Love Above All (5 page)

“I told you, I am perfectly capable of
dismounting on my own!” she exclaimed, then stopped short.

It wasn’t Braedon who held her, but Quentin.
He dropped his hands and took a step backward, frowning at her.

“You are without a doubt the most ungrateful
wretch I have ever encountered,” he told her. “The least you could
do is say ‘thank you’ to someone who offers honest aid.”

“I thought you were Braedon. He has an
unpleasant habit of smiling as if he knows too much about me.”

“Shall I command him never to smile in your
presence?”

“Put that way, it does sound like a
ridiculous complaint,” she admitted. “However, I do not like being
continually reminded that two men remember undressing me.”

“Would you have preferred us to leave you to
die by the river? You would have died, if we hadn’t found you and
cared for you. There was nothing improper in what we did. To us,
you were merely one of God’s creatures, in desperate need of help.
It is an insult to me, and to Braedon, for you to suggest
otherwise.”

The rebuke stung. Ashamed of the way she had
acted, Fionna wished she could crawl away and hide in some private
place, where she could cry in peace and then sleep until she felt
well again. But there could be no rest for her. She had to reach
Janet in time to protect her from their vicious brothers and to
prevent Janet’s forced marriage to Colum.

She couldn’t tell Quentin the truth lest he
decide to ride back across Liddel Water to find and confront
Murdoch and Gillemore. They’d kill him; she knew they would. They’d
not do it honorably, either. Fionna wanted Quentin alive and in
England, so she’d be free of the debt she owed him and, thus, free
to help Janet. Until they reached England she’d have to pacify
Quentin and allay any suspicions he held about her.

“You are correct, and I apologize,” she told
him. “I have been ungrateful. I should have thanked you earlier
today, as soon as I understood what you have done for me. Quentin,
I do thank you, with all my heart, for saving my life and for
offering to help me rescue my sister. I have received so little
kindness recently that I’ve forgotten how to accept it.”

“No kindness?” Quentin’s hand rested on her
shoulder. She could feel the warmth of it through the heavy cloak
and her gown.

“My brothers are not loving kin,” she
murmured, fighting the urge to lean against his manly strength.

“I did surmise as much.” His hand moved a
little closer to her neck, to a location where his fingertips could
just touch a wisp of hair that was curling loosely over her
ear.

“My mother died in childbirth when I was
eight and Janet was six,” Fionna said. She knew she ought to move
away from Quentin, yet she couldn’t seem to make herself do what
she ought, because part of her longed to draw nearer, instead.
Trembling, not certain what to do next or how to act with him, she
began to speak rapidly to cover her confusion. “Murdoch and
Gillemore were almost grown men at the time, and our father was
always busy, so Janet and I clung to each other. I raised her as
best I could. Since Father sent her away to school, I’ve been
alone. I haven’t seen my sister for almost ten years.”

“Why weren’t you sent to school, too?”
Perhaps sensing her nervousness Quentin removed his hand from her
shoulder.

“I already knew how to write and count, and
how to speak French. Years ago, there was a priest at Dungalash who
taught me. While my father was alive, he needed a chatelaine, so he
kept me at home. After he died, Murdoch said I must stay away from
Janet, lest I infect her with my intransigent spirit.”

Quentin was looking at her with a peculiar
intensity, as if he could gaze straight into her soul and discover
all of her secrets.

“I see,” he said softly.

Fionna prayed he did not see what she didn’t
want him to know. She told herself she felt nothing for him, that
her breathlessness and trembling was no more than the aftermath of
immersion in a cold river, followed by a long morning’s ride. She
had decided what she was going to do, and she wasn’t going to allow
a change in her plans. She wanted Quentin to think he knew her well
enough to lay aside any suspicions about her, so he’d relax his
guard and she could get away from him more easily when the time
came. And she hadn’t lied to him, not really. She just hadn’t told
him everything she knew.

But she did feel guilty about what she hadn’t
revealed. While she wavered, trying to decide whether to tell him
anything more, or not, and if so, how much to tell him, Quentin
spoke again.

“Can you go on?” he asked. “We should reach
Carlisle by sundown. I can promise you a room to yourself and a
comfortable bed for tonight.”

