Love Above All (25 page)

“I don’t understand them,” was all she
said.

“Nor do I.” Silence fell between them for a
time, until Quentin spoke again. “I’ve been thinking about what you
said last night. Perhaps I owe you an apology. I can understand how
you believed you were doing what was best for me.”

Fionna had just opened her mouth to respond
when Janet raised her voice.

“No, never!” Janet exclaimed. “For shame,
Cadwallon. How could you even imagine such a thing?” The rest of
her complaint was drowned out by Cadwallon’s louder, rumbling
tones.

“Do they never stop?” Quentin grumbled.

“Apparently, only when he kisses her,” Fionna
said. Seeing Quentin’s eyebrows go up in surprise, she bit her lip
to keep herself from laughing. Her gaze met Quentin’s for a moment,
until he looked away, his shoulders shaking with supressed
mirth.

“Shall I speak to Cadwallon?” he asked. “If
you want, I’ll tell him to keep his distance from Janet.”

“Oh, no, please don’t,” she said. “If
Cadwallon keeps away, I’ll have to listen to her. Once we can be
certain we have outdistanced our brothers, Janet will settle down.
She’ll be less difficult then; you’ll see.”

Quentin wished he could be equally sure of
Janet’s future behavior. He found her irritating and couldn’t
understand her attraction for Cadwallon. Not wanting to argue with
Fionna, he closed his mouth firmly on the unflattering comments
that sprang to his lips.

He eyed Fionna, who was still riding next to
him. After their brief episode of mutual laughter she was ignoring
him again. He wondered what she’d say if he told her he was half
mad with the frustrated yearning to take her into his arms and make
love to her. Quentin had known noble ladies, and a few female
spies, who were more beautiful to look upon than Fionna. He had
even occasionally encountered a pretty prostitute. But always, as
soon as he slaked his lust, the attractions of those females began
to dissipate.

Fionna was different from any other women he
had known. Having once made love to Fionna, he wanted desperately
to do so again. He longed to relive the unfurling sense of joy and
freedom he had experienced while possessing her. He could think of
a hundred things he’d like to do with her, and the thought of
Fionna lying beneath him, her eyes wide with desire, her body
softly convulsing around him, made him groan aloud.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, glancing at
him.

She must have seen his longing in the look he
turned on her, for she frowned, then stared straight ahead, while
the cheek he could see blushed bright red.

He’d be completely out of his wits before
they reached Wortham Castle. He’d run amok and seize her and carry
her off into the forest, so he could be alone with her. He’d lay
her down on soft moss and slowly undress her....

He uttered a fearsome curse and set his
teeth, warning himself to control his unruly emotions before he
caused irreparable damage to the woman he wanted. Reminding himself
that he had already caused her irreparable damage, he promised
himself an hour with a willing prostitute at the first castle they
reached. Then he looked at Fionna’s pure profile and knew he’d not
be satisfied with any woman but her.

They didn’t stop at any castles, so Quentin’s
resolution wasn’t put to the test. King Alexander’s men were under
orders to escort the Norman lords and their people out of Scotland
as quickly as possible. Therefore, they camped in the open each
evening, rose before the sun every day, and rode until the sky grew
too dark for them to see their way at night. They rode through
pouring rain and through misty sunshine that soon vanished behind
yet more clouds and rain. On some of the higher hills they even
rode through snow, a clear warning that winter was closing in.

Janet complained of the punishing pace set by
the leader of the king’s men. Fionna only pressed her lips firmly
together and kept going. Quentin’s temper grew ever shorter. He was
unable to sleep, being kept awake each night by lurid fantasies of
Fionna writhing naked in his arms. He longed for a hot bath, a soft
bed, and a full night’s rest. No; he’d forgo the sleep he craved,
if only he could have Fionna, warm and delicious and willing,
beside him under the quilts.

On the third day the lay of the land forced
them to turn eastward around a group of mountains that the king’s
men insisted were too high to be crossed directly.

“I know this territory,” Fionna said to
Quentin. “We are too close to Dungalash. We should have gone west
around the mountains.”

“Aye, so we could ha’ done,” said the leader
of their Scottish escort, who had heard her remarks. “But goin’
that way will take us two days longer to reach Penrith. For a’ we
ken, yer murderous brothers are waitin’ in yon hills, expectin’ us
to push straight through.”

