by Speer, Flora
“I am sure she will be calmer once she feels safer,” Fionna said.
“Stop making excuses for her. Janet would discover a reason to argue with the Archangel Gabriel.”
“I love her.” Fionna faced him with tears in her eyes. “When we were little girls, Janet was all I had. And I was all she had. I don’t understand what has happened to her. She has changed.”
“Perhaps, she’s angry over having been left at Abercorn for ten years. Having seen the place and met the abbess, I could easily understand that explanation.” Quentin glanced at Janet, then looked back at Fionna. In a softer voice he asked, “Shall I help you to mount?”
“Yes, please,” she answered meekly. At the moment she had no desire left for a quarrel with him.
The touch of Quentin’s hand on her back as he guided her toward the horses was sweet to her, and the look in his eyes when he lifted her to the saddle told her he did not hold Janet’s continuing rudeness against her. Fionna set off that morning with her heart lighter than it had been for days.
At mid-morning they left the forest behind and rode onto a high, open moorland that was cloaked in heather. And there, coming toward them across the moor they spotted another troop of about a dozen horsemen.
“They aren’t showing banners. Can you tell from here whether it’s your brothers?” asked Quentin, who was riding next to Fionna.
“I can’t see their faces clearly from this distance,” she responded, “but I do believe that is Gillemore’s grey stallion.”
“Then I am glad you are wearing your wimple,” Quentin said. “It’ll serve as a disguise. Keep your head down and we’ll hope they don’t recognize you.”
“They won’t.” Fionna sounded surer than she felt. “They think I’m dead.”
“Let them continue to think so,” Quentin said.
As the two troops moved closer together, Royce’s men shifted their positions so Fionna and Janet rode in the middle of the group, surrounded by men-at-arms. Royce rode in the forefront with Braedon at his right side displaying the tall lance from which flew Royce’s red and blue personal banner. Sir William was on Royce’s left. Farther back, Cadwallon was riding next to Janet, with Quentin staying close by Fionna.
“If they notice you at all,” Quentin said to Fionna, “they will probably think from the quality of the cloak you are wearing that you are Royce’s lady, and that Janet is your maid. Don’t say or do anything to draw attention to yourself and we may be able to pass by and continue on our way. I’d take great pleasure in killing both of your brothers for what they did to you, but this is not the time, not with ladies present. It’ll be far better if they learn later that they inadvertently let us slip out of their grasp. That knowledge, when they receive it, ought to infuriate them,” he finished with a wolfish smile.
Dreading the possibility of bloodshed, Fionna did as Quentin advised. She scarcely dared to raise her eyes, let alone raise her face, when Royce greeted the approaching warriors.
“Well met, my lords,” Royce called, slowing his horse as the leaders of the two troops drew abreast of each other. “A fine day for travel, is it not?”
“Who are you?” a rude voice responded to Royce’s polite greeting. “Where are you bound?”
Fionna recognized Murdoch’s loud and abrupt manner of speech. A quick upward glance revealed his bulky shape and dark hair and brows. Gillemore’s slighter form, with similar features and matching dark hair, was next to that of his older brother. Though she was trying to keep her face down, Fionna was aware of Quentin’s head turning briefly in her direction when her hands tightened on the reins.
“I am Royce, the baron of Wortham, returning from an embassy to King Alexander,” Royce answered in a cheerful tone. “A fine man, your king.”
“D’ye think so?” asked Murdoch with a sneer. “And what were ye doin’ wi’ wee Alex?”
“In the name of King Henry of England,” Royce said, “we’ve made an agreement not to war against each other. You may look forward to years of peace along the border.”
“I’m sure I’m delighted to hear it,” Murdoch said, still sneering, making plain his personal disinclination for peace.
“So should we all be pleased,” Royce told him with no diminution of his cheerful manner. “If you are riding to Edinburgh, will you carry my repeated thanks to your good king?”
“I’m not for Edinburgh,” Murdoch said. “I’m goin’ to a family weddin’, and I am a day overdue.”
