Jennifer August (7 page)

“No high-born maiden may be forced to wed a man born out of wedlock, Marcus. Not even one bound by king and honor. I will have much convincing to do if she is already aware of my bastardy. I do not believe Lady Stirling will be content with the marriage on such grounds.”

“She’ll come around, Quinn. I’ve not seen a woman yet you couldn’t charm from her stockings.” Marcus reassured him.

 
“I have a feeling we just did. The lady holds definite opinions and shares them. Frequently.” He shrugged. “Enough of this. Have you seen Snow?”

“Aye, one of the stable boys nearly choked when your beast wandered in. Fortunately, Eric explained she was not a mammoth to be killed and served for dinner, but rather your cherished pet,” Marcus said dryly. “After he fed and watered the hound, Snow disappeared.”

Quinn nodded. “She’s still investigating, I wager. She’ll turn up when she wants to.”

“She always does.” Marcus rose to his feet. “I must return to the wenches, they’ll be well-rested by now.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “How many have you bedded so far?”

Marcus winked. “A knight gently born does not tell, but it’s more than three and less than five. I’ve a rendezvous with Lady Stirling’s maid, Millane, as well. She’s a lusty wench, no doubt.”

“Your stamina is a credit to your training as a knight,” Quinn chuckled. “Go. But be prepared for the morrow, Marcus. I’ve a feeling I will need you at my back.”

“Do you expect trouble, my lord?”

“With Lady Stirling, I begin to expect nothing less.”

# # #

Her wedding day dawned bright and clear, usually a portent of good tidings. But
Stirling
would have preferred dark, roiling clouds booming with thunder and spitting lightning. Such a heavenly display would suit her mood far better. She sat on the edge of her bed, morosely contemplating the fates that brought her to this doom. Her freedom ended in but a few short hours and there was naught she could do to prevent the disaster.

She had failed.

Tears pricked her eyes, a wet throb in her nose. She tipped her head back, attempting to force this annoyance, at least, to stop.

“My lady? Are you ready for your bath?” Millane’s voice jerked
Stirling
from her reverie. She turned to see one of
his
men-at-arms wrestle a large wooden tub into the room. He set the basin in front of the hearth.
Stirling
nodded and managed a wan smile.

“Yes, thank you, Millane. ‘Tis just what I need.”

The soldier bowed low to
Stirling
and winked at Millane as he left the room. Millane giggled,
Stirling
rolled her eyes heavenward. It was a familiar scene and one played out many times. The only thing to ever change was the soldier. Apparently her lady’s maid had decided to include the Avenger’s men in the fun.

“Really Millane, ‘tis a wonder you do not have a dozen babes clinging to your skirts the way you carry on,”
Stirling
reproved lightly.

The maid arched her brow and smiled wickedly. “There are ways to prevent babes and preserve the pleasure, my lady.”

“Your wickedness knows no bounds, Millane,” she chided, though she wondered how one would go about doing such a thing.

The maid only laughed and motioned to the scullery girls hovering outside the door. They marched in and poured hot water in the wooden basin until Millane appeared satisfied. Dismissing them quickly, she dragged the bathing screen forth, arranging the privacy barrier around the tub and hearth, blocking any wind and trapping the fire’s heat. She hung a wrap and a square of white linen from pegs on the screen.
Stirling
rose from the bed and plucked a glass bottle from the cluttered top of the chifferobe. She removed the stopper and inhaled the familiar scent of lavender.

“I shall do that, my lady.” Millane took the bottle from her unresisting fingers and poured a generous amount into the steaming water. “After you bathe, I will rub some lavender oil into your skin. The softness will please Lord Quinn.”

Stirling
slanted a look at her maid, wondering how she knew what would please the dark Norman invader. Had the brazen wench attempted to bed him? Aghast at the small flare of jealousy, she thrust the thought away and shook her head adamantly. “You will not. I may wed with him this day, but I do not want him.”

“But, my lady, surely --”

“Nay,”
Stirling
snapped, then gentled her tone at the girl’s puzzled expression. “I am his boon, Millane and nothing more.” She grabbed the hem of her nightrail, tugging the billowy material over her head. She handed the gown to the maid and shivered as if a cold wind swept through the room. The servant rushed to pull the leather over the window, securing it with a length of rope to a nearby iron bar.

“Why your father did not install glass panes, I’ll never know.” she muttered when she stood at
Stirling
’s side again.

“For protection, you goose. The archers must have quick access should enemy forces attack.”

“And what of the ones who climb the walls in the dead of night and murder us in our beds?”

“No one can climb this high undetected, Millane.”

“You do.”

