by Speer, Flora
But it was she who pushed him back to lie upon the cot, and she who took his hand and placed it on her breast.
At first Quentin lay perfectly still, his chivalrous nature contending with his aching desire for the woman whose bright blue eyes shone with undisguised longing as she gazed down at him. She was still wearing the plain linen wimple, the cloth concealing her hair. Quentin wanted to see Fionna’s glorious hair, wanted to run his hands through the thick, curling mass of it.
The part of the wimple Quentin could see was attached by straight pins to two narrow linen bands. One of the bands circled Fionna’s brow and was fastened at the back of her head with a pin. The second band wrapped under her chin to the top of her head. The square linen cloth that formed the visible part of the wimple was folded and pinned to the bands, to keep it securely in place.
Quentin was unwilling to spend the time necessary to unfold and unpin the tight construction. Instead, he ran his hand along Fionna’s shoulder to the nape of her neck. Then he jerked the entire wimple, bands, folded cloth and all, off her head and over her face and tossed it aside. Her hair was tied back with a ragged strip of cloth. This he easily snapped to let her dark brown curls fall free around her face.
“Oh!” Fionna clapped a hand to her temple, where one of the pins had scratched her perfect skin, leaving behind a tiny trail of blood.
Quentin pulled her head down, to kiss the spot and stop the bleeding with his tongue.
“Quentin!” she cried in surprise.
He could feel her trembling, could feel her soft breasts pressed against him once more. She wasn’t fighting him.
There was barely room enough for both of them on his narrow cot, but lack of space didn’t stop him. One quick twist and Fionna lay beneath him, with her hair spread across his pillow. When Quentin touched her mouth with his, she put her arms around him.
Quentin couldn’t stop himself. He was alive; the wound on his arm was nothing; and Fionna wanted him as desperately as he wanted her. Despite all the reasons why they should not come together, it was bound to happen. He had known it for days and he thought she must have known it, too.
She accepted his plundering kiss, sucking on his tongue and whimpering with pleasure. She lifted her hips against his hardness, seeking closer contact.
“Help me,” she murmured when the kiss ended, using the first words she had ever spoken to him. “Quentin, my dress; I can’t move.”
As a result of the way he had pulled her onto the cot the garment was twisted around her legs. Quentin longed to tear it from her shoulders, but he was still sensible enough to remember she’d need to wear the dress again. He helped her to untangle the skirt and to tug the fabric up and over her head. Her shift followed the same path, both garments flung on top of the discarded wimple, and Fionna lay naked on his narrow bed. Smiling a little, surely aware of the huge swelling under his sole remaining piece of linen, she reached for the drawstring at the waist of his under-breeches.
A warning sounded at the back of Quentin’s mind. He knew he had no right to ravish a noble maiden, and King Henry had mentioned plans for his future. But he had come so close – so uncomfortably close! – to having Fionna once before, when he had deliberately frustrated his longing by his own decision. Furthermore, he had almost unwillingly carried the vision of her unclothed body in his memory since the night when he had found her beside Liddel Water.
And he was alive after a vicious battle – painfully, eagerly, urgently alive!
He brushed Fionna’s trembling hands aside and himself tore off the last garment that lay between them.
She was smiling at him, apparently unafraid of his swollen size or of what he was going to do to her.
Quentin bent his head to kiss her breasts. Fionna groaned and caught at his hair, urging him onward.
Even in his present over-eager condition he wasn’t going to give way to his body’s urgent demand that he take what she offered without a care for her pleasure. He had given her a taste of a woman’s delight during their night in the forest hut, and ever since then he’d sensed her longing for more.
He proceeded to show her what it meant to be a woman who was aroused and eager for her lover. As he slowly caressed every inch of her warm, incredibly smooth skin, Quentin found his own delight growing with Fionna’s soft cries of mounting pleasure, and with her innocent attempts to return his every caress in kind.
