“Marcus.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Lucifer’s tail I forgot about him.”
Temple frowned at her. “Forgot? But my lady, we bury him --”
“Nay, nay, he is not dead.” Stirling lifted the hem of her skirt and raced from the room, seeking out Cook. She found the woman overseeing the kitchen staff and quickly pulled her aside.
“The keys, Cook, I must have the keys.”
“My lady?” Cook scratched her head, confusion written across her face.
“To Marcus’ room.” Stirling tempered her voice. “I must see to him. Has anyone entered the room since we have been gone?”
“Nay, Lord Quinn forbade it.”
“Good, now give them to me. Quickly, please.” She grabbed the silver ring of jangling keys and streaked up the stairs, counting the days he’d lain alone. Five all told with no food or water, could he have survived?
Reaching his door, she fumbled with the keys, her fingers shaking so badly, she could barely fit the brass key inside the lock. Finally the latch gave way and she shoved the door open, nearly falling inside. The stench of unwashed body and unemptied chamber pots gagged her as rounded the bed to his side.
“Marcus? Marcus, can you hear me?” She shook his shoulder, alarmed at the clamminess she encountered. Nay, he must awaken. “Marcus, open your eyes.”
“He is dead, my lady, as you should be.”
Stirling whirled at the malicious voice, her eyes widening as Millane stalked into the room.
“What nonsense do you spout, Millane?” Shaken by disbelief, Stirling edged away from Marcus’ body, easing toward the door. Millane stepped in front of her, an evil smile curling her lips.
“I was so close,” she spat, her hand snaking out and grabbing a fistful of Stirling’s hair, yanking her head painfully to the side. “But for your cursed Norman husband, this keep would be mine.”
Stirling flicked a glance behind Millane, seeing no one about. All the soldiers were in the barracks, resting from the battle. God only knew where Quinn was. She looked into Millane’s wild eyes. She must stall the maid until she could form a plan.
“I do not understand.” Stirling tugged away from Millane’s grip, wincing when the girl tightened her hold.
“Of course you do not. You have never known hunger. Never felt the sting of a man’s fist against your cheek or spread your legs and suffered beneath a soldier.” Her face twisted cruelly. “But you will.”
“Nay.” Panic seized Stirling. The girl was mad. “Why, Millane?”
“For years I have catered to you and your family, forced to bear the burden of servitude you placed on me when all should have rightfully been mine.” Millane pulled her toward the door and Stirling bided her time; she would cry out when they entered the corridor. She prayed Temple still sat below.
“Let me help you.”
“Oh you will Stirling, have no doubt on that.”
“What will you do?”
“Ransom you to your besotted husband, then kill you both.”
Her crazed laughter snapped the panicked hold gripping Stirling and she clasped her hands together, slamming her fist hard into Millane’s belly. The maid bent double and Stirling scooted around her, dashing for the corridor, screaming for Temple. Millane caught her from behind, knocking her knees to the floor.
“‘Twill be a pleasure to spill your blood, arrogant bitch.”
Again Millane’s hand tangled in her hair, drawing her head back. Stirling closed her eyes and prepared for the blow, but none came. Millane slammed a damp cloth over her nose and mouth. Stirling drew in a harsh breath, flailing against the woman, but her strength lapsed quickly and her mind darkened as she succumbed to the effects of the noxious fumes.
###
“I would have the keys, Cook.” Quinn held out his hand but the woman only looked at him, a perplexed frown wrinkling her plump brow.
“Why I gave them to my lady, sir.”
“When?”
“Nigh on an hour I would say.”
Quinn turned on his heel and stalked up the stairs to Marcus’ room. Though his anger with Stirling had receded somewhat, he would say his farewell to Marcus in private. Rounding the corner, his pace slowed as he approached the room, not yet ready to confront either of them. Quinn stood in the hall gathering his control and finally moved forward. The door stood open, the keys dangling from the lock. Marcus lie on the bed, clad in the colors of his home, but Stirling was nowhere to be seen.
“Lady-wife, are you here?” Quinn stepped further into the room, but ‘twas occupied only by Marcus. Relieved, he pulled a chair closer to the bed and sank into it, wearily wiping his hand down his face.
