Love Above All

by Speer, Flora

  “You are without a doubt the most ungrateful wretch I have ever encountered,” he told her. “The least you could do is say ‘thank you’ to someone who offers honest aid.”

  “I thought you were Braedon. He has an unpleasant habit of smiling as if he knows too much about me.”

  “Shall I command him never to smile in your presence?”

  “Put that way, it does sound like a ridiculous complaint,” she admitted. “However, I do not like being continually reminded that two men remember undressing me.”

  “Would you have preferred us to leave you to die by the river? You would have died, if we hadn’t found you and cared for you. There was nothing improper in what we did. To us, you were merely one of God’s creatures, in desperate need of help. It is an insult to me, and to Braedon, for you to suggest otherwise.”

  The rebuke stung. Ashamed of the way she had acted, Fionna wished she could crawl away and hide in some private place, where she could cry in peace and then sleep until she felt well again. But there could be no rest for her. She had to reach Janet in time to protect her from their vicious brothers and to prevent Janet’s forced marriage to Colum.

  She couldn’t tell Quentin the truth lest he decide to ride back across Liddel Water to find and confront Murdoch and Gillemore. They’d kill him; she knew they would. They’d not do it honorably, either. Fionna wanted Quentin alive and in England, so she’d be free of the debt she owed him and, thus, free to help Janet. Until they reached England she’d have to pacify Quentin and allay any suspicions he held about her.

  “You are correct, and I apologize,” she told him. “I have been ungrateful. I should have thanked you earlier today, as soon as I understood what you have done for me. Quentin, I do thank you, with all my heart, for saving my life and for offering to help me rescue my sister. I have received so little kindness recently that I’ve forgotten how to accept it.”

  “No kindness?” Quentin’s hand rested on her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of it through the heavy cloak and her gown.

  “My brothers are not loving kin,” she murmured, fighting the urge to lean against his manly strength.

  “I did surmise as much.” His hand moved a little closer to her neck, to a location where his fingertips could just touch a wisp of hair that was curling loosely over her ear.

  “My mother died in childbirth when I was eight and Janet was six,” Fionna said. She knew she ought to move away from Quentin, yet she couldn’t seem to make herself do what she ought, because part of her longed to draw nearer, instead. Trembling, not certain what to do next or how to act with him, she began to speak rapidly to cover her confusion. “Murdoch and Gillemore were almost grown men at the time, and our father was always busy, so Janet and I clung to each other. I raised her as best I could. Since Father sent her away to school, I’ve been alone. I haven’t seen my sister for almost ten years.”

  “Why weren’t you sent to school, too?” Perhaps sensing her nervousness Quentin removed his hand from her shoulder.

  “I already knew how to write and count, and how to speak French. Years ago, there was a priest at Dungalash who taught me. While my father was alive, he needed a chatelaine, so he kept me at home. After he died, Murdoch said I must stay away from Janet, lest I infect her with my intransigent spirit.”

  Quentin was looking at her with a peculiar intensity, as if he could gaze straight into her soul and discover all of her secrets.

  “I see,” he said softly.

  Fionna prayed he did not see what she didn’t want him to know. She told herself she felt nothing for him, that her breathlessness and trembling was no more than the aftermath of immersion in a cold river, followed by a long morning’s ride. She had decided what she was going to do, and she wasn’t going to allow a change in her plans. She wanted Quentin to think he knew her well enough to lay aside any suspicions about her, so he’d relax his guard and she could get away from him more easily when the time came. And she hadn’t lied to him, not really. She just hadn’t told him everything she knew.

  But she did feel guilty about what she hadn’t revealed. While she wavered, trying to decide whether to tell him anything more, or not, and if so, how much to tell him, Quentin spoke again.

  “Can you go on?” he asked. “We should reach Carlisle by sundown. I can promise you a room to yourself and a comfortable bed for tonight.”

  “Carlisle,” she repeated. “It should be almost as safe as England.”

