“I demand you release me.” She tugged at his big fingers, wrapped around her wrist like an iron manacle.
“Nay.”
He stopped at the first landing, glancing both left and right at the doors lining the halls, then shook his head.
“Upstairs.”
They rounded the landing and climbed the next set of steps. Again he stopped, glancing each way. His gaze lingered to the right where her rooms were, but he pulled her left and down the hallway. Unerringly, he pushed open the door to her father’s chambers, untouched since the day he’d been dragged away in chains. Whorls of dust rose to greet them.
Coughing, the black knight released her and strode to the window, untied the rope and flung open the covering. He did the same with each of the other three windows until the air no longer danced with motes of dirt. Stirling remained near the door, tempted to flee to her room, unable to face the pain of her past, unwilling to face the shadows of her future.
“‘Twould not be wise,” he said, as if he knew the thoughts chasing through her mind. Motioning her forward, he unbuckled both sword belts and laid them on a sturdy oak table near the bed. Arms spread wide, he nodded. “You may remove my hauberk.”
She shook her head. “‘Tis your squire’s job.”
“He’s dead and I haven’t had time to appoint a new one. ‘Tis a simple enough task and one you will perform as my wife. Come.” He motioned her forward, the challenge clear in his hooded gaze.
She glared at him, but sensed she could not win this battle.
“Very well, then,” she snapped ungraciously, stepping behind him, pushing aside the dark blue cape covering his armor. The scent of leather and musky sweat filled her nose. Sniffing, she decided ‘twas not so unpleasant, but he did require a bath. Leaning closer she detected another faint aroma, a pleasant woodsy odor that teased her nose with familiar pain. Hawthorn. She drew back slightly, startled. Her mother used to boil the leaves of the hardy plant into a liquid for her father’s bath. She claimed they eased his aches and the fragrance was quite pleasing.
“What is the problem now?” the dark knight demanded gruffly and the memory faded.
“Naught, Sir Norman.”
He held the heavy breastplate as she struggled with the stubborn buckle that anchored it. It refused to release its hold and she nearly shouted with anger. “I cannot unfasten the bloody thing. ‘Tis hopeless.”
He shook his head and heaved a deep sigh as if pooling all his discontent in that one long breath. She hoped he fell unconscious from lack of air.
He didn’t.
Pity, that.
“Pull the strap to the left, then yank on the buckle. ‘Twill come free,” he ordered, voice crisp and gruff.
She grabbed the leather and did as he instructed, amazed when the hook slipped free. Stepping back, she dusted her hands off. “There, I am certain one of your men can assist you further.”
Again he encircled her wrist in a light, but unbreakable grip, holding the heavy metal armor aloft in his other hand. She gulped at both the display of strength and unflinching resolve on his face.
“Nay. You will assist me.”
She lowered her gaze so he would not glimpse the anger she knew flared in her eyes.
Aye, definitely a potion to make his innards twist. “I will have water heated for you,” she said when at last she’d controlled her ire.
“My lord,” he said, tossing his armor to the bed. The iron garb crashed against the feather ticking with a loud clatter. More dust kicked up, surrounding the bed and twirling into the air.
She waved the motes away and looked at him in confusion. “Pardon?”
“You will address me as my lord or Lord Quinn.”
She inhaled sharply. Arrogant bastard. “Is that your name then? Quinn?” She kept her voice as calm as possible, but even she heard the disdain in it.
“Aye. Quinn de Trefoid.” He released her wrist and turned away.
She tucked her still-tingling arm into the folds of her skirt, watching him wary regard as a sense of familiarity surfaced.
Who was this man?
He tugged his dirt-stained blue vest over his head, baring the black-dusted strength of his muscular chest. “Order the water, demoiselle.”
Good God, he was huge. Little wonder that he could lift the weight of his armor with but one hand. He looked to be carved from stone, so defined was his muscular physique. He is the enemy, Stirling chastised herself, appalled to find her mouth dry and pulse racing. She opened the door and walked to the landing rail. He would not do. Not at all.
