The drafty tower, set high above the keep, had been her secret refuge for many years. Here, she and her mother would practice the unpredictable art of herbal healing. Oftimes, Stirling would sit, perched atop a rickety wooden stool and watch her mother whirl through the room, grinding powders, mixing herbs and discovering just the perfect recipe for what ailed their people.
Since her mother’s death Stirling had seldom returned, the room shrouded in painful memories of those happier times. Picking her way over broken bits of rock and fallen timber, she tugged the stool out and sat, elbows propped on the rock tabletop. A marble mortar and pestle, a final gift from her mother, beckoned, and she pulled the tools closer. Bits of brown powder clung to the sides of the bowl. She frowned. She’d not ground any herbs here for many months, yet the pestle gleamed as though recently stained with the oil of-- She raised the bowl and inhaled deeply, then coughed harshly.
“Monkshood?” She must be mistaken. Though she often boiled the leaves of the plant for a sleeping draught, the roots were lethal if ingested. Who had done this?
A low whine sounded from the bottom of the tower. Clutching the mortar and pestle to her chest, she retraced her path across the rocky floor. Snow sat at the end of the stairs, mournfully wailing.
Stirling picked her way down the steps. “Be still, beast, or you’ll have the entire keep up here,” she scolded the hound even as she checked her side for further injury.
“She is well, Lady Stirling, but lonesome.” Quinn helped her to her feet, neatly catching the mortar when it tumbled from her hands. Giving the marble bowl only a cursory glance, he handed it back to her. “I see you’ve more than one hiding place.”
Stirling stiffened. “I do not hide from you, sirrah. ‘Tis my herbal chamber. Anyone could tell you that.” Sweeping past him, she headed for the second floor landing.
“But ‘twas Snow who discovered you,” Quinn said thoughtfully. “She seems to have an affection for you.”
She glared at her husband over her shoulder. “At least someone does, my lord.”
He chuckled. “Pax, lady-wife. I would speak with you.”
Stirling nodded to the guard standing outside her chambers as she passed. “Why? Have you thought of more unfounded accusations? Discovered a trail of conspiracy leading back to me? Has your prisoner been murdered?”
He spun her around, face stormy, grip firm. “Nay, my lady. I had thought you may be interested in joining my officers and me to discuss the attack. I see I was quite mistaken.” He dropped her arm and stalked to the door. “Instead, you will remain where a lady belongs, in her chambers.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief when he shut and locked the door from the outside. He would not dare. Running forward, she jerked on the handle to no avail.
“Lucifer’s nose, but he is insufferable.” Stirling cast epithets at him as she prowled the room. Sent to her room as though she were a disobedient child. The gall. If that Norman thought she would ever obey him... He would soon learn she was not an animal to be confined, nor a wild bird to be trained. She stalked to the wardrobe, scooping a candle from the bedside table.
She smiled as she jerked down the lever in the wardrobe, opening the entry to the hidden corridors of the keep. The Norman would not control her.
Stirling stepped into the murky darkness and followed the path to the lower level, one hand holding the hem of her skirt away from the dusty floor. ‘Twould not do to be discovered coated with dirt she could not explain, should anyone notice. And she held no doubt he would. His iron gray eyes saw everything.
When at last she found the sword carved into the wall, she searched for the doorway to the war room. She could not fully open the wooden barrier for fear of discovery, but she did push it wide enough to hear their every word.
“I do not like this, Quinn, it reeks of conspiracy.”
Quinn pushed Snow’s head off his lap, leaned back in the leather chair and stared hard at Marcus. “They were no more than ragged thieves, out for what little gold they could steal.” He did not tell Marcus of their skillful combat, ‘twould only fuel the flames of his doubt higher.
“Thieves, my lord? Pray tell, why would simple thieves lie in wait for victims near a seldom used meadow, bordered by the sea?” Marcus’ voice rose with each angrily sarcastic word. “And so quickly on the heels of Calvin’s departure?”
