Knight's Prize (20 page)

"Oh."
After an awkward silence, he added, "I was supposed to meet Lucy
here."

"She's
not here."

"All
right then. Sorry."

Another
long silence ensued before finally Rand said, "Good-bye, Rauve."

"Oh.
Aye."

By
the time Rauve left, Miriel's heart had almost recovered from the shock of his
intrusion. But the abrupt slap of sunlight had done more than just startle her.
It had shed light upon her own foolishness.

She'd
lost her mind. Her control. Her balance. How Rand had tricked her into
believing he was the completion of her spirit, she didn't know. But now, by the
clear light of day, despite the deep pool of seduction she'd fallen into, she
realized it had all been an illusion.

Quivering
with humiliation and self-disgust, she knotted the laces of her surcoat,
smacked the dust from her skirts, and prepared to bid him a curt farewell.

She
expected a smug grin from him when he turned around, a knowing arch of his
brow, a self-satisfied smirk. After all, he must believe he had her at his
mercy now.

Naught
prepared her for the truth of his mood when their gazes met. His eyes shone as softly
as candlelight, smoky with longing, tender with regret. His nostrils flared
with residual ardor, and his lips were parted and swollen with kissing. But the
gentle understanding in his regard caught her completely off guard.

She'd
feigned attraction from the time she was a little girl.
 
Whenever she wanted a favor from the men of
Rivenloch, she coyly dipped her eyes, bit her lip, smiled demurely. But the
look on his face wasn't feigned. She was sure of it. And 'twas more than mere
lust.

A
sparkle of wonder lit his eyes, wonder and a curious affection, an affection
impossible to falsify.

Rand
might have left her helpless with desire.

But
she'd shot him straight through the heart.

Chapter 12

T
HE EVENING FIRE CRACKLED AND
SNAPPED on
the hearth. Miriel gazed into the flames, running a
lazy finger around and around the rim of her flagon. Beyond her, servants
tossed the bones from supper to the growling hounds, while upon the walls,
shadows leaped in the flickering firelight, as if they danced to the soft
strains of Boniface's lute.
But
Miriel's thoughts were miles away.

What
if she was wrong about Rand? What if he
did
have feelings for her?

Aye,
he'd invented the tale about meeting her at the tournament and returning to
court her. But what if his deceptions had begun to take on a life of their own?

Mayhap
he
was
falling
in love with her.

'Twas
enough to confound her wits.

Usually
she could read a man in an instant. She could spot insincerity in the eyes,
hear dishonesty in the voice, detect the slightest departure from the truth
just from the way a man carried himself.

But
Rand was an enigma. Either he was exceptionally good at deception, or he wasn't
deceiving her. 'Twas impossible to tell. Ever since that earth-tilting,
soul-shaking kiss in the dovecote, she'd begun to doubt her own judgment.

She
couldn't forget the look on his face as they'd parted, the strange mixture of
longing and vulnerability in his eyes, an expression too open and honest, too
uncertain, too sincere, to be anything but genuine. An opportunity had been
lost with Rauve's interruption, and the regret in Rand's gaze was more than
simple disappointment.

If
he meant what his eyes revealed, if he truly cared for her, if his courtship
turned out to be real, Miriel sensed her world would never be the same. 'Twould
be set a-tilt, like a spinning toy wobbling wildly off its axis. 'Twas a
thought both terrifying and exhilarating.

Boniface's
tuneful virelai was drowned suddenly as a roar of protest went up at the gaming
table. Miriel glanced up. One of the two Herdclay brothers, stragglers from Helena's
wedding, had won yet again.

She
sighed. She was glad they were leaving on the morrow. The Herdclays had a
nasty habit of draining their flagons every time either of them won, which
they were doing frequently this eve, and so the drunken pair was becoming
increasingly rude and obnoxious as the evening progressed.
_;

At
least Rand was a polite participant. He played beside her father, neither
gloating at his wins nor cursing at his losses. The Rivenloch men seemed to
have welcomed him into the fold, chuckling with him, elbowing him, coaching him
as he wagered against Lord Gellir.

Even
her sisters had taken a liking to Sir Rand. Deirdre seemed to believe there was
hope for him as a suitor, though perchance 'twas only that in her condition,
her heart had grown tender. Helena, far less confident in his warrior skills,
still appeared to consider him a decent man, one worthy of friendship, if not
her complete respect.

Only
Miriel had doubts, and even those were diminished every time she glanced at
Rand this eve, at his laughing eyes and his bright smile, his unruly hair and
his tempting mouth.

Why
could she not trust him?

Perchance
because he was too much like her.

Miriel
kept secrets. Secrets about what she was capable of, what she knew, and what
she did. Secrets about her strength and her nature and her
xiansheng,
Sung
Li. She wielded secret authority over castle affairs. She even maintained a
secret passageway from the keep.

What
secrets did Rand harbor? Were his secrets merely innocent stretches of the
truth or the fabrications of a master of deception?

She
watched him as he surrendered two more silver coins to Lord Gellir. Rand
shrugged modestly, taking his loss in stride, while his fellow players clapped
him on the back in consolation. Then, as if summoned by her gaze, he glanced
toward Miriel, giving her a fond wink before returning to the game.