Her breasts were soft under his fingers, and her pink nipples stood up firm and hard when he suckled on them. He was surprised at his own reaction when she lavished similar attention on his nipples. No other woman had ever thought to please him in that way.
Fionna’s throat was a lovely, inviting column against which to rest his face while he told her how beautiful she was. Her legs were long and graceful, tapering to dainty ankles and feet. Her hips were wonderfully rounded, the soft flesh rising to meet his touch when he stroked her.
“I love your hands,” she whispered.
“As for your hands,” he whispered back, shivering in impending ecstasy, “they are tempting devils. Fionna, stop that! You will drive me mad.”
“Do you think so?”
She didn’t stop. Instead, she continued what she was doing until he feared he would burst asunder and disgrace himself. Clearly, their mutual torment could not continue much longer.
He lifted himself over her. Gently he separated her thighs, while she smiled at him without the slightest sign of fear. He moved until his rigid hardness was teasing at the entrance to her sweet body. From the moist softness he found there, he recognized that she was ready.
Fionna sighed and whispered, “Yes, please.”
Quentin thought he’d die at that moment, convinced he was beyond self-control. Somehow, he made himself wait, holding back until Fionna, with a soft whimper of need, lifted herself to receive him.
Looking directly at her, so he’d notice the first hint of pain or rejection on her lovely face – though how he’d stop himself if she changed her mind, he didn’t know – Quentin pushed slowly into her until he reached the barrier of her innocence.
Fionna caught her breath but did not look away from him, nor did she cry out when he pressed himself more firmly against the barrier, stretching and breaking it, making her his, owning Fionna’s warmth and grace, possessing her for all time. He moved resolutely past the tattered remnant of her maidenhood until he was buried so deeply and truly within her that they were no longer two beings but one, indissoluble and complete.
She sighed and shifted a little, as if to adjust to his penetration. The movement drew him deeper still, to the very core of her.
Quentin gazed into her eyes, bright as sapphires, warm with trust and happiness. He watched her smile, and in that moment a new kind of happiness blossomed within him, growing, unfurling, warming his weary heart. He forgot all other women. From that moment until the end of his life, he knew there would be no one else for him but Fionna.
She moved again, innocently encouraging him to move, too. The last twinges of discomfort from his wound vanished. So did the last, faint warning of his conscience. What they were doing was not wrong, it was gloriously, beautifully right. Fionna lifted her mouth to his and with soaring joy Quentin accepted the offered gift of her parted lips.
She wound her arms around his back and began to stroke along his spine with a light, skimming touch. Down, down her fingertips moved until they reached his buttocks and the cleft at the end of his spine.
Quentin dissolved into intense, wild joy. He could no more stop the bliss transfusing his being than he could prevent his heart from beating or the moon from rising. He scarcely realized that he was moving faster, driving into Fionna with an urgent, primitive need, hearing as if in a dream of delight her soft, gasping cries. Those wordless feminine sounds conveyed her rising passion, the sounds carrying him onward, luring him toward sweet completion until he felt her convulsing around him, and became aware of his own approaching climax.
He retained just enou
gh sense to cover her mouth with his, to catch their mutual cries so no one would hear and interrupt them before they were finished. And then he floated free with Fionna, into the richest, most profound release he had ever experienced.
Quentin slept with one arm draped loosely across Fionna’s waist. She nestled against him, reliving in memory the way he had touched her, and her eager desire for something more than the simple release he had given her during their first intimate encounter. She could still feel the hard pressure of Quentin’s body moving into her, the remarkable sensation of his size and heat stretching and rending her flesh – and the incredible wonder that followed. She retained a deep awareness of his possession in her aching muscles and in a slight stickiness between her thighs.
Never in her life had she known anything so beautiful. Never had she felt so close to another person.
She lay contentedly in Quentin’s arms until she heard the sound of Janet’s voice raised in annoyance.
