Jennifer August (4 page)

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.

He raised a silent brow, which he noticed did not faze her in the least. His betrothed possessed a nerve greater than that of many warriors he’d fought with and against. He could not decide if the character flaw was intriguing or irritating.

“What duties occupy you now,
Stirling
?” he queried and noted the slight stiffening of her shoulders. “
Stirling
?” he prompted.

“‘Tis unseemly for you to address me by my given name, Sir.” She sipped from her own glass of mead, her eyes challenging him over the rim.

“In three days time, ‘twill not matter. As my wife, you will officially regain your title of Lady.”

She set her cup down carefully, folded her hands in her lap and drew in a deep breath. He sensed the battle was just beginning. “I have decided to decline William’s offer of marriage to you.”

He smiled, though a frisson of unease snaked through him. Did she know? “Have you? Why?”

She shrugged. “Falcon Fire and her people have been through rough years since Father’s false imprisonment. They need a man who can lead them, help them grow and flourish without commanding them without mercy. I do not believe you are that man. Your very position within William’s army gives proof to that.”

“Aye. ‘Tis true I led the King’s army when he defeated Harold and before. But I no longer am in his service.” Quinn’s patience began to slip. He decided such boldness was definitely an irritating trait, especially in his future wife.

“You cannot change the person you are,” she returned.

Quinn gave up all pretense. “You misunderstand,
Stirling
. ‘Tis not a request. If you do not wed with me, you will follow your father’s footsteps to imprisonment.”

Chapter Two

“I must find the information Father gathered about the rebels, Millane.”

Stirling
paced the length of her bedchamber, criss-crossing the flagstone floor quickly in her agitation. Her lady’s maid sprawled inelegantly across an oak chair, bright interest etched into her lovely round face.

“You have searched practically every crevice of the keep for almost two years without finding them, my lady. There is little hope they should turn up now,” she said, swinging her foot back and forth lightly.

“I know the papers are here somewhere. I must locate them. I am certain if I present them to William he will free me to choose my own husband.”

Millane clicked her tongue. “Doubtful, my lady. The new king is not known for changing his mind.” She chuckled and licked her lips. “Besides, ‘tis said your Quinn is a man of incredible talent.”

Stirling
glowered, though she could not dispute her maid’s cheeky observation. The press of the
Norman
’s kiss still tingled her mouth, still swirled low in her belly. “Gossip will do me no good, Millane. I do not want a man of war and violence, I want a man of tenderness and compassion.”

Millane snorted. “Something you’ll not find, to be sure.” The maid rose and stood beside her, taking her hands. “Men are governed by their desires, my lady, and that is how you shall rule him. It matters not if this
Norman
is the stoutest warrior, the fiercest of all Williams army. Seek out his desires and manipulate him with those.”

Stirling
shook her head, pulling away from her maid. “This one is not so easy as that, Millane. He is cold and demanding. He is aware of everything that happens around him. No,” she rubbed her arms. “He will not be beguiled.”

Stirling
walked to the hearth, staring up at the portrait of her mother, trying to ease the desperation coursing within her. Lady Gillian, clad in a red and black dress, sat atop a mare of silvery-white. Together the pair stood motionless at the edge of the reefs that bordered Falcon Fire. The restless sea churned and threatened to sweep her proud mother away, but the artist perfectly captured Lady Gillian’s defiant challenge in her intense blue-eyed gaze, iron straight spine and daring grin. “Oh Mother, if only you were here to help me.”
Stirling
sighed and resumed pacing, hands clasped tightly behind her, lips pursed in concentration.

“My lady?”

“Aye, Millane?” She turned to face the girl.

“Have you talked with the maids and scullery girls? The servants always know more of what goes on in the keep than the masters.” She waggled her eyebrows, a wide smile on her face. “‘Tis much more interesting down below, you know. Men talk of the oddest things after they have--”

“Enough,”
Stirling
ordered curtly, in no mood to hear more of the girl’s bedroom escapades with the soldiers. She retraced her steps.