“‘Twas Tristan, you know, and Calvin. The bastard fled before we arrived, but I have taken his keep.” Quinn leaned forward, clasping his hands between his spread knees. “And Tristan, well, ‘tis hard to imagine, but Stirling killed him. With his own sword, at that.” Quinn shook his head, wondering at his own sanity. “I do not know which poisoned you, but I will find Calvin. He has much to answer for.” Quinn stood suddenly, unable to bear another moment in the room, cursing the fates that allowed this to happen. Shoving his chair away, he stalked to the door and pulled it closed.
“Quinn.”
The whisper-soft call barely reached his ears and Quinn stiffened as he turned, pushing the door inward.
“Quinn.”
The call came again, definitely inside the room. He stepped through the doorway and glanced around.
“Who is there? Show yourself.”
“Here.” A chill rippled down his spine as Marcus’ hand slowly lifted and his ashen face turned to him.
“Marcus?” Quinn whispered incredulously, crossing himself, filled with unease at the impossibility that his friend still lived. He hesitated.
Marcus groaned and rocked on the bed. Quinn gaped as he struggled to sit up, finally reaching for his friend when he toppled to the side.
“God in Heaven, how?” Quinn whispered.
Marcus’ eyes fluttered open and his mouth worked. “Drink.”
Quinn looked around, spotting a ewer on the bed near the floor. He picked up the pitcher, gagging at the rancid stench it emitted.
“Attends, Marcus.” Quinn bolted from the room and raced down the hall to his own chambers where a pitcher of fresh water rested near the wash stand. Grabbing it, he sped back toward Marcus’ room, pausing at the top of the stairs. “Temple,” he yelled hoarsely. “Temple, to me”
A loud crash preceded the Scot’s dash up the stairs. “My lord?” He gripped his dirk, darting looks left and right.
Quinn struggled for composure. “‘Tis Marcus, he lives.”
Temple’s eyes bulged and his mouth gaped.
“Come.” Quinn made his way back to Marcus’ side, slipping a hand beneath his shoulders and lifting him up. Marcus’ eyes fluttered open and Quinn tipped the pitcher to his lips.
“Drink slowly,” he urged. With each sip, his friend seemed to grow stronger. His color returned, washing away the waxy cast of near-death and his breathing deepened.
“Praise be to God.” Temple dropped to his knees and bowed his head, murmuring a prayer.
“No time,” Marcus gasped. “Stirling. Millane.”
“Quiet, Marcus, you must save your strength.”
“Nay, she’ll kill her.”
A premonition of dread engulfed Quinn. “‘Twas not Stirling who poisoned you, Marcus. Calvin is responsible.”
Marcus grabbed his hand, surprising Quinn with the crushing grip. “‘Twas Millane. She has Stirling.” He dropped against Quinn’s arm and closed his eyes.
Quinn shook him. “Marcus. Damn you, what do you speak of?”
“Millane poisoned me. She has taken your wife.” He slid his legs over the edge of the bed and Quinn helped him stand, fear again clutching at his heart.
“Taken her where?” he demanded.
“To Calvin, she’s to be his.”
“Nay.” Icy calm w
ashed over Quinn’s fury as he turned to Marcus. “Do you know where?”
“The glade where you were attacked. He awaits them there.”
“Take him,” Quinn ordered Temple and ran from the room. Racing down the stairs, he burst through the entry door and bolted for the stables. Gavin, the stableboy, stumbled from his rack, bleary eyed and mumbling.
“Boy, rouse Sir John.” Quinn threw Charon’s saddle on the horse’s back and vaulted into the leather seat. “Tell him to guard against Calvin.”
“Aye, sir.” The boy took off across the mud spattered ground, heading for the barracks.
“Quinn, wait,” Temple yelled from the great hall.
“Meet me at the glade,” Quinn ordered and bent low over Charon, urging the black horse from the bailey and toward Stirling.
Fear ate at him as he rode, images of Stirling at Calvin’s mercy nearly making him retch. His proud wife’s rebellion would surely be met with severe retribution. Quinn held no doubt Stirling would stand against her vile neighbor, ‘twas not in her nature to bend. Her sharp tongue and agile mind, coupled with the iron heat of her pride, the quirks that made him love her so, would cause her naught but harm in Calvin’s eyes.
