Love Above All (26 page)

“I mind it.” She took a deep breath and
launched into the delicate subject of her sister’s future
prospects. “What does Cadwallon have to offer her?”

“When we meet with King Henry again and make
our reports to him, I’m certain Cadwallon will be richly rewarded
for the work he has done on this mission,” Quentin said.

“Is Cadwallon depending on King Henry’s
generosity in the same way you depended on King Alexander to take
Janet and me off your hands?”

“Fionna,” he said with an exasperated sigh,
“I thought we had settled that issue.”

“If Cadwallon is rewarded, as you are so sure
he will be, what then?” she demanded. “Will he leave Janet to go
off on another dangerous spying mission, in hope of even greater
reward the next time?”

“Let Cadwallon answer for himself,” Quentin
said. “And let him answer to Janet.”

“Janet is an innocent girl, with no dowry.
Now that she has fled out of Murdoch’s keeping, he will refuse to
provide one for her.”

“Or for you,” he murmured.

“Or for me,” she admitted with a sigh. The
lack of a dowry was a shameful situation for any noblewoman. “But
then, from the moment he decided to kill me, Murdoch knew he wasn’t
going to have to give up any property for my sake. I’m sure he
rejoiced in the knowledge. He always was tightfisted.”

“How old are you?” Quentin asked.

“What?” She tried to make out his features in
the evening shadows.

“Answer me.” His voice was clipped and
commanding.

“I will be nineteen at Christmastide,” she
said. “Why do you ask?”

“How old is Janet?”

“She is not quite seventeen, several years
beyond the proper age for marriage, because Murdoch has been saving
her for Colum all this time. After being kept at Abercorn for so
long, Janet is unused to the real world, which is why she needs an
older relative to consider her interests.”

“And you are that relative?”

“I have to be. Murdoch won’t consider
anything but his own interests. He doesn’t care if Janet is happy,
or if she’s beaten daily by a man who thinks women are barely
human.”

“Ah, yes, the elusive Colum. I rather think
I’d like to meet that paragon of Scottish manhood.”

“No,” she said in alarm. “You would not enjoy
meeting Colum.”

“Oh? Are you afraid he’ll hurt me?”

She heard the laughter in his voice. The
sound sent a cold shiver down her spine.

“I am afraid Colum will stab you in the back
when you aren’t looking,” she said. “He’d far rather do that than
meet any man in honest combat.”

“What a demon he must be.”

“He’s not a joke, Quentin. Neither are my
brothers.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Somehow, without Fionna realizing what he was
doing, Quentin had moved nearer. In one smooth motion his arms were
around her, as if he was offering himself as a strong barrier
against the dangers she feared. Fionna allowed herself a moment to
rest her head on his shoulder. She promised herself it would be no
more than that, just a single moment of comfort after a long and
worrisome day. She fully intended to return to Janet’s side and
send Cadwallon to his bed.

Then Quentin drew her closer still, and
lifted her chin on the edge of his hand till their lips were only a
breath apart. He whispered something she didn’t quite hear,
something about damning caution. Then he kissed her, slowly and
almost thoughtfully, as if testing for her response.

She meant to resist. She knew she ought not
to give in to him again. Quentin could not possibly want any more
from her than an hour of bed sport. She knew the ways of noblemen
as well as he did; Quentin had the right to require land and
portable property from the family of the woman he married. Bereft
of male kin and of any hope of a dowry, Fionna had nothing to offer
him except her body.

But she wasn’t capable of considering
practical matters while his tongue was caressing hers with heated
artfulness and his arms were holding her firmly against his
hardness. All she could think about was the glory of Quentin’s
intimate embrace, and the way he had made her feel the last time
they had lain together. He had made her feel cherished, as if she
was a person of great value rather than the cast-off sister of a
minor Scottish laird. She wanted to feel that way again, and to see
the glow of desire in Quentin’s eyes. She wanted his hands on her
skin.

She did not resist the gentle pressure of his
arm on her waist urging her toward his tent. She didn’t even care
if anyone saw them entering his tent. When Quentin kissed her again
she forgot there was anyone else in the world.

