Jennifer August

by Knight of the Mist

  The large chapel burst at the seams with people crowding its hallowed halls. Every pew seat, save the front two, were occupied with happy, beaming vassals and knights, while Falcon Fire’s joyful villagers stood shoulder to shoulder at the rear, some even spilling into the courtyard. He made the right choice with Stirling, he thought in satisfaction. Not only was her army fiercely loyal, but her villagers, serfs and servants were as well. And, if he gambled correctly, they would, eventually, include him in that loyalty.

  Falcon Fire’s red and black standard hung proudly above the stone altar. William’s banner jutted from the left as did, Quinn realized in amazement, his own colors of silver and blue. Four page boys stiffly lined the wall beneath the banners, horns at the ready. He grinned and pushed his way to the front of the chapel, where a white-haired man paced restlessly. The priest wore the black flowing robes of the clergy, his waist encircled by a wide ribbon of scarlet.

  “Father? I am Quinn de Trefoid.”

  The priest stopped mid-stride and looked him up and down, lips pursed and eyes thoughtful. He poked a bony finger in Quinn’s direction. “So you are the Avenger. Have you made your peace with the Lord, Sir Knight?”

  Quinn raised a brow at the man’s impertinence. “What passes between He and I is not of your concern, priest.”

  The clergyman cackled, white brows disappearing into the thick shock of hair atop his head. “A good match, indeed. Where is Lady Stirling?”

  “Here, Father,” Millane’s bold voice called out.

  Quinn turned and his breath stilled. Stirling walked with measured grace through the well-wishers, nodding as she passed each row. Clad in a gown of silver mist that clung to her high breasts and molded her tiny waist, she appeared ethereal, almost unreal. A gauzy veil of the same bewitching silver capped her upswept blonde hair and rippled down her back. A small smile curved her lips and her golden eyes bore into his, holding him captive. He stepped forward, offering his arm, fiercely glad when she showed no hesitation in her acceptance.

  “You are enchanting, demoiselle.”

  She inclined her head, offering him that same soft smile. Father Tiburon began the morning service, urging them all to remember this day as a joyous new beginning in the proud history of the keep. After a short mass, he motioned Quinn forward.

  “Kneel my son, and receive the blessings bestowed upon you today.”

  Obediently, Quinn sank to his knees and bowed his head.

  “Quinn de Trefoid, by the benevolence of King William and the reverent hand of God, I hereby declare you to be the true and rightful lord of Falcon Fire, have mercy upon your soul.” The priest circled him, shaking droplets of water on his head and shoulders. Then, heavily scented smoke from the incense filled scepter poured over him. “Rise, Quinn of Falcon Fire,” the priest commanded, “and greet your people.”

  Quinn stood and faced them, astonished at the mingled looks of relief and admiration he saw. A loud cheer ripped through the vestibule, and the horns behind him blared several joyful notes of welcome, followed immediately by a hushed silence. He waited tensely.

  Father Tiburon stepped up next to him. “This day has a twofold cause for celebration.” The priest motioned to Stirling, who rose and moved forward. “Join hands and kneel,” he commanded them. “Unto you, Lord Quinn, I bestow in marriage the prize of Falcon Fire, Lady Stirling. To you she brings fertile lands, loyal followers, plentiful stores and a superior army of knights. Do you accept her offering?”

  “Aye.” Quinn lightly squeezed Stirling’s cold fingers, tamping his elation. So close.

  The priest turned to his mistress. “To you, Lord Quinn brings the protection of his name and army, bountiful riches and restores your titles. Do you accept his offering?”

  “Aye.”

  Quinn gave a small sigh of relief at her firm response. ‘Twas done at last.

  “Lord Quinn, have you a symbol to settle upon Lady Stirling so that all people will know she is your wife?”

  “Aye.” Quinn withdrew the heavy gold ring he’d purchased on a whim nearly four years before. He realized as he slid the band onto her finger, the yellow tiger diamond matched the color of Stirling’s eyes exactly.

  “And do you Lady Stirling wish to present your Lord with a token of your, uh, affection?” The priest cleared his throat and gazed at Stirling with wide-eyed innocence as Quinn glared at him. Her response and soft touch regained his attention.

