Knight's Prize (23 page)

As
she headed toward the door, she paused to give him a fond smile and a subtle
warning. "Don't challenge The Shadow again. No man can best him. You'll
only hurt yourself trying."

With
that, she made a smug exit, secure in the knowledge that Rand was as harmless
as he was charming.

He
was no spy, no criminal, no foreign sapper scheming to undermine the castle.
He was but a lost little lad looking for a home. Wherever he'd come from, his
life had been miserable. He'd had a cruel father, an absent mother, and
brothers of whom he preferred not to speak. 'Twas clear to her now why he'd
come to Rivenloch.

He
needed to belong.

He'd
likely heard that the illustrious knights of Cameliard had allied with the men
of Rivenloch. For a warrior with talent, there was no force more desirable to
join. But he could hardly ride up to the gates, a freelancer with no title or
commendation and expect to be welcomed into the army. So Rand had journeyed
here, arriving in the tabard of a trusted neighbor, to ingratiate himself into
the fold of Rivenloch.

He'd
lied about everything.

And
he continued to lie.

But
they were harmless lies.

He
lied when, winning excessively at dice, he feigned fatigue and excused himself
from the table.

He
lied when, hearing her father's tale about the Battle of Burnbaugh for the
fourth time, he pretended great interest.

And
he lied when he claimed he was no great fighter. Miriel knew better. Oh, aye,
he'd appeared to improve until he was currently qualified to spar against
Rivenloch's best, Lord Pagan himself. But now she knew his apparent ineptitude
had been a matter of courtesy. He'd intentionally downplayed his abilities in
order to endear himself to the men.

It
made perfect sense. If he'd arrived at Rivenloch, a gifted warrior, capable of
subduing the best knights, he would have made fast foes. By underplaying his
talents, most of the men were only too eager to give him advice, help him
better his skills, and ultimately take pride in witnessing his improvement.

'Twas
genius. Yet 'twas hardly malicious, just as his apparent interest in capturing
the scourge of Rivenloch, The Shadow, was benign. He seemed truly to wish to
please Pagan and Colin, and he presumed that apprehending the local outlaw
would secure a place for him among the knights.

What
he didn't know was that he'd already been accepted by her family. Her father
treated him like a son. Colin and Pagan jested with him as if he were their
brother. And her sisters no longer shot threatening glares at him every time he
took Miriel's hand. Forsooth, they'd given him leave to take her to the fair
unescorted at week's end.

He'd
charmed his way into their lives, and he was rapidly winning his way into
Miriel's heart.

Chapter
14

For rand
,
the next few days proved unbearably frustrating. As much progress as he felt
he was making in earning the trust of the folk of Rivenloch, he was getting no
closer to identifying the outlaw.

If a
lad seemed the right size, he was inevitably as hale as a horse. If Rand
spotted someone favoring an injured leg, the person was inevitably too tall or
fat or old or female to be The Shadow.

Not
that he'd completely discounted the notion that the thief might be a woman.
Dwelling among the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, he'd learned to keep an open
mind.

But
the one woman he'd definitely crossed off the list of possibilities was Lady
Miriel.

Rand
smiled as he watched Lord Gellir toss the dice once again, eliciting a loud
outcry from the men crowded about the gaming table, followed by a shuffling of
coin from loser to winner.

Lady
Miriel had certainly made Rand's trip to Rivenloch worth every penny of his
reward. Now that Helena's wedding was past, she seemed to have more time to
spend with him.

She'd
invited him on a pleasant walk around the lake two days ago. The air had been
cool and still, with water striders skating along the surface of the deep green
lake and, here and there, a trout splashing, breaching the waves to nip at an
insect. Firs had hunched like washerwomen at the water's edge, and slender
reeds had shifted as frogs wriggled among them, startled by the passage of the
strolling lovers. They'd supped on wine and cheese and pandemain in the shade
of a tall pine... and the shadow of Sung Li, who'd insisted on accompanying
them, despite complaining of her aching bones.

Yesterday,
the three sisters had awakened Rand at dawn to take him fishing at the river.
Despite a friendly rivalry that turned into a splashing fight among the four of
them, they still managed to catch a few dozen trout, enough to grace the table
at supper last night.

This
morn, Miriel had challenged him to draughts. He'd chivalrously let her win, and
when she discovered that, she'd made him play again. This time she'd defeated
him on her own.

He
grinned at the memory.

"What
are you smiling about?" Colin asked, nudging him from his thoughts.
"You just lost."

Rand
glanced down at the dice and shook his head. "Looks like I'm done for the
night."

'Twas
just as well. So distracted was he by thoughts of Miriel that if The Shadow was
sitting beside him in his black garb, Rand would never notice.

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

Sitting
at her desk by candlelight, poring over the ledgers, Miriel found it difficult
to make sense of the figures swimming before her.

How
it had happened, she didn't know. Mayhap 'twas the carefree stroll by the lake.
Or the battle of splashes at the river. Or the silly games of draughts. Mayhap
'twas Miriel's instinctive desire to heal the wounds of a young lad with a miserable
childhood. But in the last two days she'd fallen in love with Sir Rand.

