Love Above All

by Speer, Flora

  “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.”

  With that abrupt and untrue explanation, he spun on his heel and departed from the tent, knowing if he stayed he’d kiss the frown off her brow, then he’d plunge his tongue into her delicious, moist mouth, and plunge the rest of himself into her, too, as deep and as often as he could, until he was satisfied. As if he ever could be satisfied and finished with Fionna.

  Wondering what in the name of heaven he could possibly do to rid himself of his constant, aching need for Fionna, he glared at Royce when he reached the dining tent.

  For once Royce ventured no humorous comments. Perhaps, as the only man of Quentin’s acquaintance who had ever admitted being emotionally bound to a woman, Royce understood his friend’s torment and thought it best not to incite his anger.

  Braedon and Sir William joined Royce a moment after Quentin did. Their presence offered Quentin a brief distraction as they all sat down together to break their fast while they discussed the quickest route back to Wortham.

  A puzzled Fionna watched Quentin cross the campsite with rapid strides and disappear into the dining tent. She almost followed him to ask why he was angry. But she changed her mind when she heard Janet moving.

  “Good morning.” Fionna made her lips curve into a smile before she turned to her sister.

  “Was Cadwallon here all night?” Janet asked. She swung her feet to the ground so she could sit on the side of the cot. Fionna noticed that she hadn’t let go of Cadwallon’s hand. He was either still asleep, or pretending to be. Janet put out her free hand to trace the line of Cadwallon’s mouth.

  “My brave knight,” Janet whispered. Then she transferred her attention to Fionna.

  “If Cadwallon was here,” Janet said, “then, where were you?”

  “I found a bed elsewhere.” How easily the twisted version of the truth fell from her lips. Fionna didn’t even blush when Janet stared at her, comprehension filling her gaze. A fallen woman, indeed, Fionna silently scolded herself, a woman eager to trip and fall into Quentin’s bed again.

  “I’d have thought you were too proud to give yourself to a Norman,” Janet said.

  The harsh words, coldly spoken, lacerated Fionna’s taut nerves. Stinging tears rose to her eyes. She attempted to think of a response to Janet’s rebuke, but couldn’t.

  Janet was trying to ease her hand out of Cadwallon’s grasp. When he didn’t let go, she jerked herself free. Cadwallon muttered a few words in Welsh that sounded like an oath, and sat up.

  “So,” Cadwallon said to Janet, “I perceive your health is much improved, my lady.”

  “I was never ill,” Janet snapped at him. “Only your lack of wits led you to think I was. You used my supposed indisposition to take my sister’s bed, thus forcing her into Quentin’s bed! For shame, Cadwallon! You are no true knight!”

  “What are you accusing me of now?” Cadwallon demanded. Yawning, he dragged his fingers through his sleep-tousled brown hair until it stood straight up in places. “I beg you, Lady Janet, let me wake up before you begin my daily tongue-lashing.”

  “You are already awake,” Janet pointed out.

  “Please, dear lady, use shorter sentences.”

  “I just did,” Janet said.

  “No, I mean the nonsense you were spouting before that, about me taking Fionna’s bed. As to your first point,” Cadwallon told her, “you were ill, whether you will admit it, or not. You fainted.”

  “I never faint!”

  “Because you fainted, Royce has decreed a day of rest for your benefit. Regarding your second point,” Cadwallon said, unperturbed by Janet’s reddening face, “I offered to sit with you so Fionna could rest. She’s weary too, you know.”

  “You mean, she’s weary after her night’s activities in Quentin’s bed!” Janet declared.

  “My dearest lady, I do sometimes wonder exactly what you learned in that supposedly strict convent,” Cadwallon said.

  “You miserable wretch!” Janet cried.

  Laughing, Cadwallon caught her wrist the instant before her hand connected with his cheek.

  Fionna could bear no more. She fled from the tent. Outside, the men were taking advantage of the break from constant riding to oil their harness or to rub sand through their chainmail, to clean it of rust and grime. Half a dozen men-at-arms had just returned from a hunting expedition, bringing with them several rabbits and a few birds. Some of the men spoke to Fionna, wishing her good day as she made her way toward Quentin’s tent. She imagined them looking after her with speculative gazes until she was inside the tent and lost to view.

  Suddenly, she knew that Janet was right. Simple pride should have kept her from lying with Quentin – with a Norman. Were she a Norman, too, or if she possessed a suitable dowry, he’d insist on marrying her after what they had done together. She was naught but a foolish Scottish girl, with not a farthing to her name, who had thrown herself away on a great lord, on a man who could not possibly care for her.

  After the way Quentin had repeatedly poured himself into her last night, she could be carrying his child.

  Just as she reached that point in her self-recriminations, Quentin stepped through the tent flaps.

  “I thought you were with Janet,” he said.

  “I was, until she an
d Cadwallon started arguing. I came here to be quiet. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.”

  She had the feeling he did mind, that he didn’t want her there.

  “I’ll go now,” she said.

  “Why?” When she tried to push around him to get out of the tent, he caught her by the shoulders. “Fionna, what is it? What did Janet say to you?”

  “That I ought to have more pride than to give myself to a Norman.”

  “Is that what you think, too?”

  “No,” she said, as firmly and calmly as she could. “The fact that you are a Norman has nothing to do with it. But I have been foolish, and we both know it.”

  “I vowed to protect you.” His voice cracked as he continued, “I’ve hurt you, instead.”

  “I participated most willingly.” Her assertion brought a flickering smile to his lips.

  “You’ll never cast blame on someone else, if you can take it for yourself,” he said. “That’s one reason why I -. Fionna, I will find a way to right the wrong I have done to you. That is a vow I will keep. On what is left of my honor, I swear it.”

  She’d rather hear him swear he loved her. She ached to tell him that she loved him, and would for all eternity. But now, too late, when she was ruined beyond repair and might be with child, her pride surged forth at last, reborn by Janet’s scathing words.

  She would not beg for anything from Quentin. If, as she knew noblemen sometimes did with their mistresses, he invited her to live in some snug little cottage tucked away on his estate at Alney, where he could easily visit her a couple of times a month for a panting, sweaty hour or two, she’d throw the offer back in his face. If, worse yet, he tried to marry her off to one of his men, as Murdoch had once done with a girl he had gotten with child, she’d go back to Scotland and stay there, no matter what her brothers did to her.

  She wanted all of Quentin, forever. Failing that, she wanted nothing to do with him, ever again.