Several of his younger knights eagerly stepped forward, but he ignored them. Their situation here was not so secure he could afford to lose one of them to the ill-timed humiliation they were sure to display once he bested them. His gaze scanned the perimeter where several Falcon Fire men edged forward. Grinning, he motioned one closer. The man’s fellows slapped him on the back and pushed at him until he stood before Quinn.
“What is your name, pup?”
“Langeth, my lord.”
“Ah, yes, the troubadour.” Laughter rumbled from the men at his dry pronouncement. “I certainly hope your skill with a sword is better than your skill with the lyre.”
Langeth reddened. “Most definitely, my lord.” He drew his own blade and nodded stiffly.
“Shields!” Quinn yelled. One of the squires ran forward, handing each of them a small shield, then scampered away. “We fight to first blood. Engage,” Quinn commanded.
The younger man surged forward, thrusting his blade with vigor, if not precision, at Quinn’s chest. Easily deflecting the blow, Quinn stepped to the side and swung his weapon at his opponent’s sword arm. Langeth blocked with his shield, whirled and attacked from the opposite angle. Quinn smiled with satisfaction at the boy’s quick thinking, warded off the stroke and returned the riposte. They fought for several more minutes, Quinn surveyed the boy’s form while he easily fended off his attacks. He did not seek to score the young man just yet. Much could be learned about the defenses of the keep by observing the tactics of its army. Perhaps he could yet learn how Falcon Fire remained intact and fruitful during its two years without the guiding hand of its lord.
Langeth gamely hacked at him without luck or hit until, without warning, he slipped in a patch of mud, nearly losing his balance. Quinn’s blade snaked forward, nicking the young man’s shoulder and drawing a thin line of blood. Cheers erupted from Quinn’s men while groans of disgust came from the knights of Falcon Fire.
Langeth bowed and turned away, but Quinn stayed him. “Hold, Sir Langeth.” He raised his voice and the crowd quieted. “You’ve shown yourself to be an excellent swordsman. There are not many among my own men who could last as long against me as you did this day. What post do you hold at his keep?”
“I am a knight apprentice, my lord,” the young man mumbled.
“What is this, knight apprentice?”
“He’s a squire, my lord,” someone called from the crowd and they laughed again. “It means he cleans and carries our swords and armor.”
“I see. For the skill you’ve shown this day, Sir Langeth, you are promoted to knight full. You may see Lord Marcus for further instruction.”
Langeth’s eyes widened almost as much as his smile and he stammered his thanks then ran past Quinn, only to return and bow several times. “Enough.” Quinn chuckled. “Go.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The boy, face bursting with pride, disappeared into the ranks of his fellow soldiers.
“Lord Quinn. I’ve found Sir John,” Marcus spoke quietly behind him. Quinn turned, but saw only his second.
“Where is he?”
“Indisposed at the moment, sir.” Marcus leaned closer and cleared his throat, a sly smile on his mouth. “He’s with two of the kitchen wenches. Apparently he celebrated your wedding with more enthusiasm than he should have and cannot rise from his bed.”
Quinn raised a brow, struggling to hide his amusement. “Two?”
Marcus grinned and held up two fingers. “Aye, and he claims both are fair-haired and lusty.”
Quinn smirked. “It seems, old friend, these Saxons are made of better substance than we thought.” He shook his head. “Two?”
“Aye.”
“Fine. He can join you on the morrow, but for now...” Quinn’s loud whistle pierced the air and all the knights turned to face him.
“Good men of Falcon Fire, when you have finished your training for today, we shall celebrate the joining of our two forces. Meet with us in the great hall this eventide to feast and drink.”
A cheer went up from the men and they quickly dispersed, moving to the different areas of the training ground.
“Well done, my lord,” Marcus complimented.
“I find food and drink always work as incentive.” He studied them for a few moments. “They shy away from the quintain and I’ve yet to see one of them mount a horse properly.”
“And fully half hold the blade wrong,” Marcus commented. “‘Twill be a chore readying them to fight, my lord.”
Quinn nodded, grinning widely. “Aye, ‘tis good you enjoy a challenge. See me before the evening meal, I’ve a plan to discuss with you.”
Marcus’ scowl, dark as night, held little heat and much anticipation. “Aye, my lord.”
# # #
Stirling descended the spiral staircase with care, clutching her skirts in a fierce grip. Though she held no desire to fall and break her neck, her leisurely pace was due more to nervousness than safety. Facing her people, the friends who’d helped raise her these years past, especially after what transpired between her and Quinn last night, set her teeth aching and her eyes itching. She knew they would look at her and see the loving marks he’d left behind, the blood of her innocence, spread not on her bed, but in her cheeks. She stopped.
Quinn’s massive hound nudged her rump lightly and she tossed a glare over her shoulder. “‘Tis well and good for you to face them. You’re naught but an animal.” She sat down, scooting to the widest part of the step and sighed. Above her, the dog eased her huge head over her shoulder and snuffled, her sparkling blue eyes watchful.
Stirling scratched the wide expanse between the dog’s ears, surprised at the softness of her fur. Perhaps she used lavender oil to soften it in her bath. The odd thought made Stirling laugh. “Aye, ‘tis true, I’m behaving like a ninny,” she murmured to the dog who wiggled closer, licking the underside of her arm with a long pink tongue. She chuckled again. “You’re right, there is naught to be done about the whole mess, is there?” With one last rub, she pushed the hound away and stood, taking hold of her skirts once more, though with less force this time. “Wedding and bedding happen all the time. ‘Tis the way of life. Come, dog.” They descended together.
