Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) (11 page)

Her skin grew warm, and the breath caught in her throat.  Sweet Saints, he
was
the most handsome man she’d ever seen.  Against her wishes, the prickling began again between her legs.  Bloody hell!  Despite reason, despite her good intentions, God help her, she was...moved by the sight of Pagan.

It couldn’t be!

Maybe he’d cast some enchantment upon her, binding the two of them.  Or perhaps it was only a temporary affliction that would fade with each passing moment.  But in
this
moment, curse her weak soul, she wanted him again.

He cast the shirt brusquely aside.  As if she were not there, he snatched the linens from off the bed.  She drew her knees up defensively.  And then he did the oddest thing.  With a grunt and a violent tug, he tore the bandage from his chest, exposing and opening the wound she’d dealt him.  Fresh blood seeped from the cut.  With a casual sniff, he let it well up, then wiped across the wound with the bed linens.

Virgin’s blood.  Of course.  It would look as if they’d consummated their marriage.  Deirdre felt a pang of guilt as she glanced at Pagan’s reopened wound.  That was a chivalrous thing to do.  She would have expected him to prick her finger for the blood, or from the silent wrath in his eyes, maybe slash her throat.

But he neither touched her nor spoke to her again.  After he circled the chamber, forcefully blowing out all the candles, he climbed in beside her, hauled up the coverlet, and flounced over on his side, facing away from her.

She should have felt satisfied.  She’d won their skirmish.  Aye, her pride was badly wounded, for Pagan had turned her own body against her.  But in the end, had she not prevailed?  After all, she’d prevented him from consummating their marriage.  She’d won the day.

Why then did she feel so uneasy?

Because, she realized, it wasn’t
she
who had stopped him.  Indeed, though it pained her to confess it, she’d wanted him to continue.  Nay, it was
he
who had called upon his honor, been true to his oath, and allowed her to withdraw.  If not for his steadfast chivalry, she’d lie beneath his thrusting hips even now.

Damn!  The reality was as bitter as rue wine.  Though Pagan seemed arrogant and brutish and cruel, she had to face the truth.  Her new husband was a man of unwavering honor.

Pagan punched the bolster to fit his aching head.  Curse his spurs, for once he wished chivalry would look the other way.  For God help him, he longed to seize his new bride, willing or not, and drive his aching cock deep into her velvety flesh.

It wasn’t fair.  She should be his.  It was his right to lay claim to her this night, body and soul.  He’d rather have bitten his tongue than divulge that damned promise.

But he’d been so certain Deirdre would succumb to him.  Women
always
surrendered to his seduction.  He was bloody
good
at it.

Somehow the stubborn wench had managed to remain unmoved.  It was unimaginable.

He’d hoped that the sting of opening his wound would temper his lust.  But his loins throbbed mercilessly, reminding him that he dared not even soothe away the pain by delving between another maid’s thighs this eve.  Not tonight.  Nay, he was bridegroom to the lady of the keep, and it would not sit well with the people of Rivenloch should their new steward stray from the marriage bed on his wedding night.

Tomorrow perhaps, if Deirdre still wished to play her game of resistance, he’d seek out some toothsome Scots wench to warm his bed.

He frowned into the darkness, wondering if that was possible.  He hadn’t seen a maiden here to compare to Deirdre.  Not only was she beautiful, but she was full of life and wisdom and wit.  Indeed, though it rankled him to be thwarted in his lovemaking, he had to admire Deirdre for her force of will, even against her own desires.  It was uncommon in a woman, at least in the women with whom he was acquainted.  If she ever decided to lie willingly with him, he was certain she’d prove a wholly engaged lover.  That would be a night of unrivaled ecstasy.

But that night was not
this
night.  This night was going to be long and painful and empty and miserable.

Hours later, Deirdre tossed irritably on the pallet, stealing back the coverlet Pagan had expropriated.  It was impossible to sleep with someone else taking up most of the bed.  Especially when that someone else was so bloody...invasive.

