Jennifer August

by Knight of the Mist

  Tristan!

  She must alert John. Pushing away from the door, she grabbed the torch and ran the length of the corridor until she reached the entryway to her room. With a mighty heave, she forced the lever upward, and waited anxiously for the wardrobe to open, stripping the gloves from her hands. When the welcome sight of her bedchamber appeared, she nearly wept with relief. Stumbling forward, she shoved the portal closed and grabbed the wrap from her bed, pulling the heavy material over her black clothing. She glanced down to ensure the wrap covered her leggings and met the black soft kid of her boots.

  “God’s teeth,” she muttered and hurriedly worked to yank them off, anxiety making her fingers fumble with the lacings. Finally, they came free and she tossed them beneath the high bed.

  Running to the door of her room, she ripped the bolt away and flung the portal open. The two guards outside whirled to face her, weapons at the ready. She screamed and backed away.

  “What’s amiss, my lady?” one asked.

  She shook her head. “I must speak with Sir John.”

  They looked at each other. “I will ask Lord Quinn.”

  “Nay, ‘twill be too late,” she cried out, incensed. Did these idiots think her a blathering twit? “I will speak with him now!” She pushed past them and ran to the stairs, only to crash into Quinn’s hard, broad chest. He grasped her about the shoulders, his hold light, but restraining.

  “What has happened?” he asked the guards, ignoring her completely.

  Rage, bright and brilliant exploded within her and Stirling reacted without thinking, punching him in the stomach, frustration lending her strength. He bent slightly, his breath a whistle in the air above her head. He pinned her with a glare, then spun her around, pushing her toward the Lord’s chamber. His chamber.

  “Come, demoiselle.”

  She pulled away, whirling to face him. Time ran short. If Tristan was to be captured, she must tell him. Now. “There’s a man in the courtyard.”

  He sighed and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “There are several hundred men in the bailey, demoiselle.”

  “Nay, nay!” She grabbed a handful of his blue jerkin. “You do not understand. He came over the wall.”

  Quinn jerked upright. “What?! Why did you not raise the alarm sooner?”

  “I tried --” she began, but the words bounced off his back as he shot down the spiral steps, yelling at his men to begin the search. She darted after him. “My lord Norman, hold a moment.” But his shouts to the guards drowned her out and she gave up, veering to the left at the bottom of the steps. She would reach John and explain what happened before he was roused by the Norman’s call.

  Suddenly Quinn appeared next to her. “Stay with me,” he ordered, pulling her to his side as one of his men burst into the entryhall. “Did you find him?”

  “Nay, my lord. But we discovered how he entered the bailey. There’s a bit of old chinking crumbled out in the south wall just big enough for a man to slip through. If he wore no armor.”

  “Post guards along the inside of the wall. Repairs begin on the morrow.” Quinn dismissed the soldier and turned a thoughtful frown on her.

  Stirling paid little heed to his narrow-eyed contemplation as the word echoed in her mind. Gone. How was it possible? Tristan’s head hit the ground hard enough to lay even this massive Norman senseless. He would not have had wit enough to rouse, much less escape in the short time before she raised the alarm. Could his men have scaled –

  “Stirling!” His booming voice and hard shake brought her head about with a snap.

  “You needn’t roar.”

  “Tell me again what you saw. And where.” He urged her toward the spiral staircase. “We can discuss this in your bedchambers.”

  “We will not.” She jerked her arm away.

  “God’s teeth woman, do you make everything difficult?” He swung her up and over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Black spots danced before her eyes and she attempted to regain her breath, but each vaulting step he took up the stairs jolted it away again. Infuriated, she clawed at his back and whapped the hard muscles with her fist. He smacked her buttocks and ordered her to cease. Fearing he would drop her, she complied, but vowed to avenge the humiliation at the earliest opportunity.

  When they reached the landing, he slid her off his shoulder and down his body. Legs weak from the awkward position she’d endured, she clutched at his arms. He chuckled and the sound vibrated the sensitive skin of her breasts. She wrenched away and stormed into her room, damning what little remained of his soul to everlasting perdition.

