Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

prove a dutiful wife, grateful and compliant, only too happy to do my bidding.  And the frail thing doesn’t look as if she could lift a sword, much less come at me with one.”

CHAPTER 3
     

    “Again!”  Deirdre raised her weapon and bid her sister attack once more.
    Hel charged forward with a wild grin, and their blades clashed in a flurry of sparks.
    The violence was cathartic, empowering after Deirdre’s unsettling encounter this morn.  Dodging Hel’s fierce blows, she could almost pretend her heart pounded from the thrill of battle.  And not dread.
    She hadn’t spoken to her sisters of her meeting with the Normans, nor did she intend to.  That burden of knowledge was one she preferred to bear alone.  At least Helena and Miriel would spend their last hours as the stewards of Rivenloch in blissful ignorance.
    Hel’s shield clanged suddenly against Deirdre’s, jarring her bones.  Deirdre pushed off, returning with a horizontal slash from her sword that would have cut anyone else in half.  But Hel was fast, and Deirdre knew well her sister’s abilities.  Hel leaped backwards with a yelp, then dove into a roll, tumbling forward to come up beneath Deirdre’s blade.
    “Aha!” she cried, her sword point at Deirdre’s chin, her eyes alight with victory.
    But even the joy in her sister’s face, which was dusted with the fine silt of the practice field, didn’t lessen the impending doom that weighed heavily on Deirdre’s mind.
    He was coming.  Maybe not tonight.  Maybe not even tomorrow.  But soon.  He was coming for her.
    Deirdre had known the instant she’d locked eyes with Pagan that she must be the daughter to wed him.  Miriel could not, for she would disappear beneath the man’s overbearing shadow.  Hel could not, for one or the other of them would be dead by the end of their wedding night, and she feared now it might not be the Norman.
    Nay, Deirdre would have to sacrifice herself.
    It would be a hellish marriage, she was sure, but she’d endure it.  For Miriel.  For Helena.  For Rivenloch.
    Hel interrupted her thoughts, patting Deirdre’s cheek with one gauntleted palm.  “Work on your speed, sluggard,” she taunted.  “We ought to at least make this Norman bastard give chase for a bride.”
    Hel’s words echoed through her soul like discordant bells.  There would be no giving chase.  Not with Pagan.  He would come and claim her.  Simply.  Swiftly.  Irrefutably.
    His image, as indelibly engraved upon her mind as the designs on her dagger, assailed her again—his proud stance, his mocking smile, his derisive gaze—and her pulse began spiraling faster.
    God’s blood, what ailed her?  She wasn’t some frail maid who cowered in the face of danger.  She was Deirdre of Rivenloch.  She had routed thieves and tamed beasts and slain outlaws.  She’d not let one devil-eyed Norman daunt her.
    Rage heated her cheeks.  She shoved Hel’s sword aside with her shield.  “Again!”
    Sparks exploded as their blades clashed once more.  Hel spun and leaped, twirling her sword as if it were a plaything, but Deirdre’s shield was always there to answer, and while Hel tired herself with her antics, Deirdre powerfully met her blows with her own blade, knocking Hel back with her superior strength and a raw determination that left no room for defeat.
    Indeed, it wasn’t her sister she sought to conquer, but rather the demons that beleaguered her thoughts.
    That , she thought, striking diagonally downward, is for spying upon me like a stable lad.  And that...   She thrust forward, missing Hel by inches. ...is for mocking me with your dagger.   She deflected Hel’s blade as it came at her head.  And this...   She advanced relentlessly, slashing left and right in rapid succession, until she backed Hel against the fence of the lists.  This is for leering at me with those unyielding, knavish, violating, breathtaking eyes...
    “Deirdre!  Helena!” Miriel scolded from the tiltyard