by Speer, Flora
“If that is so,” Janet snapped, “then you should have executed every man of them, here and now. Otherwise, they will surely come after us again.”
“I don’t think so,” said Quentin, whose thoughts had rapidly progressed from outrage at Royce’s lenient treatment of the prisoners to realization of the good sense his friend was displaying. “Janet, you and Fionna are safe from your brothers now and you, in particular, are safe from Colum. Nor can there be any advantage to Murdoch in my death once we have crossed into England.”
“Furthermore,” added Cadwallon, “by sending that band of traitors to King Alexander, we have scored a diplomatic advantage for King Henry. Royce, this was an excellent day’s work.”
“Exactly,” Quentin agreed.
“Men!” Janet exclaimed in fury. “All you can think about is affairs of state, while my sister lies near to death. And to observe this farce of a judgment you called me away from her side? I cannot approve of what you’ve done, Royce. I just hope and pray I never see either of my so-called brothers again – or Colum, either. In fact, I’d be happy never to see or speak to another man for the rest of my life!” With that she stalked away from the men, heading for her tent and Fionna.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Cadwallon asked, gazing after her in undisguised admiration.
Royce chuckled in response. Quentin didn’t say anything; he was too busy wondering whether Janet’s anger was going to make reaching Fionna’s side more difficult.
As he feared, Janet did her best to prevent him from seeing Fionna. She snapped and snarled at him and tried to shoo him away from the tent entrance, until Quentin decided to enlist Cadwallon’s help.
First, Quentin pretended to give up his attempt to see Fionna, claiming he needed some rest and vowing to return later. Then, when Janet supposed he was gone, Cadwallon arrived. With soft words and an encouraging smile Cadwallon succeeded in coaxing Janet away from Fionna’s side and into Royce’s dining tent for the midday meal. The moment Janet disappeared from sight Quentin reappeared at the blue tent.
“Lady Janet ordered me not to allow anyone to enter until she returns,” the man-at-arms who was guarding the tent said.
“Lady Janet issues too many orders,” Quentin responded, the remark making the guard laugh.
The man knew Quentin, had often seen him with Fionna, and apparently he wasn’t minded to begin a dispute with an important nobleman. Whistling a little tune, the guard turned his back long enough for Quentin to slip into the tent.
To Quentin’s eyes, Fionna was paler and smaller than she had been earlier that day. She looked even more fragile than when he’d first found her and carried her away from Liddel Water.
“Fionna, my dearest.” Taking her hand, Quentin knelt beside the cot. “Open your eyes and speak to me.”
He raised her hand to his lips and fervently pressed a kiss on it. He smoothed back her hair, and when he inadvertently touched the bruise Murdoch’s sword hilt had left on her beautiful skin, Fionna moaned softly.
“Fionna? Please wake up.”
Her eyelids fluttered a few times, then slowly lifted. She stared blankly at his face for a while before recognition lit her gaze and her fingers curled around his hand.
“Quentin.” Her voice was a mere thread of sound.
“I’ve come to thank you for saving my life,” Quentin said, trying to smile at her and failing, because he was so worried. “Riding at Murdoch the way you did was a brave and foolhardy deed. You could have been killed. You almost were killed.”
“But you weren’t,” she whispered.
“Thanks to you, I’m not even badly hurt. Fionna, those were the longest moments of my life, from the time I first noticed you charging toward us until I was able to get to my feet and drag Murdoch away from you.”
“Is he dead?”
“No. Royce has packed Murdoch and the others off to Edinburgh, where King Alexander will deal with them.”
“Good.” She took a long, slow breath, as if she was testing how much it would hurt to inhale. Then she asked, “Janet?”
“She is unharmed, and as irritating as ever.” Encouraged by the smile that flickered across her lips he added, “Cadwallon and I schemed to entice her to the midday meal. It’s the first time she has left your side since I carried you off the field of battle.”
“Cadwallon will make her eat.” Her eyelids closed and her grip on his hand began to relax.
“Fionna?” Concerned, he leaned closer.
