Maids with Blades 2, page 72
While Feiyan watched in dismay, the line and the fish began to escape downstream.
“Och, nay, ye don’t!” he shouted.
He was having none of that. He charged into the water—gambeson, boots, and all—and grabbed the broken branch with its line still attached before it could float away. Hand over hand, he hauled in his prize, battling the current, stumbling over the rocks of the riverbed, and drenching himself in the process.
But persistence won the day. He finally trapped the slippery, flopping fish against his gambeson, crowing in triumph. The trout, almost as long as his chest was wide, would make a decent meal.
She grinned in response.
But her smile faded fast when she remembered her purpose. This was the man she meant to kill. She shouldn’t be smiling. Bloody hell. She shouldn’t be feeling…anything…for him.
He lumbered forward through the current, hampered by his soaking gambeson. He knocked the trout against the boulder to kill it swiftly before tossing it onto the grassy bank. When he emerged dripping from the water, Feiyan’s first thought was that he looked more like magnificent Neptune than wicked Lucifer.
That was before he removed her sword belt, tossing it onto the bank with as little care as he’d given the fish.
Damn the lout! That was a valuable sword. If he didn’t dry off the steel blade and rub it with sheep fat, it would rust.
While she silently fumed over his callous mistreatment of her priceless weapon, he unknotted the ties of his gambeson and wrenched the sopping coat from his shoulders.
Her breath caught. The sheer, wet linen of his white leine left little to the imagination. His well-muscled chest looked as if it was carved of marble, smooth and perfect.
Draping his gambeson over a low-hanging alder limb, he grabbed the branch for balance and tugged off his boots.
When his hands fell to the leather belt holding up his drenched and dragging plaid, Feiyan squeezed her eyes shut.
She couldn’t keep them closed for long. When she at last dared take a peek, his plaid was stretched out over a bush to dry, and he was strutting about in nothing but his soaking leine, which barely reached his knees.
Feiyan swallowed hard.
Not because she’d never glimpsed a half-naked man. On the contrary, she saw clansmen in various states of undress all the time in her parents’ armory.
Not because mac Darragh was so well-formed. Any warrior who did a fair amount of drills developed muscles like his.
Not because her heart fluttered at the idea that she was wickedly spying on him without his knowledge. Feiyan la Nuit had a rich history of spying.
Nay, what stuck in her throat was the knowledge that she was supposed to slay him. She meant to steal back her sword and plunge it into that flawless body.
It was her duty. She knew that. For Rivenloch. For Scotland. For Hallie. She couldn’t let a monster like him loose on any more unsuspecting victims.
Still, the idea left a nauseating taste in her mouth.
She swallowed it down. It didn’t matter. Her feelings didn’t matter. This was a task that had to be done without emotion. Without mercy.
And the sooner she got to it, the sooner she could go home.
Balance the accounts, as her mother said.
Put the unpleasantness behind her.
And earn the respect of the clan.
So she steeled her jaw against the amusing sight of him traipsing through the brush in his undergarments.
She fought the instinct to take pity on him as he battled to start a fire with his wet flint.
She stopped her ears against his voice as he coaxed the tiny flame to life, alternately cooing to it with the tenderness of a dove urging its fledglings to fly and cursing at its stubborn reluctance to take hold.
While he busied himself with the fire, she glanced at her sword, lying on the grass, mere inches from the trout. She bit her lip. Could she steal down from the tree and retrieve it while he was distracted by the blaze?
Just as she extended one leg to start her descent, he came abruptly to his feet.
She froze.
Chapter 6
Dougal wasn’t alone.
He couldn’t explain how he knew.
But suddenly, the suspicion that had been troubling him all day—that someone was shadowing him—blossomed from a vague threat to an impending hazard.
Someone was very near. Watching. Waiting.
Maybe it was the mac Girics. Maybe it was the wee outlaw. Maybe it was a pack of hungry wolves.