“Dustin,” she called down to her porter. “The Norman requires heated water for his bath. Please see to it.”
The old man nodded and shuffled from the entry hall, presumably to do her bidding. Stirling stifled a chuckle. Dustin, frail and forgetful, would be as likely to call for the maids to heat soup as bath water.
“What amuses you so?”
She gasped at the nearness of the Norman’s voice. The deep timbre, close to her ear, sent goose bumps of sensation across her skin.
“Why, nothing,” she said as she faced his massive bare chest. His swarthy skin rippled with lethal, yet intriguing, strength. Pale nicks dotted the dark landscape. Old battle wounds, she was certain. The man exuded both power and arrogance, something as trifling as a sword slash would not keep him from his goals.
He leaned his face so close to hers, she could see the flakes of blue floating in his narrowed gray eyes. A hint of darkness shadowed the strong line of his jaw and his full lips pulled into a flat line. “You will find I am most impatient, Stirling. And not forgiving when crossed. I suggest you oversee my bath preparations yourself.”
Stirling heard the threat in his voice, and with foolish recklessness challenged it. She would not kowtow to this irritable intruder. “Or what, Sir Norman?”
“This.”
He pulled her against his hard body and slanted his mouth to hers. He was fiery hot and unyieldingly strong, yet his lips caressed her with soft demand.
His hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her even closer. Vividly aware of her breasts pressed so intimately against his bare chest, she trembled. She had nothing to compare to this invasion; no man had ever dared take such liberties. Instinct warned her to find her freedom. She pushed against his chest, but his smooth strength called to an awareness within her, overpowering her caution and she allowed the heady urgency to sweep her in its path.
His tongue slipped between her breathless lips, finding hers, stroking with pulsing fire. He tasted of sweet wine and harsh demand. Adrift on the unknown waters of such temptation, she clutched at the warrior’s arms for support, the bare skin of his flesh just as hard and hot as his tongue.
He broke the kiss and stared down at her. “See to my bath.”
He turned and stalked away, leaving her in the corridor, breath gone, mouth agape and senses reeling. She quickly regained her composure. “Is that the best you can do?”
He stopped in the doorway of her father’s chamber and raked her with an insolent glare. “My bath, demoiselle, now.”
Stirling sensed the danger and spun on her heel, taking the stairs quickly. His mocking laughter chased her down, stoking the coals of her anger to an even greater height. This Norman invader simply would not do. She required a more malleable man, one she could control with minimal effort. The dark knight who now claimed her holdings would never allow her the free rein to which she’d grown accustomed.
Lord, if he discovered her secret….
She must find a way to rid herself of him.
# # #
“God’s teeth, but William has saddled me with a shrew,” Quinn growled from the depths of the wooden tub in which he attempted to bathe. The confounded thing was so short, his knees jammed against his chest. Quite likely a deliberate action on the part of Falcon Fire’s golden-eyed mistress, to order the smallest basin available. And also, he mused, the very reason she fled his room without assisting him further
.
Marcus’ laugh echoed through the big stone room. “You’ve done it to yourself, Quinn. William only granted you the boon for which you asked. Though why the daughter of a known traitor and this godforsaken bit of land, I’ve yet to discover. The soils may be rich and fertile and the lady a beauty, but such things have never stirred you before.” He tossed Quinn a large square of linen, then jammed his fists on his hips, eyes narrowed with speculation. “Care to tell me why?”
“Nay,” Quinn growled, wishing the intriguing hellion remained. He had relished the thought of her delicate hands gliding the soap over him. Of watching her peach skin blush with the heat and her tawny-eyes widen with the discovery of his ready body. She fled the moment the small tub was set in the room. A wise move on her part.
He thought of the very deep and long bathing basin his father had custom made, and growled again. ‘Twas probably set away in a corner gathering dust as his younger brother had little use for water. No, he’d much rather waste his riches on wine and wenches and watch the estate fall into ruin. The knowledge that his mother allowed Jean-Paul to squander what rightfully should have been his, burned like bile in his throat. Quinn banished the memories and shifted in the small confines.
