women
clung to his sleeve, another had seized his hand, and they were all chattering
away at once, winding words around him like silk ribbons.
"My
ladies," he said, gently withdrawing his hand, when he could finally slip
a word in, "I must take my leave now."
A
flurry of protests went up, and 'twas another long while before he could make
himself heard. Eventually he managed to tug loose of their clutches, but only
by vowing to accompany them through the woods on the morrow.
Which
was fortuitous indeed, for he'd been seeking an excuse to travel through the
forest in the hopes of encountering The Shadow.
Beaming
with success, he passed by the hounds, giving one of them a scratch behind the
ears, as he watched Miriel making her dutiful rounds about the hall.
She
checked to make sure no one's cup was empty and ruffled one of the scruffy red
heads of the Lachanburn children. She squeezed the hand of a withered old woman
and pushed a teetering trencher back from the edge of the table. She scooped up
a wee child who'd tripped and banged her knee, then turned to straighten a
garland hanging on the wall.
How
he could have suspected her of being The Shadow, he didn't know. Miriel was
domestic and nurturing by nature. And irresistible, he decided, letting his
gaze rove down her lovely backside.
Harboring
thoughts of sweet revenge for her earlier ambush, he sauntered across the hall
and sneaked up behind her, then caught her about the waist. But instead of a
feminine gasp of pleased surprise, he immediately earned a sharp jab of her
elbow to his ribs that bent him in half and left him gasping.
"Oh!"
she exclaimed. "I'm sorry. Are you all right?"
For
a moment, he couldn't speak. The blow had knocked the breath from him. Lord,
the wench had sharp elbows, and he wasn't sure she sounded all that sorry.
There'd be a black bruise there on the morrow, certainly, even if the lass
hadn't actually cracked one of his ribs.
"I...
slipped," she said.
If
that was a slip, he'd hate to feel what she'd do if she meant to
hurt him.
"Nay,
'tis my fault," he wheezed. "I shouldn't have startled you. I'd
forgotten how quick you are."
"What
do you mean?"
"Your
reflexes."
"Mine?"
she squeaked. "I don't know what you're talking about. Sung Li says
I'm... clumsy."
"Clumsy?"
He caught his breath while he massaged away the bruise. The pain eased in a
moment, and he was able to straighten. "You didn't seem so clumsy the
other night when you caught my flagon in midair." He leaned close to
murmur, "Nor when you kissed me later on the stairs."
She
stiffened, blurting out, " 'Tis but a silly trick my sisters taught
me."
He
grinned. "The catch? Or the kiss?"
Her
cheeks pinkened. By the Saints, was there anything prettier than a maiden's
blush? "Neither. Both."
He
chuckled. Glancing about the hall to make sure no guardian's gaze was pinned on
him, he reached up to smooth a stray tendril of hair back from her brow.
"Then I must speak with your sisters, my love. They may have some very
interesting information to share."
She
ducked her head away, rejecting his placating gesture. "I thought you had talked
to them." Her words were innocent enough, but there was a subtle edge to
her voice as she added, "Haven't you spoken to nigh all the
ladies of Rivenloch, and Lachanburn, and Mochrie in the last two days?"
"Why,
my love," he said in soft surprise, "are you jealous?"
Her
eyes went all dewy and soft, yet Rand spied a gleam of devilry in her gaze, a
spark other men might not notice. She lowered her attention to his chest,
walking her fingers coyly up his surcoat. "‘Tis just that I'd rather you
spoke to me."
He
almost laughed aloud, but instead dipped his eyelids in sultry approval,
edging closer to murmur, "And what would you have me say?"
Her
tongue slipped out the tiniest bit to lick her bottom lip, making him suddenly
long to do the same. Then she gave him a subtle shrug. "What did you say
to them?”
"Who?"
His mind was already losing focus as he
clung to his sleeve, another had seized his hand, and they were all chattering
away at once, winding words around him like silk ribbons.
"My
ladies," he said, gently withdrawing his hand, when he could finally slip
a word in, "I must take my leave now."
A
flurry of protests went up, and 'twas another long while before he could make
himself heard. Eventually he managed to tug loose of their clutches, but only
by vowing to accompany them through the woods on the morrow.
Which
was fortuitous indeed, for he'd been seeking an excuse to travel through the
forest in the hopes of encountering The Shadow.
Beaming
with success, he passed by the hounds, giving one of them a scratch behind the
ears, as he watched Miriel making her dutiful rounds about the hall.
She
checked to make sure no one's cup was empty and ruffled one of the scruffy red
heads of the Lachanburn children. She squeezed the hand of a withered old woman
and pushed a teetering trencher back from the edge of the table. She scooped up
a wee child who'd tripped and banged her knee, then turned to straighten a
garland hanging on the wall.
How
he could have suspected her of being The Shadow, he didn't know. Miriel was
domestic and nurturing by nature. And irresistible, he decided, letting his
gaze rove down her lovely backside.
Harboring
thoughts of sweet revenge for her earlier ambush, he sauntered across the hall
and sneaked up behind her, then caught her about the waist. But instead of a
feminine gasp of pleased surprise, he immediately earned a sharp jab of her
elbow to his ribs that bent him in half and left him gasping.
"Oh!"
she exclaimed. "I'm sorry. Are you all right?"
For
a moment, he couldn't speak. The blow had knocked the breath from him. Lord,
the wench had sharp elbows, and he wasn't sure she sounded all that sorry.
There'd be a black bruise there on the morrow, certainly, even if the lass
hadn't actually cracked one of his ribs.
"I...
slipped," she said.
If
that was a slip, he'd hate to feel what she'd do if she meant to
hurt him.
"Nay,
'tis my fault," he wheezed. "I shouldn't have startled you. I'd
forgotten how quick you are."
"What
do you mean?"
"Your
reflexes."
"Mine?"
she squeaked. "I don't know what you're talking about. Sung Li says
I'm... clumsy."
"Clumsy?"
He caught his breath while he massaged away the bruise. The pain eased in a
moment, and he was able to straighten. "You didn't seem so clumsy the
other night when you caught my flagon in midair." He leaned close to
murmur, "Nor when you kissed me later on the stairs."
She
stiffened, blurting out, " 'Tis but a silly trick my sisters taught
me."
He
grinned. "The catch? Or the kiss?"
Her
cheeks pinkened. By the Saints, was there anything prettier than a maiden's
blush? "Neither. Both."
He
chuckled. Glancing about the hall to make sure no guardian's gaze was pinned on
him, he reached up to smooth a stray tendril of hair back from her brow.
"Then I must speak with your sisters, my love. They may have some very
interesting information to share."
She
ducked her head away, rejecting his placating gesture. "I thought you had talked
to them." Her words were innocent enough, but there was a subtle edge to
her voice as she added, "Haven't you spoken to nigh all the
ladies of Rivenloch, and Lachanburn, and Mochrie in the last two days?"
"Why,
my love," he said in soft surprise, "are you jealous?"
Her
eyes went all dewy and soft, yet Rand spied a gleam of devilry in her gaze, a
spark other men might not notice. She lowered her attention to his chest,
walking her fingers coyly up his surcoat. "‘Tis just that I'd rather you
spoke to me."
He
almost laughed aloud, but instead dipped his eyelids in sultry approval,
edging closer to murmur, "And what would you have me say?"
Her
tongue slipped out the tiniest bit to lick her bottom lip, making him suddenly
long to do the same. Then she gave him a subtle shrug. "What did you say
to them?”
"Who?"
His mind was already losing focus as he
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