd made the right decision.

She had
to lose her maidenhood sometime, after all. And there was no one she'd rather
give it to than Rand.

He
caught her straying fingers, raised them to his lips, and gave her knuckles a
slow, suggestive lick that sent a shiver through every nerve in her body.
"Your steed is ready and waiting, my lady."

Chapter
17

Rand
decided he must be
the luckiest man alive.
Miriel was a gift from God, a woman who would lie for him and
with
him.

At
the moment, he wanted naught more. It didn't matter that they'd trysted in the
stables an hour ago. Nor did he care that she was distracting him from his
duties. He'd even lost his interest in Sung Li's exotic weapons.

The
temptation of stretching out on a real pallet with his ladylove by the light of
day, joining with her in complete union—body, heart, and soul—was impossible
to resist.

Somehow
they managed to make it to the bed, despite the little wanton's impatient
caresses and gasping kisses and frantic clawing at his tabard. He was
determined to be gentle with her, no matter how insistent her need. He might be
a savage warrior when it served him, but he was also capable of great
tenderness, especially when he was making love to the woman he intended to make
his bride.

'Twas
a most challenging task, for everywhere she touched him, she left desire
burning like a brand upon his skin, and in every fiber of his body, he longed
to douse that flame.

But
he used the utmost restraint, refusing to let her rush him, no matter how her
fingers pulled at his clothes, no matter how many kisses she showered upon him.
Of course, his withdrawal only incited her further. Soon she had slung her leg
possessively over him and was trying to climb atop him on the pallet.

"Ah,
lady," he groaned, chuckling ruefully, "if you start at a gallop, the
ride will be over before it's begun."

Her
eyes looked as hazy and blue as distant pines as she said, "Perchance we
shall go on more than one ride."

He
grinned. "Indeed? You are a woman of ambition."

Another
time he'd let her ride him like a destrier, steering him to her will. Another
time he'd let her spur him on and rein him back, give her complete control. But
for her first time, he needed to take charge.

He
rolled her over forcefully, trapping her legs between his own and seizing her
straying hands to still their seduction. She gave a whimper of irritation. The
headstrong vixen clearly didn't like yielding to his whims.

"Let
me ride you, my wild little mare," he coaxed her. "I promise your day
will come."

She
frowned, displeased at her unseating, but she wasn't displeased for long. When
he loosened her kirtle, dragging it down with his teeth to suckle at her succulent
breasts, she sighed in gratification. When he plucked off her shoes, then
pushed her skirts up to roll down her stockings slowly, she shivered with
delight.

"I
want to see all of you," he whispered, "by the full light of
day."

Miriel
was not a shy creature where her body was concerned, and while the trait
seemed at odds with her meek nature, he was grateful for her brazenness. She
was like a butterfly, squirming eagerly out of her cocoon, emerging naked and
new and beautiful. The sight of her sprawled shamelessly atop the coverlet, her
skin the color of honeyed cream in the sunlight, her hair tumbling across the
pallet in dark disarray, her breasts small and perfect and inviting, left him
breathless.

For
a moment he only stared down at her, drinking in every aspect of her lovely
form—the delicate bones below her throat, the smooth hollow of her belly, the
gentle curve of her hips, the soft triangle of chestnut-colored curls at the
juncture of her thighs.

Then
his eye caught on a recently healed gash with a dark purple bruise marring one
of her knees. Shock froze the breath in his lungs. For a moment, he could only
stare at the damning mark while astonishing thoughts swirled through his mind.

Nay.
It could not be. Miriel could not be The Shadow. The injury was coincidence, no
more.

He
ran a fingertip lightly over the healing wound. "How came you by this, my
love?"

She jerked
her knee back refiexively. "That? 'Tis naught. Just an old bruise."

He
told hold of her ankle, straightening her leg with gentle but insistent force,
to study her knee. " 'Tis considerably more than a bruise, I'd say."

"I
slipped. On the stairs."

He
peered into her eyes. Her gaze was wide and innocent. Surely she was telling
the truth.

Then
her brow furrowed, and she bit her lower lip. "You find me ugly," she
murmured.

Rand
blinked, startled. "Ugly?" Was that what she thought? Naught could be
further from the truth. "Oh, my lady, I find you beautiful beyond compare.
Every scratch, every nick, every bruise." To prove it, he placed a
feather-light kiss atop her knee. "They're all a part of you."

Jesu,
how could he have ever imagined the sensitive lass offering herself to him so
sweetly was a hardened outlaw?

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

Miriel
blushed prettily even as she was screaming a silent curse. Bloody hell! How
could she have been so careless?

The
injury on her knee was only one of the myriad minor wounds she inevitably
earned from combat on a weekly basis. But she could hardly explain that to
Rand.

One
day she would. One day she'd admit that the weapons belonged to her. One day
she'd confess that she was a master of Chinese warfare. But not now. Not while
he was gazing down at her as if she were the most precious fragile flower.