“So tired,” she murmured. “Want to sleep....”
“Yes, do sleep. I’ll stay with you.” Still holding her hand, Quentin settled himself on the ground, bracing his shoulders against the edge of the cot. Fionna’s easy and steady breathing told him she was slipping into the peaceful, healing slumber she required.
Quentin felt himself beginning to drift into sleep. He had been awake for more than a day and a half and a large part of that time had been spent in battle, or in tracking Gillemore and his friends through the dark forest. Slowly, knowing Fionna was next to him and safe, Quentin let sleep claim him.
“Get up!”
The low, urgent voice woke Fionna out of a dream in which she was wandering hand-in-hand with Quentin over a hillside covered in pink and purple heather.
“Quentin, I said, get up! I told you to stay away!”
“Janet?” Exerting a great effort, Fionna finally managed to open her eyes. Her sister loomed above her, vigorously shaking the shoulders of a figure that sprawled against the cot with an arm draped over Fionna’s hips.
“Now, see what you’ve done?” Janet scolded Quentin’s inert form. “You woke her up!”
“You woke me,” Fionna said, “not Quentin.” Her fingers caressed his dark hair. Quentin lifted his head to smile at her. The sight of his dear, sleepy face warmed her heart.
“I told you to leave her alone,” Janet said, still shaking Quentin’s shoulder. “This was a conspiracy between you and Cadwallon, wasn’t it?”
“I plead guilty.” With lazy grace Quentin rose to his feet. He caught his breath sharply and rubbed a hand along his upper leg.
“Does it hurt very badly?” Fionna asked. “I remember how heavily it bled.” She paused to yawn.
“It’s nothing,” Quentin said. “Braedon didn’t have to put in a single stitch, which was a great disappointment to him.”
Fionna smiled, and yawned again. Quentin leaned over to kiss her full on the lips, a slow, lingering caress that left her slightly breathless.
“I will leave now, before Janet can flay me alive,” he whispered. “I promise, I will return later, with or without her permission.”
“That man will be the death of you,” Janet warned, closing the tent flap behind Quentin with a firmness that suggested she wished the cloth flap were a wooden door she could slam. “He shouldn’t have been here, not while you were alone and sleeping.”
“I’m glad he was here.” Fionna wished Janet would lower her voice. The sound was making her head ache.
“Did he ask you to marry him?” Janet demanded to know.
“Of course not. I have no dowry. Please, Janet, let me sleep now.”
“That man,” Janet said, more sourly this time, “ought to be ashamed of himself for what he’s done to you.”
Fionna barely heard her. She was falling asleep again.
In his own tent, stretched out on his cot, Quentin was thinking about Fionna. Not only did he owe his life to her; he owed her his protection. But he couldn’t offer it; not yet, not until after he had spoken with King Henry.
Having reached that point in his meditations, he allowed his thoughts to dwell, most unwillingly, on the heiress whom Henry had suggested as his reward for undertaking the mission to King Alexander. Lady Eleanor was only thirteen, and an orphan. Henry, being a sensible king, wanted her wed to a noble whom he could trust to manage her estates in England and Normandy, to send the taxes from those estates to the royal treasury on time, and to remain loyal to Henry’s
interests.
Quentin had never even met the girl. Uninterested in remarrying after the years of misery generated by his first arranged match, he had made a non-committal response when Henry first mentioned the alliance. No betrothal had taken place and Quentin suspected that Lady Eleanor remained unaware of Henry’s plans for her. Nevertheless, honor required him to speak to the king and explain why he wanted to refuse the offer. He prayed Henry would agree, for only then would Quentin be free to reveal his heart to Fionna.
He’d been wrong to make love to her when he wasn’t sure King Henry would release him from the half-promise he had given before leaving the royal court. His unknown, proposed bride hadn’t mattered – no woman had mattered to him – until he had met his Scottish lass, his brave, impulsive, passionate Fionna.
She had been willing to die for him. He hoped Henry would understand what that meant to a man.
