Jennifer August

by Knight of the Mist

  “Ah, my lady,” Temple inclined his head. “I do not blame you for choosing me over that ne’er do well. ‘Tis a wonder you married him a’tall, with my handsome visage so near to you.”

  Laughter broke out, easing the tensions somewhat. Quinn settled back into his chair, content to let his men guide the course of the meal. He knew, before the moon fell on this night, all the soldiers in the keep would be as one. Or gone.

  “Hah. ‘Tis more of a wonder I didn’t run screaming for the convent when the lot of you arrived!” Though he couldn’t see her face, Quinn heard the sting of sarcasm in her voice as she sparred with Temple, and grinned. His wife had mettle. She would need it.

  Quinn pushed the lord’s chair back from the table to stretch his legs out and crossed his arms over his pleasantly full stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate a meal as satisfying as this one. His wife ran an efficient household, of that much he was certain. The rooms were clean, the food more than edible and the people happy. But Stirling seemed saddened.

  He looked at her trim back and golden hair. Her title had been restored, she remained in her own home and he would deny her no money. What more could a woman ask? Quinn knew with a certainty something else eluded his new wife. And he intended to discover what it was. Just as soon as he found the bastard threatening William.

  If all went well, Temple will learn more in the next few days. Then, the threat will be eliminated, William will grant Quinn’s release and the only concerns he will have will be deciding which crops to grow and which rooms to view with his wife.

  Quinn glanced around the noisy chamber, pleased by the sight of the men eating and drinking with each other. Though they did not mingle as much as he like, ‘twas a good beginning. ‘Twas the start he would take. Quinn’s attention was taken by the conversation between Marcus and Falcon Fire’s captain-of-the-guard.

  “Were they so anxious to have Lady Stirling married?” Marcus asked John. “Their celebration seems a bit excessive.”

  “They celebrate many things, my lord. Your wedding, the future of the keep, the Knight of the Mist.”

  Quinn leaned forward, drawing their attention. “Knight of the Mist? What women’s stories do you speak of?”

  “‘Tis the legend of the House of Fire.” John drained his tankard of ale and wiped away the foam with one meaty forearm. “The tale says when this house is attacked, the Knight of the Mist shall come forth to help defend the walls and protect those who abide here.”

  “Protect them against what?” Quinn’s voice held sardonic amusement.

  Sir John looked at him sharply. “‘Tis no laughing matter,” he retorted, half-rising from his chair. The room grew quiet. Quinn waved the big soldier back down.

  “Calm yourself, man. I mean no slight. I have heard many such tales, all of which were false. Tales of mystery usually intended to raise the interest of a wealthy or powerful lord. Or to dissuade one from offering for the daughter of the house.” Quinn’s men laughed, the Saxon soldiers straightened on their benches. Their actions did not go unnoticed by either man.

  “We’ve seen him, my lord.” Several grunts of agreement came from the Saxons.

  “Have you? When?”

  “That’s enough, good sirs.” Stirling’s steely tone cut across the blustering voices of her men. “Lord Quinn is rightful lord here now. There is no need to bring up such old tales.”

  “Nay, lady,” Quinn silenced her, though his name on her lips pleased him greatly. He would coax it from her later, when only he could hear it breathed in a husky sigh, an erotic moan. “I would hear this story.” He nodded at Sir John. “When did you see this Knight of the Mist?”

  “Many times, he’s come to us, my lord. In the midst of battle, when all seems lost, he appears. Sometimes at the side of the lord, and other times at the top of a hill. Or the edge of the battlefield where all of Falcon Fire men can see him.”

  “Really, my lord, ‘tis nothing more than a tale told to children in the dark of night. Have a bit of cheese, sirrah.” Stirling held a piece to his lips and he grinned, closing his mouth over her slender fingers. Her eyes widened and her breath caught, a slow blush creeping over her delicate cheeks. He liked the way his wife responded to his every touch. Such a reaction made caressing her all the more desirable. He winked and she looked away, nibbling at her bottom lip. He shifted in his seat, the image of her lips and teeth nibbling him stirring his desires to an uncomfortable sitting position.