At least the damned water is hot.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled the hawthorn-scented steam, hoping its normally calming affect would help restore his humor, black as it may be. He doubted it.
Quinn stepped onto a red and black woven rug and quickly dried himself. “What news from William?”
“Nothing yet. Temple reports the insurrectionists grow restless and are increasing their attacks on citizens loyal to William.”
“Any near here?” Quinn asked as he dressed in a pair of dark blue leggings and matching tunic. He fingered the silver vest emblazoned with his own crest, a dark warrior surrounded by blue flames, and decided against wearing it for now. He would give the people of Falcon Fire time to adjust to their new lord.
“Nay. ‘Tis an odd coincidence that the lands surrounding this keep have yet to be raided.”
“Unless the rebels call this area home,” Quinn agreed as he strapped on a leather sheath and slid the small sword he always carried into it. “‘Tis up to us to rout these men. Though I no longer command William’s armies, I still hold the rank of king’s justice.”
“A condition of granting your boon?” Marcus asked dryly, following Quinn from the room.
The two guards standing outside his door snapped to attention, but Quinn waved them back. “Remain here. Allow no one entrance.”
“Aye, my lord.” They resumed their stiff posts.
“What else have you learned?” Quinn asked Marcus as they walked down the spiraling steps to the lower level.
“Not much.” He raised a wicked brow, a devilish smile curling the corners of his mouth. “But I’ve a rendezvous with Lady Stirling’s maid this evening. I’m sure I can coax something from her lips.”
Quinn smiled briefly, though he did not discount Marcus’ methods. Women, especially the serving girls, were always most eager to spread their knowledge and their legs with Marcus. More than once, a wench’s timely morsel of information had saved them. “Keep me posted.”
“As always, my lord.”
They stopped at the edge of the dining hall, a massive room with long wooden tables and benches for the soldiers and another smaller dining area set on a raised dais. Each table held the silent combination of Quinn’s forces and Falcon Fire’s army. They regarded each other with thinly veiled mistrust, tinged with nearly palpable hostility.
Quinn sighed softly. Yet more battles he must fight, and this in his own home.
Marcus bowed. “With your permission, I will eat with the men this eventide.”
“Go.” Quinn waved him away, eyes gliding over the high vaulted ceiling. Wooden beams crossed from one wall to the other with several huge iron candelabras hanging down. Shields, swords and tapestries graced the stone walls depicting years of tradition. He rested his hand lightly on the hilt of his sword, pushing aside the small tingle of excitement at joining this tradition. He was a warrior, and warriors showed no emotion. To do so was to show weakness.
And Quinn the Avenger possessed no weaknesses.
“Rise,” he commanded. His men gained their feet immediately, silent and alert. The soldiers of Falcon Fire glanced at each other, then turned to look at a gray-haired knight standing near the lord’s table. He nodded and they stood, a low rumble issuing from them.
Quinn strode through the ranks, past each table and each man, meeting every one eye to eye, before stepping onto the dais. He looked down at the aging knight, recognizing him as Lady Stirling’s defender. He motioned the man forward. “How are you called?” he asked loudly.
“Sir John.” The man half-bowed, though he did not take his eyes from Quinn.
“You are the captain of the guard here?”
“Aye.”
“Join me.” Quinn offered his hand to the older man who looked at it warily before finally grasping it. They stood together, forearms clasped for a long moment, before the man moved up beside Quinn. “Will you swear fealty to me? And through me, to William, King of England?” He kept his voice low, so only John could hear.
The knight studied him hard for a long silent moment, then nodded. “Aye. I shall.”
“And will your men?”
“Aye. Eventually.”
“‘Tis enough for now,” Quinn murmured, pleased. ‘Twas actually more than he anticipated. Not for the first time he wondered who led these men since Lord Robert’s imprisonment two years prior. Most keeps of this size and riches would have been dominated long ago. Add the rumors of unfound gold and a beautiful woman to the pot and the feat became astounding. He looked at the assembled group and nodded. “Knights of Falcon Fire, join with me and my men tonight in a feast of celebration and renewal.” He looked behind him and found a goblet of honey colored liquid and raised the pewter vessel in the air. “I marry your Lady Stirling in three days time. A new lord and a new beginning. For us all.”