The next morning Cadwallon visited Fionna. He sat on the edge of Janet’s cot while he asked inane questions about the state of Fionna’s health, whether she was in pain from her injuries, and how well she had slept the previous night.
“Cadwallon, I promise you, I am much improved,” Fionna told him. “In fact, I intend to join you for the midday meal.”
“No, you most certainly will not!” Janet exclaimed. “You will remain in bed until I say you are well enough to rise.”
“The longer I remain in bed, the weaker I will become,” Fionna responded. “Cadwallon, dear friend, will you kindly take my sister for a walk so I can rest for a little while? Janet is driving me mad with her constant attention.”
“I do wish she’d expend some of her attention on me,” Cadwallon said, casting a hopeful smile in Janet’s direction.
“Don’t wait for it, or expect it!” Janet snapped at him. “After the trick you and Quentin played on me yesterday, all you deserve from me is a hard slap.”
“Ah, dear lady, your cruel rejection wounds me to the very heart,” Cadwallon said, lifting one big hand to his massive chest in a gesture so delicate and fluttering that Fionna began to laugh.
“Oh, dear,” Fionna murmured, pressing her right hand to her left side. “Cadwallon, please don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“See what you’ve done, you unfeeling brute?” Janet cried. “Cadwallon, I want you out of this tent at once!”
“Is something wrong?” Braedon stuck his head through the tent flap. “May I join you?”
“No!” Janet yelled at him.
“Come in,” Fionna said, smiling at him. “I haven’t seen you since you escorted me to a safe place during the battle, and then went looking for Janet. How did you fare, Braedon? You appear to be uninjured.”
“I am ashamed to say I escaped unscathed,” Braedon told her.
“A good thing, that,” Cadwallon said. “Not only did Braedon successfully remove Janet from the melee while I engaged Colum, but after the battle was over he helped Cook to sew up most of the wounded men.”
“Braedon, it seems you are a hero,” Fionna said, offering her hand to him.
“So are you, for saving Quentin,” Braedon responded. “But you should have remained where I told you to stay. I thought I would die of terror when Janet and I reached those bushes and you weren’t there.
“It worked out well this time,” Braedon went on, taking a seat next to Cadwallon on Janet’s cot. “But the next time, I expect you to obey my orders.”
“If Fionna is wise,” Janet told him, “she will never again obey any man’s orders.”
“Thank you for helping my sister during the battle,” Fionna said to Braedon, thinking she ought to thank him, since Janet obviously wasn’t going to, “and for taking good care of Quentin.”
“I owe Quentin a great deal,” Braedon said. “He trusts me, and he never treats me like the lowly squire I am.”
“I have noticed.” Fionna’s gaze held his for a moment, while it dawned on her that over the last few weeks he and Cadwallon had become the brothers of her heart, easily replacing Murdoch and Gillemore, who had never bothered to show her any affection, not even in the days before they decided she’d be more use to them if she were dead. But Braedon and Cadwallon made clear their fondness for her, and she saw how Cadwallon’s bluff humor tended to soften Janet’s sharpness.
Fionna was still weak and tears rose quickly to her eyes. She blinked them away and smiled at the two men, though she was aware of how her lips trembled with the emotion she felt toward them.
She thought Cadwallon had noticed for, with a wink at her that she knew Janet had missed seeing, he rose to his feet, pulling Braedon up by an elbow.
“Braedon and I,” Cadwallon announced, “will now escort Janet on a nice, long walk. She’s looking pale. I think she needs a bit of sunshine and fresh air.”
“Absolutely not!” Janet declared. “I cannot leave Fionna.”
“Please, Janet,” Fionna begged. “Go with them. Let me rest.”
“Well!” said Janet. “If you don’t appreciate my efforts in your behalf—”
“I do,” Fionna assured her. “I just want to be quiet for a little while.”
“If these two thoughtless men would only leave, you could be quiet.”
“Then take them out and stay with them to be sure they leave me alone,” Fionna said sharply. When Cadwallon looked at her in surprise she, too, managed a wink that Janet did not see.