  “‘Tis not a fable, Stirling, as well you know,” John censured, the sharp tone reclaiming Quinn’s attention. He frowned at John’s impudence, but held his tongue as the man continued. “He’s come for hundreds of years, to each lord who needs him. Even you have seen the knight, my lady. Why deny his existence now?”

  Quinn’s brow rose. John took this legend more seriously than he had first thought. And his wife did not. Most odd. Her reluctance to speak of this knight intrigued him. “What does this apparition look like?”

  “Silver, sir. A silver knight on a white horse, bearing a shield of iron and lethal twin blades. He rarely speaks, but his mere presence is enough to rally the most defeated soldiers.” The grizzled knight nodded his head and glared, as if daring Quinn to challenge his words.

  Quinn blinked slowly, easing the sudden burst of excitement racing through him to a slower gait. ‘Twas only a legend, he reminded himself, but thought of the small sword he carried. The one given him by a mysterious knight clad in silver. He must learn more. “And where is this knight now?” he queried, keeping his tone even and disinterested.

  “He disappears, my lord. Melts back into the mist that bore him.”

  “Why did he appear to begin with?”

  “As I’ve said, he protects us from -- “ A loud curse drowned out John’s words.

  “Filthy Norman dog!”

  “Saxon swine!”

  Two knights stood, nose to nose, glaring at each other. The Saxon’s tunic was soaked with ale, the Norman wore a bowl of wild carrots on his breeches. Quinn smiled with satisfaction and leaned back in his chair, though he was loathe to let the conversation die. He would find a way to speak of it later. He must.

  John sank down beside him, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. The high-pitched screech of wood scraping over stone, bounced off the walls as benches were shoved back and tables overturned. Insults, shouts of anger and war cries added to the noise.

  “My lord,” Stirling yelled into his ear. “You must stop this. Oh.” She ducked into his chest as a trencher flew over their heads. He seized the opportunity and pulled her into his lap.

  “Nonsense. ‘Tis just what they need. This will bleed their anger at each other.”

  “But why are they--” He silenced her with a kiss, luxuriating in the taste of her soft mouth. Sweetened with the honey mead she enjoyed, her moist warmth aroused him instantly. When he pulled away, her arms tightened around his neck and she urged him back. He shifted her light weight in his lap, inhaling sharply when the cleft of her buttocks rubbed against his straining shaft. He intensified the kiss, opening her lips and darting his tongue inside. He teased the edges of her mouth, stroked the length of her tongue with his and swallowed her moan when his hand cupped her breast. The sudden sway of the chair jerked him to reality and he quickly leaned forward, setting all four chair legs back on the floor.

  “We must continue this later, lady wife. Soon I shall need all my wits, and I fear you kiss them right from my brain,” he teased her, stroking the golden hair that tumbled from its confines and slid her from his lap. She stood, the blush full on her cheeks once more. Intrigued, he noticed the tint traveled down her neck and disappeared under the neckline of her bodice. He must find out just how far that blush went.

  “I will retire to our chambers, my lord.” She glanced at the fighting men and bit her lip. “Such displays upset me.”

  “‘Tis early, Stirling, stay with me,” he commanded, but she shook her head and quit the room, disappearing into th
e corridor to the kitchens.

  Though tempted to go after her and enforce his demands, instead he returned his attention to the brawl. He watched as two more bodies crashed to the ground, each wrestling for domination. The victorious Norman grasped the long, unkempt hair of the man beneath him and pounded his head into the stone floor. The man groaned and his eyes rolled backward as he passed out. The Norman’s grunt of triumph was cut short by a chair breaking over his head. He fell unconscious on top of his opponent. Portea, still holding the back of the chair, dimpled at Quinn and curtsied. Tossing her weapon aside, she picked up her tray and hurried from the room. Quinn shook his head and laughed.

  “My lord, do you plan to stop it?” John’s voice boomed in his ear.

  “In a moment, John. Mayhap they will learn something from this,” Quinn replied, watching as Marcus made his way through the fighting men. When he stood before the lord’s table, he grinned. Laughter gleamed in his blue eyes.