Whatever the danger, it would do no good to make any sudden moves. Not until he knew more. Until he could locate what was sending a shiver of foreboding along his spine, it was best to act as if he didn’t know it was there.
So he whistled with nonchalance as he retrieved the trout and his dagger, heading to the riverbank to gut the fish. All the while, he casually scanned the brush, the reeds, the trees.
It was only when he was skewering the cleaned fish on a makeshift spit that he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Something out of place. A branch that didn’t look like a branch. A shadow that was more than a shadow.
In the tree behind his shoulder, a dark shape hugged the trunk.
It had to be the thief. Who else would travel through the branches of trees?
Dougal was impressed the outlaw had followed him so far. Perhaps the lad was a dark faerie, after all, come to reclaim his valuable talisman.
Had he brought his fellows with him? Or was he alone?
Dougal supposed he’d find out soon enough.
In the meantime, he’d keep the strange blade close. If the lad was determined enough to follow him so far, there was no telling what he’d do once he had the sword in his hands.
Leaving the fish over the fire to roast, he fetched the lad’s weapon and removed it from its sheath. He pretended to examine the blade while keeping an eye on the dark shape in the tree.
The youth didn’t move a muscle. Not when Dougal took a few practice swings with the sword. Not when he ventured close to collect more fallen tinder for the fire. Not when he turned the fish on the spit.
As the coals glowed, crisping the skin of the trout, Dougal began to feel sorry for the lad. Surely he was hungry. He was as thin as a post. That was likely why he was an outlaw.
The people of Kirkoswald had been in the same dire situation since Dougal’s father had died, faced with stealing or starving.
Dougal had always done what he could to remedy their poverty.
A wave of pain washed over him as he realized he’d never be able to help them again. He’d failed them when they’d needed him most. He could no longer call himself a champion.
Still, his instincts wouldn’t let him look the other way. Perhaps the people here had no champion at all. Perhaps they had no choice but to turn to thievery for survival.
Once the trout was done—nicely crisp on the outside, tender and sweet on the inside—he lifted the skewer from the fire and settled onto a large, flat rock.
Without looking up, he called out, “Ye must be hungry, lad. Come on down, and I’ll give ye a wee bite.”
Feiyan blinked in alarm. How had he known she was there?
No one ever spotted Feiyan la Nuit. She could spy on lovers from the trees. Watch the servants without their knowing. Steal through the armory unseen.
In short, she’d always been able to hide in plain sight.
Observing mac Darragh, she’d taken special pains to be cautious. In the last half-hour, despite the aching in her muscles, she hadn’t budged an inch.
She wished she could say the same for her thoughts. But they’d rattled about in her head like a frenzied hailstorm. Perhaps it was the clatter in her brain he’d detected.
But curse the Westlander! What should have been a simple task was turning into a major undertaking.
She’d figured when the time came to kill the man, she’d do it with the shoudao. After all, it was her most efficient, most deadly weapon. The last thing an assassin wanted to do was to leave a target wounded and not dead.
But once he’d doffed his gambeson, leaving himself vulnerable, she realized her other weapons would prove just as effective. She might not need to reclaim her shoudao to finish him.
First she considered attacking him with a pair of swiftly fired yan zi fei dao, aiming the darts at his vulnerable neck.
Then she decided to do it while he built the fire. Stab him between the ribs with her forked sais as he gathered kindling.
Then she meant to do it as he cleaned the trout by the river. Sneak up behind him with her short but keen-bladed duandao and slash his throat.
Then she thought she’d do it when he busied himself with cooking. Push him onto the hot coals and thrust him through with her awl-like bishou.
Each time, the idea left a sick gnawing in her gut.
She blamed her nausea on hunger. Perhaps she had no stomach for killing because her stomach was empty.
She’d finally opted to wait until after he finished cooking the trout. That way, at least she’d get a good meal out of it. Maybe the prospect of food would settle her stomach and make what she’d come to do easier.