  While the oft-disputed territory of Cumbria was ruled by King Alexander’s younger brother, David, and was presently considered to be part of Scotland, David spent most of his time at the court of King Henry of England. A strong English influence permeated Cumbria, especially Carlisle, the largest town. Many Scots, including Fionna’s brothers, resented that encroaching influence and feared its northward spread.

  Fionna was glad of the English presence, for it meant Quentin would be safe in Cumbria. She wouldn’t have to warn him of what Murdoch and Gillemore had planned. They couldn’t touch Quentin once he was within the walls of Carlisle Castle, and after he left the castle, he’d be heading too far south for her brothers to reach him. That meant Fionna could leave Quentin with her obligation to him discharged. From Carlisle, she could ride directly north to Abercorn.

  “I will have a guard posted at your door tonight,” Quentin said as if to reassure her, “so no one can enter to frighten you or try to take you away and harm you again.”

  The guard would also keep her in, preventing her from making her escape until after they left Carlisle and were even farther south. She foresaw days of hard riding before she reached Abercorn. She prayed she wouldn’t be too late to save Janet.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, knowing she must quell any lingering suspicions Quentin harbored about her, yet still feeling guilty about deceiving him. “You are far kinder to me than I deserve.”

  Quentin wished he could be kinder still. She looked worn out, though the day was only half over. He wanted to suggest she ride pillion behind him, but knew he couldn’t do it. As leader of his party he needed to be ready for immediate action in case of trouble. He couldn’t be on constant alert with a woman sharing his horse and distracting him with her presence.

  He could have ordered her to ride behind Cadwallon or Giles, or one of the other men-at-arms, but he couldn’t tolerate the thought of Fionna’s arms wrapped around another man’s waist, or of her soft breasts pressing against someone else’s back. He couldn’t stand the idea of any other man touching her, however casually.

  He wanted her. Something about Fionna touched a tender chord deep in his usually dispassionate warrior’s heart. Quentin couldn’t understand it. He liked women well enough, but always kept his feelings under control. His reaction to Fionna wasn’t because she was a lady in distress, for she clearly did not see herself as a victim of her brothers’ machinations.

  Quentin wasn’t sure whether it was her refusal to give way to tears and panic after nearly being murdered, or her insistence on helping her sister as soon as possible, or her gallant refusal to admit to weakness in spite of what was clearly a lingering indisposition, that had endeared her to him so quickly. Since he was certain Fionna would never admit to weakness, perhaps her stubborn pride was the source of her attraction for him. He knew about pride. He possessed too much of it, himself.

  He ached with the urge to put his arms around her, to cover her sweet, rosy mouth with his. The memory of her smooth skin was imprinted on his hands. Her legs were long and graceful; he recalled their white slenderness with almost painful clarity. He wanted to stroke her legs, and hear Fionna gasp with pleasure when he touched her.

  “You must eat something,” he said, more gruffly than he intended. “Bread and cheese will fortify you for the rest of the ride. Tonight you’ll enjoy a hot meal and a long rest. Tomorrow, you will feel much stronger, I promise. Sitting a horse won’t be so tiring then.”

  “I do hope so,” she said in a dry tone that made Quentin look
sharply at her. She wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the loaf of bread that Cadwallon was dividing and handing around to the men.

  She ate more than Quentin expected, and he smiled to see her snatch a last piece of bread to take with her, as if she feared she’d be hungry again before they reached Carlisle. Then he noticed how furtively she tucked the bread into the blanket behind her saddle, and his heart sank as he realized she was hoarding food for some private purpose.

  “By heaven,” he muttered as he swung back into the saddle, “I will learn why you aren’t being honest with me, and what it is you haven’t told me.”

  Night was falling by the time they reached Carlisle. Torches flickered at the castle entrance, allowing Fionna a quick look at the high walls. Then they were across the drawbridge and through the gatehouse into the bailey, and Quentin was speaking to one of the guards. When the men-at-arms began to dismount Fionna got off her horse, too, to avoid the need to refuse help from Quentin or anyone else.

  “A moment, if you please,” she said to the squire – thankfully not Braedon – who came to take the horse’s reins. She began to fumble with the strap that held her blanket.