  “Now, you may tell me,” he ordered, closing the door behind them.

  She glared, irritated beyond all reason that his massive size dwarfed her bedchamber. Even the high vaulted ceiling appeared to cave in to him. Disgusted, she shook her head. “As I said before, I saw a man in the bailey.” The words were true enough, thank the Lord. Her skill at lying was minimal and usually caused her more trouble than the truth.

  “What time?”

  “A little after the midnight call. Shouldn’t you be out there searching for him?”

  “Nay. Why were you about so late?”

  “Why were you? Tumbling one of the kitchen wenches?” She groaned at the inane accusation and clapped her eyes shut. She did not care. Truly.

  He laughed. “Rest easy, Stirling. Should I desire a tumble, I should know where to search.” His gray eyes cast her a smoky look.

  “You are maddening.”

  He shrugged. “Aye, so I’ve heard. Why were you awake?”

  “Just restless. Invasion and upheaval always affect me that way.”

  “Where did you see him?”

  “The southeast side of the keep, near the stables. Where you could have looked yourself, had you ventured outside.”

  His iron gray eyes warned her to temper her tongue. “You tread dangerous ground, Stirling, especially for one in such a precarious position. The southeast side? Where were you?”

  She hesitated, forcing herself to calmness, trying to convince herself it was a lie of necessity. For the good of the keep and the villagers. She would not be able to find the papers and free herself from this dark Norman if she were imprisoned in William’s dungeon. She did not think Quinn would find her search, or her, guiltless.

  “Stirling?” he prompted, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Where were you standing?”

  “Here, in my chambers, at the window, of course. Do you think I could have been otherwise with those guards outside my door?”

  He cocked his head and regarded her steadily. “Are you quite certain?” he asked, walking to the window.

  “Aye!” She threw her hands in the air. “With you in command, ‘tis a wonder William ever won a battle, much less defeated Harold’s forces. What did you do, talk them to death?”

  Untying the leather covering, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared out the window. “Join me.” It was not a request.

  She sighed, long and hard, but moved to stand beside him. “What?”

  “‘Tis interesting, but from this window, you cannot see the southeast side of the keep, nor the stables.”

  She stilled, her breath catching in her throat.

  He half-turned, his intense gaze sweeping down the length of her body. Without warning, he grabbed the front of her wrap and tore away the sturdy linen.

  Chapter Three

  “Do you always retire fully clad? ‘Tis bound to make our wedding night interesting.” Though fire-hot anger scorched him, Quinn fought to retain his hard-won control. ‘Twas nearly an impossibility.

  His betrothed stood before him, dressed neck to heel in the colors of a thief, defying him with her golden glare. No other woman would ever dare such a thing.

  “Is your prowess as a lover so lacking you must rip the clothes from an unsuspecting woman?” she countered.

  He battled his admiration for her, while further tamping the heat of his anger. “What were you about, to be dress
ed such?” He frowned and stepped closer, clasping her hips and turning her slightly. His brow shot up in amazement. “Breeches? You traipse the keep in men’s garb?”

  She glared at him, and tried to pull away from his grip. He tightened his hold, the supple touch of her as intoxicating as the finest red wine.

  “I do not traipse. I merely wander.” She sniffed and pushed at his hands. He did not let go. Possibilities ran rampant through his mind: another man, a traitor, escape.

  “Do not test me, demoiselle. Your position here is precarious enough without adding betrayal. Where did you go?”

  “Have I no right to be alone?”

  “Nay.”

  She pressed her lips together, pinning him with the steeliness of her gaze, then lowered her eyes, sighing softly. “I needed to think.”

  “About what?” He did not trust this vixen or her sudden compliance. Long ago he discovered most people who hid secrets eventually spilled them in unguarded fits of temper. He sensed Stirling would not slip so easily, but he would find a way. He always did.

  “About this marriage. About you.”

  “‘Tis done. Nothing to ponder or question.”