“If they are,” Fionna said, “they’ll only be
more emboldened to see us nearing their own lands.”

The king’s man shrugged his shoulders, as if
her concern was of no importance. But Fionna noticed how Quentin
drew his horse aside to speak quietly to Royce, and how Royce’s own
men-at-arms thereafter surrounded her, and Janet, more closely than
ever, until they were well past Dungalash and heading due south
again.

The last of her residual anger against
Quentin disappeared after that incident. At the very least, Quentin
cared enough to see his charges well protected.

“I wonder where Murdoch and Gillemore are?”
Fionna said on the following day. “I was sure they’d attack before
we got beyond Dungalash.”

“Perhaps they are elsewhere and missed us,”
Royce suggested.

“Or perhaps they saw us and gave up after
counting all the armed men with us,” said Cadwallon.

“Not Murdoch,” Fionna declared. “Murdoch
never gives up once he decides he wants something. As for
Gillemore, he’ll do whatever Murdoch tells him to do.”

“He’ll no’ succeed.” The leader of the king’s
men spoke with utter confidence.

“I wish you would not discount what I’ve
said,” Fionna told him.

“We don’t discount it,” Quentin assured her.
“You know better than anyone else exactly how ruthless your
brothers can be. We’ll keep our guard up.”

“They are watching us,” she said with a
shudder of apprehension. “Watching and waiting for their chance to
attack.”

“If they do attack, we’ll be ready,” Quentin
promised.

But the attack didn’t come. Not a single
person challenged them.

After they reached the ancient wall and
crossed it even Fionna began to relax a bit. Skirting Carlisle and
the Cumbrian hills, they continued southward. King Alexander’s
escort left them at Penrith. Fionna and her companions sat upon
their mounts, watching the departing Scots ride away.

“It’ll be easier going from here on,” Royce
told Fionna. “We’ll use the old Roman road. Only a few more days
and we’ll be at Wortham. Fortunately, the weather has turned
warmer.”

“Aye,” Cadwallon agreed. “It’s St. Martin’s
summer. The warmth and sunshine will last for a short while, but
when the fine weather ends, beware. True winter will set in
then.”

“Is that a Welsh saying?” Fionna asked,
teasing him.

“It’s a well-known fact,” Cadwallon declared.
Pulling his mount closer to Fionna, he went on, “I’m concerned
about Janet. She doesn’t look well. Sheltered as she was at
Abercorn, she can’t be used to this life of constant movement.”

“I’ve noticed, too,” Fionna said. “She’s pale
and has dark circles under her eyes, and she hardly touches her
food.”

“She has even stopped complaining,” Cadwallon
said. “She doesn’t talk much at all. I fear the poor girl is worn
out. She needs to rest.”

“You may be right, but we can’t stop,” Fionna
said. “King Alexander may imagine we are safe enough to continue
without his troops now that we’ve reached Cumbria, but I question
whether the distance will halt Murdoch. I know him, Cadwallon; he
vowed vengeance, and he’ll find a way to take it.”

“Well, then,” said Cadwallon, “you and I will
just have to keep a close watch on Janet. I can’t say I’ll mind
looking after her.” He grinned at Fionna and moved aside to wait
for Janet to come up to him before assuming his usual position
between the two women and directly behind Royce and Quentin.

When they halted at the end of the day, and
Royce’s servants were rushing about setting up camp, Janet fell off
her horse and into Cadwallon’s arms.

“She’s fainted!” Cadwallon called to Royce.
“Can you have your men raise her tent first, so we can offer her a
bit of privacy?”

“Janet!” Fionna cried.

The instant her own feet touched the ground
Fionna rushed to her sister’s side, to catch Janet’s cold hands and
try to rub some warmth into them. Janet remained unconscious, her
face pale as ivory, with the dark shadows under her eyes showing
purple against her almost colorless skin.

With Royce personally directing his servants
it took only a few minutes to prepare the pale blue tent that Janet
and Fionna usually shared, and to set up a cot inside it.

“Here’s a quilt,” Quentin said, thrusting a
bundle into Fionna’s hands. “She’ll be cold when she wakens. I told
the cook to warm some wine for her, too.”

“Thank you.” Fionna’s hands touched his as
she took the quilt. Quentin held her fingers briefly before
releasing her.