  “Was that satisfactory, my lord Avenger?”

  “Most, Marcus. You are definitely a useful man to have around when it comes to starting fights.” Quinn swallowed the last of his ale and stood, pulling his broadsword from its sheath. He held it loosely in his right hand, weaving the tip in intricate patterns. The hiss of metal silenced the room in a matter of seconds.

  “Gentlemen,” he stressed the word, “I have allowed this display for long enough. I trust that you are well and truly done with it. Beginning on the morrow, you will train, eat, sleep and fight together. There is no room for mistrust here. Those of you who wish to swear fealty to me, and through me, to William, are welcome to stay. Those of you who do not, may leave on the morn.” He re-sheathed his weapon, crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the group of men. Slowly, one by one, Saxon and Norman alike, they knelt, heads bowed. Only two of Falcon Fire’s men refused to kneel. Bodies rigid and eyes blazing, they stalked from the hall. Quinn sighed, but counted himself lucky it had only been two.

  “Rise, knights of the Avenger. Know that you serve me and no other. You have my leave to spend the rest of this evening as you will, but be prepared to work come daybreak.” A boisterous yell shook the rafters and the men laughed. They rose and clasped forearms, then quit the hall.

  “‘Twill take much work to incorporate your men into mine, Sir John,” Quinn observed.

  “Aye.” John nodded, “But they fight with heart and soul, my lord, and their loyalty, once given, is yours to the death. Excellent qualities in any knight.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I will need your aid with the training, Sir John,” Marcus commented. “Such a large group will require the both of us.”

  The older man beamed, straightening in his chair. “Of course, lad, whatever you need.”

  Quinn was eager to retire to his chambers, where his new wife, and the pleasures she held, awaited him. But he also longed to hear more of this Knight of the Mist. He had a feeling this legend was more real than he believed.

  John cleared his throat, a sly grin on his face. “I suspect, my lord, that Calvin of Thornhatch will not take kindly to what just transpired here. By giving you their fealty, you have robbed him of the best warriors in the region. In fact, I would wager he’ll arrive with his whole army to speak with you about it.” Satisfaction echoed in John’s voice.

  “Who is he?” Marcus asked around a mouthful of bread.

  “A wealthy and powerful neighboring lord, who believed himself to be Lord Robert’s liege.”

  Quinn cocked a brow. “And was he?”

  “Nay, sir. Lord Robert would have nothing to do with him. He thought the man insane.”

  “Interesting. Why do you think he will come here? He has no rights at Falcon Fire, and certainly none to my men.”

  John leaned closer. “He has wooed your Lady Stirling for the last two years, almost since the day her father was dragged away in chains.”

  Quinn pinned the man with a cold stare. “And did she return his favor?”

  John paled. “Nay sir, absolutely not. She considers him to be a monster, though I’ve no idea why. He offered her sanctuary soon after Lord Robert left, but she declined. As she did every week thereafter.”

  “And how do you know she refused?” Quinn’s anger subsided as the man continued.

  “She beseeched me to remain at her side whenever he came. They never had a private conversation. She would not allow it.”

  “And how did he get through the gates? Why did she allow him entrance?”

  John grimaced. “The old king permitted Stirling to remain here until her father’s death. He held Robert in high regard and though he could not refute the evidence of his vassal’s treason, he vowed his daughter would not suffer. He also commanded Robert’s knights to remain in service to their mistress wherever she went. ‘Twas recognition of their long-standing friendship.” John drank his mead, brows in a pensive furrow.

  “But why was he allowed entrance?” Marcus’ voice took on exasperation. Quinn admitted to the same emotion, but held his tongue. The old warrior would tell them in his own time.

  “Harold told Stirling he could not guarantee her safety or that of the keep. The other landowners in the region would surely try to take Falcon Fire when they discovered only a woman commanded its defenses.”

  “So she decided to allow Calvin his weekly visits to stave off the attacks of the others,” Quinn observed, again intrigued by his wife’s surprisingly strategic maneuvers. She played Calvin and the other barons against each other.

  “But how did she control Calvin? Surely he recognized her plan when she would not marry him,” he questioned.

