Love Above All (6 page)

Upon seeing Fionna and hearing the maid’s
explanation of her presence, Lady Agnes set down the dice cup and
came to meet her with a pleasant smile and outstretched hands. Her
red silk skirts rustled when she walked and the gold mesh confining
her dark hair glittered in the firelight.

“How nice to have a guest to relieve our
boredom,” Lady Agnes said.

“I doubt if you’ll find me very
entertaining,” Fionna replied.

“Are there servants with you, who will
require beds this night?”

“No, my lady. I come to you alone, save for
Lord Quentin’s escort.”

“No matter. You may use one of my maids.
Where are your belongings?”

“I have only the blanket I carry,” Fionna
admitted, feeling more and more embarrassed by her bedraggled
appearance before the elegant Lady Agnes.

“No baggage?” Lady Agnes’ thin, plucked
eyebrows rose in surprise.

“No, my lady. I – I was in an accident. All
of my belongings are gone, lost in Liddel Water, which is presently
in flood. Everything I owned was swept away.” It was the best
excuse she could think of on the spur of the moment, and she
silently cursed Quentin for failing to provide her with a suitable
story to explain why she possessed only the clothes she was
wearing.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Lady Agnes said, one
slender white hand resting on Fionna’s arm. She seemed genuinely
concerned. “Were you injured? I am a tolerable physician, as my
husband and many of his men-at-arms will confirm, and we have an
excellent barber in residence, if you require bleeding.”

“I have suffered no serious hurt,” Fionna
said, “though I did receive a blow to my head. Lord Quentin
believes I was unconscious for several hours as a result of it.
That’s why I can’t remember anything about the accident, or how it
happened. But I am recovering now.”

There, that ought to satisfy Lady Agnes’
curiosity. If she wanted more information she would have to ask
Quentin. Fionna repressed a grin at the thought of Quentin trying
to invent an explanation when he didn’t know how much of her true
circumstances she had revealed to their hostess.

“Well,” Lady Agnes said, apparently accepting
Fionna’s story, “after riding all day I am sure you will welcome a
hot bath. I will have one of my servants find a gown you may borrow
for the evening.”

“Please, no, you are too kind.” Fionna
scarcely knew how to respond to such generosity.

“Nonsense. It is my duty to treat a guest
well.” Lady Agnes’ warm and charming smile suggested it was also
her pleasure.

Fionna stopped protesting. Thoughts of hot
water to ease her aching muscles, and of the chance to wear
something other than the woolen gown that was in sorry condition
after being soaked in Liddel Water, presented an irresistible
temptation.

Lady Agnes personally escorted her to a guest
chamber built into the fifteen-foot stone thickness of the castle
wall. She supervised preparation of a bath scented with dried
lavender flowers and rosemary leaves, approved the green silk gown
and matching slippers that one of her maidservants brought for
Fionna to wear, and then, with the discretion of a good hostess,
she left Fionna alone.

“I’ll send someone to you in an hour,” Lady
Agnes promised, “in case you need help dressing or arranging your
hair – or in case you fall asleep in the tub, as I often do after a
long day in the saddle.”

Fionna bolted the door before she unrolled
the blanket to check on the bread stored in its folds. If she
possessed a pouch of some kind there would be less chance of losing
the bread. But the blanket would have to serve as her food safe.
She folded it up again and tucked it under the mattress, where she
didn’t think anyone would notice it.

Only then did she settle into the tub. One of
the maids had left a bowl of lavender-scented soap. Fionna scooped
up a handful and began to wash. Never before in her life had she
experienced such luxury. And never since the death of her mother
had anyone been as kind to her as Lady Agnes.

Except for Quentin. Fionna’s hands stilled on
her soapy knee while she considered Quentin’s lifesaving kindness
to her. Without him, she’d be dead. His strong hands had lifted her
from the icy riverbank, and he had clasped her to him all night,
providing her with his own vital warmth. He had held her naked
body, and left her unmolested.

And she had rewarded him with rudeness and
lies.

“Quentin.” She whispered his name softly,
fearing someone passing by outside the chamber would hear it. He
was a good man, an honest man. She had witnessed the respect in
which his men held him, had seen how easily Cadwallon and Braedon
joked with him and how gladly Lord Walter welcomed him to Carlisle.
Only she thought he was arrogant.