“I’ll get the wine,” he said.

Meanwhile, Cadwallon was hovering close to
Janet, alternately talking to her or issuing commands to Fionna and
the servants.

“Pull a feather from the quilt, or from her
pillow,” Cadwallon advised, “and burn it under her nose. That’s
what my mother always did when someone fainted.”

Looking as if he was willing to tear the
fabric apart to get at the feathers inside, he grabbed for the
quilt that Fionna was unfolding.

But Janet was stirring without benefit of
burnt feathers. Fionna spread the quilt over her before going to
her knees beside the cot. Janet looked at her and frowned a little.
Then Janet’s gaze moved on to Cadwallon’s large form. A tear
trickled out of her eye and ran across her cheek.

“I am sorry for the delay,” she
whispered.

“Don’t be sorry,” Fionna said, catching
Janet’s hand. “Only tell us if you feel ill, or if you have pain
somewhere.”

“No.” Janet was looking at Cadwallon, not at
Fionna. “I’m just so tired.”

“You see?” Cadwallon glared at Fionna as if
Janet’s collapse was all her fault. “I told you she was worn out.
Now, Janet, dear girl, don’t you worry about a thing. Fionna and I
will take care of you. As for the delay, those cursed Scottish
warriors were driving all of us to exhaustion. Royce, along with
every man of his troop, will be glad to rest for a day. I think
that’s all you need, don’t you, my dear?”

“Sleep,” Janet murmured, sounding as if she
was already drifting off.

“You must eat a little first,” Fionna
insisted, “and drink some of the wine Quentin is bringing.”

“Here it is,” Quentin said, coming into the
tent with a pitcher and a cup. He handed the cup to Fionna and
poured some of the wine into it. “Cadwallon, Royce wants to see you
at once.”

Cadwallon left, grumbling a bit. Quentin set
down the pitcher of wine and followed his friend. At the tent flap
he paused to look at Fionna.

“I’ll keep Cadwallon away for a while,” he
said. “Otherwise, Janet won’t be able to rest, with him continually
asking if she’s asleep, or if she needs anything.”

By the time the evening meal was ready in
Royce’s dining tent, Janet had consumed two cups of the wine and
had swallowed a bowl of bread soaked in warm broth that the cook
sent to her. As soon as Fionna finished undressing her and washing
her face and hands, Janet fell into a deep slumber.

“I’ll stay with her now.” Cadwallon
reappeared, sticking his head through the tent entrance. “In fact,
I’ll stay with her all night if you like. Quentin made me promise
not to disturb her. Why don’t you go and eat while the stew is
hot?”

“Thank you, Cadwallon.” When she glanced back
at him, he was crouched on a low stool beside the cot, holding
Janet’s limp hand between both of his.

In the dining tent, while Fionna consumed a
bowl of hearty vegetable stew and chewed on a chunk of bread, Royce
reiterated Cadwallon’s assertion that a day of rest would be a
relief to all of them.

“In our haste to get beyond the border we
have even traveled on Sunday,” Royce said. “We have persisted
through rain and fog and even snow. We’ve been wet and cold for
more than a week. It’s no wonder Janet fainted. The greater marvel
is that all of us aren’t sick.”

“No matter how far into Cumbria we travel,”
Fionna warned, “you can be certain Murdoch will follow.”

“If he does, we’ll fight him off,” Royce
assured her.

Fionna held her tongue, not wanting to insult
Royce’s judgment when he had been so kind to her and her sister.
But later, after she left the tent, she spoke more freely to
Quentin, who had emerged with her into the cool and foggy
night.

“I wish I could make you and Royce understand
how stubborn and vicious Murdoch is,” she began. “He decided weeks
ago to kill you. Even if someone were to prove to him that, far
from benefitting his cause, murdering you would ruin all his hopes
of driving the Normans out of Scotland, still he’d remain bent on
your death, because he has made up his mind. It may not make sense
to you, but that is the way Murdoch thinks. Quentin, please believe
me, you are still in serious danger.”

“I do believe you,” Quentin said. “I’ll be on
guard, and so will the others.”

“Good. After all we’ve been through, I’d not
like to see you dead.” She started for her tent.

“Don’t go.” Quentin caught her hand, pulling
her around to face him again. “Cadwallon won’t mind spending a
little more time with Janet.”