Now he was offering supper to her freely. That changed everything. It tied her stomach into even tighter knots.
How could she accept charity from a man she meant to kill?
The answer came to her in a flash.
She couldn’t murder mac Darragh. Not in cold blood.
If they were to spar, however… Then she would have no qualms about killing him. She’d be giving him a fighting chance. Battling him face to face. She could kill him with a clear conscience.
Already her stomach eased.
She would challenge the Westlander to battle. Naturally she would win. Then, and only then—when he was laid out flat on his back, at her mercy—would she claim revenge for Rivenloch, for Hallie. Take up her sword and give him a swift and noble death.
A death that wouldn’t trouble her conscience.
A death that would let her sleep at night.
“Come on. I’m not goin’ to hurt ye,” he said, coaxing her forward with a wave of his hand. “And I can’t eat this enormous fish all by myself.”
Feiyan smirked. Enormous? Now he was boasting. She pulled salmon twice that size out of Rivenloch all the time. Still, her belly growled as she caught a whiff of the roasted trout. Surely there was no harm in supping first and fighting afterward.
Keeping her hood over her head, she crept down from the oak. She edged toward the fire and sat on a mossy stone.
He plucked an alder leaf to fashion a makeshift platter. Then he divided the trout, blowing on his fingers when he burned them, and placed half of his catch on the leaf for her.
She ate carefully, facing away from him to lower her mask and take a bite. Despite her hunger, she lingered over the supper. She hardly tasted the trout, knowing what was to come after she finished eating would be far less appetizing.
Finally she tossed the bones onto the fire and replaced her mask.
Long ago, she’d learned the wisdom of hiding her features. Not only did a mask conceal her identity and gender. In battle, it disguised the merest hint of hesitation and uncertainty. It ensured she wouldn’t betray her next move by the clenching of her teeth or the sudden intake of breath.
She let him finish his supper. He might as well enjoy his last meal.
After he’d stripped the trout clean, while he was smacking his lips and licking his fingers, she stood up and braced herself for combat.
“Sit down,” he said, arching a brow up at her. “I know ye want your weapon back. But that’s not goin’ to happen. I won’t have ye slayin’ me in the middle o’ the night.”
She didn’t need her sword. Not yet. She was confident she could overpower him without it.
She gestured for him to get up. Then, angling her body to give him the smallest target, she flexed her knees, lifted her arms, and summoned him with a wave of her hand.
“Ye wish to grapple for it?” he guessed with a dubious smirk.
She was used to scorn. Men always judged her by her size and underestimated her skill.
She nodded.
He shook his head. “Ye’re only a wee lad. Leave while ye can. Save yourself some breaks and bruises.”
She raised her fists, insisting he accept her challenge.
“Look,” he said. “Ye’ve taken my charity. Ye’ve had a nice meal. Go on now. Maybe without your nasty blade, ye’ll find a way to make an honest livin’.”
She narrowed her eyes. He imagined she was a common outlaw. He didn’t realize she was an assassin. That miscalculation would cost him his life.
She lifted her chin and clenched her fists.
“Nay,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m not goin’ to fight ye.”
This she hadn’t foreseen. What villain would walk away from an easy conquest? She bit the inside of her cheek.
He added, “Run along home. I’ve got no quarrel with ye.” He ignored her completely then, sniffing and staring into the flames.
No quarrel with her? This monster had brought destruction into her peaceful world. He’d ravaged her clan folk as if they were rats to be exterminated. And worst of all, he’d thrown down her cousin—fierce, strong, brave Hallie—and left her for dead.
The memory riled up something powerful inside her. The crouching beast within—the creature that had sat in the shadows for days now, waiting for the chance to take vengeance for the horror she’d witnessed—sprang to life.
With a growl deep in her throat, she flung herself forward at the brute that—worse than calling her his foe—dismissed her as if she were nothing.