Stirling
frowned at her cheeky maid, annoyed by the girl’s continued innuendo and impudence. While ‘twas not unusual for Millane to speak so freely, a precedent set between them years earlier, today every word, every knowing smile grated on her nerves. She drew in a breath, attempting to quell the restlessness plaguing her. “Enough. ‘Tis not for other ears Millane. Especially now with him here. Should my night jaunts be discovered, ‘twill be disastrous.”

“Aye, my lady, you can trust me.” The girl smiled softly and ushered
Stirling
to the basin.

“I always have.”
Stirling
stepped into the tub, a sigh of pleasure escaping her as the luxurious warmth surrounded her.

“Shall I wash you, my lady?” Millane held a bar of lightly scented soap.

“Nay, I will do it.”
Stirling
reached for the bar. “Leave me. I will let someone know when to come for the basin.”

“I will return to dress you, my lady.” Millane curtsied and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

Stirling
released a breath she didn’t know she’d held and leaned her head back against the rim of the tub, cushioned by a linen towel. Stretching her legs out, she gently moved them back and forth, luxuriating in the feel of the water lapping against her skin. Allowing the warmth of the bath to seep into her, she tried to force out the tension and uncertainty plaguing her. But ‘twas no use. Too many questions remained unanswered. Dangerous questions. Why did Tristan scale the castle walls? What was he after? And who did he tell she would not cooperate? And what sort of animal saved her from Tristan? True, the beast frightened her, but did not harm her. It sought only to protect her. Most peculiar.

Stirling
frowned as she sat up and lathered her arms, another thought entering her mind. Perchance Tristan knew the location of the hidden papers. Her father had been imprisoned by Tristan’s false words and mayhap now, he sought to destroy the damning proof of his own guilt. Smoothing the soap over her breasts she vowed to discover his purpose. Should he return to the keep, she would be ready for him.

Perhaps ‘twould be wise to carry a sharp dagger instead of her usual eating knife. Thoughts of Quinn and their nearing wedding intruded. She must find a way to hide her plan from his already suspicious glare. Resting her toes on the edge of the basin, she trailed the frothy bar over her legs and a giggle escaped her. Her mother would have been appalled at her mischief, but the thought of the
Norman
attempting to fit into the small washtub brought on a new bout of laughter.

“Pray tell, demoiselle, what amuses you so?”

Stirling
gasped and slid beneath the water. Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at Quinn’s tall shadow through the screen.

“Get out!” she hissed, trying to cover her body as though his hungry gray gaze drifted down the length of her, searing her skin through the cloudy water. “Leave this chamber immediately!”
Stirling
sank further beneath the rapidly cooling surface, swallowing a mouthful of water. She coughed harshly, trying to expel the vile tasting liquid.

“Are you well,
Stirling
?”

“Aye!” She gasped and coughed again, then cleared her throat.

“My lord I prefer to finish my bath in private.” Her words were breathlessly hesitant and she groaned aloud.

“Your pardon,
Stirling
, I did not intend to interrupt your bath.”

She heard the barely concealed amusement in his voice and gritted her teeth. “Then why are you here?”

“To escort you to the chapel. As the new lord and lady of Falcon Fire, we must set a good example for our people, don’t you agree?” He chuckled wickedly.

She gritted her teeth at his slightly mocking tone. “Of course. ‘Tis how all gently-bred people conduct themselves.”

He laughed again. “I suggest you complete your toiletry,
Stirling
. Vespers begin in an hour. I shall await you here, lest you form a sudden desire for more… thinking.” He rapped on the screen and she jumped, sloshing water to the floor. “Quickly, demoiselle, I am most anxious to be wed.”

Chapter Four

“You cannot stay, ‘tis improper!”
Stirling
protested loudly from behind the wooden screen.

Securing the large bathing sheet about her, she peered around the side of the barrier. Quinn made himself at home, sprawled in the large oak chair her father always used. She glared at him, ignoring the flutter his broad shoulders and strong face caused. She cared not a whit that his leather-queued midnight black hair appeared freshly trimmed and now brushed those muscular shoulders. Nor did the fact he wore her colors of red and black endear him to her. She suspected ‘twas a ploy to gain her easy capitulation, and he would soon strip away all that remained of her father’s legacy. “Sir Norman, if you must await me, I insist you do so in the hall.”

He lifted an arrogantly arched brow, a wicked smile curving his sensuous mouth. “You insist, demoiselle? And what shall you do if I decline?”

She popped back behind her meager safety. “I will curse you and all your family,” she muttered.

“Are you a witch, then?” His voice was closer and she gasped, peeking around the frame again. Her nose bumped the broad expanse of his back. She ducked away before he could turn.

“Nay, sir, I am not, more’s the pity.”

