Knight's Prize (12 page)

Deirdre
only rolled her eyes, but Miriel sensed that her sister might be right. The
problem with this tactic, she realized as she teetered a bit too close to Rand,
rapping her flagon against his with a loud clunk, was that she wasn't Helena.
Helena could drink men into the rushes. Miriel had felt dizzy after her second
cup.

But
he was keeping up with her, cup for cup. Soon his brain would get as muddled as
hers. Then she was sure he'd forget all about...

What
was it he was supposed to forget?

She
couldn't recall, which suddenly seemed terribly amusing. She chuckled, while
the hum of carefree conversation continued around her. Rand laughed at someone's
jest, and the blend of that delightful sound and the sweet wine flowing down
her throat caused a fuzzy, buzzing feeling to wash over her like warm rain.
Everything seemed so pleasant. The great hall was bright and cheery. The food
was tasty and plentiful. Everyone was perfectly content. She didn't know what
she'd been so worried about.

She
giggled happily, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Holy Rood, had that burp
come out of her?

Rand
grinned at her, and she grinned back. Lord, she thought, looking askance at him
and running a finger lazily around the rim of her flagon, he was a handsome
man. His eyes looked like polished topaz. The dimples in his cheeks were
adorable. And his mouth...

Sweet
Mary, she wanted to kiss him.

She
was going to tell him so.

She
leaned close to whisper in his ear, balancing herself with a hand atop his leg.
The sudden flare of his nostrils told her 'twas more than his leg she touched.

She
should have snatched her hand back at once. But the wine must have slowed her
reflexes. And ruined her judgment.

His
loins felt warm and yielding beneath her palm, and her lips curved up as she
remembered how dark and mysterious, forbidden and beautiful he'd looked to her
when he'd unlaced his trews in the forest. Nay, she didn't want to unhand him
just yet.

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

Rand
felt pure lust shudder his bones. Surely Miriel hadn't meant to touch him
there. 'Twas only a slip of her hand. But the naughty lass didn't seem in a
hurry to remove that hand.

Not
that he wanted her to. There was naught quite as thrilling as the brazen touch
of a desirable woman. Her palm cradled his rapidly swelling loins with gentle
coaxing as she seduced him with her sultry gaze.

Still,
'twas neither the time nor place for such play, not with a dozen pairs of
watchful eyes studying Rand's every move.

'Twas
his own fault, he supposed. It had been his idea to get her drunk in the hopes
of loosening her tongue. There was something unnatural and highly suspicious
about the way Miriel had snatched that flagon in midair, and he intended to
find out how she'd acquired such reflexes.

But
Miriel was a wee lass, and a half dozen cups of wine were apparently enough to
do more than loosen her tongue. Indeed, it seemed to have transformed the
mild-mannered maid into a wild and wanton she-beast.

Not
that he minded. Especially when she gazed at him, as she did now, with fiery
longing.

But
her father need only glance down, and her sisters need only glimpse Miriel's
expression, to determine what was afoot.

With
great reluctance, he caught her stray hand and moved it, gently but firmly,
back to her own lap. As soon as he did, her brow furrowed with bewilderment,
and her lower lip began to tremble.

Her
wide blue eyes filled with tears, and her delicate chin started quivering. He
feared at any moment she might burst into loud sobs. Deirdre frowned, noticing
her sister's distress. Even at a distance, Sung Li's accusing stare burned into
Rand.

He
had to do something.

He
lifted her hand again to press it fondly against his cheek. "Miriel, my
love," he said in concern, "you look weary. Would you like me to
escort you to your chamber now?"

She
blinked at him as if he'd spoken to her in another language, then gushed
hopefully, "My chamber?"

Of
course, that brought the table to silence. Several sets of expectant eyes
suddenly glared at him. And the gleam of desire that flared anew in Miriel's
eyes didn't help. Her family no doubt imagined he'd offered to ravish her.

"Miriel?"
Deirdre asked.

Miriel
wasn't going to help matters, not with her lusty gaze. He'd have to clarify his
intentions himself.

"After
all," he told her, loudly enough for everyone to hear, including that
prying Sung Li, "you have a busy day on the morrow. You need your
sleep."

"Sleep?"
Miriel complained. "But I don't—"

Quickly,
sure she was about to say something incriminating, Rand helped her up from the
table.

Before
he could make his escape, Deirdre caught his sleeve and muttered between her
teeth, "You'll guide her up the stairs, no more. Leave her at the door,
else you'll feel the prick of my blade this night."

He
pretended great affront. "Of course."

Nonetheless,
Helena, in sisterly accord, pinned him with her own threatening glare of warning.

Then
he bade everyone a hasty farewell and whisked Miriel away on his arm.

'Twas
no easy feat. She shuffled and swayed, tripping over her skirts. Whatever
remarkable reflexes she'd employed earlier to catch his flagon in midair were
gone.

He
smiled and shook his head. He'd have to remember not to encourage her to imbibe
so freely again. At least not in the company of others.

They
awkwardly climbed the stone stairs. Miriel alternated between leaning heavily
on him and bracing herself against the wall, giggling every few steps.

"Wait,"
she gasped, pushing him against the inner wall. "There's somethin'... I
wanna tell you."

He
grinned. As drunk as she was, she was still adorable. And alluring. And
incorrigible.

