The Knight of the Mist cantered silently forward, stopping his white horse inches from Millane’s contemptuous glare.
“I am the guardian of Falcon Fire. I am the Knight of the Mist.” His loud proclamation scattered Millane’s remaining troops and they bolted from the glade only to be met by Temple and his band of warrior Scots as they dropped from the trees.
“Nay,” Millane screamed, eyes wild as she watched them flee. “He is not real.”
“I must aid Temple, lady-wife.” Quinn sliced through the ropes binding her wrists and slid her from the horse, handing her his long-bladed dagger. “Stay here and I will return for you.” Leaning down, he pressed a harsh kiss to her lips, then whirled Charon and entered the fracas.
Stirling stood where he left her, gaze captured by the confrontation between the Knight of the Mist and Millane. She inched forward, longing to see this fabled protector closer.
“You have lost, Millane,” he stated and lifted a finger. “Leave this place.”
Millane’s features contorted into a mask of hatred. Her glare bounced from the knight to the battle around her coming to rest on Stirling. She took a step back at the evil emanating from the maid.
“‘Tis your fault.”
Millane darted around the knight and charged Stirling, jerking her knife free of its sheath. Stirling stood her ground, balancing her weight carefully and braced for the attack. Millane swung at her wildly and Stirling ducked, stepping away. The girl followed quickly, slashing at her, her eyes sparking vilely.
“You will die. Die.”
Millane lunged and Stirling jumped back, tripping her as she sped by. Millane landed hard, the knife flying from her fingers. Stirling jumped on her back, yanking her arms behind her, avoiding the sharp kicks as Millane squirmed violently. Using the discarded rope, Stirling bound the screaming tempest.
“Be still Millane or you will injure yourself,” Stirling yelled over the girl’s shouts.
“I’ll not bow to you,” Millane snarled, bucking her off.
Stirling stepped back and watched the maid struggle to her feet, knowing she could not flee. Quinn, the Knight of the Mist and Temple’s men surrounded them, forming a barricade she could not hope to penetrate.
“Nay. Nay. Nay.” Millane’s frenzied wail faded to a whimpering moan and she dropped to her knees.
Stirling took a step toward her only to be stopped by the cold clasp of the Knight of the Mist and the warm grip of her husband.
The legendary protector shook his head. “‘Tis my right.”
Stirling bowed her head as he walked by.
“You did not kill her,” Quinn murmured in her ear, his trembling arm hugging her to him.
“I could not. She was once my friend.”
“Aye.”
The Knight hauled Millane to her feet and brought her before them. “She will be tried for treason against her king and for the murder of her mistress, Lady Gillian.” He handed the rope to Temple who quickly took her away. The silver knight clasped Quinn’s forearm. “You have honored this house, Quinn of Falcon Fire.”
Quinn bowed low. “‘Tis my honor, my lord.”
The gleaming figure turned to her and Stirling swallowed hard. “Though you disbelieved, I have always been with you.”
“My lord, pray forgive me.” She bent her head.
“Nay.” She snapped her gaze up to him, watching in horrified fascination as he removed his helm. “There is no need for forgiveness, daughter.”
Stirling stared into the ghostly eyes of her father, disbelief warring with joy. She dared not move, afraid the apparition would disappear like mist on a lake.
“Father?” she croaked.
“Aye, Stirling. You have served me proudly.”
A joyous barking erupted from the trees as Snow bounded into the clearing. The white wolfhound ran circles around the Knight until finally leaping against his chest.
“Snow, down,” Stirling ordered, anxious to speak with her father, but the dog laid her head against the silver arm, her tail wagging slowly. Stirling reached out, her hand freezing above Snow’s white fur as the air around them both began to shimmer once more. The long furry shape of the dog slowly gave way to the slender lines of a woman. Even before she turned, Stirling knew ‘twas her mother.
“Dear one.” Lady Gillian stroked Stirling’s tear-streaked face. “I have missed you greatly.”