It was rare that Dougal could be taken unawares. But the wee thief came at him before he could brace for the impact.
He’d assumed, once the lad had a full belly and was soothed of his anger, once he realized the disparity in their size, once he understood Dougal wasn’t going to fight him, he might take a few harmless kicks at the dust in frustration and slink off into the woods.
The last thing Dougal expected was to be bowled off the rock.
The lad was a scrappy thing. That was certain. Legs and arms twined about Dougal’s body like vines strangling a tree. Knees and elbows jabbed him with painful precision, bruising his flesh and nearly cracking his ribs. The lad scrabbled and scrambled at him with dogged persistence.
Indeed, so unaccustomed was Dougal to wrestling someone half his size, he almost couldn’t work up a good defense.
Only when the lad’s hand shot out toward the lethal blade lying on the grass beside him did Dougal suddenly spring to life.
With a roar of denial, he surged upward against the lighter weight of his wee attacker, forcing him out of reach of the weapon.
The lad would have dodged past him, but Dougal seized his arm.
Immediately, the lad’s other fist shot forward, jabbing him in the throat.
Pain incapacitated Dougal. For a stunned instant, he couldn’t breathe. Then he couldn’t stop coughing.
But that wasn’t the only trick the youth had in his arsenal. He stamped his boot down with great force on top of Dougal’s bare foot.
While Dougal was gasping from the new agony coursing through his bones, the lad plowed his knuckles with sudden force into the tender spot just below his ribs. A dull throbbing radiated out through his stomach, and Dougal wondered if he might lose his hard-won supper.
Somehow, through it all, he managed to hold fast to the outlaw.
Until the lad turned all at once in his grip, pushing forward instead of pulling away. With the sharp point of his elbow, he clipped the tip of Dougal’s chin, dazing him and rocking his head back.
Dougal staggered backward, taking his attacker with him. He hadn’t wanted to hurt the lad. But this wily thief could obviously take care of himself. So Dougal had to rely on his superior might.
He shook his head to clear the fog from his brain. Then, with a determined grunt, he picked the lad up bodily. Enclosing him in his steely arms, he crushed the youth against his chest until the lad could do nothing but squirm in frustration.
Still the outlaw managed to amaze him. This time the wicked lad jabbed a knee with breathtaking accuracy betwixt his legs.
Dougal moaned and crumpled in pain. Hobbled by aching agony, he was forced to drop the lad.
Once free, the lad swept Dougal’s leg out from under him, toppling him onto his back on the forest floor.
But the careless youth made one mistake. He didn’t count on Dougal’s tenacity. Even as he was falling to the ground, Dougal seized the lad about the shoulders, and they dropped together.
Dougal’s back bore the brunt of the fall. He winced as his shoulder blade struck the sharp edge of a rock, and it took a moment to get his breath back.
The outlaw was splayed atop him like a feather coverlet. Indeed, the lad wasn’t much heavier than a feather coverlet. But this coverlet seemed as if it was filled, not with feathers, but with live birds.
The lad immediately attempted to wriggle out of his grasp. He wrested his shoulders loose and gave Dougal’s stomach a hard shove with the heels of his hands.
Then he turned his head toward the sword. In another moment, he might have sprung to his feet and laid hands on the weapon.
But Dougal overpowered the youth, heaving him sideways, rolling him onto his back, and pinning him there with the weight of his body.
Still the lad wouldn’t surrender. He flailed beneath Dougal until Dougal finally captured his wrists against the ground and rocked back to sit astride the wild lad’s hips, rendering his legs useless.
As he caught his breath, the lad seared him with a smoldering gray glare. Dougal was sure that behind the mask, the youth was cursing him to hell. Every muscle of the lad’s body was tense as he tried fruitlessly to twist free, and he looked as if he wished to commit murder.
Then Dougal noticed something disturbing in the outlaw’s burning gaze.
Something curious about the startling pair of silvery eyes and the dark brows that lowered over them with hatred.