She inched past the hearth, toward the other side of the screen. The side closest to the bed. The fire sparked, showering the flagstone floor with red embers and she jumped back. “Lucifer’s tail, what next?”

“Do you require aid dressing,
Stirling
? I am more than willing to lend my expertise.” His voice resonated with amusement and she wondered briefly at his good mood. She had the notion the dark warrior rarely found pleasure or humor in anything. Except her. For some incomprehensible reason, she did naught but amuse him. Or infuriate him, which, she admitted, was much more to her liking.

“
Stirling
?” he prompted.

“Nay, Sir Norman, though I’m certain you’ve undressed many women, I doubt your ability to help one into her clothing. Millane will do.” Again she stared at the screen as if she could sear him. “If you would but quit the room, I could dress.” She stressed each word, praying he would take his leave.

His laughter, deep and full, echoed off the stone walls. His good spirits roused her own pleasure and she caught her breath at the sensation. She did not wish to be cheerful this day, but found herself smiling at his amusement, the black mood she’d awakened with dissipating. When he spoke, the rich timbre of his voice reached out and caressed her. “Very well, demoiselle. I will await you in the great hall. But be quick, I am most anxious to seal this fate.” The door closed softly behind him and she looked out hesitantly, just to make certain he did not trick her. Satisfied, she sank onto the bed, clutching the white towel to her breasts as his words lingered in the air, wiping away the gladness she briefly experienced.

“
Seal this fate
.”

‘Twas not fate, but cruel irony that threw them together in this farce. Had it not been for Tristan’s determination to have her and the rule of Falcon Fire, her father would still be alive and she, the mistress of her own choices. Instead her life and her home were mere tokens to be given away by a frivolous king. Tears welled in her eyes, but she angrily brushed them away. She would not give up or give in. There were other ways to best the dragon. She was a lady born into the fire, she would prevail over the cold
Norman
. No other choice existed.

“My lady? Are you ready?” Millane asked softly, now standing before her, a length of silver material in her hands.

Stirling
sighed. “Nay, but let us get on with this mockery.” She eyed the shiny fabric quizzically. “What have you?”

“The gown your mother wore on her wedding day, my lady. Sir John has kept it safe these many years and bade me bring it to you.”

She held the gown out and
Stirling
took it with trembling fingers, touching the pearls beaded into the bodice. The intricate beauty stole her breath. The seams were sewn with tiny stitches of silver thread, the hem of the full skirt trimmed all around in white fur.

“Exquisite,” she breathed. Lady Gillian’s loving presence surrounded her, offering comfort, but
Stirling
shook her head.

“Thank you, Millane, but I cannot wear a gown meant for love to a wedding mired in travesty.” She laid the dress on the bed. “I will wear a day dress. Nothing more is required.”

“But my lady, you can’t.” Millane wrung her hands, face reddened and eyes panicked. “He says you’re to be presentable.” Her voice dropped to whisper. “He says if you’re not, he’ll dress you himself, he did.”

Stirling
narrowed her eyes. “He?” Surely even the Norman invader would not dare, would he?

“Lord Quinn, my lady.” Millane looked on the verge of pleading tears, a rarity for her spunky maid. Quinn must have indeed been forceful in his high-handed commandment to shake Millane’s confidence.

Stirling
closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.
Intolerable
. She wanted to scream, to rant and rave, to smash every piece of crockery in the keep. But her mother’s admonitions to act as a lady suddenly intruded and she forced herself to calmness. This one battle was lost already, but she could still master the
Norman
. She hoped.
Stirling
picked up the dress, then lifted her chin. “I wear the gown to honor my mother, and no other reason.”

# # #

“Riders and wagons approach!” The call rang out from the highwatch tower and along the curtain wall to the great hall of the keep. Quinn rose from his chair, grinning.
Temple
arrived at last. Flinging open the doors, Quinn strode outside, followed closely by Marcus.

“Open the gates,” Quinn yelled to the guards, and the wooden portcullis creaked and moaned in protest as it obeyed the pull of the ropes. Four horsemen rode at the front and three colorful patchwork cargo wagons lumbered in behind them, with still more riders at the rear. The wagons contained his household possessions and items Quinn knew his mother sent from Terre D’Eglace, his boyhood home.

“God in Heaven, we’re being invaded by gypsies,” a maid whispered behind Quinn. He laughed and shook his head, but did not explain. The wagons stopped in the courtyard and his people poured forth, yelling and tossing ropes to each other. The unloading began quickly and Quinn knew a moment’s satisfaction he would spend his wedding night surrounded by his own hard won treasures. And he would be able to offer his betrothed a bridal price sure to please even her.

“Ho, Quinn.”
Temple
rounded from behind one of the wagons, his long, oak-like legs eating the distance with alacrity. “Still going through with it?”