Stirling could not speak but pulled her mother into her arms, shaking with the intensity of her emotions. Such things were not possible, and yet here they stood, her dead parents, holding her, loving her. Stirling swallowed hard and withdrew slightly, keeping her mother’s hands close to hers.
“How ... why...?” She trailed off, frustrated she could not find the words to ask the questions tearing at her heart. Her eyes roamed first her mother, then her father’s translucent features and still the words would not come.
“Aye,” Quinn’s near-surly tone boomed. “How does it happen that you and my dog are one and the same?”
Lady Gillian smiled up at Quinn and Stirling looked away, joyful at the love shining from them. Her mother approved of this Norman husband of hers. The knowledge was comforting.
“Dear boy, you have been a trial.” Lady Gillian chuckled and rose up on tip toe, ruffling his hair. “I must say it took much conniving for me to get you to William.”
“For you to get me…” Quinn laughed and Stirling felt his stiff body relax. “Indeed, I thought it odd that a mongrel dog should know the hidden camps of William.”
“You were too deep in your cups to question it.” She clucked her tongue.
“Why did you choose me?”
“I watched the knights for many days, seeking the one who would aid me. Your honor and courage stood out above all.”
Gillian’s blue gaze returned to Stirling. “Since my death, ‘tis been my mission to ensure your safety. But I would know you have happiness as well.”
Stirling smiled, sharing a private, womanly look with her. “Aye, Mother, I am content.”
“‘Tis time for us to leave,” her father spoke, his gloved hand stroked Stirling’s cheek as the blue mist swirled around him once more. “The papers you seek, the ones naming the traitors are secured within the keep.”
Stirling shook her head. “I’ve searched everywhere. Tristan must have found them first.”
Her father grinned. “Nay, daughter, they are sewn into the wedding tapestry.”
“Of course,” she laughed. “But Father, Tristan is dead.” She looked up at Quinn, heart clenching with the power of her emotions. “I am happy. Does it matter now?”
The specter nodded. “William must know. They will not let the rebellion fall because of one man’s death. Others will rise, others will challenge. Those names are on the list.”
She nodded.
“Stirling, there is more.”
“Yes?”
“The gold is there, daughter. You and Quinn shall find it. The maps will guide you.” He turned to Gillian and held out his hand. “Goodbye dear ones.”
“Do not go, please,” Stirling cried as they faded.
“Love is with you, as are we.” His words whispered to her on the breeze that scattered the mist. Tears welled in her eyes and she turned to Quinn’s solid strength, taking comfort in his embrace. Her mind whirled with confusing intensity as happiness, fear and awe mingled effortlessly.
“Aye, love is with you, lady-wife. My love.”
Stirling turned her eyes to him, daring to tease her arrogant husband. “Do you not mean the loving, my lord?”
“Minx,” he growled, kissing her fiercely. “Tell me you love me.”
“Perhaps.” She sighed, pulling his head back down.
“Ach, now, we’ve no time for that,” Temple’s booming voice intruded. “We must see tae Marcus and the maid.”
“Marcus.” She gasped and tore herself away. “He lives?”
“Aye, though I do not know how,” Quinn said as he tossed her ont
o Charon’s back.
Stirling remained silent, not yet ready to tell her husband of her daring. ‘Twould surely ignite his temper once more.
“Take me home, Quinn.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Why did you not tell me of your lineage?”
Stirling’s blunt question startled Quinn and he shrugged, tightening his arms around her. “The consequences of my birth matter not.”
She twisted in the saddle, pinning him with a disbelieving stare. “Now, nay, but on the occasion of our forced marriage, ‘twould have been prudent information.”
He chuckled. “Do you think me so foolish, lady-wife? Already your wit and cunning showed, had I given you such leverage ‘tis a certainty I would have been sent back to London, poorer than when I arrived.”
She smiled. “Aye.” Turning around, she pressed her back against his chest and stroked his forearm. “‘Tis still my right to dissolve this pact we have.”
He stiffened. “You will not,” he growled.
“Won’t I?”
“Nay.”