“He left yesterday. He would have returned to his own lands long before those men appeared.” Quinn tried to maintain a sense of calm, but his own doubts plagued him. What did he really know of Stirling? Was it even possible for a woman to possess honor? She’d been against the match from the beginning, perhaps she sought to have him killed.
“Unless he was forewarned and sent them back to attack you.”
Snow growled at Marcus and Quinn hushed her with a surprised glance.
“‘Twas a hastily planned jaunt, Marcus. Only you and I knew the night previous where we would go.” He raised a brow. “Do you conspire against me?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why do you condemn my wife without proof?”
Snow yipped, tail sweeping the floor with great strokes. Lumbering to her feet, she sauntered toward the far wall of the war room, where she reared back on her hind legs, clawing at a tapestry that hung against the stone wall. She whined and looked over her shoulder at Quinn, who walked over to her. Ruffling the fur on the dog’s neck, he inspected the threaded picture.
“What do you see, Snow?” He traced the gray outline of Falcon Fire with a finger, lingering on the delicately stitched rendering of a young Stirling. Snow snuffled and dropped to all fours. Gripping the edge of the tapestry in her teeth, she eased back, taking the cloth with her.
Quinn realized ‘twas not the image of his wife that excited the hound, but what lay behind it. “Marcus, here,” he ordered and together the two men yanked the covering down, revealing a half-opened door. Detecting the scuff of running feet, Quinn grabbed a torch and bolted into the dark chamber after the intruder. He glimpsed the flickering candlelight scurrying away and gave chase. Marcus followed behind him while Snow’s long loping strides quickly outran the prowler.
“Shush. Oh let me go, you ingrate.”
Quinn pulled up short at the sight of his wife, candle in one hand, skirts in the other, attempting to elude the playful nips of his dog. Disbelief coursed through him at the thudding realization that Marcus was right to doubt her.
“I trust you have an explanation,” he said coldly.
Chapter Ten
“Nothing that would appease you, I’m afraid, my lord,” Stirling said proudly, straightening away from Snow. Quinn admired her courage, while damning her for it at the same time.
“I should say not, mistress,” Marcus snapped, rushing past Quinn. He grabbed Stirling’s wrist and pulled her stumbling closer. Snow howled, then hunched into an attack position.
Quinn shot forward, tearing his second away from Stirling and throwing him against the unforgiving hardness of the stone walls. Dust flew from the impact, settling around Marcus in a brown halo.
“Do not touch her, ever,” Quinn snarled. Never had his anger been so great against his friend.
“You’re a fool not to recognize the truth before your own eyes,” Marcus yelled back.
Quinn’s hands fisted with his anger, but he did not deliver the blow he longed to drive into Marcus’ gut.
“And what truth do you see, Lord Marcus?” Stirling’s soft voice cut through their tense standoff.
He glared at her, brown eyes vivid with the heat of his anger, visible even in the dim light of the passageway. “I see a woman bent on destroying a man she never wanted. A Norman forced on her by the new king.” He pushed away from the wall and stepped stiffly closer. “I see a woman who probably tarnished her own honor a’purpose by switching the bridal sheets that sported the blood of her innocence.” His glare bounced to Quinn. “I see a woman who has ensnared my liege lord with her lying eyes and deceitful body to lead hi
m to his death.” His gaze returned to Stirling. “I see, my lady, a woman deep in the throes of betrayal.”
“Get out,” Quinn spoke softly, not looking at Marcus. “Return to William or your own lands in France, but leave this keep.”
“Nay!” Stirling’s bellow caused more dust to trickle from the ceiling. “Do you not see, ‘tis what they want? Whoever seeks to harm us knows that loyalty, honor, truth are what you value most, Quinn. By dividing the people of Falcon Fire, be it lord, lady or vassal, they win.”
Quinn nodded. “You speak truthfully, my lady, but I will not stand by while your honor is sullied. Even if ‘tis by my own man’s words.”
Snow’s head bobbed, then she butted Marcus in the hip.
“She’s done naught to prove honor, my lord. These passages are testament to that.”