  “Most certainly, your Worthiness.” Keeping her gaze on his hand, she pushed a silver and ruby ring onto his finger. “The bearer of this ring is recognized as the lord of Falcon Fire and shall be treated with respect and honor as such.” He did not know if her loudly spoken words were meant to convince her or her people.

  The priest swung the incense over both of them. “I declare you to be wed, a permanent and binding union which no man shall break under punishment from God and William, King of England. Rise Lord and Lady of Falcon Fire and seal your bond.”

  They stood as one and faced each other. Gently, Quinn cupped Stirling’s silky cheek and lowered his head. He kissed her tenderly, rimming the delicate fullness of her lips until she trembled and a gasp only he could hear escaped her. He drew back and smiled, then turned to the assembled crowd, who cheered loudly. “I give you your Lady!” He raised their still-joined hands and kissed her white knuckles. “Be at ease, lady-wife, ‘tis almost over.”

  She raised her brows, condescending merriment chasing away her bemused look. “Nay, Sir Norman, ‘tis only begun.”

  # # #

  ‘Twas done and could not be undone. Stirling nibbled her fingernail, then stared at the exotic ring Quinn gave her only hours earlier. The rectangle shape of the gem was unusual and the gold holding it looked like the fine lace the gypsies sometimes brought from the northern climes. The delicate and fragile appearance of the band hid a strength not readily visible and she did not fear breaking it. She wondered where he traveled to purchase such a trinket. And why.

  “Your people, our people, have outdone themselves, lady-wife. The feast you swore impossible is quite delicious.” Quinn offered a morsel of roasted pheasant from the tip of his knife. She shook her head, reaching instead for her goblet of mead. Mayhap she could consume enough of the sweet drink to blur the remainder of the evening.

  “Eat, my lady,” he murmured in her ear, easing the goblet from her hand. “I promise you, ‘tis well worth the effort.” Carefully he slid the meat from the knife blade, then held the succulent tidbit to her lips. Reluctantly she accepted the offering and bit into the pheasant. He smiled broadly.

  “Well done, lady wife. ‘Tis wise you eat, you shall need your strength this evening.”

  Puzzled she tilted her head, trying to deduce his meaning. She must have imbibed more of the mead than she thought, because she could figure no sense to his words. “Married but a few hours and already you fun me, sirrah. ‘Tis very ignoble, you know.”

  He laughed and leaned closer, his breath, warm and moist, sweeping along her ear. She shivered. “I shall do much more than fun you, wife. As soon as ‘tis proper, you and I shall retreat to our chambers for the wedding night.”

  Her eyes opened wide and she gasped. Their noses bumped when she turned her head and he stole a laughing kiss, then pulled away, reaching for his own drink. Licking her lips, she tasted the heady potent red wine he enjoyed and a dart of excitement pricked her. Irritated at her own response, she glared at him, but could think of no rebuke with which to scold him. Bedding her was his right, given freely by her acceptance of his ring. She looked again at the band and sighed. ‘Twas all happening so fast, her head spun. And her feet hurt. Nearly every man in the room, Saxon and Norman alike, begged a dance from her. She did not refuse any of them, enjoying the brief respite from her new husband’s searing eyes and knowing smile. She wondered why he did not escort her around the dance floor, not even once, but swiftly rejected the urge to ask. The less time she spent in his company, the better.

  The strum of
a lyre broke through the chatter of the assembled knights and villagers. Conversation halted and all eyes turned to the doorway, where a man dressed in an outlandish yellow and green tunic, green leggings and yellow, bell-tipped shoes stood. He stroked his fingers across the strings again and leaped forward, landing in the middle of the room. Stirling choked on her mead when she recognized the peculiar troubadour to be her dear friend Langeth, a knight in service to Falcon Fire. Quinn thumped her on the back until she was sure she would have bruises for a fortnight. “Enough!” She gasped. “Cease, prithee.”

  He stopped whacking her, but his hand remained nestled in the cradle of her neck and shoulder, a warm innuendo of what was to come. With effort, she focused on Langeth, trying not to laugh. Or cry.

