Love Above All (22 page)

“Abercorn is not completely isolated from the
world. I have a mind of my own and good hearing,” Janet said. “I
pay attention to what happens around me. I could offer sensible
advice, if anyone would ask me. Royce should have included Fionna
and me in his council.”

The agreement reached by that council left
Fionna dumbfounded.

“We are heading for Edinburgh,” Royce said,
“on Quentin’s advice. We cannot hope to reach England if we must
fight through every mile of the way against men who lurk in the
hills where we can’t watch them, and who know the land better than
we do.”

“Aha!” Janet exclaimed to Fionna. “I told you
so. I’m forced to admit that Quentin is no fool.”

“I cannot accept your decision, or the reason
you’ve given for making it,” Fionna said, looking from Royce to
Quentin. “I know you Normans fairly well after the last few weeks,
at least well enough to be aware that Murdoch presents a challenge
any Norman warrior would relish. None of you are cowards. Yet you
have chosen to run away. Why?”

“It’s not our lives we’re worried about,”
Quentin said. His eyes held hers long enough for Fionna to
understand the true reason for the change in plans.

“It’s to protect Janet and me, isn’t it?” she
said. “You don’t fear for your own lives, but you do fear what our
brothers will do to us if you are killed and we are left
defenseless.”

“You have been in danger too long,” Quentin
said. “Janet, too. Royce and Cadwallon agree with me on this.”

“Just how do you suppose taking us to
Edinburgh will put us out of danger?” she demanded.

“King Alexander can protect you,” Royce
explained when Quentin did not speak.

“Oh, I see.” Fionna never took her gaze from
Quentin’s solemn face. “I understand, my noble lord. You intend to
leave Janet and me there, at the royal court. As wards of the king,
perhaps?”

“It’s the wisest course,” Quentin said. “I am
on good terms with Alexander. I’m sure he’ll listen when I ask him
to place you under his protection, especially after we warn him of
Murdoch’s intention to disrupt the peace.”

“I think Quentin is right,” Janet put in.

“So do I,” Cadwallon added.

“How could you?” Fionna still faced Quentin,
directing her passionate questions to him. “After you-? After we-?
You’d abandon me? Abandon Janet and me?” she hastily corrected
herself out of fear that Janet would guess at the intimacy between
herself and Quentin.

“Please, try to understand,” Quentin
said.

“I understand perfectly well.” She couldn’t
think of a word strong enough or rude enough to describe him. The
last time she’d seen him, he had been sound asleep in his tent,
relaxed after making tender love to her. Now he wanted to leave
her, to dump her at the Scottish court as if she meant nothing at
all to him. Which, she reflected, was very likely what she did mean
to him – nothing. His professed desires to protect her and to warn
the king were no more than convenient excuses.

“You Norman!” she snarled, and whirled away
from him, trying through her tears to locate her tent, only to
discover the servants had already struck it, leaving her with no
place to go.

“Fionna.” It wasn’t Quentin who followed her,
but Braedon. “Quentin is doing what he thinks is best for you and
your sister.”

“He’ll leave me there. I’ll never see him
again.”

“I’m sorry.” Braedon’s big hand rested on her
shoulder for a moment.

“Why should I be surprised?” she muttered.
“He’s enjoyed what he wanted from me. Now he’ll be rid of me under
the guise of concern for my welfare.”

“You don’t really believe that, any more than
I do,” Braedon said. “Did you know that I have no idea who my
father is?”

“What?” She gaped at him, trying to follow
the sudden shift in his thinking.

“That’s right,” Braedon said. “I’m a bastard.
My entire life has been a matter of happenstance and coincidence.
And yet, it has turned out well, so far. By pure good luck I became
one of King Henry’s squires, and he offered me the chance of an
interesting adventure with Quentin’s mission to King Alexander.
I’ve met two kings. Not bad, for a bastard whose mother was a
commoner.”

“Are you trying to tell me that my life will
also turn out well?” she asked.

“Perhaps. You don’t lack courage.”

“I am a mere woman, with few choices,” she
reminded him with considerable bitterness. Then she squared her
shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “Go and arm your
master,” she said in a cold voice.