The
problem was, he was falling in love with her as well. And he didn't have the
slightest idea who she was.

He'd
been attracted to the woman who flirted coyly with him, blushed easily, and
wouldn't harm a spider. If he ever discovered the truth...

She
closed her eyes. She couldn't tell him the truth. And yet she couldn't hide
forever.

Opening
her eyes again, she reviewed the column of numbers for the tenth time, trying
to make sense out of them.

Finally,
exasperated with how long the accounts were taking this eve, she gave her head
a stern shake and muttered, "Concentrate, you foolish mop. The sooner you
finish, the sooner you can go upstairs."

Rand
was upstairs, likely losing more silver to her father. She smiled, thinking
'twas a good thing The Shadow had tossed him that coin after all. The poor man
might need it before long. Especially if, as he'd done with her in draughts
earlier today, he was losing intentionally.

She focused
on the ledger before her, softly murmuring the numbers aloud, scrawling figures
onto the parchment by the candles' flicker.

Indeed,
so riveted was her attention upon the page that she didn't hear the intruder
entering the room.

"So
this is your office," he called softly.

She
started so abruptly that she knocked over the vial of ink. She'd stood, spun
halfway round, and raised her arms into the ready stance, when she realized who
'twas. Hastily, she lowered her arms, then clapped a hand to her bosom.

"Shite,"
she said under her breath.

"Sorry."
With a grimace of apology, he rushed forward, to tip the ink vial upright
again. Ink had spilled over the linen tablecloth but thankfully not onto the
ledger.

Regardless
of her startle, 'twas more than fright that made the blood gallop through her
veins as she eased back down onto her chair. 'Twas the sight of Rand—tail,
powerful, handsome Rand—his dark hair curling seductively about his ears, his
skin golden in the candlelight,
 
his eyes
shining with amusement and adoration—that set her pulse racing.

And
the fact that they were alone together in the private sanctum of her workroom,
where she need only close the door to ensure complete seclusion...

Sweet
Mary, the thought made her mind stray with wanton abandon.

"You
work too hard," he remarked.

For
a moment she could only stare at him in wonder. He was the first person to
notice. The rest of the castle folk, her sisters included, seemed to think she
came down here to dawdle or nap. They didn't understand how demanding her work
was.

Rand
came up behind her, placed his hands upon her shoulders, and began massaging at
her tense muscles. " Tis nigh midnight, my love."

"Is
it?" Her voice cracked, unsettled by the perilous pleasure that sang
through her body at the touch of his hands. His soothing ministrations quickly
began to seduce away her caution. She closed her eyes, and a soft moan escaped
her, unbidden.

He
chuckled. "Do you like that?"

Aye,
she liked it. His hands were strong, and his fingertips quickly found the
places where she was most tight. He rubbed persistently at them, as if forcing
them into submission, and yet she felt neither the will nor the desire to
resist.

With
a final caress down her back, he said, "I'm afraid I've made
more
work
for you with my gaming."

When
she spoke, her voice sounded almost like it belonged to another woman, one more
languorously mellow than her. "Did you unbalance my books, you irksome
knave? Have you robbed my father of all his coin?"

"Nay,
he won a good bit of mine."

"He
won?" She smiled. "My father never wins."

"He
did this eve, beat me soundly."

"Play
him again tomorrow eve, and I'm certain you'll win it all back."

"Indeed?
And how will you account for that?"

She
shrugged. "I always find a way to balance it."

"It
looks difficult." He pointed to the ledger. "What are all these
scratchings?"

She
gave him a lazy grin. There was another first. Nobody took much interest in her
accounting, as long as the castle was running smoothly. No one ever even looked
in her ledgers. But she had a great respect for the
amazing
system
of numbers, and the thought of showing Rand her work was exciting.

"Can
you read?" she asked.

He
hesitated.

"That's
all right," she hastened to assure him. "Most knights I know
cannot."

His forehead
took on a troubled wrinkle. "I can read my name. Not much else."

"Come,
pull up a stool, and I'll show you."

Miriel
had one moment of misgiving, where she wondered if his interest, too, was a
polite lie, if he only feigned fascination to please her. But soon they were
hunched together over the ledgers, thigh to thigh, his brow furrowed in deep
concentration, while she pointed enthusiastically to the entries she'd just
made.

"'Tis
almost what Sung Li would call
karmic,"
she explained. "The
figures in the right column must always balance those in the left."

"What
does it say?"

"This
is a record of what we've spent. Here is the wine we purchased from the abbey
for Helena's wedding. And here is the amount for the spices." She ran a
finger down the listings. "The priest's compensation. A new cook pot. Silk
sheets."

"Silk
sheets?"

Miriel
chuckled. The sheets had been a wedding gift, a jest on Deirdre's part, mocking
Helena's complaints about her spoiled Norman husband. "A gift for the
bride and bridegroom."

"And
what are these figures?" He pointed to the numbers on the right.

"This
column records the coin that increases the coffers."

He
scowled. "There is much less on this side."

For
a man who couldn't read, he was quite observant. "Aye, fewer listings, but
the amounts are greater. Here are the earnings from selling wool to the abbey.
Here is the collection of rents. And here are the winnings from the wagering
after the wedding feast."