Standing in the center of his tent, with her
head almost touching the top of it, she let him undress her without
a word of protest. When she was unclothed he stepped back a pace to
look at her while he ran his hands just above her shoulders, arms,
and hips, then slowly drew his fingertips back up again to trace
the contours of her breasts. As he’d done once before, he did not
touch her, though the heat of his hands, and of his desire, warmed
her skin. Fionna began to tremble.

Quentin caught her face between his palms and
kissed her till she feared she’d crumple into a whimpering heap at
his feet.

“Now, Fionna,” he said, “undress me. Please,”
he added when she stared at him wide-eyed and quivering with cold
and longing.

Quentin rode all day in his armor, but
whenever possible he, like his companions, disarmed and bathed
before eating. Thus, he was wearing ordinary clothing. Fionna
raised his blue woolen tunic with shaking fingers. Quentin lifted
his arms so she could pull it off. His linen undershirt followed.
Which left only his boots and hose. Never taking his gaze from her,
he kicked off the leather boots, then stood waiting while she
fumbled with the tie that secured his hose. She tried to keep her
eyes on the knotted cord, tried to ignore the flaring evidence of
his desire. She found she couldn’t ignore it. She wanted to touch
him, to stroke and caress until she ignited the fire that smoldered
between them.

“You will never unfasten it that way,” he
said. “You are only tightening the knot.”

His big hands settled over hers. He pushed
her fingers lower, until they rested on his hardness. And there he
held them while Fionna stared at him.

“Oh, Quentin,” she whispered. Even after he
released her fingers she couldn’t take her hands away from his
eagerly springing male organ. Through the woolen hose and the linen
beneath the wool she fondled him, longing to tear away the
obstructive covering. But the knot still prevented her.

“Let me untie it.” He sounded as shaky as she
felt, and when he couldn’t immediately unfasten the knot, her cry
of frustration matched his. Finally, he gave up trying to undo the
knot and simply pushed the hose down to his feet and stepped out of
them, then did the same with his linen under drawers. He
straightened quickly, allowing her a first, full view of his body,
of his wide shoulders and the heavily muscled upper arms and chest
of a man used to wielding a broadsword. His flat abdomen and
hard-muscled thighs provided evidence of days spent on horseback.
The wound on his left arm was healing nicely. He bore a few old
scars on his arms and chest, though none of them detracted from his
tough, well-trained masculinity.

Fionna gasped in wonder at the sight of
Quentin, fully aroused, naked, and eager for her. The warmth that
had been steadily growing inside her roared into blazing heat. She
saw the answering heat in his eyes. At the same moment when she put
out both of her hands toward him, he reached for her.

Then they were tumbling upon his cot, skin
against skin as she had wanted, fumbling a bit in their haste to
come together, arms and legs getting in their way in so narrow a
bed, until Quentin moved on top of her and his mouth took hers in a
fierce kiss. She shifted beneath him, seeking the fulfillment she
craved, pushing herself against his hardness. Quentin seized the
opportunity to drive straight into her. He was hugely swollen with
his desire, and she was still tight after giving herself to him
only one time before. She was exquisitely aware of her body
stretching to receive him. She sighed at the intense erotic
pleasure generated by the sensation.

They stayed that way for a time, hardly
breathing, just gazing into each others’ eyes until, with a groan
that told Fionna he couldn’t wait any longer, Quentin began to
move. Fionna moved with him, slowly at first, and then faster and
harder. She moaned with delight each time he plunged deep into her,
until he gave one final thrust and buried himself so far inside her
that she knew she’d never be free of him.

She didn’t want to be free of Quentin; she
wanted to spend every night of her life making love with him, and
to fall asleep in his arms and waken close to him each morning.

It was her last sensible thought before
passion overcame all thought in a burst of pleasure that suffused
her every bone and sinew, every finger and toe, her hair and her
ears, and her lips, which Quentin was tenderly caressing with his
own mouth. At the place where their bodies were joined Fionna
melted slowly and sweetly, becoming one with him, taking and
receiving, glorying in her newly awakened womanhood.