With a sigh of regret, Fionna slid from under Quentin’s arm and sat up. He didn’t stir. She found his blanket on the ground at the foot of his cot and used it to cover him, tucking it in around his shoulders, letting her fingers stroke his short, dark hair, half wishing he’d waken and pull her down to lie with him again, while knowing he needed to sleep.
She located her shift and put it on, then splashed her face with some of the cold water Braedon had brought. Quickly she donned her dress and her shoes, all the time aware of Janet talking to someone a short distance from Quentin’s tent. Not wanting to bother with the wimple, she tried to braid her tangled hair. She was almost finished when a hand pulled the tent flap aside.
“Quentin?” Braedon stuck his head in and looked around.
“Wait,” Fionna said softly. “I’ll come out.”
“Is Quentin asleep?” Braedon asked when she stood next to him beside the tent entrance.
“Yes. Must you wake him?”
“No need for that,” Braedon said. “I only disturbed you because your sister has been asking where you are. I told her I’d find you and send you to your tent.”
“Thank you for not letting her wake Quentin,” Fionna said. “He’ll likely sleep for the rest of the night.”
“I’m sure he will.”
Something in Braedon’s voice made her look sharply at him. Though it was dark, she could see his sharp features in the light cast by a nearby campfire. She could see the twinkle in his deep blue eyes, too.
“You know,” she whispered, startled to discover she wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. “How do you know?”
“I could smell it,” Braedon said. “Any man who’s not a monk recognizes the smell of sex. Sometimes Quentin acts like a monk. I’m glad you’ve changed that for him.”
“You are? I thought you disliked me.”
“I did,” Braedon said, “until I saw your reaction when I told you Quentin was wounded. Then I realized you care as deeply for him as his friends do. Though, I suspect you care for him in a somewhat different manner,” he finished with a mischievous grin.
There was no reason to deny what Braedon said. Fionna didn’t want to deny it. But she couldn’t discuss her feelings for Quentin with him.
“Have you cleaned up your wound?” she asked.
“It’s nothing,” he responded, grinning as if he understood her need to change the subject. “It’s a graze, no more.”
“Even a graze can fester.”
“I doused it with wine,” he told her. “It will heal soon, leaving me with an intriguing scar that I can tell stories about, to beguile the ladies. Now, I suggest you go to Janet before she comes looking for you and begins to scold you for spending so much time alone with Quentin. If she scolds, she will certainly waken him and, as you said, he’ll sleep until morning if he’s left undisturbed.”
“Thank you, Braedon.”
“By the way, Janet has spent the evening sitting beside the fire with Cadwallon while the two of them argued over any subject either of them could think of. She never missed you until a short time ago. You may want to remind her of that if she turns difficult with you.”
“I will.” Fionna couldn’t resist the urge to pat Braedon on his muscular arm. She distinctly heard him chuckle as she headed toward the tent where Janet waited.
Chapter 12
In early morning Royce held a conference with Quentin and Cadwallon.
“Have you any idea what they are discussing?” Fionna asked of Braedon.
“I know Quentin is worried about your sister’s safety,” Braedon said. “He doesn’t think you were recognized, but he is seriously concerned over the threats of vengeance the Scots made yesterday before they rode away from the battle. Quentin thinks your brothers may well return soon, this time with a force large enough to defeat us. I suppose he and Royce are deciding on our best defense against an attack.
“There is another problem,” Braedon continued, frowning. “It seems to be a time-hallowed tradition in Scotland for some of the nobles to disapprove of their current king, whoever that king happens to be. From the disrespectful way Murdoch spoke of King Alexander, Quentin thinks he’s one of those untrustworthy men who would like to disrupt the peaceful relations Alexander has established with England, so he can use the disruption for his own ends. Quentin wants to warn King Alexander.”
