Knight's Prize (32 page)

She
choked on a forced laugh. "Me?" she squeaked. "Wield weapons?
Oh, Rand, you know I can't abide fighting."

God's
wounds! She couldn't tell him the truth, not when she was trying to get him to
ask for her hand. Eventually she'd confess. But 'twould be in her own time,
little by little, so he could adjust gradually to her revelations—that the
weapons on her chamber wall were hers, that Sung Li was in sooth her teacher, that
Miriel was highly trained in the Chinese art of war. And that, if she desired,
she could snatch that
shang chi
from him and slit his throat
in the blink of an eye.

Miriel
furrowed her brow. She wondered if she'd ever be able to tell him the entire
truth. 'Twas a huge secret she kept from him. Perchance if he knew the truth
about her, he wouldn't care for her anymore.

Then
she frowned at her destructive thoughts. 'Twas foolish to feed her fears.

The
fact was she'd slept with Rand. Twice. There
j
was
no going back, no undoing what she'd done. She'd
i
wooed
him to her bed. Now she had to woo him to the chapel before he could unravel
too many of her secrets.
 
She intended to
succeed
...
if she could distract him long
enough from his dogged pursuit of the truth.

Chapter 19

Rand
couldn't help
but smile in wonder as he walked beside
Miriel, carrying her prize purchase. The clever lass might be able to fool
everyone else, but Rand was beginning to recognize when she was making up
tales.

He'd
seen the way her eyes lit up when she'd spied the magnificent blade. He didn't
believe for one moment that Miriel intended to give the thing to Sung Li. In
fact, he'd wager half his coin that that entire collection of weapons on Miriel's
wall belonged not to her servant but to the saucy lass herself.

The
wench claimed she didn't approve of fighting, but 'twas as clear as the shine
in her eyes that she adored weapons of war. Not only that, but he'd begun to
suspect she was capable of doing more than admiring them from afar.

The
way she'd blocked the vendor's blow had been no accident. And now Rand couldn't
avoid the recurring suspicion that, as unbelievable as it seemed, Miriel bore
a
disturbing
resemblance to the agile outlaw he sought.

"Look,
Rand!" Miriel suddenly cried, looking not at all like a dangerous thief
but a beguiled child as she pointed
at
a tiny monkey with a jeweled collar that was scampering
up onto its owner's shoulder. Her giggle was contagious as she watched the
little beast's antics.

Yet
only moments later, the carefree child turned into a shrewd barterer as she
haggled with a cloth merchant who was trying to pass off nubby linen as rare cotton
from Egypt.

In
one moment she was licking the sticky juice of a cherry coffyn from her
fingers.

In
the next she was whispering a warning to Rand that the pottery merchant was
selling cracked wares.

Miriel
bounced constantly between woman and child, and he never knew which would
emerge. But perchance that was the thing that attracted him to her. He loved
surprises, and Miriel was full of them.

Was
one of her surprises a habit of lurking in the woods of Rivenloch, preying on
passing strangers with full purses? How could he find out for certain?

While
Miriel was applauding at the conclusion of a lute player's performance, Rand
spied a game of skill farther down the lane. Perfect, he thought. Grabbing her
hand, he pulled her along. "Come on."

She
went willingly until she saw where he was going. Then she hesitated.
"Knife throwing?"

"
'Twill be fun," he coaxed her.

"You
know how I feel about warfare."

He
chuckled. " 'Tisn't warfare. 'Tis only a contest."

"But
I've never—"

"I
can teach you."

“Teach
me?"

"Aye,"
he told her proudly. "I've a keen eye with a blade."

"Mm."

He
leaned Miriel's weapon against the corner pole of the booth, then pressed a
coin into the proprietor's palm and selected three knives.

"I'll
show you how it's done, then you throw the next three."

He
eyed the straw target five yards away, then flexed his fingers and picked up
the first knife. He took a steadying breath, then, with a flick of his wrist,
fired the weapon forward. The blade sank into the straw not an inch from the
center of the target.

Miriel
clapped and gave a little cheer, but he knew he could do better than that.

He
wiped his hand on his tabard, drying his fingers to help improve his grip, then
picked up the second knife. This time when he hurled the weapon, it landed
beside the first, a blade width's closer to the center.

"You're
very good," Miriel gushed.

But
not good enough. He had to waken the competitive spirit in her.
To
do that, he needed to hit the mark in
the dead center.

Taking
a deep breath and concentrating hard on the target, he flipped the knife off
the end of his fingers once more. This time it landed on the opposite side,
just shy of the center.

He
grumbled and shook his head.

Miriel
hurried to assuage his humiliation. "You were so close. By the Saints, if
that had been an attacker, you would have saved my life."

"Here,"
he said, selecting three knives for her while the proprietor pulled out the
three Rand had fired.

"Are
you sure..." Miriel began, moving reluctantly to the throwing line.

"I'll
help you." He placed the first knife in Miriel's hand, then stood behind
her, wrapping his arms about her to guide her. 'Twas an intimate position. The
soft, fragrant cloud of her hair brushed his cheek, and her backside nestled
against his loins. He was sorely tempted to spend the rest of the day teaching
her to throw knives.