“In that case, I wish joy to the happy couple,” Royce said, “and a safe journey to you and your men. I’d offer to share a cup of wine with you, but I am also overdue, in England.”
“Good day to ye, then,” Murdoch said.
Fionna took a long breath and held it, praying, daring to hope Murdoch and Gillemore and their people would ride on and the danger would end.
It would, indeed, have ended there, if Gillemore, who had an eye for the ladies and especially for girls of lower rank who wouldn’t dare refuse his advances, had not tried to get a better view of the girl he apparently supposed was no more than a maidservant. As Murdoch took his leave of Royce, Gillemore looked hard at Janet, taking in her uncovered, bright red braids and her blushing cheeks.
“Well, now!” Gillemore exclaimed. “Here’s a likely lass. My lord Royce, I’ll trade ye a horse for her.”
Fionna, still with her head resolutely lowered, saw out of the corner of her eye how Quentin’s hand went to his sword hilt. An instant later a similar movement from Cadwallon’s direction told her he, too, was preparing for a fight.
“The girl to whom you refer is a distant cousin to my lady,” Royce said stiffly. “Such a transaction is utterly unthinkable.”
“Judging by her clothing, she’s only a serving wench, not a relative,” Gillemore argued. “Let me borrow her for an hour or two and I’ll give her back only a little the worse for wear.”
Fionna heard Janet gasp in outrage. Before anyone could say another word Janet’s chin was high and she was shouting at her brother.
“Isn’t that just like you, Gillemore! How dare you make such a suggestion to your own sister? You may not recognize me after so many years apart, but oh, I do remember you rutting amongst the serving girls at Dungalash!”
“Be quiet, woman!” Cadwallon ordered. He caught the bridle of Janet’s horse, to prevent the girl from riding directly at Gillemore as she was trying to do. Cadwallon issued a second order through tight lips. “Keep your mouth shut!”
His caution came too late. Gillemore had halted to stare at the rude maidservant, while Murdoch was pulling his horse around to return and join the dispute.
“I will not be quiet!” Janet yelled at Cadwallon. “Not when I have been insulted!” She struck at his hands, trying to make him release her horse.
“What the devil?” Gillemore exclaimed, squinting to peer at Janet. “Who is this wench?”
“Do you not recognize me? It’s me, Janet, you wicked monster!” Janet cried.
“Janet?” Gillemore exclaimed, sounding baffled by the girl’s accusations.
By then Murdoch had recognized his sister.
“What are you doing here?” Murdoch demanded. “Why have you left Abercorn?”
“Try to kill your sister, will you?” Janet screamed at them, looking from Gillemore to Murdoch. “Try to force me to marry that disgusting Colum, will you? How could you be so brutal to your own blood kin? Both of you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. But I doubt you know the meaning of shame!”
Janet continued to upbraid her brothers in a loud voice, but no one was listening to her any longer. She was shouting in the midst of a battlefield.
To Fionna’s eyes the scene was so completely muddled that she could barely make out what was happening. She could hear men yelling, and could hear the awful sound of sword clashing upon sword-blade, but she could no longer see Quentin in the melee. She tried to reach Janet, only to be stopped by two of Royce’s men-at-arms, who were struggling with a pair of
bare-legged Scots.
Suddenly, a mailed fist seized the harness of her horse and she realized that Quentin was pulling her to one side, out of the fray.
“Braedon!” Quentin called. “Guard Fionna with your life.” He tossed the reins to the squire.
“No!” Fionna shrieked in terror for him. “Quentin, don’t leave me!”
But Quentin was already gone, riding straight into the worst of the fighting. Fionna saw his arm raised, saw his sword strike downward. Sickened, she looked away, into Braedon’s accusing eyes. The squire bore a small gash just above his left eyebrow, proof that he hadn’t avoided the fighting.
“Your sister deserves to be soundly beaten,” Braeden said.
“I just pray she’s still alive,” Fionna responded, knowing the accusation was justified.
The two warrior bands were evenly matched in numbers, but Royce’s men were far better disciplined. Soon the battle was all but over, and Murdoch and Gillemore were in retreat. They fled with their comrades across the moor to the distant hills, dragging their wounded and dead with them, and howling threats of vengeance to come later. Royce called back his troop, letting the defeated Scots escape.
