Page 22 of The Shipwreck (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch)

Helena had ducked under the water, cooling her wrath.

Now she sprang up suddenly, sputtering and shaking her head like a hound, spraying drops everywhere.

“I know! What if we waylay this Norman bridegroom in the wood?” she said eagerly.

“Catch him off guard. Slice him to ribbons. Blame his death on The Shadow?”

For a moment, Deirdre could only stare mutely at her bloodthirsty little sister, whom she feared might be serious.

“You’d slay a man unawares and accuse a common thief of his murder?

” She scowled and grabbed the soap back.

“Father named you rightly, Hel, for ’tis surely where you’re bound.

Nay,” she decided, “no one is going to be killed. One of us will marry him.”

“Why should we have to marry him?” Hel said with a pout. “Is it not loathsome enough we must surrender our keep to the whoreson?”

Deirdre clutched her sister’s arm, demanding her gaze. “We’ll surrender nothing. Besides, you know if one of us doesn’t wed him, Miriel will offer herself up, whether we will it or not. And Father will let her do it. We can’t allow that to happen.”

Deirdre stared solemnly into her sister’s eyes, and they exchanged the look of unspoken agreement they’d shared since they were young lasses, the look that said they’d do whatever it took to protect helpless Miriel.

Helena bit out a resigned curse, then muttered, “Stupid Norman. He doesn’t even have a proper name. Who would christen a child Pagan?”

Deirdre didn’t bother to remind her sister that she answered to the name of Hel. Even Deirdre had to agree, however, that Pagan was not a name that conjured up visions of responsible leadership. Or honor. Or mercy. Indeed, it sounded like the name of a barbaric savage.

Helena sighed heavily, then nodded and took the soap again. “’Twill be me then. I will wed this son of a whelp.”

But Deirdre could see by the murderous gleam in Hel’s eyes that if she had her way, her new husband wouldn’t survive the wedding night.

And while Deirdre might not mourn the demise of the uninvited Norman, she had no wish to see her sister drawn and quartered by the King for his murder.

“Nay,” she said. “’Tis my burden. I’ll marry him. ”

“Don’t be a fool,” Hel shot back. “I’m more expendable than you.

Besides,” she said with a scheming grin, rubbing the sheep tallow soap back and forth between her hands, “while I lull the bastard into complacency, you can marshal forces for a surprise attack. We’ll win Rivenloch back from him, Deirdre. ”

“Are you mad?” Deirdre flicked water at her reckless sister.

She had little patience for Helena’s blind bravado.

Sometimes Hel boasted like a Highlander, thinking all England could be conquered with but a dozen brawny Scots.

“’Tis King David’s will to marry off this Norman to one of us. What will you do when his army comes?”

Hel silently pondered her words.

“Nay,” Deirdre said before Hel could come up with another rash plan. “ I will wed the bast-…Norman,” she corrected.

Helena sulked for a moment, then tried another tactic, asking slyly, “What if he prefers me? After all, I have more of what a man favors.” She rose from the water, posturing provocatively to lend proof to her words. “I’m younger. My legs are more shapely. My breasts are bigger.”

“Your mouth is bigger,” Deirdre countered, unaffected by Hel’s attempt at goading her. “No man likes a woman with a shrewish tongue.”

Hel frowned. Then her eyes lit up again. “All right then. I’ll fight you for him.”

“Fight me?”

“The winner weds the Norman.”

Deirdre bit her lip, seriously considering the challenge. Her odds of besting Hel were good, since she fought with far more control than her quick-tempered sister. And Deirdre was impatient enough with Hel’s foolishness to take her up on her offer at once and see the matter settled. Almost.

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.”