  “I’ll do it for you, my lady,” the squire offered.

  “No need. I have it. Thank you just the same.” She smiled at him, hoping he’d assume it was a Scottish custom for every rider, even a noblewoman, to see to her own blanket or saddlebags. She folded the ends of the blanket together to keep the hidden bread from spilling out and tucked it under one arm. Just in time, too. Quentin was approaching.

  “I’ll take that,” he said, reaching for the blanket.

  “No.” She shied away from him. “I have no wish to be more of a burden to you than I already am. You must allow me to care for myself, with no special privileges.” She met his gaze squarely, trying to appear innocent, trusting to the exaggerated light and shadows of the torch flames to make it difficult for him to discern her true, guilty intentions.

  “As you wish.” Quentin took her arm to guide her toward the stairs leading to the keep.

  Never having been inside a Norman fortress, Fionna looked around with interest. The stone keep wasn’t as large as she expected after having viewed the height and thickness of the outer walls. The ceiling was low and she could see that the structure was built to be easily defended. Once the drawbridge was raised no one could get into or out of the castle, and invaders who broke through the outer defenses would likely be stopped when the heavy door of the keep was closed and bolted.

  There would be no escape for Fionna until after Quentin’s group left Carlisle. She was so weary that she was glad not to have to think of a way out. For one night she could relax her guard just a little. She would eat as much as she possibly could, and steal more food to hide away, and she’d sleep for as long as Quentin would allow. Then she’d be ready to make her escape.

  “Welcome, Quentin.” A heavy-set man came toward them, one hand extended to grasp Quentin’s. “It’s good to see you back at last. I was beginning to worry about you.”

  “No need for concern, my lord Walter,” Quentin said with a smile. “We were merely delayed by heavy rains.”

  “How went your discussions with King Alexander?”

  “Very well,” Quentin said. “King Henry will be pleased, and so will you, to hear there is little chance of hostilities between our countries.”

  “It’s what I’ve hoped and prayed for. I’ve seen too many battles. I would like to spend my remaining years in peace, with Agnes and our children.”

  “My lord, this is Lady Fionna, who is traveling with me, under my protection,” Quentin said. To Fionna he added, “Lord Walter is the constable of Carlisle Castle.”

  “My lord.” Recalling her mother’s lessons when she was a wee girl, Fionna curtsied.

  “I’ll give you into my wife’s care,” Lord Walter said. “Agnes will be glad to see to your needs. I will expect you to join us for the evening meal.”

  He signaled to a maidservant, who hastened forward with undisguised eagerness at a chance to speak with the guests. Fionna looked to Quentin for direction, but he only smiled and thanked Lord Walter for his generous hospitality. He never even glanced at Fionna.

  Barely resisting the urge to kick Quentin on his chainmail-covered shins in reprisal for the way he was ignoring her, Fionna accepted the maid’s invitation to conduct her to Lady Agnes’ chamber. She followed the maid up a narrow, curving stone staircase.

  With every step she took Fionna was more impressed by the solid way Carlisle Castle was built and by the heavily armed guards who patrolled it. How could her brothers imagine they had any chance of dislodging the Normans who were seeping into the lowlands of Scotland like a slow but steady flood? Had either Murdoch, or Gillemore, ever actually seen a Norman castle? Did they think Normans built wooden fortresses like their own home, or like Duncaron, places that could easily be set on fire and destroyed? From what she had seen so far, the Normans were invincible.

  Lady Agnes’ solar was a pleasant contrast to the rest of the castle, though even in so private a bower the windows were no more than arrow slits. Still, brilliantly colored tapestries warmed the stone walls, while the crackling logs in the fireplace added more heat to banish the autumn dampness. A large embroidery frame was set up near the fire, where the lady and her maids could work on it in comfort. So late in the day it was too dark for fine needlework, so the constable’s wife was playing a board game with dice and ivory markers.