Braedon grinned at her, the wound over his
left eye lending him a rakish appearance.

When he was gone Fionna looked around for
Janet, only to find her sister engaged in a vigorous discussion
with Cadwallon. Or, perhaps, they were arguing yet again.

It took them a day and a half to reach
Edinburgh. Leaving the narrow road, they set their course directly
northwestward across the hilly countryside, traveling as fast as
they dared push their horses.

During the first day Fionna refused to speak
to Quentin. She couldn’t bear to look at him, either, so she spent
her time riding with Cadwallon and Janet.

“Do be sensible,” Janet advised her when
evening came and they halted for the night. “You have to eat and
Royce is expecting us in the dining tent. Really, Fionna, I had
almost forgotten how stubborn you can be.”

“I am not being stubborn!” Fionna cried. “You
don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t,” said her implacable sister.
“Royce and Quentin are going out of their way to make certain we
are safe. Instead of sulking, you ought to be grateful to them.
What, I ask you, is wrong with becoming a king’s ward? King
Alexander will arrange good marriages for us, I’m sure. Almost any
man would be a husband preferable to Colum,” she added with
unaccustomed wistfulness.

“Wouldn’t you like to choose your own
husband?” Fionna asked as she wondered, not for the first time,
about the frequent conversations and arguments between Janet and
Cadwallon.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Janet exclaimed. She
shook her head as if to clear it of so unacceptable a thought.
“Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“Who, indeed?” Fionna said with a sigh.

In the end Fionna washed her face and hands
and braided her hair again before she and Janet presented
themselves at Royce’s table. She was polite during the meal, but
she spoke only when she was spoken to. She found it difficult to
swallow any of the spit-roasted bird or the vegetable stew that
Royce’s cook served up. In an attempt to loosen her tight throat
she drank perhaps a bit too much of Royce’s excellent wine.

As soon as the meal was over she excused
herself and departed from the tent, leaving Janet still at the
table, where she was deep in an argument with Cadwallon.

“Fionna, wait.” Quentin had followed her into
the night.

“You cannot possibly have anything important
to say to me.” She tossed the words over her shoulder while she
kept moving toward her own tent.

“I don’t want to part from you in anger,” he
said.

“In that case, you should have spoken to me
about what you intended before you and Royce decided my
future.”

“You don’t seem to understand the danger you
are in.”

“You think not? Who was tied up and tossed
into the river by her closest kin?” she demanded.

“Who was it that kept you alive that night?”
Quentin asked, thrusting his face close to hers. “When I lifted you
from the riverbank I assumed responsibility for you. I’ll not let
you be taken by your brothers. The moment you are in their hands
again, they’ll kill you.”

“Thereby relieving you of an unwanted
responsibility,” she snapped.

“I am trying to help you, as I vowed to do.
If you think I don’t want you—”

“Yes, Quentin? Do you want me? Or was our
lovemaking a meaningless little interval for you?”

He didn’t answer the accusation; he just
grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her hard against him. His
mouth came down on hers with all the force of a mountain avalanche.
Fionna was swept away by his passion. She couldn’t fight him, not
when he was doing exactly what she wanted. She clung to him,
kissing him back, accepting the hot invasion of his tongue into her
mouth. Within a heartbeat or two she was all afire, longing to join
with him in passionate completion. Pressed close to him as she was,
she could feel his masculine eagerness. Surely, he would carry her
off to his tent....

Quentin ended the kiss abruptly by forcing
her away and holding her at arm’s length.

“You must go to Edinburgh and stay there.” He
spoke with a barely leashed intensity that jolted Fionna out of the
blissful dream his kiss had evoked. “It’s the best way to keep you
safe.”

“And Janet calls me stubborn.” Out of her
tear-clogged throat she produced a mocking laugh. “Very well,
Quentin. I will do as you command. As you reminded me a few moments
ago, I do owe you a debt of gratitude. I promise, I’ll cause no
trouble for the rest of the journey.”