He could have been far more invasive, she reminded herself.  And though she didn’t want to think about it, one night he
would
be.  She wasn’t so stupid as to believe it would never happen, that she could hold her husband at bay forever.  After all, it was her duty to produce heirs for Rivenloch.

But for the moment, her bedchamber was just another arena of control for him, one where he could claim victory.  Already she felt her dominance slipping as he intruded upon her stewardship, imposing his people upon her, ordering her servants about, planning changes to the keep.  At least in her bed, she'd managed to keep the upper hand.  So far.

Still, she wondered how long he’d endure her refusals.  Worse, she wondered how long she could refuse.

Pagan’s greediness with the coverlet wasn’t the only thing that kept her awake.  Curse her wayward mind, she couldn’t stop thinking about his perfectly sculpted body, the careless fall of his hair, his sultry, smoldering gaze.  She recalled in vivid detail how his hands felt on her skin, caressing, soothing, arousing, remembered how his lips had drained from her, in one kiss, all care.  Even now, his sensual whispers echoed in her thoughts.  All night long, she relived the intense sensations he’d introduced her to—his thumb coaxing her nipple, his warm tongue filling her mouth, his fingers dancing across her most private places.  All night long, no matter how her mind balked at the appalling idea of surrender, her body ached with the keen hunger with which he’d left her.  It was torture of the worst kind.

For most of all, in making him cease, she wondered what further pleasure she’d missed.

The sky was not yet light when Deirdre decided she could lie abed no more.  Though he didn’t touch her, the heat from Pagan’s sleeping body was a palpable thing that left her skin tingling most unnaturally, keeping her awake and as bristly as a cat in a windstorm.  There was but one way she knew of to diffuse such a volatile current.

Quietly, she crept from the bed.  She donned her undergarments in the dark and slipped her chain mail from her armor chest.  She wiggled the embedded dagger free, and for an instant, weighing the blade in her hand, she considered how foolish Pagan was to leave it within her reach.  She might very well stab him as he slept.  But it wasn’t in her nature to attack a defenseless man.  He must know that, for he snored atop the pallet as comfortably as a hound at his master’s heel.

Venturing one last look at her slumbering bridegroom, who hadn’t stirred a muscle and whom she suspected might sleep through a full-scale attack, Deirdre slipped out the door, past the invaders snoring in the great hall, and out to the tiltyard.

Dew darkened the hard-packed dust of the field.  The dawn was just beginning to pale the indigo sky.  Nothing stirred the air, not even birdsong.  It was the kind of morn Deirdre liked best, with nothing to distract her from her exercises.

She pulled her hair back into a loose braid, then did a few practice stretches to loosen her muscles.  Though she was loath to admit it, her muscles weren’t as stiff as usual, probably owing to the work of Pagan’s hands.

She'd chosen her favorite sword this morn, the one her father had made her when she was twelve.  She'd scratched her name into the hilt to distinguish it from Helena's weapon, and she'd notched the crossguard for every skirmish won against her father until she'd run out of room.

Once she held the familiar weapon in hand, once she began to lunge and thrust, once her blood warmed with the heat of battle and her thoughts centered on nothing but assault and defense, she forgot all about her sleepless night and her Norman husband and her demeaning surrender to him.  She attacked and retreated, slashed forward and fell back, over and over, challenging invisible opponents.

By the time the cock began to crow, sweat was pouring down her face, and her lungs burned with exertion, but it felt good,
wonderful
.  The feeling of power was intoxicating.  Her blade sang through the air and caught the first rays of the rising sun as she whipped around, as comforted by the familiar motions as a priest by his prayers.

Pagan awoke with the sun.  He was disappointed to find Deirdre gone, but he wasn’t surprised.  He himself oft left a woman’s bed before morn.  After all, promises made in the foolish heat of passion were best left to the dark recesses of midnight.  But theirs had been no moonlight indiscretion, and Deirdre was no disporting maid he might use and toss into another man’s bed.  She was his wife, by God!  She’d better get used to leisurely morns spent abed with her husband.