  “Denizens of Falcon Fire,” he began, “‘Tis my honor this evening to entertain and amuse you as we celebrate this blessed day.”

  Cheers rang out and glasses hoisted in the air. Stirling rolled her eyes.

  “Who is he?” Quinn murmured, amusement running through his words.

  “Sir Langeth. A junior member of John’s forces, but a most eager knight, to be sure.”

  “And now, Lord and Lady of Falcon Fire, I offer a tribute, a song.”

  She giggled, well versed with his musical abilities. The poor man was tone-deaf. Of course, such criticism never deterred him, though ‘twas oft given.

  “Proceed, troubadour.” Quinn waved his hand, gently caressing her neck with the other. She squirmed and tried to concentrate on Langeth and his eccentric dress.

  “When the night wind blows and the sky turns dark, they say one will come, he who will flame love from one single spark. When all is lost and cannot be found, this love shall break through the barriers all around.” Langeth danced a small jig, then wildly strummed the lyre. The strident jangle grated on her nerves, but his words piqued her interest. “The fire of love shall burn bright. It will heal old wounds and make everything right. Trust each other, no one else, that which abides here cannot be felt. No sense, no sound, no sight, nothing but the love of fire and ice.” He finished with a flourish, dancing madly around the room, collecting trinkets, lady’s favors and coins for his strange toast.

  Quinn’s gray gaze bore steadily into her. “What do you make of that, my lady?”

  “He has always been most odd, Sir Norman. Perchance he drank too much of your French wine?”

  “Mayhap.” He fingered the low neckline of her gown, raising goose bumps wherever he touched. “He has them well-entertained, lady-wife, now is the perfect time to adjourn to our chambers.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. She glanced around, but no one looked their direction.

  “But our guests …” she gestured to the crowd.

  “Will accompany us to the bedding if we do not escape quickly. ‘Tis not a fate I would wish upon you.”

  She blushed and clutched his hand. “Nay, sir, I certainly do not wish this to be a public sport.”

  “Do not be afraid, Stirling, I promise, come morning, you shall wonder why you ever hesitated.”

  She inhaled sharply at his supreme arrogance. The man believed himself to be perfect, she felt certain. As he pulled her through the servant’s hall to the kitchens, the memory of another man’s arrogance and its consequences slammed into her. Even as Quinn urged her up the winding staircase to the third floor, Tristan’s betrayal washed over her. She knew not this handsome Norman invader, nothing of his family or his dreams. She knew only that he was a man of war and loyal to the crown-thief. Why then, did Quinn wed her?

  They entered the solar of the Lord’s chamber and he closed the door, locking the bolt behind them.

  “Sit Stirling, and ease your fears for a moment.” He indicated a chair, which she sank into, gazing around the room in amazement at the difference. “What is amiss now, lady-wife?”

  “‘Tis hardly the same chamber. When Father…,” she hesitated, “departed, I ordered this chamber closed. Two years of dust and neglect accumulated, but I had not the heart to clean it.”

  He handed her a goblet of wine. “I understand your sorrow, but you must look to the future. Together we will found a new legacy and our children shall inherit the outcome of our efforts as we re-build this keep.”

  She sipped the potent red wine, eyeing him over the rim. He unbuckled the gilded leather sword belt that hung empty around his waist and laid the sheath on a chair. Next he lifted the loose red and black tunic over his head, mussing his black hair. The shirt landed atop the sword belt. She shifted in the chair, took a deeper draught of the wine and watched him warily. Heat coursed through her as he disrobed. When he pulled at the long-sleeved black linen shirt, she could remain silent no longer.

  “Why did you marry me?” She perched at the edge of the chair, eager to flee, both the man and the reactions he stirred.

  He paused, the shirt halfway up his stomach and raised a quizzical brow. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as her eyes helplessly followed the trail of black hair over his rippling, muscular abdomen to below the snug waist of his leggings. He let the shirt drop, and she collapsed back against the chair, draining the cup in one fell swoop. These puzzling sensations disturbed her. She could not desire this man, could not want him to remain here at Falcon Fire. He was her enemy. Wasn’t he?

  “Why do you wish to know?”