Quinn looked at Stirling. This much, at least, was true. His lady-wife had said not one word of these hidden catacombs, though she’d been presented many opportunities. “Stirling?”
“I suggest we adjourn to the war room, my lord. ‘Tis quite more comfortable there.” She smiled at him and marched past, her sputtering candle lighting the way.
Quinn looked at Marcus and raised a surprised brow. They followed her in silence. Snow squeezed past them to trot at Stirling’s side.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Your hound seems to like her.”
“Aye.” Quinn was in no mood for idle talk. His friend’s actions would not be so easily forgiven. They returned to the council room in strained silence. Stirling awaited them before the hearth, proud chin tipped back in what Quinn was quickly recognizing as pugnacious rebellion.
“So you believe I seek to harm your lord, Marcus?”
His second-in-command had the grace to look uncomfortable. Quinn did not offer any aid when Marcus glanced at him. “The facts, Lady Stirling -- “
“And what facts would those be?” she interrupted coolly.
Marcus coughed. “The attack on you and his lordship.”
“I believe I was in as much danger as Lord Quinn. Is that the best you can do? Have you any tangible evidence that I mean him harm? That I seek to destroy him, as you say?”
Quinn hid a smile at Marcus’ increasing discomfort. Rarely did anyone get the best of Marcus with words. ‘Twas no less than he deserved. Quinn’s pride in his wife’s intelligence grew.
“Actually, my lady, --”
John burst into the room, panicked face red, gasping harshly. “My lord Quinn.”
“What’s afoul, John?” Quinn demanded of the aging knight. “Why are you not guarding the prisoner?”
“I was, my lord, but he’s--” John gulped audibly. “He’s dead.”
“God’s throne. How?” Quinn demanded.
He did not miss John’s brief glance at Stirling, nor the faint tremble in his hands as he lifted them in pleading supplication. “I’m not certain, my lord.”
“I think you are, John,” Quinn countered softly. “How did he die?”
John’s reply was barely audible. “He was poisoned.”
# # #
“I will have your word you’ll not traverse the hidden passages again, my lady. You will remain in your chambers until summoned.”
Quinn’s gruff demand grated against Stirling’s need to be included in the council about to take place, but she acquiesced. She must rebuild some of the trust destroyed by John’s announcement. Though her husband had not accused her outright, he’d been quick to remove her from Marcus’ virulent words and grasping hands. She’d been unnerved by Marcus’ insistent demands she be imprisoned immediately.
“Be quick, my lord. I would know promptly if I live or die.”
Quinn did not smile at her weak attempt at humor. “Go my lord, they await you.”
He left coldly, without another word, no touch of comfort, no look of encouragement. Stirling glanced around her chambers, feeling oddly out of place. She did not belong here, in the room of her youth, but neither did she belong with him, standing by his side. Her gaze fastened on the wardrobe which covered more than just the entrance to the secret corridors.
Crossing the room slowly, she opened the heavy oak doors and tugged out the chest concealed beneath the wardrobe’s false bottom. Here lay the instruments of her hidden past. Gingerly she lifted the lid, exposing the shiny silver ringmail hammered to fit her small frame. She pulled the armor out, unearthing the glittering helm and gauntlets that were hers alone as well. But ‘twas the single sword at the bottom that beckoned her. With a sigh of regret, she hefted the blade, staring into the pure depths of the round ruby nestled in the hilt. The sword’s twin, lost these two years, held a diamond of equal beauty. ‘Twas when she rescued the unknown knight and gave him her other sword that Falcon Fire fell into ruin.
Well she remembered the day her mother presented the gifts to her.
“‘Tis tradition, my love, for the women of Falcon Fire to uphold the legend of the Knight of the Mist,” Lady Gillian told her.
“He’s not real?” Stirling couldn’t conceal her surprise. The well-known legend of justice was often the only thing keeping the raiders at bay.
“Nay, daughter. Not for many years. Since days of old, the wives of the keep have donned armor such as this and carried his shield as a warning.”
“But, Mother, you are lady of Falcon Fire, why do you give them to me?”