“We haven’t lost anyone,” Royce said after a hasty count of men-at-arms, squires, and servants. “Murdoch wasn’t so fortunate. Despite his threats, I don’t think he’ll bother us again for a while. All the same, I want to be gone from here. We’ll ride on until we find a more defensible location than this moor, and there we’ll make our camp.
“As for you,” Royce said to Janet, “look around and count the men who were wounded, who might have been killed, because you couldn’t hold your tongue. Think of the men on the other side who were killed.”
“I am sorry,” Janet said. She sat her horse white-faced and weeping, with her eyes grown huge at the sights she had beheld over the past hour.
Fionna was torn between pity for her and a most unsisterly desire to slap Janet’s face in retaliation for the harm she had so thoughtlessly invoked.
“When we make camp,” Royce said, still speaking to Janet, “you are going to help bind up the wounds.”
“Oh, yes,” Janet agreed, offering no excuses and making no protest, “I will. I’ll do anything I can to repair some of the damage I’ve caused.”
Royce pushed them onward for another couple of hours, saying he wanted to put as much distance as possible between Murdoch’s wild Scots and his own people. Finally, he chose a sheltered spot nestled against a steep hill. There he posted sentries. While Royce’s servants were erecting the tents, Fionna went to work helping to tend the wounded. Most of the men had sustained cuts or scratches. Only two were hurt badly enough to rouse serious concerns for their welfare. Those were the two men whom Royce assigned to Janet’s care.
“Cadwallon will assist you with them,” Royce said. He lifted one finger to stop the protest Janet began to voice at the mention of Cadwallon’s name. “Cadwallon is strong enough to hold them down while you sew up their wounds. I trust you will learn something from the experience.” With that, Royce left her.
To Fionna’s surprise, Braedon was proving to be a useful aid to her in her own efforts at sewing and bandaging. Braedon’s hands were deft, and while he spoke little, what he did say seemed to be comforting to the wounded men.
“Thank you,” Fionna said to him as they finished with the last of the injured. She sat back on her heels and rolled her shoulders to relax her tight muscles after more than an hour of bending over men who were sitting or lying on the ground. “Braedon, are you sure you don’t want me to clean that wound on your forehead? I will gladly tend to it.”
“It’s nothing, barely a scratch,” Braedon answered. He eyed her for a moment before continuing. “However, Quentin wasn’t so fortunate.”
“What do you mean?” Fionna leapt to her feet and looked around, expecting to see Quentin.
“He’s in his tent with a lacerated arm,” Braedon said.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? All this time, I thought he was with Royce. I didn’t know he was injured.”
“He wouldn’t have let you – or anyone else – touch him until the men-at-arms were cared for,” Braedon said. “That’s Quentin’s way. It’s one reason why his men will follow him anywhere. If you can find some clean bandages, I’ll fetch a bowl of fresh water from the stream and I’ll meet you in his tent.”
Chapter 11
Fionna found Quentin sitting on the side of his cot, holding a bloody cloth to his upper left arm. Someone, either Braedon or one of the other squires, had divested him of his heavy chainmail and his gambeson, so he wore only his linen knee-length under-breeches. From the bucket of dirty water near the cot Fionna guessed he had made an attempt to bathe. His hair was damp and his face and upper body were clean.
“I thought Braedon was coming to see to this,” Quentin said, indicating his injured arm.
“He’ll be here in a moment. Let me look at it.” Fionna sat next to him and pulled his hand away from the wound.
“It bled freely at first, which is a good sign,” Quentin said.
“Yes, I know it is.” Gingerly, she poked at his arm above and below the wound. “The bleeding has stopped now, which is a better sign.”
“Yes.” His fingers rested on top of hers.
She looked into his eyes, then found she could not look away.
“You could have been killed,” she whispered, horrified by the possibility.
“But I wasn’t,” he said, smiling a little.
“I am so glad.” Still his eyes held hers.