“What are you afraid of, my lady? Lord Quinn? The marriage bed?” the maid asked pertly.

Stirling
scowled. “I fear nothing. Certainly not some
Norman
fool who seeks to rob me of my lands.”

“Then why do you jump and pace so? Your hands clench and your forehead knits with every step you take.”

Stirling
stopped moving, consciously smoothing her furrowed brow. “I must find the proof, ‘tis as simple as that.”

The maid’s impertinent questioning would have likely earned her a knock about the head in another household, but
Stirling
was fond of the girl. Millane had come to them shortly before Lady Gillian’s death and
Stirling
took her under her wing, elated to have a friend her own age.

“Are you certain ‘tis not the dark
Norman
causing such reaction?” She grinned slyly. “Perhaps you wished to sample a bit of him as he bathed?”

“I wished no such thing.” Even as she spoke the lie, the memory of his hard mouth pressed so intimately to hers caused heat to flush through her. Arrogant, vexing man to take such liberties.

“Hm, of course, my lady.” Millane jumped to her feet and sauntered to the door. “Should you decide to do so, I would be most pleased to offer what advice I can.”

“Out,”
Stirling
nearly screeched, pointing to the door.

“Should I not help you undress, my lady? Or would you prefer him?”

Biting her lip against a laugh, which would surely only encourage the cocky maid,
Stirling
gave in. “Very well then, you may help me into my nightrail, but after that I would be alone. You may have the rest of the night to yourself.”

Millane’s sultry chuckle echoed in her ears as the maid’s nimble fingers unlaced the ties of her gown. “By myself? Oh nay, my lady, I’ve an appointment with Lord Marcus.”

Stirling
whirled. “Lord Marcus, his second? You would betray me so?”

Millane’s eyes narrowed a bit and
Stirling
recognized the mulish glint in her set jaw. “‘Tis not betrayal, my lady, think of it as close scrutiny. As I said, a man will spill many secrets after he’s spilled his seed.”

With her usual speed, the maid helped
Stirling
doff the evening gown and don a white linen nightrail.

“There you are,
Stirling
. Though if you ask me --”

“I have not,” she ground out through clenched teeth, more than eager to be alone. The maid’s continual innuendoes proved unnerving as the invader’s image constantly flashed through her mind.

“A good evening to you then, my lady.” With one final dip, the maid winked at
Stirling
as she left, hips swaying and head tipped proudly.

“Lucifer’s tongue, but that girl is addlepated at times,”
Stirling
muttered, then resumed her pacing.

She knew the papers her father had drawn up, the ones that detailed the true traitors to
England
, must be hidden within the keep’s walls. But where?

For two years she’d conducted a methodical search of the keep, scouring each room and building with intensive regard, to no avail. Now, she had only three days time before the wedding to discover their whereabouts and get them to
London
. With proof of her father’s fidelity to the crown, William would have to recognize her legitimate claim to Falcon Fire. Then he could restore the land, monies and titles Harold stripped away, and she would be able to choose her own husband. One who would love her, not her land, not the rumored gold.

The darkly intriguing visage of Quinn de Trefoid popped into her head, distracting her. With a frown, she sought to banish him, but his piercing gray eyes held her captive. Quite clearly, she pictured the invader’s square jaw that brooked no challenge, his long, straight, nose that bespoke some hint of regal breeding, and his high, chiseled cheekbones. Set into a deeply tanned face, his features pulled at her in a way she did not fully understand, but vowed to resist.

“Enough,
Stirling
, you waste precious time.” Her scolding pushed Quinn’s countenance away and she crossed the room, securing the bolt against the door. Pulling the white nightrail over her head, she walked to the wardrobe where she knelt in front of the dark oak closet and searched the inside floor for the handholds carved into the wood. With a bit of a struggle, she managed to pull the false bottom away revealing the black leather jerkin, leggings, soft kid boots, and gloves she would require for her evening’s prowl.