Quentin was right about Murdoch, as Fionna was well aware. Murdoch was plotting treachery. She hadn’t told Quentin everything she knew about her brother’s plans, because she had originally assumed that Quentin would soon be gone from Scotland. He had remained for her sake and as a result his life was in danger. She did not doubt that Murdoch still wanted Quentin dead.
“If we ride as fast as we can, for as long as daylight lasts each day,” Fionna said, “we can outrun Murdoch and his friends and reach England before they catch us.”
“Are you sure?” Janet had been listening, and now she regarded her sister with a frown. “In order to reach England by the quickest, most direct route, won’t we have to pass dangerously close to Dungalash? Having lived on the border all his life, Murdoch knows these lands better than any Norman stranger possibly could. Wherever we are, Murdoch will find us. Royce should have killed Murdoch when he had the chance.”
Startled by Janet’s comments, Fionna stared at her for a moment before saying, “If Murdoch were dead, Gillemore would take his place, with the authority of a blood feud behind him. No one would dispute Gillemore’s right to exact vengeance for his brother’s death.”
“Then,” said Janet, undeterred by the murderous possibilities, “Royce should have killed Gillemore, too.”
“You are certainly bloodthirsty for a girl who spent ten years shut up in a convent,” Braedon said.
“Abercorn is not completely isolated from the world. I have a mind of my own and good hearing,” Janet said. “I pay attention to what happens around me. I could offer sensible advice, if anyone would ask me. Royce should have included Fionna and me in his council.”
The agreement reached by that council left Fionna dumbfounded.
“We are heading for Edinburgh,” Royce said, “on Quentin’s advice. We cannot hope to reach England if we must fight through every mile of the way against men who lurk in the hills where we can’t watch them, and who know the land better than we do.”
“Aha!” Janet exclaimed to Fionna. “I told you so. I’m forced to admit that Quentin is no fool.”
“I cannot accept your decision, or the reason you’ve given for making it,” Fionna said, looking from Royce to Quentin. “I know you Normans fairly well after the last few weeks, at least well enough to be aware that Murdoch presents a challenge any Norman warrior would relish. None of you are cowards. Yet you have chosen to run away. Why?”
“It’s not our lives we’re worried about,” Quentin said. His eyes held hers long enough for Fionna to understand the true reason for the change in plans.
“It’s to protect Janet and me, isn’t it?” she said. “You don’t fear for
your own lives, but you do fear what our brothers will do to us if you are killed and we are left defenseless.”
“You have been in danger too long,” Quentin said. “Janet, too. Royce and Cadwallon agree with me on this.”
“Just how do you suppose taking us to Edinburgh will put us out of danger?” she demanded.
“King Alexander can protect you,” Royce explained when Quentin did not speak.
“Oh, I see.” Fionna never took her gaze from Quentin’s solemn face. “I understand, my noble lord. You intend to leave Janet and me there, at the royal court. As wards of the king, perhaps?”
“It’s the wisest course,” Quentin said. “I am on good terms with Alexander. I’m sure he’ll listen when I ask him to place you under his protection, especially after we warn him of Murdoch’s intention to disrupt the peace.”
“I think Quentin is right,” Janet put in.
“So do I,” Cadwallon added.
“How could you?” Fionna still faced Quentin, directing her passionate questions to him. “After you-? After we-? You’d abandon me? Abandon Janet and me?” she hastily corrected herself out of fear that Janet would guess at the intimacy between herself and Quentin.
“Please, try to understand,” Quentin said.
“I understand perfectly well.” She couldn’t think of a word strong enough or rude enough to describe him. The last time she’d seen him, he had been sound asleep in his tent, relaxed after making tender love to her. Now he wanted to leave her, to dump her at the Scottish court as if she meant nothing at all to him. Which, she reflected, was very likely what she did mean to him – nothing. His professed desires to protect her and to warn the king were no more than convenient excuses.
“You Norman!” she snarled, and whirled away from him, trying through her tears to locate her tent, only to discover the servants had already struck it, leaving her with no place to go.