Love?
Quinn inhaled sharply as truth dawned on him. His marriage, nothing more than a carefully constructed ruse to draw out a traitor, had become real. And now that traitor threatened to end it all too quickly. Nay. Quinn focused his anger on Calvin vowing the fat man would not live out this day, nor would the traitorous bitch Millane.
Quinn eased back Charon’s reins as he approached the hills surrounding the glade, ducking into the dense trees dotting them. Calvin’s guards would not spot him so easily thus concealed. Dismounting, he tied the horse to a tree branch and drew his sword from its sheath. Bowing his head, he whispered a prayer for Stirling’s safekeeping then slipped up the hill, vengeance guiding his silent steps. Cresting the top of the glade, he looked down on Calvin’s camp, counting more than a dozen mounted knights, and over two score of the ragtag mercenaries, but no Stirling.
A small tent, pitched at the base of a stand of pines, shook and the flap tore open. Calvin stumbled out, red-faced and huffing. He shook his fist at the tent, adjusted his belt and puffed out his chest, glaring at the snickering soldiers around him.
Fury rocked Quinn. Had the bastard tried to attack Stirling? Half-rising to full height a strong hand against his shoulder pushed him back down. Quinn threw himself away from the unknown assailant, bringing his sword to point.
Temple glared down at him. “‘Tis soft she’s turned ye, damn yer eyes. We made enough noise to wake William from a sot. Are ye tryin’ to git kilt, ye blasted, ach.” He waved his hand disgustedly. “Ye dinna even ken my words.”
“Are your men ready?” Quinn ignored the Scot’s rebuke, whipping his head toward the camp as an outraged bellow echoed through the glade. Once more the tent shook and a tall, dark-skinned mercenary fell out, clutching between his legs. Fierce satisfaction ripped through Quinn. Temple’s powerful grip forestalled another hasty flight to her side.
“You’re no good tae her like this, mon. She needs Quinn the Avenger, commander of William’s armies, not a fool who canna, willna see the dangers before his eyes.”
The truth of Temple’s harsh words sobered Quinn and he nodded his head. “You have the right of it, my friend.”
He closed his eyes and cleared his mind, seeking the balance of control that had always served him so well. Forcing aside his own fear, anger and guilt, he focused on the honey image of Stirling, smiling at him, her golden eyes winking with laughter. His eyes snapped open as he once again mastered his own resolve.
“Where are your men?”
Temple grinned and rocked back on his heels. “Aye, now, ‘tis more like it. They surround the glade, and we’ve taken out all of his guards.” Pursing his lips, he tipped his head. “Willna be much of a fight, hardly worth our time, ye ken, but should be a good bit of sport nonetheless. We more than outmatch his men, they’ve only four to one on us.”
“Stay here and await my signal.” Quinn retrieved Charon and swung into the saddle, sheathing his sword.
Temple’s mouth gaped again. “Ye canna go down there alone.”
Quinn grinned. “Aye, I can.”
Kneeing the horse past Temple, he cantered through a copse of trees and onto the edge of the glade. Stiffening in the saddle, he drew forth Stirling’s image again, preparing himself for battle.
“Calvin of Thornhatch, stand and meet me,” he bellowed, watching closely as the knights and mercenaries scrambled for their weapons and horses. They formed a tight knot, placing themselves squarely in front of the tent housing Stirling. Calvin’s flushed, round face peered at him from behind the rows of men.
“Did you bring the ransom?” he squeaked.
“Aye.” Quinn patted a saddlebag.
The men shifted, parting slightly as Millane forced her way through. Grinning maliciously, she yanked on the end of a rope. Stirling lurched forward, nearly dropping to her knees as the rope suddenly whipped back and bit back a cry on the rancid material stuffed in her mouth. Quinn flicked his eyes over her, but no expression crossed his face.
“You have my property, madame.”
His voice sounded cold, bored. Stirling stiffened at the slight, glaring at the soldiers when they snickered. Drawing herself up, she tipped her head back proudly. She’d not begged for Calvin and she would not beg for Quinn, but she could not hold back the tears that threatened at his callousness. She dared to meet his eyes again, surprised to find them warm and calming. Understanding dawned and she relaxed, ready to follow his silent commands. “What must I do to retrieve the baggage?”