“Why not? Since our wedding, I have been kidnapped twice, forced to kill Tristan, drugged and manhandled. I would say your protection is sadly lacking.”
“‘Tis my hand upon your bottom you should fear, madame. Your impertinent tongue knows no boundaries.” He glared down at her golden head. “You will not leave me, Stirling, you love me.”
“Hmmm, perhaps.”
Quinn shook his head at her maddening response. His lady-wife did indeed possess a stubborn nature.
“My lord.” Temple’s scout raced up, sweat beading both man and horse. “There are wagons in the keep and a gypsy camp set up outside the bailey walls.”
“God’s light, am I never to have peace? Do they appear armed?”
“I could not tell, sir.”
“Did you at least see a standard?”
The man shook his head morosely and Quinn clamped his legs against Charon’s flanks, urging the horse to a faster gait. Temple chased him closely. They reached the edge of the forest and looked at the wagons, horses and people crowding the pasture below. Quinn’s gaze streaked over the smaller conveyances littering the bailey. He groaned.
“What is amiss, my lord?” Stirling peered up at him.
“Prepare your case, lady-wife, William himself has invaded us.”
She gasped, her hand flying to her hair, then down her dress. “Nay. I am not properly attired, my hair is a mess of tangles and I’m positive I smell,” she wailed.
Quinn laughed. “Aye, you do.”
Her eyes widened and spots of red colored her cheeks. She pushed him hard in the chest, nearly dislodging him.
“Mind your manners, husband. I’ll not be shamed in front of his majesty by you.”
Temple crowed. “Best be listening to the wee lassie, Quinn. She’s a devil of a temper, that one.”
“Aye, that she has. Come minx, let us meet William.”
“Nay, oh nay,” she moaned even as Charon bolted forward.
The group cantered through the gates and around the various campfires. Venison, boar and rabbits roasted atop the flames, filling the air with their delicious aroma. Dark skinned children giggled and ran through the tents, chased by doe-eyed women and smiling men.
“Who are they?” Stirling whispered.
“William’s gypsies.”
“My lord?” She gave him a quizzical look.
“William has his own peccadilloes and this band of gypsies is one of them. The matriarch, Dashivra, once saved his life during a minor skirmish by distracting his enemy. William declared her and her followers his good fortune and rewarded them handsomely. They follow him every time he travels.”
“How odd.”
“You have no idea.” Quinn frowned as they neared the keep. He hoped his king would understand and forgive Stirling when he heard the tale. William also held bravery and honor in high regard.
They reached the keep and Quinn slid from the horse as the doors opened.
“Quinn, my boy, ‘tis about time,” William bellowed.
Stirling allowed Quinn to help her from the saddle, then looked up at him and smiled. Pulling his head down, she kissed him, pouring every ounce of her love for him into the embrace. “Rest easy, my lord. Believe in me. Believe in your king.”
“Secrets, Quinn?” William’s jovial laughter broke them apart as he tramped down the stairs.
Stirling turned to look at her new king, surprised to find him much smaller than she imagined. His head barely topped her own, and the girth around his middle quite nearly matched his height.
“‘Tis good to find you healthy, my lord,” Quinn murmured, bowing low.
Following Quinn’s lead, she curtsied deeply.
“Now, now, none of that, little pigeon.” William’s pudgy fingers gripped her arm with hidden strength and pulled her upright. “Ah, indeed she is a beauty. You have done well, friend.”
“As have I, your highness. Quinn more than satisfies my needs.”
Chortling, William stepped between them and draped his arm over their shoulders, urging them up the stairs. “‘Tis a good match. I am satisfied.”
They spilled into the dining hall as servants scurried to fill pitchers and goblets with both Argyle’s honey mead and Quinn’s vile red wine for the king and his entourage. The tables were laden with food and the travel weary men streamed to them, hungrily taking their fill. Stirling’s eyes fastened on Marcus as he slumped in a high backed chair near the hearth. She ran to his side, clutching his arm.
“Marcus, are you well?”