She stroked her fingers across her shoulder
to her throat, recalling the touch of Quentin’s fingers on her bare
skin when he pulled up the blanket to tuck it around her. She heard
again the sound of his voice, gently explaining how he had found
her.

And then she told herself she was a fool.
Quentin was a Norman, and he was keeping her from Janet, who
desperately needed her. Fionna took more soap and began to scrub
her hair, digging her fingers into her scalp, rubbing hard at the
long strands, trying not to think of the heat that swirled into the
center of her body when she recalled Quentin touching her throat,
or the weight of his hand on her shoulder.

Fionna entered the hall with her chin up,
convinced she looked her very best. The scented lotion provided by
Lady Agnes for her chapped face and hands, the attentions of the
maidservant who combed and braided her freshly washed hair into a
single thick length that hung over one shoulder, the clean shift
and green silk gown she was wearing, all combined to raise her
spirits. Especially the gown. Having spent her life wearing drab,
undyed wool, Fionna found that she loved the bright color and the
sensation of silk flowing over her skin. There was no mirror in the
guest chamber, but the maid had assured her she looked lovely.
Buoyed by the compliment, she crossed the hall in her borrowed
finery, feeling like a princess out of one of the old stories her
mother used to tell.

Quentin was standing next to the high table,
talking with Sir Cadwallon, Lord Walter, and Lady Agnes. He was
clad in dark blue tunic and matching hose that were so well fitted
they revealed every taut muscle of his long legs. A ruby ring
gleamed upon the little finger of his left hand. A heavy gold chain
from which hung a gold pendant set with more rubies accented his
broad chest. His sleek dark hair looked slightly damp. He was
freshly shaven, all trace of stubble removed from his cheeks and
chin, though he showed no sign of the cuts and nicks that barbers
usually left in their wake. The man was near-perfect and impossibly
handsome. Fionna held her breath, waiting for him to notice
her.

It took no more than two heartbeats. Quentin
glanced away from Lady Agnes and saw Fionna. He went perfectly
still, staring as if he could not see enough of her, as if he
wanted to devour her.

“How very well you look after your rest,”
Lady Agnes exclaimed, coming to meet her. In a lower voice she
asked, “Isn’t it amazing what a hot bath and fresh clothes can do
for a woman? You appear to be quite restored to health.”

“It’s your doing. I must thank you again for
your generosity,” Fionna murmured.

“Come and join us.”

Lady Agnes put an arm around Fionna’s waist
to draw her toward the group of men. Lord Walter greeted her
politely before he turned aside to respond to a question from one
of his squires.

“My dear Lady Fionna.” Cadwallon was next to
bow over her hand. “You are a veritable vision of beauty, fairer
than the silver moon. My heart is lost to you. Only say the word
and I will gladly climb the highest mountain, swim an icy river –
nay, I’ll slay a dragon for you!”

“Dragon?” Fionna repeated, bewildered by the
unexpected deluge of colorful words.

“Cadwallon fancies himself your faithful
servitor,” Lady Agnes explained, laughing. “Protestations of
courtly love are the latest fashion from Provence. Pay no heed to
his foolish extravagances.”

Not until Fionna saw Cadwallon’s wide, boyish
grin and the humor in his eyes did she understand he was teasing
her. She decided he was daring her to tease him back.

“Oh, sir,” she cried with one hand pressed
against her bosom in mock concern for him, “if you should perish
while swimming a river for my sake, or fall off that high mountain,
or be burnt to a cinder while attempting to slay a fire-breathing
dragon where then, my dear Sir Cadwallon, shall we send your
remains?”

Cadwallon and Lord Walter broke into
laughter. Lady Agnes giggled. Quentin just kept looking at
Fionna.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said to him, and
put out her hand, because she couldn’t bear the thought of not
touching him.

“My lady.” Quentin’s strong, calloused
fingers closed around her newly smoothed, lavender-scented hand.
Holding her gaze he lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the
back of it.

“Ah,” said Lady Agnes, sighing and smiling,
“Lord Quentin also follows the style of Provence. I suppose it’s
the newest custom at King Henry’s court. I shall have to prepare
myself for hand kisses before my next visit there.”