Gillian’s smile, Stirling now recognized, had been tinged with sadness, as though she knew her fate was close at hand. “‘Twill be your keep soon enough, daughter. And you must be prepared.”
The turn of the latch broke her reverie and she hurriedly piled the armor, helm and gauntlets into the box. Stirling shoved the box into its hiding place as Quinn walked in the room. She stood, realized she still clutched the sword and concealed the blade in the voluminous folds of her blue skirt. Quinn’s handsome face, clouded with a frown, tightened more when his gray eyes fell on her.
She looked at the wardrobe and knew his thoughts. She lifted her chin. “Do not be quick to assume I seek my freedom, sirrah.”
“I wondered, lady-wife.” He shut the door and motioned her to a chair. “Sit, my lady, we must speak of what has happened.”
She eyed him warily as she took the proffered seat, wincing as the sharp tip of the blade nudged her calf. “What has been determined?” She angled the sword beneath her, hoping he would not take note of the visible lump it produced. She was disappointed.
He reached out and flipped the material away, stilling at the sight of the silver blade. “Do you mean me harm, lady-wife?” He did not jest.
“Of course not. ‘Tis a memento of my past, nothing more.”
“Give it to me,” he ordered softly, his voice demanding obedience.
She chafed at the command but handed him the weapon, watching him closely as he examined it.
“‘Tis fine work. Where did you acquire such a piece?”
“‘Twas a gift from my mother.”
He arched a brow, surprise evident. “Odd, this blade is so like my own--” He stood, frowning at her. “Why do you have such a weapon?” He scrutinized the edge of the blade. “And a well-used one at that?”
She said nothing, unwilling to speak of the ancient pact. He knelt in front of her, gray eyes determined.
“Honesty and honor. They are one and the same, Stirling.”
“Each person’s truth is different than the next, my lord,” she hedged.
“Enough, Lady Stirling. You will tell me. Now.”
“I will not.”
They glared at each other. “Your father was wrong to teach you such independence.”
“He warned me most men would condemn my knowledge,” she returned. “That they would not allow such impudence, as he called it.”
“And still you persist. To what end, I wonder? What purpose do you have for concealing the truth?” He ran a hand through his raven hair, frustration obvious in the quick pass. “What must I do to hear the words, Stirling?”
; She shook her head. “I cannot tell you, my lord,” she whispered sadly. “If you know, then I must die.”
Setting the sword on the floor, he pulled her into his arms, holding her close. “Is truth so foreign to you? My lieutenant believes you to be a conspiring rebel and a murderess. He seeks to expose you as a traitor to William. Your silence only aids his quest. Should he win, you will still die. Help me.”
She burrowed into the warmth of his sheltering arms, wishing the world would never intrude again. “Do you know the penalty for impersonating a knight?”
He stiffened, pulling away and looking down at her. “Aye,” he replied grimly. “‘Tis death.”
“Should I tell you my secret, you will be honor-bound to inform William, and he, by law, will order me put to death.”
“Nay, I’ll not let it happen, lady-wife.”
“You cannot prevent it.”
“I must.” He covered her mouth with his, seeking to burn all thought from her mind with the heat of his desire. Quinn stood, cradling her silken weight to his chest. He could not get close enough. He deepened the kiss, stealing her indrawn breath and taking her down to the bed.
Drawing back, he stared into her creamy oval face, painted with the same urgent need coursing through him. Her hair spread out like a shimmering lake of gold and he sifted the honey strands with his fingers.
“My lord, this will solve nothing.” Her voice caught on the words and he silenced her with a finger to her lips.
“Nay, lady-wife, ‘twill ease my hunger for you.” He took her mouth again, the compelling force of his passion rising with her every breath.
Trailing his lips along her throat, he laved around the small injury she’d received. He tugged at the neckline of her blue velvet gown, kissing each sensitive patch of skin he unveiled. She arched against him, breathing harsh, heart pounding beneath his mouth.
She clutched at his head, fisting his hair and urged him to her nipple. Quinn gently bit the hard bud through the gown and she groaned.
Jennifer August Page 13