Still stinging from her cool dismissal of the past night, Pagan frowned as he glanced at the linens stained with blood,
his
blood.  He’d made that sacrifice to protect her honor.  And how had she returned the favor?  By deserting him in their marriage bed.  What would happen now when his men paraded up the stairs to congratulate the bride and groom and fetch the sheets, only to find the groom alone?  Shite, he’d never hear the end of it.

He had to find Deirdre.  Before they did.

He dressed quickly, wondering where she could have gone.  Maybe to visit her sister in the cellar.  Or to the kitchens to break her fast.  Or to chapel to pray.  He smirked.  She’d
need
to pray for the strength to hold out against his seduction.

He eyed the oak chest where he’d sunk her dagger.  The knife was no longer there.  He opened the lid.  Inside were the braies Deirdre had stolen from Colin and him, which he reclaimed.  The rest were a knight’s things—helm, spurs, leather gloves for riding—but her chain mail was missing.

He shook his head.  Unless he missed his guess, his warrior bride had donned light armor to spar.

By the time he crossed the courtyard, fully armed, a few servants had begun to stir.  Plumes of vapor curled into the air where sunlight brushed the wet planks of the outbuildings.  Hounds lifted their heads as he passed, sniffed the air, then dropped back into slumber.  As he neared the tiltyard, a cloud of dust from the field heralded the presence of a lone fighter.

Deirdre.

He faded back into the shade of the stables to observe her unseen.

He’d been vexed with her.  After all, she’d insulted him—abandoning him for pursuits that were apparently more entertaining for her.  He’d come in heavy armor, half looking for a fight, expecting at the least to have to discipline her.  But now, watching her from the shadows, he found his ire dissolving into utter fascination.

Swordplay was not play to her after all.  He could see that immediately.  The force with which she threw herself into the exercise was genuine.  She knew all the right stances, the right moves.  Her father had obviously taught her well.  Despite the fact that she was a woman, or maybe because of it, her movements were quick and lithe and graceful.  She made sword fighting look almost like a dance, spinning and dipping and leaping with amazing balance and precision.

Of course, it was unnatural.  Combat was not a woman’s prerogative.  Deirdre might practice at weaponry, but women were not made for warfare.

Yet there was something intriguing, something extraordinary, something undeniably
right
about the way she moved, as if she was born to wield a sword.

And as she continued to battle unseen foes, he realized that watching her more than riveted him.  God’s blood, it aroused him.

The ladies he knew seldom exerted themselves beyond tossing a falcon into the air or waving farewell to their husbands or reaching for another sweetmeat.  That was why he often preferred common women in his bed.  While noblewomen were willing enough partners, they seemed to imagine they were made of spun sugar, too frail for the more demanding rigors of lovemaking.

He could see Deirdre was no fragile flower.  And it didn’t take much imagination to envision the ardor she displayed on the field translated to...

“Are you going to stand there spying all day?”

He started.  How Deirdre knew he was there, he couldn’t imagine.  He’d been absolutely silent.  And she’d never glanced once in his direction.

Even now, as she spoke, she neither looked at him nor missed a beat of her practice.

“Or...”  Her sword slashed left and right, making a great X in the air before she turned to face him.  “Do you plan to challenge me?”

He laughed aloud in delight.  Aye, he wanted to challenge her.  Something about the confidence in her movements thrilled him.  She was a tempting vixen, and he suspected she knew it.

There was a coy sparkle in her eyes.  “You think I jest.”

He drew in a breath of crisp air.  Lord, she was lovely this morn.  Messy tendrils of hair escaped her braid, framing her pink cheeks.  Her skin was aglow with a damp sheen, her face alight with pleasure.  Her bosom rose and fell with each fortifying breath.  Sweet Mary, he thought with absurd envy, she looked as if she’d just been thoroughly swived.