She frowned,
concentrating, trying to remember what she wanted to say. Then it came to her.
She patted his chest and looked up into his eyes with serious intent. "I
wanna kishoo."

The
comer of his lip drifted up in amusement. Kishoo?

He
caught her chin and ran his thumb lightly over her bottom lip. "If I give
you a kiss, will you tell me a story?"

"A
story?" Her eyelids dipped, whether from the effects of the wine or the
touch of his fingers, he wasn't sure.

"Aye,
a story of Rivenloch." He cradled the fine curve of her jaw.
"Something adventurous." He let his fingers drift up to caress the
smooth skin beneath her ear, sending a visible shiver through her. "I
know. Tell me a story about... The Shadow."

Her
eyes widened. "Why...why d'you wanna hear about him?"

He
shrugged. "Between my time in the tiltyard and at supper, I've already
heard all the glorious exploits of Lord Pagan and Sir Colin."

She
smirked.

"Will
you tell me a story, my love?" he murmured, toying with the soft curls at
the back of her neck.

Her
brow creased in a tiny frown, as if she battled against the pleasure of his
touch. "All right. But first I wanna kishoo."

He
was more than happy to oblige. He might have assured Deirdre he'd only guide
Miriel to her door, but he'd made no promise concerning what they might do on
the way there. Slipping one hand around her narrow waist, he pulled her up
close, against his chest and his belt and the beast in his trews, which was
growing bolder by the moment.

She
gasped, and he caught the gasp in his mouth, swooping down upon her with
purposeful desire. He'd thought to give her a brief-yet-powerful kiss, one that
would disarm her quickly, so that she could get on with her tale.

'Twas
not to be. Once he tasted the wine-sweet nectar of her lips, the liquid honey of
her tongue, the naive yet worldly ambrosia of her naked desire, he was lost.

Lust
set fire to them both, igniting their blood as swiftly as summer wheat struck
by lightning.

She
slanted her mouth to delve more deeply, sighing his name between kisses, pressing
closer until he could feel the yielding rounds of her breasts, the smooth curve
of her ribs, the tempting angle of her hips.

Never
had he burned so brightly, so fast. Never had he so quickly lost control.

He
knew he should cease. There was plenty of time for dalliance later. He was
wasting precious time that could be better spent gathering information.

But
he couldn't stop himself. He felt as if he'd slipped off a precipice, and there
was naught he could do to halt this interminable slide. His desire raged like
an avalanche. She clung to him as if for her life, weaving desperate fingers
through his hair. She panted thirstily as she drank from the font of his
passion, and he sipped from her in turn, growing rapidly dizzy from the
intoxication of her kiss.

So
caught up was he in the pleasurable whorl of sensations and emotions that he
didn't notice they were no longer alone.

"So!"

The
sound startled him so severely that he wrenched backward, banging his head on
the wall. He had his dagger halfway out of its sheath before he noticed 'twas
only Sung Li.

"Bloody
hell," he muttered, resheathing the dagger and rubbing at his bruised
skull. Lord, that cursed maidservant must have traveled on ghost feet, so quiet
was she.

Miriel
wasn't frightened. She was furious. "Sung Li!" she scolded.

The
old woman ignored her to address Rand. "Is this what honor means to the
knights of Morbroch?"

He
couldn't help but color at her remark.

"
'Tisn't his fault, Sung Li," Miriel said, weaving a bit on the step.
" 'Twas my idea."

Sung
Li pursed her withered lips. "You
have
no ideas. You are drunk."

Miriel's
exaggerated gasp only lent truth to her words.

"You're
right," Rand agreed, reaching out a hand to steady Miriel. "I should
not have taken advantage of her weakness."

"Weakness?"
Miriel challenged. "I'm not weak!"

"Miriel!"
Sung Li snapped.

Before
Rand could apologize, forsooth, before he could even think, Miriel did
something to crumple the back of his knee, and somehow his heels went out from
under him. The next thing he knew, he was sitting flat on his arse on the hard
stone step, groaning in pain and wondering how he'd gotten there.

"Oh,"
Miriel said, clapping her hand to her cheek. "I prob'ly shouldna done
that."

Sung
Li scowled and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Sorry,"
Miriel told him. Then she assured the maid in a loud whisper, "'S'okay. He
won't remember anything. He's drunk." She bent down toward him and gave
him a sloppy wink. "You're drunk." She staggered up the rest of the stairs
then, waving. "G'night."

When
she was out of sight, Sung Li stared at him as if weighing the consequences of
beating him to a bloody pulp on the spot. And as strange as it seemed, even
though the tiny woman's head barely reached his as she stood one step below and
he sat on the stair, Rand began to wonder if she might be capable of doing just
that.

These
were peerless women, the women of Rivenloch.
 
They were strong-boned and strong-willed. And they engaged in curious
mating rituals—challenging men to duels, holding bridegrooms hostage
...
leaving decrepit maidservants to rough
up prospective suitors.

"
'Twill not happen again, Sung Li," Rand assured her.

Her
black eyes focused suddenly in on him, like a knife thrown into his heart.
"Oh, aye. It
will."
The
shining intensity of her gaze made him uneasy. 'Twas as if she probed his very
soul. "There is an ember between you," she intoned. "But this
ember, it does not make fire." She lifted her snowy brows. "It makes
huo yao."