“Aye,” Quinn said, even as he steeled himself.

Seconds later, the huge Scot wrapped him in a hug and lifted him off the ground. Air squeezed out and he could not pull it back in.

He almost collapsed when
Temple
released him at last.

“Ach, lad, you’re getting weak in this damn English air,”
Temple
said with a snort.

Quinn shoulder-butted the taller man, pleased when he grunted and gave a few inches.

“All right, perhaps not. Give it time, though. This foul air canna be good for you.”
Temple
’s shaggy brows knitted together and he looked past him. “Marcus, you son of a sot.”

“At least my mother never mated with a sheep, you great beast.”

Temple
roared with laughter and clapped a large, meaty hand to his shoulder. Marcus swayed under the pressure, but Quinn noted with pride he remained upright.

The dark gaze turned back to him. “So, you’re truly going to see this through, my lord?”

“Aye,
Temple
. Would I be here otherwise?” Quinn asked dryly.

“Nay,” his vassal chuckled. “Indeed you would not, king’s command or no.”

Quinn looked at him sharply, warning him to hold his tongue. The people of Falcon Fire that surrounded them were not all pleased to have a new lord. Any hint of their true mission would only infuriate the dissenters more.

Quinn slapped
Temple
on the back as they headed toward the chapel, the thrum of excitement singing through him. ‘Twas as though the threads of destiny all wove together to form this moment, this place, this bond. Though she could not realize it, Lady Stirling held the key to his future. And with that key, he could finally lock away his past.

The large chapel burst at the seams with people crowding its hallowed halls. Every pew seat, save the front two, were occupied with happy, beaming vassals and knights, while Falcon Fire’s joyful villagers stood shoulder to shoulder at the rear, some even spilling into the courtyard. He made the right choice with
Stirling
, he thought in satisfaction. Not only was her army fiercely loyal, but her villagers, serfs and servants were as well. And, if he gambled correctly, they would, eventually, include him in that loyalty.

Falcon Fire’s red and black standard hung proudly above the stone altar. William’s banner jutted from the left as did, Quinn realized in amazement, his own colors of silver and blue. Four page boys stiffly lined the wall beneath the banners, horns at the ready. He grinned and pushed his way to the front of the chapel, where a white-haired man paced restlessly. The priest wore the black flowing robes of the clergy, his waist encircled by a wide ribbon of scarlet.

“Father? I am Quinn de Trefoid.”

The priest stopped mid-stride and looked him up and down, lips pursed and eyes thoughtful. He poked a bony finger in Quinn’s direction. “So you are the Avenger. Have you made your peace with the Lord, Sir Knight?”

Quinn raised a brow at the man’s impertinence. “What passes between He and I is not of your concern, priest.”

The clergyman cackled, white brows disappearing into the thick shock of hair atop his head. “A good match, indeed. Where is Lady Stirling?”

“Here, Father,” Millane’s bold voice called out.

Quinn turned and his breath stilled.
Stirling
walked with measured grace through the well-wishers, nodding as she passed each row. Clad in a gown of silver mist that clung to her high breasts and molded her tiny waist, she appeared ethereal, almost unreal. A gauzy veil of the same bewitching silver capped her upswept blonde hair and rippled down her back. A small smile curved her lips and her golden eyes bore into his, holding him captive. He stepped forward, offering his arm, fiercely glad when she showed no hesitation in her acceptance.

“You are enchanting, demoiselle.”

She inclined her head, offering him that same soft smile. Father Tiburon began the morning service, urging them all to remember this day as a joyous new beginning in the proud history of the keep. After a short mass, he motioned Quinn forward.

“Kneel my son, and receive the blessings bestowed upon you today.”

Obediently, Quinn sank to his knees and bowed his head.

“Quinn de Trefoid, by the benevolence of King William and the reverent hand of God, I hereby declare you to be the true and rightful lord of Falcon Fire, have mercy upon your soul.” The priest circled him, shaking droplets of water on his head and shoulders. Then, heavily scented smoke from the incense filled scepter poured over him. “Rise, Quinn of Falcon Fire,” the priest commanded, “and greet your people.”

Quinn stood and faced them, astonished at the mingled looks of relief and admiration he saw. A loud cheer ripped through the vestibule, and the horns behind him blared several joyful notes of welcome, followed immediately by a hushed silence. He waited tensely.

Father Tiburon stepped up next to him. “This day has a twofold cause for celebration.” The priest motioned to
Stirling
, who rose and moved forward. “Join hands and kneel,” he commanded them. “Unto you, Lord Quinn, I bestow in marriage the prize of Falcon Fire, Lady Stirling. To you she brings fertile lands, loyal followers, plentiful stores and a superior army of knights. Do you accept her offering?”