Stirling
drew the clothing out, then stood. The glint of metal winked at her and she bent again, running her hand across the silver ringmail that lay at the bottom of the hidden chest. Two small gauntlets and greaves peeked out from underneath the chain shirt. An ornately scrolled hilt jutted up from the depths of the chest, drawing her eye. She hesitated, debating the wisdom of reaching further into her past, then pulled out the broadsword. The weapon, though not as long or heavy as a normal blade, remained sharp and lethal as ever. Sighing, she carefully replaced the sword, once again mourning the loss of its mate.

“No time for melancholy, you’ve work to do.” She set the flat wooden board back into place at the base of the wardrobe, then dressed in the black clothing. Drawing her wrap about her shoulders, she lifted the bolt and eased the door silently open. Two guards stood outside, neither of whom she recognized.
His men.
She closed the door quietly, replacing the bolt and shrugged out of the wrap. Tugging on her gloves, she eased behind the tall wardrobe, fingers reaching blindly for the lever. With a grin, she pulled the handle down, then quickly stepped away as the huge wooden closet swung forward, revealing a darkened corridor. Scooping a torch from the iron wall sconce, she stepped into the passage and pulled the wardrobe over the hole.

Instantly she became aware of the damp, musty smell, as if water constantly trickled in, but did not seep out. The skittering chatter of rats echoed in front of her and she faltered, suddenly unsure. ‘Twas one thing to prowl these forbidden caverns as a child, especially when accompanied by your best friend, but to traverse them alone in the black of night sent chills up her spine. As frequently as she used the hidden passage in the past, she never became accustomed to the fear.

The faint light from her sputtering torch did little to penetrate the inky darkness, but highlighted the eerie threads of cobwebs gathered in the passageway. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the shadows, her ears picked up sounds from the castle. She could make out faint murmurs from the scullery maids as they cleaned the kitchens, the clank of keys and groan of wood as the housekeeper secured the wheat stores. For a brief moment, she thought she detected Millane’s voice drifting from the rooms below. ‘Twas difficult to tell if the melodious, seductive tones belonged to her maid, though she was hard pressed to think of anyone else as bold.

Stirling
envisioned the labyrinth as her father marked it out. To her left lay the armory, dining hall and one outside entryway that opened near the stables. To her right the Lord’s chambers, kitchens, inner gatehouse and only other exit from the maze. She must be methodical in her approach, use the logical thinking her parents instilled. She refused to give up hope. Those papers were somewhere in the keep and she would find them. She must.

Stirling
turned left, slowly making her way past the armory and dining hall. She kept close to the damp rock walls, trailing one finger along the mossy barrier. A small weight pressed against her foot and she barely stifled a screech, leaping into the center of the corridor. Holding her torch closer to the ground, she glimpsed the rapidly disappearing tail of a rat and shivered. Foul, ghastly beasts. What if they attacked her? She wished she’d brought her sword to skewer the horrid rodents on.

The torch sputtered and dimmed and
Stirling
quickly righted it before the flame could burn out. Good Heavens, that would be all she needed, utter darkness. Calming her racing heart and steadying her hand around the wooden shaft of the torch, she resumed her pace, staying firmly entrenched in the middle of the passageway. Let the rats have the wet walls.

She pressed on, the scuff of her boot against the dirt floor occasionally kicked up a choking dust. Finally she stood before the gated door which remained hidden behind the wooden structure of the corral. Though the late hour was in her favor, she did not know if the stable lads had bedded down. Drawing a deep breath,
Stirling
pulled the door inward and froze as it creaked in protest. She stood motionless for a long panic-filled moment, but no cry of alarm rang out, no one demanded she step forward and identify herself. Heart light with relief, she set her torch into the wall sconce on the inside of the passage and crept out, the door closing with a softer squeak behind her. She inhaled a lung full of crisp, clean night air and brushed at the smudges of dust and webs clinging to her.

The inner bailey was filled with horses, soldiers, and knights of all description. Most slept, their heads cradled against saddles and blankets, but some still gathered around the fire. The stables were no more than fifteen feet to her right. Such a short distance, she mused, unless you had to cross it without being seen. Steeling herself, she sprinted to the wooden safety of the stalls, fear making her feet fly.