“Baggage?” Millane repeated with a sneer. “Your foolish games will not work with me, Bastard Avenger. Well do I know your infatuation with her.”
Calvin eased next to Millane, toying with the rope. With a tug, he pulled Stirling close to his foul-smelling body. He licked his lips and stared at her breasts, his lust so tangible, it gagged her. He lined her lips with his fat finger, pulling the rag from her mouth and slipping his finger inside. She bit down on the offending digit and he yanked it back out with a howl.
“Bitch,” he snarled, grabbing her by the shoulders.
“Release my wife.”
Quinn’s cold, lethal voice sent a shiver through her. Calvin seemed not to notice the deadly intent in each word and continued to stroke her flesh from shoulder to shoulder. Stirling leaned away from him, fastening her gaze on Quinn once more. He was her security, her safety. He would not fail her.
“You were foolish to come here alone, Norman.” Calvin stroked her arm, then faced Quinn fully. He paced with swaggering arrogance in front of the men, shaking his finger at Quinn. “Now I have you, and her and the gold.” He crowed. “And which shall I enjoy the most, do you think?”
“You will not have the chance for either, fat man,” Quinn said calmly.
“‘Twill be your bride, whose legs I will spread gleefully and --” Calvin’s words ended on a gurgle and his arm flailed as he dropped to the ground, a knife protruding from his throat. Stirling looked away from the horrid sight, though she did not deny the fierce pleasure his death provided her. ‘Twas over.
“My thanks, Lord Quinn. He had become a burden,” Millane spoke coolly and Stirling’s gaze shot to her.
“Surprised?” she chortled. “No one suspects a woman of possessing anything more than the pleasure between her legs and certainly not the ability to gather or command an army.”
“You command them?” Stirling could not believe the words.
“Aye.” Millane glared at her. “‘Twas why I needed Falcon Fire. Those maps your father adored contained the sites of gold mines scattered beneath it.”
Stirling gaped. “Gold?”
“Aye, you stupid cow. ‘Twas no need for you to marry the Norman bastard, a tuppence to William’s coffers would have assured your status, but you did not do it, even
when I suggested so.”
“I thought you jested.”
“You are as half-witted as your mother was.”
Stirling stiffened. “Mother?”
“Aye, she did not believe his tales either and sought to destroy the maps. She took them from him and ‘twas up to me to retrieve them.” Millane tugged on the rope, winding it around her hand. “She squealed when she died. Will you?”
Rage burned Stirling’s eyes and she closed them, breathing harshly. This madwoman had killed her mother and most likely, would kill her and Quinn as well. She opened her eyes. She would not die alone.
Stirling jerked on the rope, catching Millane off-balance. The rope tore from her hands and Stirling bolted towards Quinn’s horse.
“Nay,” Millane screeched. “Archers, kill her.”
Stirling gasped and looked over her shoulder, stumbling as the rope tangled between her legs, throwing her to the ground. The pounding of Quinn’s galloping horse masked the twang of the arrows as the archers let their deadly points fly, but she knew he would not reach her in time. She was going to die.
“Quinn.” Even as his name burst from her lips, the ground shimmered and blue mist spread out before her, solidifying into a silver clad figure atop a white horse. Lifting his glinting silver shield, the Knight of the Mist deflected the arrows, scattering them harmlessly at her feet. Mesmerized at the appearance of this apparition she thought only a legend, Stirling scrambled to her feet and reached out to him. In the next instant she was flying through the air as Quinn scooped her up, setting her in front of him on Charon. He reined the horse sharply to the left, avoiding another hail of lethal arrows as the silver clad figure galloped noiselessly toward them. He nodded, before turning back to Millane’s now-still army.
“You have no right to this land, Millane of Thornhatch. Take your pitiful army and flee this place.”
Millane swaggered forward, though her army stepped back a pace. “I do not fear you, ghost.” She drew closer, the sneer visible on her lips. “You are naught but trickery conjured by the witch woman, Stirling. ‘Tis but one more reason for her to die as the heretic she is.”
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