  She looked past his shoulder to the tapestry of her parents’ wedding. “You said you already owned the land and the keep. Why did you wed with me, the daughter of a known traitor, I believe you said?”

  He shrugged. “I did not wish you to be cast into uncertain circumstances, ‘tis all.”

  “Why would you care?”

  “Stirling, this discussion will aid us in no way. Come,” he reached down, pulling her to her feet and against his warm body. The heat nearly seared her, but ‘twas so inviting she shuddered even as she urged herself to move. She did not. She looked up at him, captivated by the glint in his gray eyes. They shone bright as a ceremonial sword. “Did your mother tell you of the marriage bed?”

  She did pull away then, embarrassment lending her strength. “Aye.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, stifling the heat that surged through them as he appraised her wolfishly.

  “And what did she tell you?”

  “Lucifer’s Hooves, Sir Norman, is this required? She told me the pertinent details, all I need to know of what shall occur. If you are so anxious to bed me, then do so and be done with it!” She stamped her foot and he chuckled. Narrowing her eyes and planting her fists on her hips only made him laugh harder. She whirled and headed for the door.

  “Hold, lady-wife.” The amusement still visible on his face now competed with a churning heat deep within his eyes. “I would have you speak my name.”

  She stiffened, not willing to give up this small rebellion, but knowing she must. Better this little thing if it would appease him, than a greater defeat. The hand restraining her gentled and he drew her to him, her back against his chest, his arm resting just above her breasts. She could not breathe. The inevitable, the unknown was nearly at hand. She tried to dissuade him one last time.

  “Please, Lord Quinn, I beg you, give me time to adjust myself to this marriage. You must admit the newness of this --”

  “Nay, lady-wife.” He turned her slowly. “The time for words is done.” Quinn slanted his mouth to hers, his kiss a slow and thorough exploration.

  His lips, surprisingly gentle, caressed hers until she sighed with confused delight. This was wrong, she could not want him. But she did. He deepened the kiss, rubbing her tongue with his and sweeping the recesses of her mouth. Though the new sensation was not unpleasant, Stirling trembled with the shocking pleasure he evoked and tried to maintain control, but his caress drove her to the brink. Suddenly she yearned for his touch even as she fought against it. Her tenuous hold shattered when he untied the laces of her gown and chemise and his warm hand splayed against her bare back. She arched against his chest, the swirling tempest growing stronger wi
thin her. A warning echoed in the back of her mind, she must not succumb to this invader, but the temptation he presented proved too strong and she closed her ears to the whisper.

  “Stirling,” Quinn’s voice was a low, warm growl against her mouth.

  “Aye,” she whispered, giving herself up to his tender ministrations. Though not the man of her choosing, she could not deny the fire that swept through her at Quinn’s touch. And she would not deny him – or herself – this night.

  He pushed the gown off her shoulders and past her hips until she stood in the puddle of silver satin clad only in the thin chemise. The admiration in his iron gray eyes warmed her almost as much as his touch, but she could not prevent herself from covering her nearly bare chest from his hungry gaze.

  “Do not be shy, lady-wife, your beauty is remarkable.” He stood so close his exotic musky scent filled her every breath. Gently he nudged her arms away and she let them fall, the trembling upon her again. In one swift movement, he tore the sheer linen from her body and swung her into his arms.

  Quinn laid her on the bed and knelt beside her, running one long finger along the pounding pulse in her throat. His gaze held hers as he slid his palm along the dip of her neck to the swell of her breasts. She barely breathed.

  “Are you frightened?” he asked, his fingertips tracing light patterns against her skin.

  Her breath hitched and she shivered. “Aye.”

  Quinn withdrew, smiled gently and dropped a soft kiss on her lips, stinging them with a light nip of his teeth. “Then I will calm your fears.”

  His whisper, dark and enticing, sent a shaft of fire through her veins.

  “There is naught to fear in the loving, little warrior,” Quinn murmured and brushed the side of her breasts leaving tingles of desire in his wake. He cupped the quivering mounds and rubbed his thumbs across the rosy tips. They peaked instantly. He bent his dark head and took a nipple in his mouth. Stirling arched in response to the slick warmth.