Cadwallon grinned at Fionna, then seized Janet’s arm. A moment later Fionna sighed in relief at being left alone. Although, she thought wistfully, there was company she would enjoy entertaining.
Chapter 17
Unwilling to endure any more of Janet’s continual fretting over her condition, Fionna decided to dress herself while her sister was gone. Without Janet present she could take her time while she adjusted to the inconvenience of a bandaged arm and an aching ribcage.
She quickly discovered she was weaker than she’d realized. Her left arm was stiff and when she tried to raise it she winced at the sudden pain in both the arm and her side. After a couple of failed attempts to don her shift, she decided she’d just have to slide it over the sore arm first, and then try to pull it over her head and her right arm.
Doing it that way wasn’t as easy as she had expected. She was weak and clumsy, so her head quickly became entangled in folds of linen. Weeping with frustration and discomfort, unaware that she was no longer alone, she struggled to locate the wide neckline of the shift while using only one hand.
“Let me do it.” A pair of familiar male hands straightened the linen, lifting it over her head and helping her to slip her right arm into the armhole.
“That’s better.” Quentin adjusted the neckline of the shift.
“Thank you.” She fought against the betraying tears that sprang to her eyes. When she spoke again she sounded as irritable as Janet. “Why are you here?”
“My dearest, why aren’t you resting?” Quentin asked. “When I saw Janet with Braedon and Cadwallon I thought I’d find you asleep. That’s why I entered without calling to you first.”
“I wanted to dress while Janet is gone,” Fionna explained. “I know she loves me, and she does mean well, but she fusses constantly and she never stops talking, and she makes the most unkind remarks about men.” Thinking she had complained enough, Fionna broke off to blink back still more unwanted tears.
“I understand what you are feeling,” Quentin said, “but if you try to dress unaided you may pull out some of the stitches where Janet sewed up the gash in your arm. Can you imagine what she’ll say then? If you like, I will serve as your maid. I promise not to chatter or say unkind things about men – or about women, either,” he added with a tender smile.
“I would appreciate your help,” Fionna admitted. “It’s not as if you haven’t seen me unclothed before. Several times, in fact.” Then she was blushing furiously at her own impulsive words and Quentin was looking away, as if he couldn’t face her.
“Janet told me she washed my everyday dress.�
�� Striving for the appearance of calmness, Fionna spoke into the awkward silence between them. “I doubt if it’s dry yet, and she hasn’t had time to repair the side seam or the tear in the sleeve. I’ll have to wear the green silk gown, instead.”
“It should be easier to put on than the wool dress.” Quentin sounded as if he, too, was trying to maintain the pretense that it was perfectly natural for him to be assisting her. “The sleeves are wider, so they’ll accommodate the bandage.”
He found her saddlebag beneath the cot and pulled the green dress out of it. Within a few moments and with very little discomfort to Fionna’s arm, she was wearing the gown and Quentin was tightening the laces at either side of her waist.
“You make a fine lady’s maid,” she said, teasing a little to hide the warmth flooding through her at the light touch of his fingers against her side.
“To be honest,” Quentin said, finishing with the laces and reaching for her stockings, “I would far rather be undressing you than dressing you.”
“For shame, sir.” She was still valliantly teasing him while at the same time telling herself her heart was beating so fast only because of her injuries.
Quentin flashed a quick and knowing smile at her before he went to his knees to draw on her stockings. Fionna bit her lip, determined not to reveal to him her overheated reaction to the way his hands grazed her ankles or her thighs. She sat on the side of the cot, gazing down at his bent head and wishing she dared put her uninjured arm around his shoulders. Only the memory of their conversation in his tent, when he had made it clear that they must stay apart from each other, stopped her.
She must not let him know how much she longed to feel his arms around her. He was helping her because he was grateful to her for distracting Murdoch on the battlefield. He was repaying that debt, nothing more. But she couldn’t keep her fingers from a quick, stroking gesture across his smooth hair. Quentin paused in tying her garters to look up at her. He was smiling as if he expected her to continue her teasing remarks.