  She stiffened, attempting to break free of his hold once more. He released her, and she moved to an oak chair near the hearth. “Aye. To you ‘tis nothing more than meaningless words uttered before witnesses. You gain lands, titles, monies. All the spoils of war.”

  “Aye. You speak the truth.” He stood in front of her, legs akimbo, hands on hips. Impatience set in. “Pray, demoiselle, enlighten me. Why would you require such clothing, indeed how did you come by these articles, to merely think?” He tilted her chin up, forcing her gaze to meet his. He nodded at the defiance still churning in her tawny depths. “Aye. You play the innocent quite well.” He leaned down until their eyes were level. “Be warned, Stirling, I am not a man to be crossed.”

  “And I am no spoil of war, no trinket to be traded from one man to another. I am a daughter of England, a lady of breeding, and demand to be regarded and treated as such.”

  “And have you been treated otherwise?”

  She jumped to her feet, her heel jabbing him in the shin with some force. He grunted, positive ‘twas done a’purpose . She mimicked his stance, though he doubted she realized the enticement her thrusting breasts presented. Or the lush outline of her hips encased in the black breeches. He dragged his attention back to her blustering words.

  “Most certainly I have been treated with disrespect. You’ve not been in this keep a whole day and already I’ve been labeled a wench, a maid, and a traitor.”

  “And are you?”

  “Am I what?” she yelled, irritation evident.

  “Are you a traitor?”

  “Nay!” Her denial was quick, loud and adamant.

  His warrior’s instinct told him she spoke the truth, but he looked upon the dark clothing again, fighting past the allure of her sleek thighs molded by the tight fabric. After warring with himself, he nodded. He would have her secrets, but he would take his time ferreting them out.

  “All will proceed as planned, however, we shall wed on the morrow.”

  “Surely you jest. ‘Twill be impossible to prepare for such an occasion in so few hours.”

  “You’ve been warned, demoiselle. I suggest you take the remaining hours before dawn to rest. We wed immediately after morning vespers.” He strode to the door, then turned and looked at her. “And Stirling, keep the breeches, I rather like you in them.”

  He shut the door swiftly, grinning at the thunk of an object shattering against the wood. His bride’s temper nearly matched his own.

  “Lord Quinn?” the guard queried, his face a mask of polite disinterest.

  “Stay to your posts. Lady Stirling is not bound to her chambers, but she is not to wander about alone, either.”

  “Aye, Lord.”

  Quinn walked the short distance to his own rooms, eager to seek the comforts of his bed. The sparkling cleanliness of the solar gave proof at least the castle maids obeyed him. Though Stirling maintained the rest of the keep in surprisingly pristine conditions, John informed him her father’s chambers had not been touched since the day Lord Robert was dragged away in chains. Quinn drew in deep breath filled with the light scent of jasmine, perhaps lavender. The mild aroma reminded him of Stirling and he scowled as her image instantly formed. Indeed the delicate scent was the only mild thing about her. She possessed a viper’s tongue, the wit of a fox and the temper of a wild boar. However, curbing the lady’s tongue, not to mention her apparent disregard for convention, would be a challenge he relished.

  From habit Quinn carefully inspected the walls, windows and bed of the Lord’s chamber. Seeking hidden dangers had become second nature to him. The habit had served him well more than once.

  A large brocade embroidered with Lord Robert’s crest hung from an iron bracket over one window. The other two bore simple, leather coverings, tied back to allow fresh air to circulate through the room. Two tapestries covered much of one wall, both portraying scenes of what he supposed were family events. One showed a knight, his lady and their court at the hunt. The other portrayed the same knight and dame, kneeling in front of a chapel, a be-robed man towering over them. Lords, ladies, knights and commoners crowded around them in smiling approval.

