by Speer, Flora
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.
Chapter 5
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.
&nbs
p; 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.
“Braedon reports the skies have cleared,” Quentin said as he reached past her to open the bedchamber door for her. “We will take advantage of the fair weather by leaving just before dawn. We’ll ride hard tomorrow and the day after, for we are overdue at Wortham Castle and I hope to make up some of the time we lost while in Scotland.”
“I am sorry I delayed you,” Fionna said a bit tartly. “If you would prefer to leave me here at Carlisle—”
“No, I would not,” he interrupted her, speaking with a sharpness to equal hers. “I’ll not leave you behind. I was only warning you about the long days ahead.”
“Did I slow you today?” she demanded. “Did I ask for special care?”
“You’d ask no quarter if you were dying,” he responded, and lifted a hand as if to stroke her cheek.
Fionna moved backward a step and found herself pressed against the door frame. Smokey light from a torch set into a wall sconce a short distance away illuminated the stone walls of the narrow corridor. Arrow slits at precisely spaced intervals admitted cold draughts that made the torch flames waver and dance, sending alternating light and shadow across the lifeless stone and the two human figures, the man who pressed ever nearer, and the woman who was trying to retreat from him. The footsteps of a sentry echoed from around a nearby corner and the murmur of hushed, late-evening voices rose from the lower levels of the hall-keep. They were surrounded by the busy life of the castle, yet Fionna and Quentin stood isolated within the shelter of the doorway.
In the uncertain light Fionna could not read Quentin’s expression. She could see the look in his eyes, though, and she thought she recognized the emotion revealed there. Tense and wary, he regarded her as a hunter watches its prey, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Fionna longed to flee from him, but there was no place to go, no safety apart from Quentin. No safety with him, either. She was sure he could hear the terrified beating of her heart. She shook her head, wishing she could think clearly, wishing his mere presence did not affect her so severely.
Quentin’s hand rose, and from the intensity of his grey gaze Fionna wondered if he intended to tear off the ribbon at the end of her long braid and unweave the hair. But he did not step any nearer, nor did he touch her. The tips of his fingers merely skimmed over her hair, then moved slowly downward in a caress that never actually made contact with her temple, cheek, or throat.
Fionna recalled the feel of his skin against hers and the memory brought heat to her face. Somewhere deep inside her, a painful knot began to unravel. With an unexpected urgency that terrified her, she wanted Quentin to touch her, wanted the hard clasp of his hands on her shoulders. She ached to know his calloused palms cupping her cheeks.
They stood far enough apart that a slender child could have wedged his way between them, and Quentin’s fingers did not touch her, yet he was caressing her, teaching her to accept his gentle form of possession.
She did not know how to react to what he was doing, so she merely stood with her back hard against the stone of the door frame, holding her breath and staring at him, her cheeks burning, while Quentin consumed her with his untouching caresses.
Then, at last, he did touch her. He slid his fingers around her trembling hand and drew it toward his mouth. His lips lingered on the narrow, still-red line at her wrist, where her brother’s leather thong had bitten into her soft flesh. When Quentin’s tongue flicked across the mark, Fionna almost screamed aloud. Her blood ran suddenly hot through her veins, and she wondered if she would faint from the sheer sensual pleasure of his moist, warm flesh on hers.
Quentin turned her hand over, pried open the clenched fingers of her fist, and placed his mouth in the center of her palm.
Fionna’s knees buckled. If not for the solid stone at her back she would have slipped to the floor, to lie there in a boneless puddle of longing.
“Good night, my lady,” Quentin said, smiling as if he understood her confusion. “Sleep well. I will expect to see you in the hall before dawn.”
He pushed the door open wider, leaving Fionna no option but to enter the room. He pulled the door shut behind her and Fionna leaned against it, still quivering with a need she did not fully understand.
What had Quentin just done to her? Why had she found such heart-pounding, breathtaking pleasure in it?
