Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero (42 page)

But there were still the spies on the hill to deal with. And unless she was mistaken, that was Miriel hastening across the meadow toward them.

“Hush!” Deirdre hissed. “Miriel comes. We’ll speak no more of this.” Deirdre squeezed the water from her hair. “The Normans should arrive in a day or two. I’ll make my decision by nightfall. In the meantime, keep Miriel here. I have something to attend to.”

“The men on the hill?”

Deirdre blinked. “You know?”

Hel lifted a sardonic brow. “How could I not? The sound of their drool hitting the sod would wake the dead. You’re sure you don’t need assistance?”

“There can’t be more than two or three.”

“Two. And they’re highly distracted.”

“Good. Keep them that way.”

“God be praised,” Colin said under his breath, “here comes the third.” He nodded toward the delicate, dark-haired figure scampering across the grassy field sloping down to the pond, disrobing as she came. “Lord, she’s a pretty one, sweet and small, like a succulent little cherry.”

Pagan had suspected the last sister might be missing a limb or several teeth or most of her wits. But though she looked frail and less imposing than her curvaceous sisters, she, too, possessed a body to shame a goddess. He could only shake his head in wonder.

“Sweet Mary, Pagan,” Colin said with a sigh as the third maid jumped into the pond, and they began splashing about like disporting sirens. “Whose arse did you kiss? The King’s himself?”

Pagan frowned, bending a stem of heather between his fingers. What
had
he done to deserve his pick of these beauties? Aye, he’d served David in battle several times, but he’d met the King in Scotland only once, at Moray. David had seemed to like him well enough, and Pagan
had
saved a number of the King’s men from walking into a rebel ambush that day. But surely that was no more than any commander would have done.

“Why would David hand over such a prize?” he pondered aloud. “And why to me?”

Colin snickered in amusement. “Come, Pagan, are you so unaccustomed to good fortune that you’d cast it away when it’s dropped into your lap?”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Aye, something’s wrong,” Colin said, at last tearing his attention away from the three maids to focus on Pagan. “You’ve lost your wits.”

“Have I? Or am I right to suspect there may be a serpent in this garden?”

Colin’s eyes narrowed wickedly. “The only
serpent
is the one writhing beneath your sword belt, Pagan.”

Maybe Colin was right. It was difficult to think straight when his braies were strained to bursting. “Tell me again, what exactly did Boniface say?”

Pagan never rode onto a field of combat blind. It was what had kept him alive through a score of campaigns. Two days earlier he’d sent Boniface, his trusted squire, in the guise of a jongleur, to learn what he could about Rivenloch. It was Boniface who had alerted them to the daughters’ intention to bathe in the pond this morn.

Colin rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, recounting what the squire had reported. “He said the lord’s wits are addled. He has a weakness for dice, wagers high, and loses often. And, oh, aye,” he seemed to suddenly remember. “He said the old man keeps no steward. He apparently intends to pass the castle on to his eldest daughter.”

“His
daughter
?” This was news to Pagan.

Colin shrugged. “They’re Scots,” he said, as if that would explain it all.

Pagan furrowed his brow in thought. “With Stephen claiming the English throne, King David needs strong forces to command the Border lands,” he mused, “not
wenches
.”

Colin snapped his fingers. “Well, that’s it, then. Who better to command Rivenloch than the illustrious Sir Pagan? ‘Tis known far and wide that the Cameliard knights have no peer.” Colin turned, eager to get back to his spying.

In the pond below, the voluptuous wench playfully shook her head, spattering her giggling sister and jiggling her weighty breasts in a manner that made Pagan instantly iron hard. Beside him, Colin groaned, whether in bliss or pain, he wasn’t sure.

Suddenly realizing the significance of that groan, Pagan cuffed him on the shoulder.

“What’s that for?” Colin hissed.

“That’s for leering at my bride.”

“Which one’s your bride?”

They both returned their gazes to the pool.

Pagan would be forever appalled at the lapse of his warrior instincts at that moment. But by the time he heard the soft footfall behind him, it was too late to do anything about it. Colin never heard it at all. He was too busy feasting his eyes. “Wait. I see only two now. Where’s the blonde?”

Behind him, a feminine voice said distinctly, “Here.”

Born in Paradise, California, Glynnis Campbell has embraced her inner Gemini by leading an eclectic life. As a teen, she danced with the Sacramento Ballet, worked in her father’s graphic arts studio, and composed music for award-winning science films. She sang arias in college, graduating with a degree in Music, then toured with The Pinups, an all-girl rock band on CBS Records. She once played drums for a Tom Jones video and is currently a voice-over actress with credits including “Star Wars” audio adventures, JumpStart educational CDs, Diablo and Starcraft video games, and the MTV animated series, “The Maxx.” She now indulges her lifelong love of towering castles, trusty swords, and knights (and damsels) in shining armor by writing historical romances featuring kick-arse heroines. She is married to a rock star, is the proud mom of two grown-up nerds, and lives in a part of L.A. where nobody thinks she’s weird.

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