Quicksilver's Knight Read online

  Or was this only the effect she had on all men? Was he nothing exceptional to her, only another male foe to be captured, subverted, enslaved by his own emotions? Lust was too mild a word for the feelings she inspired in him; covetousness might have begun to cover it, obsession to enwrap it, but no word ever made could encompass it, could begin to describe the height and depth of it.

  The thought slid by, irrelevant and irreverent, that he might be facing a woman who had great psionic power, but who was unaware of it.

  Unaware? No, surely not; surely there had never been a woman who could have been unaware of her effect on men, not a woman like this, no, who could make a very stone to groan with longing.

  He forced himself to some rough facsimile of poise. "I had not known you were a woman."

  Her lips quirked in the faintest of smiles. "Do you doubt it?"

  "Nay, surely not," Geoffrey breathed, and she seemed to swell in his consciousness again, becoming once more larger than life. He thrust her down to normal size in his mind, remembering himself by sheer will alone. "I have heard only the name, and thought a bandit chieftain must be a man."

  "Who could better lead men than a woman?" Quicksilver demanded.

  Geoffrey felt instant sympathy and total agreement—a woman like this could have led any man anywhere. In fact, she probably had. "You are very aptly come, on the cusp of the moment to rescue your men."

  "My sentries are everywhere throughout this county," Quicksilver returned. "As soon as you demanded to see me, word sped to me—and I sped to you, for I fight for my men even as they fight for me."

  Geoffrey could understand why men would fight for her—he felt like doing so himself. But he strove for sanity and, to remind himself of the true state of affairs, protested, "You are no lady of rank."

  "You are no merchant," Quicksilver retorted.

  The overly obvious observation restored Geoffrey to some sense of self-possession. He smiled. "You are perceptive."

  "What are you, then?"

  "A man."

  "Aye, you are," Quicksilver breathed, and for a moment, her eyes seemed to swell, to drink him in; he felt that he had to brace himself against that pull, or be sucked into the maelstrom of her presence.

  Then it receded, and she was only mortal again—but Geoffrey could understand how men would follow her blindly, and understand even more clearly how they would be willing to die rather than betray her.

  There was a rustle and a clank of metal around her, and for the first time he realized that she was flanked by a bodyguard of a dozen women, perhaps more—but what women! They were tall, nearly six feet every one, and corded with sleek, firm muscles. Each was dressed as Quicksilver was, though with different colors; each had her hair bound out of her way in a loose tail at the back of her head. Most were beautiful, some were not—but all their faces were hard, very hard, as though they yearned for him to raise a hand against their chieftain, so that they might have an excuse to chop him up and feed his bonemeal to the fishes.

  But beauty and perfection of form notwithstanding, all paled into insignificance beside their chief.

  Which amazed Geoffrey, because he realized that sev eral of them, objectively, were more beautiful than Quicksilver. The thought occurred to him that other men might not find her so irresistible, that perhaps it was only he himself who thought her the most fascinating woman in the universe—but, no; he remembered how completely she seemed to command the loyalty of her bandits; surely they must find her as compelling as he did ...

  She was saying something. He yanked his concentration back to her words, then was horrified to realize that, while he had been distracted by her beauty, any man could have stepped up behind him and run him through. Even that thought made him miss her words, though; she was frowning at his silence, and he did not want her to frown ...

  "I said, 'Who are you?' " she demanded.

  There seemed no good reason to lie. "I am Geoffrey Gallowglass."

  A murmur of shock and surprise passed through the bandit host, even the bodyguards, and their eyes narrowed. Quicksilver seemed to stiffen, and her stare was somehow wary; Geoffrey only now realized that it had been confident, almost contemptuous, before.

  It was significant that no one said, "The son of the High Warlock" or "The son of the arch-witch Gwendylon!" or even, "So you are of that tribe!" Geoffrey had built a reputation of his own, even though he was only twenty—and among warriors like these, that reputation blazed far more brightly than that of his mother or father.

  Quicksilver's gaze held steady, boring into his own. "The King and Queen have sent you, have they not?"