“If any man but me dares to kiss your hand,”
Lord Walter told her, pretending fierceness, “I’ll slay him faster
than Cadwallon can kill a dragon.”

On a gust of laughter they all mounted the
dais and took their places at the high table. Quentin continued to
hold Fionna’s hand until she was seated on the bench placed
immediately to the right of Lord Walter’s chair.

Lady Agnes leaned across her husband to
apologize to Fionna for the simplicity of the meal the maids were
serving.

“We usually eat our largest meal at midday,”
she said, “and at night we content ourselves with leftovers, cold
meats and cheese and bread. For this occasion our cook has promised
a hot meat pie and a custard in your honor. I am sorry we cannot
offer a proper feast, but we did not know you were coming until
Quentin announced himself at the castle gate.”

“My lady, I am used to eating simply at all
meals, and we did arrive late,” Fionna responded. “I am certain the
meal will be delicious.” Secretly, she hoped the meal would include
plenty of bread for her to steal and hide away.

“Nicely done,” Quentin said under his breath.
“Very polite.”

“I like her,” Fionna informed him.

“But she’s a Norman.” His mouth quirked
upward, as if he was trying hard not to smile.

“I told you before, I do not despise all
Normans,” she retorted coolly.

“Dare I hope you do not despise me?”

The question made her turn her head to look
directly at him. They hadn’t been so close since she first opened
her eyes in his bed. The memory warmed her cheeks.

Quentin raised an eyebrow, awaiting her
response with calm confidence. She stared at him, fascinated by his
strong-boned face with its high, sharp cheekbones, his slash of a
nose, and the beautiful curve of his firm lips. Not a man to trifle
with, nor a man who would take kindly to lies. He moved and the
rubies in the pendant on his chest shone red as blood in the
candlelight. Fionna shivered.

“No,” she said a bit breathlessly, “I do not
despise you.”

Fionna was unable to steal any bread at all
from the evening meal. She and Quentin were sharing a pewter
trencher and he was watching her much too closely for her to take
any covert action. To make matters worse, she discovered there were
no pouches hidden among the wide folds of the silk gown. If she
took anything from the table she’d have to hold it in her hand, and
Quentin would ask questions. With an irritated sigh she decided to
wait until morning, when she would again be wearing her own gown,
into which she had long ago sewn a pouch at either side of the
skirt, so her hands would be free for household chores.

There would be no more household chores at
Dungalash for her. Murdoch’s shy, frightened third wife would have
to take over as chatelaine. Dungalash had been Fionna’s home from
the day of her birth, yet she was not sorry to forsake it. Except
for her earliest years while her mother was still alive and, later,
when Janet was old enough to be a close companion, Dungalash held
no warm memories for her. Feeling as if a great burden was rolling
off her shoulders, Fionna realized she didn’t care if she never saw
the place again. The future was uncertain and very likely
dangerous, yet the prospect of change stirred her spirit.

During the long meal she listened more than
she spoke, and she kept her eyes open. As a result of paying
careful attention to her surroundings she absorbed a good deal of
information about the Norman way of life. The table was spread with
a fine white linen cloth. A pair of silver candelabra bearing thick
wax candles lit the scene, and the cups and spoons provided for the
company at the high table were also silver.

Fionna tried to eat daintily, as Lady Agnes
was eating. Following the example of her hostess, she dipped her
fingers into the bowls of rose-scented water presented by the
servants and wiped her fingers on the linen towel she was offered,
as if such service was to her an everyday occurrence. She noted how
lightly and teasingly Lady Agnes talked to the men, and how
politely they deferred to the lady. Fionna wasn’t sure the
deference was genuine, but to one who was more accustomed to being
cuffed or shouted at by men, the manners displayed at Lord Walter’s
high table provided a valuable lesson.

When the meal was over Fionna observed how
Lord Walter offered his arm to his lady, to conduct her abovestairs
to the lord’s chamber for the night. When Quentin bowed and offered
his arm to Fionna, she placed her fingers on his wrist in imitation
of Lady Agnes, and with downcast eyes allowed him to escort her to
her room.