  “The thought that she could, or would dare to outwit him never entered his mind. He continued to press his suit and she continued to avoid it.”

  “Did he try to take the land by force?” Marcus asked.

  “Once, sir, when we learned of Harold’s demise and William’s ascension. I believe he thought to storm the keep and claim it as his own while the palace was in such upheaval.”

  “And how did you thwart him?”

  John grinned. “Your lady is an excellent strategist, my lord. Her father taught her well. She dictated our defense to me, and I to the men. ‘Twas a great success.”

  Quinn nodded, amazed at the information he’d uncovered. His lady wife was indeed a beauty filled with mystery. Unique, intelligent and skilled at warfare, he wondered what other talents she hid.

  Quinn’s smile turned feral. “Then should this Calvin seek a war with me, I look forward to it.”

  # # #

  “Have you gone daft, my lady? Should Lord Quinn grace my bed, I’d not wander the blasted walls of the keep.” Millane muttered even as she helped Stirling into a black leather jerkin and matching leggings.

  “Hush now,” Stirling scolded lightly, though she wondered at this sudden turnabout. Millane had always been mercurial in her moods, but even this was beyond the norm. The question, nay demand to know what bothered her maid, quivered on her tongue, but Stirling found herself reluctant to voice it.

  Afraid, perhaps that she and the maid shared more than the same dark fears? Aye, Quinn seemed to be more than the autocratic barbarian she’d assumed. But just because she found pleasure in his arms did not mean she was ready to trust him. “Though the Avenger and I are wed, I must still discover the proof of Father’s innocence.”

  “But why? You cannot undo this marriage, can you? What purpose would it --”

  “Peace of mind,” Stirling interrupted, exasperated with the unending questions. “‘Tis true I am regarded as a lady once more, but for the wrong reasons. Marriage alone graced me with the title, not truth. My children will not grow to hear false tales of their grandfather’s wrongdoing. I will not allow it.” She pulled on the black gloves and eased a torch from the iron wall sconce. “There is little to worry yourself over, Millane,” Stirling tried to reassure her maid. “Their celebration is sure to go on for hours, until they collapse into drunken heaps. Lord Quinn will
not even miss me.”

  “Your obstinacy will be your downfall, Stirling.” The maid clapped her hands to her hips, one brow arched in disapproval.

  Stirling had enough of the older girl’s pessimism. “You may go, Millane. Return below and spend some time with your friends while ‘tis still early. I shall not require you again this evening.”

  “As you will, my lady.” Millane closed the door behind her and Stirling shot home the bolt, grateful to be alone. Her maid’s increasing moodiness was a wearying puzzle, and one she did not wish to solve right now. First, she must discover why Tristan prowled her lands. Could he be searching for the same papers as she? The thought alone brought interesting questions for which she did not have the answers. ‘Twas certain he must not be allowed to gain entrance to the keep through the hidden corridors. He knew the cavernous walkways nearly as well as she and would use them to his advantage.

  Since there was no possible way Quinn could know of the hidden passages, and she held no inclination to enlighten him, the duty of securing the halls fell to her. She tucked a long dagger into her hip sheath and stepped into the black passageway, leaving the wardrobe ajar. She’d not had time to repair the inside lever and feared the thing would stick again, forcing her to exit in a less secure location. With her door bolted shut, no one could gain entrance and discover its existence.

  She waited for her eyes to adjust to the murky light, ears tuned to the slightest noise. Plainly she detected the rumble from the dining hall and sniffed. They fought still. She wondered why Quinn allowed it, but shook her head. The Avenger appeared to have his own reasons for everything. A scrape against the stone floor brought her around, knife at the ready, her years of training tamping the initial panic. She lowered her blade as she came face to face with Quinn’s dog.

  “How did you get in here?”

  The dog whined and looked over her shoulder in the direction of Quinn’s bedchamber. Stirling stiffened, she must not be discovered. If he were to find her here ... She stepped into her room once more, the hound trailing her. She whined and butted Stirling’s hand with her massive head, jaws opened and pink tongue lolling in a peculiar canine grin.