She knew well enough what men usually did to women. In the stable at Dungalash she had once come upon a groom and a maidservant tumbling in the hay, both of them naked and nothing left to the imagination of any onlooker. She was painfully aware of how her sister-in-law feared the nights when Murdoch left off drinking ale with his men and went to his wife’s bedchamber, instead. Fionna had often noted the poor woman’s swollen lips and the tear streaks on her unwashed cheeks the next morning. From far back in her childhood she recalled her mother’s patient acceptance of her husband’s unthinking brutality.
But Quentin hadn’t been brutal. He had been gentle, his not-quite-caresses evoking a yearning in Fionna that she could not comprehend. Nothing in her youthful experience explained why a man would treat a woman thus.
To her shame, she wanted more of Quentin’s gentle treatment. If he had stepped into her room at that moment, she would have thrown herself into his arms without hesitation, and begged him to continue...thus, surely, losing her ability to separate herself from him when the time was right. For, having once known the pleasure of Quentin’s arms enfolding her, she was certain she’d never be able to leave him.
Was that the purpose behind the delicate lures he had cast at her? Was he trying to bind her to him so she’d go willingly to England and cause him no trouble along the way? Did he hope she would forget about her sister, and the danger Janet was facing?
Well, he was wrong! Melting warmth turned in an instant to chilling certainty. If Quentin imagined he could seduce Fionna of Dungalash into obeying his will, he was greatly mistaken. His wicked Norman scheme had gone so badly awry that she was now determined to escape from him at her first opportunity. No matter that she had barely enough food for a single day hidden in the folds of her blanket. She had gone hungry a few times in the past, during years when the harvest was scanty; she could do so again, and gladly, for Janet’s sake.
She was going to rescue her sister, and Quentin of Alney, with his seductive wiles and his haunting grey eyes, was not going to prevent her.
Lady Agnes insisted Fionna must keep the green silk gown. Early in the morning she appeared in Fionna’s bedchamber to tell her so.
“I am embarrassed to own so large a wardrobe,” Lady Agnes said. “My dear Walter spoils me most dreadfully. I am certain the next time we attend the royal court he will order the seamstresses there to make still more gowns for me. It’s unfair for me to have so much, while you are reduced to a single, badly worn dress. Please, I beg you, accept the gift. I’ll have one of the maids locate an extra saddlebag that you can use to carry the dress, and the shoes and shift.”
“You are much too kind to me,” Fionna declared, but she did not protest any further, for Lady Agnes in her goodness and generosity was unknowingly offering a place in which Fionna could hide as much bread as she could manage to s
teal. A saddlebag was a perfect repository for anything she did not want Quentin to see.
“I trust we will meet again,” said Lady Agnes. “Perhaps at court, or possibly Quentin will bring you back to Carlisle.”
“I hope we do meet,” Fionna responded, blinking away tears. When Lady Agnes embraced her,
she returned the gesture, feeling as if she had found a friend. Unfortunately, she soon realized that once Lady Agnes learned how she escaped from Quentin’s protection in order to ride northward to Janet, there would be no chance of friendship between the elegant Norman lady and the incorrigible daughter of a minor Scottish laird.
Telling herself that blood ties counted for more than new acquaintances, Fionna went down to the hall with Lady Agnes’s arm about her waist, and tried not to feel like an ungrateful liar.
An hour later, having broken the night’s fast with all the eagerness of a starving person, Fionna was back in her bedchamber. After making sure the door was securely latched, she pulled out of the pouches in her old wool gown the chunks of fresh bread she had stollen from the high table. Quickly, fearing she’d be interrupted before she was finished, she stuffed the pieces into the saddlebag the maid had left for her, cramming the bread under the folds of green silk and adding to her store the previously stolen bread hidden in her blanket.
Upon adding up the pieces she decided she had accumulated enough food to last for several days if she rationed it carefully. Once at Abercorn, she was sure the nuns would give Janet supplies for their journey away from the abbey. Where that next journey would lead, Fionna did not pause to consider. With shaking hands she tied the thongs that closed the saddlebag, then snatched up the now-empty blanket.
Quentin was waiting for her in the bailey. He took the saddlebag from her and slung it over her horse’s back, fastening it with deft fingers.