“Quentin—”
“Here’s the water.” Braedon came into the tent bearing a bowl and a pitcher, both of which he set down on a stool. Neither Quentin nor Fionna paid any attention to him. Braedon cleared his throat. “I brought some wine, too. Tell me how I can help.”
“I will see to Quentin’s injury.” Tearing her gaze away from Quentin was difficult, but Fionna managed to do it, so she could look at Braedon. “I don’t think it needs sewing, just a bit of wine poured over it and a clean bandage.”
“I’ll be glad to bandage it,” Braedon offered.
“Go and find something to eat,” Fionna said to him. “After the last few hours you’ve earned a bit of rest. You ought to see to that cut on your forehead, too. I’ll stay with Quentin.”
Braedon looked from Fionna to Quentin as if he was seeking the answer to a question he’d rather not ask. Then he nodded and silently departed, taking care to close and fasten the tent flap after himself.
Bandaging the wound took Fionna only a few moments. Apologizing for it took much longer.
“This is my sister’s fault,” she said, keeping her gaze on the strip of leftover linen she was trying to reroll neatly, though her fingers were trembling badly.
“Murdoch’s party could have been trying to provoke a quarrel,” Quentin said. “Certainly, Gillemore was deliberately insulting. I cannot blame Janet for taking offense.”
“I can blame her. Janet started the battle. If only she’d had sense enough to keep quiet and let Royce handle the situation, Gillemore would have given up making nasty suggestions. Then they’d have ridden on and never recognized her. Or me.”
“I’m not sure they did recognize you. They weren’t expecting to see you, remember. And you did nothing to call attention to yourself.”
“What does it matter now? They know Janet has left Abercorn. They’ll try to get her back. They have to, for she is Colum’s reward. They will attack again. More men will be injured. Perhaps, some will die of their injuries. All because I couldn’t leave my sister to her fate, and because Janet must argue whenever she’s afraid.” Fionna heaved a great sigh. “I wish I had never involved you, or your friends, in my problems.”
“I involved myself. Or have you forgotten how we met?” Quentin caught Fionna’s hand just as she was bending to lay the rolled-up bandage on the stool. He gave one sharp tug and she was sitting on his lap. “Janet is Colum’s reward for d
oing what?’ he asked.
Fionna didn’t answer. She didn’t want to think about Colum, or about her brothers. Quentin filled her thoughts and all of her senses. His thighs were hard, solid muscle. His arms were strong coils around her. She put her hands on his shoulders, feeling the strength of him beneath her fingers.
“I am so sorry you were hurt,” she whispered, knowing if it became necessary he’d fight again, to the death if need be, to protect her and her irritating, thoughtless sister.
“I’m not sorry,” he said. “Not if being slightly hurt gave us this moment together.”
He tightened his arms, pulling her nearer, until her breasts were pressing against his bare chest. She wished her chest was bare, too, so she could feel the texture of his body hair against her skin. The thought came unbidden, startling her, making her gasp as a remembered warmth swept over her.
Then Quentin kissed her. It was not an exploratory kiss, aimed at discovering what her reaction would be. Nor was it a desperate kiss, as if he thought they could be interrupted at any moment and he’d better do it quickly, if he was going to do it at all. No, this was a firm and leisurely kiss, a kiss that said he expected a warm response from her, but would not force her if she chose to reject the touch of his lips on hers.
Gently he coaxed her to open her mouth. Smoothly his tongue slid into her. When Fionna wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back with no hint of hesitation or of question, Quentin spread his thighs a bit, letting her feel his arousal.
As he doubtless intended should happen, Fionna recalled the pleasure he had shown her the last time they had been alone and so intimate together.
“Thank heaven you weren’t killed,” she murmured when he finally released her mouth to bury his face in her throat.
“I am very much alive,” he said, his laugh a warm breath against her ear. “As you can surely tell.”
Quentin knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. Always, in the aftermath of battle when he found himself still alive, he experienced an upwelling of relief and of exuberance in the simple fact of his continued existence. It was this exultation combined with a bit of lingering blood-lust that made him kiss Fionna so eagerly.