"Like
this?" she asked, stiffening her wrist.

"Nay,
like this."

He
loosened her taut grip with a gentle shake, then guided her through a couple of
practice flings before he told her to let go of the blade. Her arm wobbled, and
the knife sailed toward the target, lodging in the outermost ring.

She
might have missed intentionally.
He
would have if he was trying to hide his
talents. But to his amusement, Miriel seemed absolutely delighted with her
performance.

"I
did it!" she exclaimed. "I hit the target!"

His
worries that she might be an expert marksman vanished. She was truly awful,
and bless her heart, the poor lass didn't even know it. Lord, she was precious,
Rand thought, particularly when she spun in his arms to give him a victorious
kiss on the cheek.

"Try
again," he said. "This time keep your eyes on the center of the
target."

Their
arms moved as one again, and he helped her flick the blade forward. The knife
landed one ring closer to the center, but by Miriel's proud grin, one would
have thought she'd thrown three bull's-eyes.

Chuckling,
he handed her the third knife. "Would you like to try it on your own
now?"

"Aye,"
she said, her eyes alight.

He
watched as her face grew very serious and she blew out a few breaths, focusing
hard on the straw. Then, after two false starts, she cast the blade forward. It
missed the target altogether, landing in the back wall of the pavilion.

"Oh!"
She clapped her hands in embarrassment over her mouth.

"That's
all right," he assured her, digging in his purse again. "Shall we go
another round?"

She
whispered, "I don't wish to damage the poor man's pavilion."

He
laughed. "I'm certain my coin will cover the repairs. But this time, let's
make it more interesting. How about a wager?"

"A
wager?"

"Aye.
I have a fierce hunger again. If I win, we'll go purchase eel pie." She
wrinkled her nose. "If you win, we'll have chicken pasties."

She
considered the wager for a moment, her eyes gleaming in speculation. Then she
nodded, meeting his challenge. "Done."

To
his satisfaction, his first
two casts landed in the inner circle, and he made a bull's-eye on the last
throw.

Miriel
shook her head, sure she'd already lost their contest. She picked up the first
knife, biting her bottom lip in concentration. She stood with the wrong foot
forward, and Rand stopped her to correct her form. She nodded, studied the
target, then squeezed her eyes shut and fired the knife. It stuck at the edge
of the straw, missing the target altogether.

At her
frown of disappointment, Rand handed her the second knife. "This time,
keep your eyes open," he suggested with a grin.

She'd
still walk away victorious. He'd give her the prize for his bull's-eye, a
ribbon for her hair. But he couldn't deny that his mouth was watering as if he
already tasted that eel pie.

Then
something amazing happened. With a rapid twist of her wrist, Miriel flung the
blade forward, and somehow, miraculously, it landed in the dead center of the
target.

She
let out a whoop of triumph, and even the proprietor stared at her, doubtless
grateful that the blade hadn't lodged in any part of his body.

The
man leaned over the booth toward Rand. "Novice's luck," he assured
him.

Rand
presumed as much, too, until she threw the last knife. It flew to the
bull's-eye with such deadly speed and aim, knocking the first blade askew, that
it took Rand's breath away. That blade might have been thrown by a hired
assassin, so true was its flight.

"Did
you see it?" she cried, clapping her hands together in glee. "Oh, I
wish my father could have seen it."

"'Twas
remarkable," Rand agreed, feeling slightly queasy. "You're certain
you've never thrown a knife before?"

"Me?"
She laughed.

The
proprietor of the booth shook his head. "Never seen a novice throw
two
bull's-eyes."

“I
was greatly motivated," she said.

"You
like ribbons, m'lady?" the man asked, holding out the selection to let her
choose her prize.

"Nay,"
she confided with a wink, "I truly despise eel pie."

True
to his word, Rand bought them chicken pasties, though he hadn't much appetite.
There was no denying now that Miriel possessed skills that a woman professing
to detest warfare definitely should not have. The question was what to do about
it.

He
tried to keep a calm head as they sat together under an oak tree, sharing their
supper. Perchance he was leaping to conclusions. Just because she could throw
knives didn't mean she was The Shadow. Her talent might be a family trait.
After all, Miriel's sisters were expert swordswomen. It stood to reason that
Miriel might have inherited some of her father's skills as well.

He
wondered what would happen if he bluffed, told her he knew who The Shadow was?
Would a glimmer of telltale fear enter her eyes?

He
swallowed his last bite of pasty and brushed the crumbs from his lap, then
caught Miriel's hand in his. "My lady, I have something to confess."

"Aye?"

He
watched her eyes carefully. "I know something about... The Shadow."

She
blinked once, but her gaze revealed naught. But as he continued to stare at her
in silence, horror dawned slowly in her eyes. Her mouth formed an "O"
of surprise, and she withdrew her hand.

Jesu,
Rand thought, he was right. Miriel
was
The Shadow. 'Twas written all over her face.