She didn’t add that she
would
cause
trouble once they were in Edinburgh. If Quentin was determined to
employ ruthless measures to keep her safe, she could do the same
for him. She wasn’t fool enough to imagine her brother had
discarded his clever scheme to murder Quentin. Then, there were the
other things she knew about Murdoch’s plans.

Fionna thought King Alexander would be
interested in the information she could provide. But she intended
to drive a hard bargain before she divulged even a snippet of what
she knew. In return for her knowledge of Murdoch’s plans, King
Alexander was going to have to provide heavy protection for Quentin
and all of his companions.

“Do you really imagine you can just deposit
Fionna in Edinburgh and never see her again?” Royce’s quiet voice
sounded at Quentin’s shoulder, coming out of the darkness at the
edge of the camp.

“I must.” Quentin bit out the words.

“It will be amusing to watch you try,” Royce
murmured, “considering how you can’t stay away from her.”

“I intend to let King Alexander relieve me of
my torment.” The king of the Scots would never be able to relieve
Quentin of the guilt he felt over what he had done to Fionna, but
at least Quentin could rid himself of the burden of looking at her
lovely face every day while knowing he had betrayed his honorable
intentions toward her.

“Coward.”

The single word, spoken softly, hung in the
air between the two men. The sound of it temporarily jolted Quentin
out of his aching desire to hold Fionna in his arms one more time
before leaving her behind in Edinburgh.

“Were you any other man, you’d die for saying
that,” Quentin told his old friend.

“How strange,” Royce responded with dry
humor. “Cadwallon said the same thing.”

“You called him a coward, too?” Quentin
allowed the faintest tinge of amusement to color his voice. “It’s a
miracle you’re still standing.”

“This mad journey is easily the finest
diversion I have witnessed in years,” Royce said.

“I am delighted to know you find my misery
diverting.” As Quentin made for his tent, Royce’s low laugh
followed him through the darkness.

* * * * *

When the king of the Scots was in residence
at Edinburgh he lived in a simple stone building atop a high,
granite crag. At some point in the distant past, while the Pictish
tribes still held the spot, the uppermost section of the rock had
been leveled. Later, during the reign of King Edwin, a thick stone
wall was built around the upper edges of the crag. The fortress, or
burgh, thus created was so secure, so high above the surrounding
landscape, that no enemy had ever succeeded in conquering it.

From the moment Royce’s party reached the
forbidding stone entrance that stood halfway up the crag, Quentin
took command. The guard on duty at the gatehouse recognized him
from his previous visit. Though the guard expressed surprise to see
the Norman emissary returning so soon, he made no serious objection
to Quentin’s request that he and his companions be allowed to enter
for the purpose of seeking an urgent audience with the king.
However, the guard informed them, the servants and the carts filled
with tents and other supplies must remain where they presently
were, in an open field at the bottom of the crag.

The path from the gatehouse to the heart of
the fortress wound completely around the crag, slanting gradually
upward to the flat area at the top. The party was stopped at
several guard houses along the way and at each halt Quentin
repeated his explanation that he needed to speak with King
Alexander.

Fionna couldn’t see much of the fortress, or
of the town that clustered below it. Drizzling rain and fog
obscured the view, and by the time they finally reached the king’s
house the fog was so thick that it was easy to imagine they were
inside a very wet cloud.

Quentin and Royce dismounted to speak to the
middle-aged man, apparently an officer of the household guard, who
hurried out of the stone house to meet them.

Fionna got off her horse unaided, leaving
Janet to Cadwallon’s care. She hurried forward, unwilling to allow
Quentin to turn her and her sister over to the king until after she
had made her bargain with Alexander.

“Quentin? Is it really you, me lad?” said the
grey-haired officer, his gaze moving on to the rest of the group
before returning to the man he knew. “What the divil are ye doin’
back here so soon? I thought ye’d be far awa’ in England by
now.”

“Ewan, I’m glad you are on duty,” Quentin
responded. “My friend, Lord Royce, and I need to see King Alexander
as quickly as possible.”

“Do ye, now? I dinna ken if he’ll see ye.
He’s verra busy, for he’s preparin’ to leave Edinburgh early
tomorrow mornin’.”