“Carlisle,” she repeated. “It should be
almost as safe as England.”

While the oft-disputed territory of Cumbria
was ruled by King Alexander’s younger brother, David, and was
presently considered to be part of Scotland, David spent most of
his time at the court of King Henry of England. A strong English
influence permeated Cumbria, especially Carlisle, the largest town.
Many Scots, including Fionna’s brothers, resented that encroaching
influence and feared its northward spread.

Fionna was glad of the English presence, for
it meant Quentin would be safe in Cumbria. She wouldn’t have to
warn him of what Murdoch and Gillemore had planned. They couldn’t
touch Quentin once he was within the walls of Carlisle Castle, and
after he left the castle, he’d be heading too far south for her
brothers to reach him. That meant Fionna could leave Quentin with
her obligation to him discharged. From Carlisle, she could ride
directly north to Abercorn.

“I will have a guard posted at your door
tonight,” Quentin said as if to reassure her, “so no one can enter
to frighten you or try to take you away and harm you again.”

The guard would also keep her in, preventing
her from making her escape until after they left Carlisle and were
even farther south. She foresaw days of hard riding before she
reached Abercorn. She prayed she wouldn’t be too late to save
Janet.

“Thank you,” she whispered, knowing she must
quell any lingering suspicions Quentin harbored about her, yet
still feeling guilty about deceiving him. “You are far kinder to me
than I deserve.”

Quentin wished he could be kinder still. She
looked worn out, though the day was only half over. He wanted to
suggest she ride pillion behind him, but knew he couldn’t do it. As
leader of his party he needed to be ready for immediate action in
case of trouble. He couldn’t be on constant alert with a woman
sharing his horse and distracting him with her presence.

He could have ordered her to ride behind
Cadwallon or Giles, or one of the other men-at-arms, but he
couldn’t tolerate the thought of Fionna’s arms wrapped around
another man’s waist, or of her soft breasts pressing against
someone else’s back. He couldn’t stand the idea of any other man
touching her, however casually.

He wanted her. Something about Fionna touched
a tender chord deep in his usually dispassionate warrior’s heart.
Quentin couldn’t understand it. He liked women well enough, but
always kept his feelings under control. His reaction to Fionna
wasn’t because she was a lady in distress, for she clearly did not
see herself as a victim of her brothers’ machinations.

Quentin wasn’t sure whether it was her
refusal to give way to tears and panic after nearly being murdered,
or her insistence on helping her sister as soon as possible, or her
gallant refusal to admit to weakness in spite of what was clearly a
lingering indisposition, that had endeared her to him so quickly.
Since he was certain Fionna would never admit to weakness, perhaps
her stubborn pride was the source of her attraction for him. He
knew about pride. He possessed too much of it, himself.

He ached with the urge to put his arms around
her, to cover her sweet, rosy mouth with his. The memory of her
smooth skin was imprinted on his hands. Her legs were long and
graceful; he recalled their white slenderness with almost painful
clarity. He wanted to stroke her legs, and hear Fionna gasp with
pleasure when he touched her.

“You must eat something,” he said, more
gruffly than he intended. “Bread and cheese will fortify you for
the rest of the ride. Tonight you’ll enjoy a hot meal and a long
rest. Tomorrow, you will feel much stronger, I promise. Sitting a
horse won’t be so tiring then.”

“I do hope so,” she said in a dry tone that
made Quentin look sharply at her. She wasn’t looking at him. She
was staring at the loaf of bread that Cadwallon was dividing and
handing around to the men.

She ate more than Quentin expected, and he
smiled to see her snatch a last piece of bread to take with her, as
if she feared she’d be hungry again before they reached Carlisle.
Then he noticed how furtively she tucked the bread into the blanket
behind her saddle, and his heart sank as he realized she was
hoarding food for some private purpose.

“By heaven,” he muttered as he swung back
into the saddle, “I will learn why you aren’t being honest with me,
and what it is you haven’t told me.”

Night was falling by the time they reached
Carlisle. Torches flickered at the castle entrance, allowing Fionna
a quick look at the high walls. Then they were across the
drawbridge and through the gatehouse into the bailey, and Quentin
was speaking to one of the guards. When the men-at-arms began to
dismount Fionna got off her horse, too, to avoid the need to refuse
help from Quentin or anyone else.