  "Yes," Geoffrey said, but didn't feel obliged to tell her the rest of the truth.

  Quicksilver's gaze didn't waver a millimeter. "Why are you come?"

  "To arrest the bandit chieftain Quicksilver," Geoffrey said plainly, "and take her back to Their Majesties for trial."

  The bandits went into an uproar, but the bodyguards shouted, "Assassin!" and leaped forward, swords flashing out ...

  Or almost leaped forward; but Quicksilver held up her hand, and they jarred to a halt. Her lips curved in a slight smile, and her eyes glittered. "Do you think you can pluck me out from the midst of my band and live to tell of it?"

  "No," Geoffrey returned. "I think that first I shall have to kill them all."

  The crowd went into an uproar again. He raised his voice just enough for his words to bore through the commotion: "But if I were to fight them all, I might have to slay you, too—and I would be very loathe to do that."

  "Braggart," she breathed, and the whole band quieted to hear her response.

  Geoffrey shook his head. "It may seem so, but it is not. I shall not brag—and I never threaten. I will, however, give notice of what I intend to do."

  "Not a warning," Quicksilver qualified.

  "Okay," Geoffrey agreed. "Only the facts, as I see them."

  "I cannot help but think that you see a bit too much of yourself."

  "Oh, no," Geoffrey said, his eyes glowing into hers. "Not when all I can see is you."

  The bodyguards snarled and lifted their swords again, but Quicksilver actually blushed. "My mother taught me to beware of men with sweet words."

  "Beware of me indeed," Geoffrey murmured.

  The whole band went silent, staring at their chief in amazement—and the bodyguards seemed almost in shock. Had no one ever tried to woo this woman?

  Perhaps not, Geoffrey realized—perhaps none had dared.

  "Do you hope to beguile me into surrender, with naught but sweet words?" Quicksilver asked.

  "I might hope," Geoffrey answered, "but I would be a fool to think I could."

  "And are you a fool?"

  "Perhaps for you," he agreed, "but not so great a fool as to let you continue to flout the King's Law."

  "Do you threaten me, then?"

  "No," Geoffrey said quickly, before the Amazons could start to growl again. "But I tell you frankly, that I will take you back to Runnymede, to await Their Majesties' justice."

  The bodyguards howled, flourishing their swords, but again Quicksilver held up her hand. "Withold. He is a warlock."

  The Amazons stilled, not because they feared magic, but because Quicksilver had told them to.

  Geoffrey nodded. "You are wise. There is no shame in using magic when I am so greatly outnumbered—for I can see through the trees that your band now continues to gather; there must be hundreds—and I would be loathe to hurt women."

  "Loathe?" Quicksilver demanded. "But you would do it?"

  Geoffrey nodded. "She who takes up weapons forfeits her rights to the protections of chivalry—for a knight must defend his life."

  "Yet even so, he must do no more damage to a female than he needs," Quicksilver reminded him.

  Geoffrey's eyes gleamed again. "Who are you, to lecture me on the rules of chivalry? Are you nobly born?"

  "Only the daughter of a squire," Quicksilver returned, "but thereby did I learn of the Knight
s' Code."

  "Then do you live by it?"

  "So far as a woman may."

  "Why, that is completely," Geoffrey said, frowning. Quicksilver finally smiled in amusement. "Yes, that is so—and that is how far I do live by it."

  Geoffrey's eyes burned, but his voice sank to a caress. "Yield yourself, I pray—for I would be loathe indeed to hurt you."

  "And if I do not," Quicksilver said, equally softly, "you will shatter my army with witch-power."

  "I shall," Geoffrey confirmed.

  "Why, then, the fight must be between the two of us, and we two alone." At last, Quicksilver reached up to draw the broadsword that was slung across her back, and stepped forward from among her women. They cried out in alarm and leaped forward to stop her—but she waved them away. "I shall fight without my band, if you swear to fight without your magic."

  "Why, that is honorable indeed!" Geoffrey said, the glow in his eyes spreading across his face. "I swear I shall work no magic, if you forbid your troops to fight!"