  But it was the larger, more intricately woven hunting tapestry that drew him forward for a closer inspection. The dame had blond hair coiled around her head, and two small ringlets dangling against her delicate cheeks. He leaned closer, intrigued by the woven vision on the silver-white horse. Her smile seemed almost alive and he swore her blue eyes laughed at him. Most likely Lady Stirling’s mother. She possessed the same proud chin, full, sensuous lips and tipped-up nose as her daughter. Only the eyes differed. The mother’s eyes, the color of the deepest blue silk, paled in comparison to the fiery golden sparks of Stirling’s challenging gaze.

  He turned from the intriguing cloth to seek his bed. The morrow would bring a new life, new bride, new people. Not to mention the land. ‘Twould belong to him. Rightfully. Legitimately. His dream lay within sight. Nothing, and no one would destroy it now. He stoked the slumbering hearth fire back to life then settled into the softness of the feather bed.

  Arching and twisting his back, he sighed with each satisfying pop that snaked down his spine. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the hope of the morrow for a new beginning. Stirling’s image came to him, clearly vibrant. He saw her striking face etched into a mask of rebellious fury, her adamant refusal of him plain for all to see. He sat up, sweat forming on his forehead. If she knew, she could refuse him and he would be lost.

  A knock sounded from the solar. Glad for the interruption, Quinn left the bed and stalked to the door. Marcus grinned at him from the other side. A group of giggling maids gathered on the landing behind him.

  “I bid you good eventide, my lord.” He swayed slightly and clutched at the wall. “May I enter?”

  Quinn held the door open. “Aye. Join me.”

  His friend waved farewell to the women and stumbled inside. Quinn shut the door quickly and shot the bolt home. “Well done, Marcus. I swear you get better with each practice.”

  Marcus grinned, the lazy look of drunkenness lifted easily from his face. “I was meant to walk the stage, not hold a sword, but alas, Father thought otherwise. ‘Tis why I am in your service, instead of entertaining the throngs at William’s court.”

  Quinn snorted. “Entertaining the women, you mean.”

  Marcus winked. “Aye, most definitely that as well.”

  “Come, we’ve matters to discuss ere dawn arrives.” Quinn returned to the bedchamber and sank onto a cushioned chair. Stretching out his legs, he rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “God’s mercy, but I tire of battle, old friend.”

  “William has promised your discharge from his command as soon as we discover the traitors, Quinn. It shall be done in as much haste as possible.” Marcus settled across from him.

&n
bsp; Quinn nodded and closed his eyes, aching fatigue invading every part of his body. Marcus alone knew what possession of Falcon Fire meant to him. Lands, hope, heirs. “The wedding will be tomorrow.”

  “Why so soon?”

  “I discovered my betrothed clad in men’s black breeches, tunic and boots. She never explained the garb, but gave me a feeble excuse about wandering her room to think. I deemed it wise to move the wedding date up. The sooner she is under my hand, the better. As for the other-- soon, Marcus. It must be soon.”

  “Aye, my lord. ‘Twill be easier when Temple and his men arrive.”

  “Have you word from him, then?”

  “Aye, they arrive tomorrow. He can’t wait for the wedding. ‘Tis a sight he’ll not believe unless he witnesses the deed with his own eyes.”

  Quinn chuckled. “Damn rogue Scots warrior.”

  “Can’t say as I blame him, Quinn,” Marcus commented. “‘Tis a day you vowed would never come.”

  Quinn glared at him. “The past has nothing to do with the present. And neither do foolish vows spoken in the heat of battle.”

  “As I recall, you were well past battle, my lord.”

  “Leave be, Marcus. There is much to be done without dwelling on those days. Too many things are unknown here, the least of which is not Lady Stirling.” A strange sense of anticipation swept through him. Indeed the lady was intriguing. Mysterious. Defiant. Delicious. He could still taste the honey sweetness of her mouth and the tartness of her tongue. God’s teeth, he would taste her again. Her mind was as sharp as his blade and he wagered, just as deadly. Unbidden and unwelcome, another memory of a woman possessed of strong passions surfaced and he fought against its tragic reminders. But too late, caution tempered his anticipation. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

  “What troubles you, friend?” Marcus murmured.