Deirdre could hardly believe she was speaking to Pagan, much less baiting him.  She thought she’d never be able to look him in the eye again for shame.

But something about donning chain mail and hefting her sword had restored her sense of power and control.  And once she had that, she felt she could conquer anything, even disgrace.

She found it amusing that Pagan thought he’d stolen up on her.  It was near impossible for a man of his size to move unnoticed.  Besides, Deirdre knew the sounds of Rivenloch—the birds, the hounds, the horses, the servants.  She recognized unfamiliar noises instantly.  The soft scrape of Pagan’s sabatons had perked up her ears and quickened her pulse.

If ever there was a time and place to repay Pagan for his merciless conquest of the night past, it was here and now.  This was an arena where she could best him, where she could rely on her body not to betray her, where she could repair her damaged pride.

“Afraid?” she asked, echoing his challenge of the day before.

His eyes twinkling with amusement, Pagan pushed away from the wall into the sunlight and ambled lazily up to rest his crossed arms atop the gatepost in the wattle fence separating them.  “Only that I may harm you.”

For a moment, her courage stuttered.  Lord, had he always been so enormous, or did he just seem so because of the extra bulk of his armor?

She forced a cocky grin to her face.  She dared not show her doubt.  Half of victory was bravado.  “You’ll not get close enough to harm me,” she boasted.

“Do you plan to run then?” he teased.

“Pah!  I never run.”

He bent forward to rest his chin atop his crossed arms.  “You ran quickly enough from my bed this morn.”

“Well, if you weren’t such a layabed...”

A chuckle escaped him, and it occurred to her that their conversation was almost...flirtatious.  “Layabed?  Come, my lady, you must have risen well before the sun.”

“And I suppose Normans lie abed till noon?”

“Aye.”  He gave her a sly smile, then straightened.  “If we have willing women in our beds.”

His soft suggestion brought swift heat to her cheeks, as if he’d whispered the words against her hair, the way he had last night.  Lord, why must she think of that?  If she was going to fight him, she needed to concentrate on the battle at hand.

“Sir, you veer from the subject.  Do you accept my challenge or not?”

He unlatched the gate, swung it open, and entered the field.  “Why not?”  Dusting his hands together, he brushed past her, so close that she could smell the sleep upon him, and whispered, “Since you won’t engage me in our bed, my lady, I suppose engaging me in the tiltyard is a reasonable alternative.”  He held her gaze and slid his sword from its sheath with suggestive languor.

Deirdre swallowed hard.  The man was incorrigible.  Even on the field of battle, he attempted to seduce her.  And God help her, it was having some effect.  His eyes burned into hers with the smoldering promise of pleasure.  And his mouth, set in that self-assured grin...she remembered too well how it felt upon hers, warm and sweet and demanding.

Nay!  She wouldn’t think of that.  She had to fight him.

Moreover, this time she had to win.

With a preparatory slash of her sword through the air, she flexed her knees and readied for attack.

He perused her slowly from head to toe, then beckoned her with his fingers.  “Come.”

Everything happened so quickly, Deirdre hardly knew what befell her.  In one moment, she was hacking forward at Pagan’s right arm.  But his blade grated along hers, foiling her blow.  In the next instant, he seized her sword arm, spun her halfway around, and hauled her back against his chest, holding her there like a lover cradling his sweetheart.  She struggled against his unwelcome embrace, and he chuckled, easing her gently down onto the ground.

“My apologies,” he murmured with false regret.

Disoriented, she scrambled to her feet, tossing the hair out of her eyes.  Apologies indeed.  He wasn’t sorry in the least.  Licking her lips, she prepared for a second strike.

Already she could tell that Pagan was stronger than any of her men.  Maybe the Knights of Cameliard were an elite force after all.  If so, besting him was going to be more of a challenge than she'd anticipated.  But she could do it.  She'd never met a man she couldn't humble.