Some time later Quentin found a quilt and
dragged it over them. He lay back again, pulling Fionna’s head down
onto his shoulder. She didn’t dare reveal how safe and warm she
felt lying there in his arms, in the dark of night. While she was
in Quentin’s embrace nothing could harm her. But she couldn’t stay
there forever.

“I must go,” she murmured, pushing against
his shoulder. “Janet will need me.”

“Cadwallon will see to Janet’s needs,”
Quentin said. “Stay with me, Fionna.”

“Someone will come into the tent.”

“Do you care if someone does?” he asked,
sounding half asleep.

She knew he wasn’t asleep, because his arms
tightened around her, keeping her where she was. And suddenly she
couldn’t fight against the tenderness she had yearned for all of
her life. From the day her mother died until Quentin first put his
arms around her, no one had ever embraced her.

“No,” she whispered, relaxing against him, “I
don’t care a bit if someone sees us together. Besides, I’m sure
everyone who rides with us knows what we’ve done this night, and
knows it isn’t the first time.”

“I swore I wouldn’t ruin you,” he said. “Then
I vowed I wouldn’t do it a second time. Yet here I am, eager to
have you again.”

“In that case,” she said, lifting her head to
look into his eyes, “take me again, Quentin.” She let her hand
stray slowly across his broad chest to his flank, and lower, until
his sharply indrawn breath told her the exploration was not without
effect.

Fionna knew what she was. She had become a
Norman’s mistress. If Murdoch and Gillemore learned of it, they’d
kill her, and geld Quentin before killing him, too. Neither of her
brothers would ever forgive her for what she had done, and intended
to continue to do, for as long as Quentin wanted her.

She dismissed her brothers, for in her mind
they were no longer her kin. Nor could she feel any shame about
lying in Quentin’s bed. As Quentin fitted himself to her, and took
her with tantalizing, deliberate slowness, she understood that the
only thing that counted on earth or in heaven was the sweet joy
they gave to each other.

In the last instant before she burst into
passionate flame, she knew beyond the slightest doubt that she was
willing to dare any danger, endure any hardship, for Quentin’s
sake. Her only regret was that he didn’t feel the same about
her.

It was well after sunrise before Fionna
reached the tent where Janet lay. She found her sister fast asleep.
So was Cadwallon asleep. He had pulled the second cot in the tent,
the one meant for Fionna’s use, close to Janet’s bed and there the
big knight rested, snoring gently, curled up on his side, fully
clothed, with one hand holding Janet’s hand.

Fionna heard a soft sound behind her and
turned to discover Quentin standing there, regarding the scene with
an amused gaze.

“You cannot charge Cadwallon with misusing
her,” Quentin said, keeping his voice soft. “He never even removed
his belt. I’m surprised he didn’t lay a drawn sword between them as
proof of his honorable intentions. Would that my own intentions
were so pure.”

Quentin was looking hard at her and Fionna
did not hesitate to meet his gaze. She’d not fault Quentin’s
intentions, for she had made no attempt to resist his advances. Nor
did she regret what they had done. A faint ache between her thighs
reminded her of the vigorous pleasures of their night together. She
smiled into her lover’s eyes.

At the sight of Fionna’s smile, Quentin
caught his breath and reached out to stroke her cheek. He couldn’t
help himself. Not a moment passed when he didn’t want to touch her
soft, smooth skin, or put his arms around her, or press his mouth
to her delectable lips.

In that moment Quentin knew he had taken
complete leave of his wits. No nobleman of any intelligence ought
ever to desire a woman as desperately, or as constantly, as he
desired Fionna. He had joined with her twice during the night, and
once again just before rising. Yet, were the entire camp not
stirring, were Royce not watching with raised eyebrows as Quentin
followed Fionna to Janet’s tent, were he and Fionna able to escape
to some private place, he’d have her again – and then again. He’d
kiss her senseless, and ravish her lovely body, and when he was
finished he’d start all over again.

“Quentin?” Fionna was regarding him with a
questioning expression, as if to ask what he was doing there.

“Royce is waiting for me,” he said. “I only
stopped to ask how Janet is, so I can report to him.”