Silence reigned until one young man, ears tipped with red stepped forward, mug clutched to his black and red tunic. “To Lady Stirling and Lord Quinn.” He raised the cup and glared at his fellow knights. One by one they repeated the toast until it came full circle, reaching Quinn once more.
He downed his drink, nearly choking on the harsh taste of the stout ale, but managed to finish it all. The assembled knights did the same and he turned, slamming his mug to the oak tabletop. “Food!” he demanded, walking to the high-backed chair. “More drink.” He winced as he ordered the vile liquid, his head already swimming from the potent brew. This English mead contained none of the subtle textures and flavors of the good French wine he preferred.
Servants poured in from every direction, placing platters of cold meats, cheeses and breads before the men. Sir John slid into the seat on Quinn’s right. “You’ve won their admiration for your ability to hold down the mead, if naught else. ‘Tis brewed more strongly here than other regions of the country. Argyle, our brewmaster, likes to keep it in the barrels a bit longer.”
“Why did you join me?” Quinn asked, reaching for a round of bread, hoping to rid his mouth of the lingering bitterness from the mead.
“For my Lady Stirling. Whether she will admit it or not, Falcon Fire needs a man who can protect this land.”
“And you think I am this man?”
John shrugged. “‘Tis what I wagered on.” He sliced a thin piece of meat, wrapped a hunk of cheese in it and bit into the concoction, chewing with gusto. He swallowed and waved a hand encompassing the men in the hall. “‘Tis what they wager on, as well.”
“This keep has been without a lord for over two years. I do not believe a land so rich in resources has been left alone by sheer coincidence.” Quinn tore another chunk off the bread and leaned back in his chair, studying the older man closely.
“Nay. ‘Tis not been easy. Several men have tried to take Falcon
Fire. Tried and failed.”
“Did your forces repel them?”
“Aye, but only with a bit of help.” Another slice of venison, another bit of cheese. And no further explanation.
“What sort of help?” Quinn grew frustrated. The man seemed more inclined to eat than discuss the miraculous state of the keep after two years of neglect and war. Apparently, he would have to be blunt. “I’ve heard tale of a certain knight in these parts. One known for his sense of justice. Is he the one who has aided you?”
A hush descended on the warriors, followed quickly by the scrape of wood on stone as benches were pushed back and the men sprang to their feet. Quinn followed the tilt of their heads to the arch separating the dining hall and the entry. His betrothed, gowned in a dress of deep red, moved toward him, smiling at each table she passed, dipping an occasional curtsy. The slow, measured pace of her gait allowed him to drink his fill of her, from the demure rounded neckline of her bodice that showed only a hint of creamy skin, to the nipped in waist and gently sloping hips. The skirt of her gown brushed against the floor, but he caught an occasional glimpse of her small feet encased in matching red slippers. At last she stood defiantly before him, ire etched on her delicate face. Her golden eyes sparkled with agitation as she pursed her full lips and jutted her pointed chin at him with mulish intent.
“In England, ‘tis considered rude to begin the evening meal without the presence of the entire household.” Stirling’s dulcet tones held an underlying thread of hammered iron.
Quinn rose and half-bowed, offering her his hand. She eyed him warily before placing her hand in his. He curled his fingers around hers and assisted her onto the dais. He looked over the sea of men watching and nodded sharply. “Eat.”
He waited until they complied, returning to their meals with guarded silence. “Your pardon, demoiselle. I believed you to be indisposed. After all, you did run away rather quickly during my bath.” He held her chair for her, then pulled it closer to his after she sat.
Her cheeks reddened and she glared at him under her lashes. “I did no such thing, Sir Norman. This keep does not run itself. I have many more important duties than to see to your bath.” She scooted the chair away again.
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