  Upon seeing Fionna and hearing the maid’s explanation of her presence, Lady Agnes set down the dice cup and came to meet her with a pleasant smile and outstretched hands. Her red silk skirts rustled when she walked and the gold mesh confining her dark hair glittered in the firelight.

  “How nice to have a guest to relieve our boredom,” Lady Agnes said.

  “I doubt if you’ll find me very entertaining,” Fionna replied.

  “Are there servants with you, who will require beds this night?”

  “No, my lady. I come to you alone, save for Lord Quentin’s escort.”

  “No matter. You may use one of my maids. Where are your belongings?”

  “I have only the blanket I carry,” Fionna admitted, feeling more and more embarrassed by her bedraggled appearance before the elegant Lady Agnes.

  “No baggage?” Lady Agnes’ thin, plucked eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “No, my lady. I – I was in an accident. All of my belongings are gone, lost in Liddel Water, which is presently in flood. Everything I owned was swept away.” It was the best excuse she could think of on the spur of the moment, and she silently cursed Quentin for failing to provide her with a suitable story to explain why she possessed only the clothes she was wearing.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” Lady Agnes said, one slender white hand resting on Fionna’s arm. She seemed genuinely concerned. “Were you injured? I am a tolerable physician, as my husband and many of his men-at-arms will confirm, and we have an excellent barber in residence, if you require bleeding.”

  “I have suffered no serious hurt,” Fionna said, “though I did receive a blow to my head. Lord Quentin believes I was unconscious for several hours as a result of it. That’s why I can’t remember anything about the accident, or how it happened. But I am recovering now.”

  There, that ought to satisfy Lady Agnes’ curiosity. If she wanted more information she would have to ask Quentin. Fionna repressed a grin at the thought of Quentin trying to invent an explanation when he didn’t know how much of her true circumstances she had revealed to their hostess.

  “Well,” Lady Agnes said, apparently accepting Fionna’s story, “after riding all day I am sure you will welcome a hot bath. I will have one of my servants find a gown you may borrow for the evening.”

  “Please, no, you are too kind.” Fionna scarcely knew how to respond to such generosity.

  “Nonsense. It is my duty to treat a guest well.” Lady Agnes’ warm and charming smile suggested it was also her pleasure.
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  Fionna stopped protesting. Thoughts of hot water to ease her aching muscles, and of the chance to wear something other than the woolen gown that was in sorry condition after being soaked in Liddel Water, presented an irresistible temptation.

  Lady Agnes personally escorted her to a guest chamber built into the fifteen-foot stone thickness of the castle wall. She supervised preparation of a bath scented with dried lavender flowers and rosemary leaves, approved the green silk gown and matching slippers that one of her maidservants brought for Fionna to wear, and then, with the discretion of a good hostess, she left Fionna alone.

  “I’ll send someone to you in an hour,” Lady Agnes promised, “in case you need help dressing or arranging your hair – or in case you fall asleep in the tub, as I often do after a long day in the saddle.”

  Fionna bolted the door before she unrolled the blanket to check on the bread stored in its folds. If she possessed a pouch of some kind there would be less chance of losing the bread. But the blanket would have to serve as her food safe. She folded it up again and tucked it under the mattress, where she didn’t think anyone would notice it.

  Only then did she settle into the tub. One of the maids had left a bowl of lavender-scented soap. Fionna scooped up a handful and began to wash. Never before in her life had she experienced such luxury. And never since the death of her mother had anyone been as kind to her as Lady Agnes.

  Except for Quentin. Fionna’s hands stilled on her soapy knee while she considered Quentin’s lifesaving kindness to her. Without him, she’d be dead. His strong hands had lifted her from the icy riverbank, and he had clasped her to him all night, providing her with his own vital warmth. He had held her naked body, and left her unmolested.

  And she had rewarded him with rudeness and lies.

  “Quentin.” She whispered his name softly, fearing someone passing by outside the chamber would hear it. He was a good man, an honest man. She had witnessed the respect in which his men held him, had seen how easily Cadwallon and Braedon joked with him and how gladly Lord Walter welcomed him to Carlisle. Only she thought he was arrogant.