Sweet
Mary, even that small gesture hastened her pulse. Images of the dovecote flashed
through her mind with breathless speed and in sharp relief, piercing through
more rational thoughts.

Remembering
his kiss, her lips tingled. Recalling the warmth of his breath, her ears hummed
with desire. Her breasts, as if feeling again the gentle touch of his hands,
tightened and strained at her gown. She shivered. Low in her belly, desire
reared its hungry head.

Hoping
to wash away the lusty memories, she tossed back a generous swig of ale. 'Twas
unwise to let pleasure interfere with reason.

Gathering
her wits, she regarded Rand again, this time with cool, calm, collected
calculation.

She
mentally listed his attributes. He was kind. Good-natured. Respectful.
Honorable. Generous. Patient. His manner at table was polite. He was a
courteous listener. He was gentle with animals. And children.

And
her.

She
sighed. How could he
not
be
sincere? 'Twas nigh impossible to believe such an innocent and comely face
could conceal such a devious trickster.

Yet
the same might be said for Miriel.

Miriel
wasn't malicious. Or conniving. Or cruel. But she
was
devious
in her way. Despite her sense of discipline, she knew there was always the
possibility she could choose
not
to exercise discretion. Which would make her
dangerous indeed.

Was
Rand dangerous? Did he have powers he might misuse? Or was he, as she wanted to
believe with all her heart, pure in his motives?

Coming
up behind Miriel, as silent as a cat, Sung Li observed, "He wagers as
skillfully as he fights."

Miriel
smirked. "He's losing almost every round."

"Is
he?"

Miriel
frowned at Sung Li. Was that sarcasm in the old man's voice, or was he only
being mysterious again?

"Or,"
Sung Li added with a meaningful lift of his brows, "is he sacrificing his
coin only to win something more valuable?"

"What
do you mean?"

"He
is losing intentionally."

Miriel
didn't want to admit it, but watching him over the last hour, playing with the
men of Rivenloch and the Herdclay brothers, she'd suspected that as well. It
seemed like every wager Rand made where he won three shillings, in the next
round, he'd lose four.

"By
losing," Sung Li explained, "he has won the friendship of your
father."

Sung
Li was right. Lord Gellir was treating Rand with almost fatherly affection,
ruffling his hair, patting his forearm. "Perchance he's only being
charitable."

"Perchance
you
are
being charitable," Sung Li replied. "You have a weakness for this boy
that is blinding you."

"He's
not a boy. And I'm not blind."

"Hmph."

Rand
tossed a glance her way again, accompanied by a lopsided grin that showed off one
of his adorable dimples, and 'twas all Miriel could do not to melt on the
spot.

Sung
Li shook his head in disgust. "Blinded by a pretty face."

"He's
not pretty. He's..." He was splendid. Magnificent. Heart-stoppingly
beautiful. Like a dark angel. Or a Roman god. But she wouldn't say that to Sung
Li. "Adequate."

"Adequate
enough to lead you into danger."

Miriel's
cheeks pinkened. Her adventure with Rand in the dovecote had felt dangerous indeed.
But she was a woman of strong control. Rand might be able to stir her senses
and touch her heart, but when and if it came to true danger, she was more than
capable of defending herself.

A
sudden cackle of triumph arose from the gaming table, accompanied by grumbles
from the losers. The Herdclays had managed to move a good portion of the silver
to their side of the table, and they had no qualms about gloating over their
win. Rand laid a consoling hand atop Lord Gellir's sleeve, but Miriel's father
was already drifting off to sleep at the table.

Miriel
sighed. After she had one of the servants put Lord Gellir to bed, she'd add up
his losses. She'd leave sorting out the accounts for the morrow.

Sung
Li slitted his eyes, scrutinizing the Herdclay brothers. "They are like
young cocks, crowing over a tiny patch of ground."

"'Tisn't
a 'tiny patch of ground.' It looks like they've won close to twenty shillings
off my father."

Sung
Li scowled. "I am glad the vermin are leaving."

"Aye."
She allowed herself a mischievous smile. "Though they'd certainly better
be careful with their coin on the road. 'Twould make a nice prize for The
Shadow."

"Do
you think The Shadow would risk another robbery so soon, now that he has a
challenger?"

"A
challenger? You mean Rand?" She smirked. "The Shadow was amusing
himself with Sir Rand. No one's ever challenged The Shadow and won."

Sung
Li grew silent then, and Miriel could only guess at his thoughts. With his
belief in
karma,
he
probably half hoped the Herdclays would somehow meet with misfortune, whether
at the hands of The Shadow or someone else.

Miriel
had to agree. They were a vexing pair. The fact that they would gleefully gloat
over snatching the last bit of silver from an ailing old man whose only joy in
life was gaming made them deserving of whatever ill befell them.

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

The
sun was not yet awake. But Rand had already positioned himself behind a mossy
oak near the entrance to the woods. The Herdclays would be passing this way
soon.

Three
Rivenloch lads at the gaming table last night had been of a similar build to
The Shadow. If one of them was indeed the outlaw, he'd know the Herdclay
brothers' winnings had been substantial. He'd also know that they'd be
traveling through the forest this morn, just the pair of them.