“A moment, if you please,” she said to the
squire – thankfully not Braedon – who came to take the horse’s
reins. She began to fumble with the strap that held her
blanket.

“I’ll do it for you, my lady,” the squire
offered.

“No need. I have it. Thank you just the
same.” She smiled at him, hoping he’d assume it was a Scottish
custom for every rider, even a noblewoman, to see to her own
blanket or saddlebags. She folded the ends of the blanket together
to keep the hidden bread from spilling out and tucked it under one
arm. Just in time, too. Quentin was approaching.

“I’ll take that,” he said, reaching for the
blanket.

“No.” She shied away from him. “I have no
wish to be more of a burden to you than I already am. You must
allow me to care for myself, with no special privileges.” She met
his gaze squarely, trying to appear innocent, trusting to the
exaggerated light and shadows of the torch flames to make it
difficult for him to discern her true, guilty intentions.

“As you wish.” Quentin took her arm to guide
her toward the stairs leading to the keep.

Never having been inside a Norman fortress,
Fionna looked around with interest. The stone keep wasn’t as large
as she expected after having viewed the height and thickness of the
outer walls. The ceiling was low and she could see that the
structure was built to be easily defended. Once the drawbridge was
raised no one could get into or out of the castle, and invaders who
broke through the outer defenses would likely be stopped when the
heavy door of the keep was closed and bolted.

There would be no escape for Fionna until
after Quentin’s group left Carlisle. She was so weary that she was
glad not to have to think of a way out. For one night she could
relax her guard just a little. She would eat as much as she
possibly could, and steal more food to hide away, and she’d sleep
for as long as Quentin would allow. Then she’d be ready to make her
escape.

“Welcome, Quentin.” A heavy-set man came
toward them, one hand extended to grasp Quentin’s. “It’s good to
see you back at last. I was beginning to worry about you.”

“No need for concern, my lord Walter,”
Quentin said with a smile. “We were merely delayed by heavy
rains.”

“How went your discussions with King
Alexander?”

“Very well,” Quentin said. “King Henry will
be pleased, and so will you, to hear there is little chance of
hostilities between our countries.”

“It’s what I’ve hoped and prayed for. I’ve
seen too many battles. I would like to spend my remaining years in
peace, with Agnes and our children.”

“My lord, this is Lady Fionna, who is
traveling with me, under my protection,” Quentin said. To Fionna he
added, “Lord Walter is the constable of Carlisle Castle.”

“My lord.” Recalling her mother’s lessons
when she was a wee girl, Fionna curtsied.

“I’ll give you into my wife’s care,” Lord
Walter said. “Agnes will be glad to see to your needs. I will
expect you to join us for the evening meal.”

He signaled to a maidservant, who hastened
forward with undisguised eagerness at a chance to speak with the
guests. Fionna looked to Quentin for direction, but he only smiled
and thanked Lord Walter for his generous hospitality. He never even
glanced at Fionna.

Barely resisting the urge to kick Quentin on
his chainmail-covered shins in reprisal for the way he was ignoring
her, Fionna accepted the maid’s invitation to conduct her to Lady
Agnes’ chamber. She followed the maid up a narrow, curving stone
staircase.

With every step she took Fionna was more
impressed by the solid way Carlisle Castle was built and by the
heavily armed guards who patrolled it. How could her brothers
imagine they had any chance of dislodging the Normans who were
seeping into the lowlands of Scotland like a slow but steady flood?
Had either Murdoch, or Gillemore, ever actually seen a Norman
castle? Did they think Normans built wooden fortresses like their
own home, or like Duncaron, places that could easily be set on fire
and destroyed? From what she had seen so far, the Normans were
invincible.

Lady Agnes’ solar was a pleasant contrast to
the rest of the castle, though even in so private a bower the
windows were no more than arrow slits. Still, brilliantly colored
tapestries warmed the stone walls, while the crackling logs in the
fireplace added more heat to banish the autumn dampness. A large
embroidery frame was set up near the fire, where the lady and her
maids could work on it in comfort. So late in the day it was too
dark for fine needlework, so the constable’s wife was playing a
board game with dice and ivory markers.