  "I forbid you all to fight in my defense!" Quicksilver called out. "This is my fight, mine alone, for this man is my meat!"

  Eighteen of her bodyguards cried out in protest—but the other two stood silent, staring at their chief in understanding. Slowly and reluctantly, they sheathed their swords and waved their sisters back.

  Quicksilver stepped forward, sword on guard, a lioness stalking her quarry, a panther readying herself to spring. Geoffrey lifted his own sword and stepped forward, ignoring the weakness in his knees.

  CHAPTER 3

  Reluctantly, the outlaws drew back, the bodyguards most reluctantly of all, leaving a bare circle of ground fifty feet across with Geoffrey standing near its center. Quicksilver stepped out in a fighter's crouch, sword in both hands, and began to prowl about him. Geoffrey caught his breath; she was a magnificent figure, red gold in the sunlight, her movements fluid and sinuous. Geoffrey watched her as a good warrior should, trying to watch her whole body but still notice every slightest movement—and notice them he did, for something within him thrilled to each tiniest quiver. He had heard it said that it was the female's movement that caught the male's eye, and if that was so, this was certainly the most intensely feminine being he had ever seen.

  But she was a feminine being with a sword, and its edge was whetted and glittering.

  Finally, Geoffrey realized that she had no intention of striking the first blow—she would wait for him to do so, and try to take advantage of any opening he might reveal. Well, that was fine with him—he was more than glad to wait, too, and watch her move.

  It must have shown in his face, for she flushed, then suddenly struck in a blinding blur of swordcuts, hammering and pounding at him from every angle with unbelievable speed. He retreated a couple of steps, stunned by her skill, struck by the beauty and precision of her attack. He parried every cut, of course, but had no time to riposte until she leaped back, eyes smouldering, sword at the ready, breast heaving with the exertion. He stared, and knew, with a sinking heart, that he could not possibly risk hurting this gorgeous creature.

  Then she was on him again, so quickly that he scarcely saw her advance, only knew that her blows were raining about him again, so that he seemed to be inside a smithy, inside the anvil itself, with a hail of blows clanging about him. This time she did not leap back, but stayed and kept slashing and cutting. The technique worked; he parried every cut, but some by a very narrow margin, and when she finally leaped back with a cry of satisfaction, he knew she had struck first blood.

  She was easily the most skilled opponent he had ever met with a sword. He had fought stronger, but what she lacked in strength, she made up for in speed and deftness—and precision. "You are excellent," he breathed.

  She must have known how he meant it, that he meant it in every way, for she' blushed and snapped, "Come, sir, where is your skill? Where is the vaunted swordsmanship of Geoffrey Gallowglass? Can you not match me blow for blow?"

  He felt the taunt stab home, but he knew the game, which was to make him attack in anger, losing his own precision. He grinned instead and said, "Your sword may be sharp, but I have not yet felt its edge."

  "Be assured that it has felt your flesh," she snarled, then suddenly leaped forward again.

  But Geoffrey was ready this time—when she landed, he wasn't there, but had skipped nimbly to the side. She whirled even as she landed and parried his cut with an oath, then thrust without riposting—a risky move, but effective, if he had been there. But he flinched away, sword tip flicking out to test his own reach against hers—and sure enough, her blade was inches away from his waist, but his tip nicked her shoulder.

  He knew he could not bring himself to strike lower.

  A shout went up, rage at seeing their chief's blood, and Geoffrey was suddenly alert for the blow from behind but it did not come, for Quicksilver, in a rage, leaped in to shower blows upon him. Geoffrey blocked and parried, waiting her out, sure that she was nicking him in a dozen places, giving ground slowly.

  Then a cut swung under his guard and thrust straight for his heart in a full lunge.

  Geoffrey barely managed to slip aside in time, and felt the sword score his ribs instead of severing his aorta—and a chill seized his vitals, for he knew without a shadow of doubt that she had meant that thrust to strike home, to slay him completely. She might be attracted to him, every ounce of femininity in her might be aching for him, but she would nonetheless kill him if she could, skewer him like a trout, slay him without regret. Well, not perhaps without regret—but she would slay him nonetheless. He wondered if she treated all her suitors this way—then felt the realization strike him, with the force of a body blow, that he was indeed a suitor!