He lifted his eyelids and pushed himself up, a half-smile on his lips. “Aye, lady, thanks to you. How did you know?”
“Know what?” Quinn asked behind her.
Stirling rose to her feet, facing both husband and king. Now came her time of reckoning. Mayhap, she thought, Quinn’s admission of love would ease his temper.
“Aye, Marcus, speak up. I would know why you conveyed such a missive.”
“Why are you here, my lord?” Quinn asked William.
The king settled his girth into a chair and waved a hand at Marcus. “This one sent me a message regarding your wife.”
Quinn frowned. “What did it contain?”
“Accusations of witchcraft, meddling with poisons. I tell you, Quinn, he nearly declared her guilty of treason with his rantings. I could not believe I had so misjudged the girl and came to find out for myself.”
“And?” Quinn asked warily.
William glowered. “There is much to be explained, where have you been and why is your lady-wife clad in chainmail? Why did I arrive to find Marcus rising from his deathbed and the keep under guard of a battalion of women?”
“I was misled, sire,” Marcus spoke, then cleared his throat. “Aye, ‘tis true Lady Stirling works the herbals, but she does so only to heal, not harm. ‘Twas she who stitched my wounds after being attacked and she who saved me from death.”
“But how?”
“My maid sought to poison him because he discovered her treasonous plots against you, but I was able to feed him the antidote beforehand.”
“What?” Quinn’s bellow rang in her ears and she glared at him. “Why did you not tell me?”
“I could not, ‘twas the night Tristan took me.”
“Tristan? Who is he? I demand you tell me of this all. Then I will make my judgments,” William snapped.
Stirling told the king of all that occurred since her wedding, leaving nothing out, not even her charade as the Knight of the Mist. When he demanded to hear the legend, Quinn offered the tale.
“You have broken a serious law, damsel.” William stroked his chin, eyeing her seriously. “Do you know the punishment for this crime?”
“Aye, lord, ‘tis death.”
“Nay.” Quinn pulled her behind him. “I will not allow you to kill her William.”
William surged to his feet. “You dare challenge me?” e roared.
“I do,”
Quinn bit out.
“‘Tis treason.”
“So be it.”
“You will join her in death?”
“Aye, we will not be separated.”
“Step forward girl,” William snapped. He glared at them and Stirling gripped Quinn’s hand. “Stirling of Falcon Fire, for your deceit and disregard for the laws of the crown, I find you guilty.”
Stirling’s stomach dropped and nausea washed over her, but she managed to raise her head proudly.
“Quinn the Avenger, for your attempts to hide this crime, I find you guilty.” William pursed his lips. “You are each condemned to a fine of one hundred crowns.”
Stirling stared, unable to comprehend his words. William winked at her. “You have my gratitude, Lady Stirling. Your courage and daring has saved my kingdom, not to mention a valuable knight.”
Stirling curtsied. “‘Twas but duty, my lord.”
“You must tame her sharp tongue, Quinn, such notions do not need to be spread throughout my kingdom.”
Quinn laughed as he pulled Stirling into his arms. “Aye, my lord, I shall attend to it.”
“Come children, eat with me,” William commanded, motioning to the empty chairs at the table.
Stirling grimaced. She did not comprehend how the knights ate in the uncomfortable confines of their armor nor did she care to try. “I would don suitable attire, my lord, with your permission?”
“Aye, go.” William waved her away.
Quinn accompanied her up the stairs to their chambers and helped her doff the armor.
Stirling peeled the linen chemise sticking to her body and made for the wash basin.
“You were right, Quinn, your king is an odd man. But I like him.”
Quinn’s strong hand plucked the linen wash rag from her fingers and swirled it in the tepid water. Lightly he drew it across her shoulders and over her breasts.
“Do not like him too much.”
“Of course not, my lord.”
He swept the cloth down her arms and up her back. She shivered.
“We should return below, he will wonder.”
Quinn’s chuckle rumbled against her back. “Nay, lady-wife, he will know.”
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