Fortunately,
he seemed to believe her he about the stairs. 'Twas a lame excuse at best. But
considering she was lying naked before a man she'd met less than a fortnight
ago, her blood simmering with desire, prepared to give him the most precious
thing she had to offer, 'twas a wonder she could think up an excuse at all.

Unfortunately,
he wasn't finished examining her scars.

He
spotted the one on her thigh, the slash she'd earned from the swipe of Sung
Li's
do
two
years ago.

"What
about this one?" he asked.

She
sighed. Why couldn't he return to seducing her? 'Twas a far more intriguing
pastime than cataloging her injuries. "A kitchen knife," she lied.

He
kissed her there, too, and she shivered as his lush locks softly brushed her
thighs.

"And
here?" He touched the scar high on her other thigh where she'd missed a
block and been gouged by the
fu pa.

Still
quivering deliciously from the sensuous tickle of his hair, she found it
mentally challenging to come up with new lies. "A... a cow."

"A
cow?"

"A
cow's horn. She...she didn't like the way I was milking her."

'Twas
a ridiculous explanation, she knew, but rational thought had become too
demanding. And the fact that he was moving farther and farther upward with his
kisses, toward the spot where she most longed to feel his warm tongue and
hungry mouth, made her care little if what she said made sense at all.

He
brushed a thumb across the fading bruise that ran along the inner ridge of her
hipbone. "And what happened here?"

"I...I..."
She'd suffered a hard kick there that she hadn't dodged in time. "I can't
remember."

He
ran the tip of his tongue lightly over the spot. "Can't remember?"

"Sung
Li says I'm... clumsy. I probably... ran into a table."

He
sucked gently at the bruise. Then his mouth followed the curve of her pelvis
until it teased the edge of curls guarding her womanhood.

"You
know, do you not," he murmured, "that in coupling, I must inflict
injury upon you as well?"

Miriel
was hardly afraid. The blade in his trews wasn't sharp. Naught he could do to
her could hurt as much as the sting of a
shuriken
or a
foa huen's
slash.
Indeed, she looked forward to being impaled by his firm, sleek, velvety weapon.
Why was he tormenting her with speech?

Once,
twice, he moved his head down, parted her downy nether lips, and let his tongue
slip between them, touching upon the burning hot bud of her need, making her
feel as if she burst into bloom at the contact.

Then,
when impatience nearly compelled her to seize his head and force him to devour
her wholly, he moved away from her, further frustrating her wants.

While
she lay panting in thwarted need, he sat back on the pallet to pull the tabard
over his head. Stifling a groan of dismay, she perused the layers of armor he
wore. Bloody hell, 'twould take an eternity to undress him. Surely he didn't
mean to make her wait so long.

"Come
to me now," she bade him, her voice more rough and demanding than she
intended.

He
gave her a lopsided smile, making one of his adorable dimples appear.
"Patience, my sweet."

Why
was the varlet making her wait? 'Twas clear by the smoldering in his eyes that
he wanted this as much as she did. She intended to remedy his delay at once. When
he began to haul the coat of chain mail off his shoulders, she reached beneath
it to press her palm possessively against the bulge in his trews.

He
groaned, and the sound sent a surge of power through her soul. Now she would
make him bow to her will.

To
her surprise, he resisted even that, gently but firmly pushing her hand away,
though his voice was shaky with restraint. "God's bones," he groaned.
"Allow me to at least disarm, my lady."

She
scowled in dismay. She cared not. She would make love to him in full armor on
the back of a horse if 'twould hurry her fulfillment.

While
she waited with ill-concealed impatience, he threw off his coat of mail, then
removed the padded gambeson beneath. He painstakingly unfastened his sabotons
and poleyns, then unbuckled the belt that held up his chausses, letting them
shiver to the ground in a silvery pool. Finally, he removed his linen
undershirt and trews, until he stood before her, naked as a newborn babe.

But
he looked naught like a babe. Nay, he was all man.

If she
thought she'd desired him before, 'twas naught compared to the way she felt
when she beheld his glorious body bathed in golden sunlight.

God's
blood, he was magnificent. His shoulders were wide and capable, his arms well
muscled, his hands broad. His chest should have seemed menacing in its breadth
and strength. Yet she found herself longing to burrow into the
firm-yet-yielding refuge of his embrace. His flat stomach was lightly furred,
and the faint hair glistened in the afternoon sun. His hips were lean, and the
curve of his buttock made her want to run her hand along its slope. She let her
gaze rove down the strong pillars of his legs, the powerful thighs, the
contoured calves. Sweet Mary, even his feet were beautiful.

But
naught compared to the dark mystery of the staff that jutted proudly from its
nest of deceptively soft curls, and 'twas there her gaze was riveted.

"My
lady," he breathed, a smile hovering about his lips, "I believe
you're ravishing me with your eyes."