  He leaped back out of her reach, to recover from the shock of the discovery—but she mistook the move for weakness and pressed in with a shout of triumph. It was a mistake; he parried the thrust automatically, then with equally unthinking skill counterthrust without riposting, scoring a trickle of blood across her upper arm. The scarlet thread was almost a physical pain to him, too, but habit as well as the chance of death made him keep on, thrusting here, there, high, low—but never too close to the center, never too close to her torso, always at her arms or shoulders or, Heaven help him, her thighs. She howled with anger, blocking and parrying, matching him blow for blow but too quickly to be able to riposte or attack. She gave ground, face pale with fury, then suddenly caught his sword in a bind, thrusting it up just long enough to slam a kick into his stomach.

  Geoffrey saw it coming and rolled with the blow, but it still drove the breath out of him, and he fell, rolling along the ground. He heard her shout of triumph ringing in his ears, saw her boots pound close, and rolled aside just as she stabbed down, then rocked back a split second before she stabbed again. His lungs clamored for air as his belly strove to pull, to inhale—and finally the first breath came, finally oxygen flooded in again, and he surged up to his feet, inside her guard, sword arrowing straight for her throat—but the tip veered aside to nick her shoulder instead. She cried out in alarm and leaped back; the delay had been just long enough for that, but not long enough to recover. Geoffrey pressed the attack, raining cuts and thrusts at her from all sides, keeping her sword too busy parrying to be able to stab at him, for he realized with a sick certainty that the only way he could win was to disarm her; he could not bear to do anything else—but she could, and would.

  He did not intend to let her.

  Her sword was slowing just the tiniest bit, but his was not—yet, though it soon would. His blows were coming closer to her body now; the sphere of safety about her was shrinking. Geoffrey saw and rejoiced—if he could slow her enough, he could catch her sword in a bind. She knew it, too—or knew that she would be at his mercy, for she was tiring faster than he, and she glared her hatred at him.

  Then, suddenly, she leaped back to give herself a second's breathing space. Her left hand shot up to the nape of her neck and loosed a knot—and her halter fell
away, revealing her naked breasts, full and golden in the morning sunlight.

  Geoffrey stared, frozen for an instant of sheer admiration—and in that instant, Quicksilver struck.

  Here was no testing rain of cuts—here was only a single, clean, full-body lunge; her whole form seemed to straighten into a single line of steel that culminated in a point to lance straight through his heart.

  The streak of silver snapped Geoffrey out of his daze; he stepped aside and parried, then leaped in close, wrist circling to catch her blade in a bind—but she leaped in, too, corps d corps, body to body, each long quivering muscle of hers against his, thigh to thigh, arm to arm, breast to chest ...

  For a moment, he froze; but she had outsmarted herself, for she froze, too, and their gazes locked. For an instant, it seemed to him that he could see all the way to the depths of her soul, so clear and pure it was, and he could not take his gaze away ...

  Then her lips writhed in a snarl, and that clearness filled with fire.

  She leaped back, sword cutting and thrusting—but he parried and waited, for the thrusts were slower and slower now, though he must keep his eyes resolutely on her face, his gaze on hers, taking in the sword but never looking squarely at it, for her torso would be behind it ... Then she thrust, but just a little too slowly now, and he caught her blade in a circle again, a double circle twisting hard against her thumb, and the sword snapped free from tired fingers to go spinning through the air. Her whole band shouted, but even now he did not trust himself to look down to her heart, only touched his sword to her throat, rested the tip against the delicious hollow at its base that he longed to kiss and taste, but held himself back, panting, and said, quite clearly (which amazed him), "Yield!"

  She stood frozen, her chest heaving as she panted, glaring murder into his eyes, but not daring to move. "Yield yourself unto me," he said more gently.

  "I must, must I not?" she said, with full bitterness. "No!" cried the chief of her bodyguard, and the Amazons shouted as they leaped, their swords out. Her whole army pressed forward with one mighty shout.