Stirling walked into the midst of chaos. Everywhere she looked maids bustled by with bundles of fresh straw for the rushes, scullery maids feverishly darted in and out of the kitchens toting kettles and brooms and the house lads followed after them all. She thought each one looked at her, eyes downcast and knowing smiles on their faces, but shook the sensation away. A natural act, she reminded herself, looking through the crowd once more. She found Dustin in the middle of the great hall, a pained expression on his wrinkled face.
“Dustin.” She waved to gain his attention, but he turned away, shouting at a serving wench when she dropped a ewer of red wine.
The white hound sitting at her feet growled and bared her teeth. “Calmly, Dog. There is none here who would do you harm.” Stirling wove through the group of village men moving long tables into the dining hall, ducking when one hefted a chair, nearly knocking her in the head.
“You’re pardon, mistress. I had no idea...,” he apologized profusely.
“No harm, sir.” She smiled, but stood still as he moved away. Her white-furred protector rumbled her disapproval as the man passed. Stirling noticed he hastened his footsteps.
“Dustin.” Stirling tugged on his sleeve when she finally reached him. “What is all this? The wedding feast was last night.” She did not wish to insult the elderly chamberlain, but ‘twas a well known fact the old man’s memory worked as well as a serving spoon in a swordfight.
He scowled at her. “Aye, girl, I know that. Do you think me daft? ‘Tis that husband of yours. Wed but a day and already turning the keep upside down.”
“Lord Quinn? What has he done?”
“We’re to feed all of Falcon Fire again come nightfall. The entire village, the townsfolk, the knights, the servants. More than thrice the amount of food as is u
sual. I’ve orders to break out what little ale remains and fill the tables with bread, cheese and meats. What are we to eat this winter, I’d like to know. The venison will not be properly seasoned and the quail tough as the smithy’s apron.” The old man’s grumblings faded as he headed to the kitchens, leaving a befuddled Stirling behind. What was Quinn about? Dustin was correct, the castle stores could ill-afford to be depleted so close to the snow season.
A scream rent the air and Stirling whirled, reaching for the knife at her waist. Scanning the entryway, she discovered her maid Millane huddled against the front door, the invader’s white dog crouched before her. She stood on the hem of the maid’s skirt, using her considerable weight to prevent her flight. Stirling gasped and rushed forward.
“Cease, dog.” Her breathless command had no effect on the animal. “Dog!” She clapped her hands together sharply and the animal turned her head, sizing her up with those eerie cobalt eyes. She stiffened her back and returned the glare. “Release her.” The dog shifted her gaze to the maid before returning once more to Stirling. She growled again, though, Stirling thought, not as fiercely, and with slow, precise motions, lifted her paws, releasing the pale girl. The dog padded to Stirling’s side and sat.
“That animal is dangerous, my lady, and should be destroyed,” the maid spat, pointing an accusatory finger at the dog.
Stirling touched the hound’s furry head protectively, impatience setting in at her maid’s cruel words. “She is Lord Quinn’s animal, Millane, and I doubt he would take kindly to her death.”
“Indeed madame, I would be sorely displeased.” Quinn’s deep voice rang through the hall, stilling everyone except the dog who barked and leapt forward. She galloped toward her master, skidding to a halt at his feet, ears pricked forward, tail furiously sweeping the flagstone floor. Quinn patted his chest and the hound reared to her back feet, planting her massive front paws against her master’s chest. Quinn rubbed the dog’s ears and stroked the soft fur of her back, then stalked toward Stirling, anger glittering in his gray eyes. The heavy scrape of his booted feet on the stone floor gave testament to his irritation. “What in God’s name is going on? And where did you get my hound?”
“You have leave to go, Millane. Remove yourself to chambers and rest for the remainder of the day,” Stirling spoke firmly to the maid.
“Thank you, my lady.” The girl curtsied, shooting both dog and man a hostility-tinged look of malice that Stirling hoped only she witnessed. What on earth was wrong with her maid? The man had been here but one day. Not enough time to warrant such a reaction.
The thought startled her. Not twenty-four hours ago, she herself had been bemoaning his presence and now she defended him?
She turned back to her new husband, tingling at his nearness, the memories of their night returning in a powerful rush. And her body. She cleared her throat, attempting a smile. “Naught to fret over, my Lord Quinn. Millane must have startled your animal, ‘tis all.”
“Snow is not easily startled, lady-wife. She is a hunter, a dog of war and battle.” Quinn spoke quietly, though the storm of anger still raged on his face. “She would not attack or hold someone simply because of a sharp noise, or sudden movement.”
“I do not doubt her abilities or training, my lord. I agree, the episode was most odd, but ‘tis over with now.” She raised a brow, imitating his arrogant glare, and smiled, hoping to tease him from his mood.
“Do you mock me, madame?” He moved closer until her breasts touched the hard planes of his chest. Her breath hitched at the warmth creeping over her.
“Nay, lord. I only seek to --” She searched for the right words.
“To manipulate me?”
“Nay,” she responded in exasperation. “Must you make everything a battle, my lord?”
His smile, short and a bit dour, seemed haunted. He shrugged. “‘Tis all I’ve ever known, Lady Stirling.”
She had no response to that, but her vivid imagination cast through her mind visions of a younger, more joyful Quinn setting off to battle. She wanted to ask of his life before Falcon Fire, his upbringing, his family, but did not. Most likely, she knew, she would never gather the nerve.
“Dustin tells me we’re to feast again, this eventide?” she queried instead.
“Aye.” His gaze swept over the servants as they moved about and the guards stationed along the walls.
She waited, but he did not seem inclined to offer more.
“May I inquire the occasion?”
He shrugged, but she thought she glimpsed amusement in his face. “Aye.”
Again, she waited, ire overtaking her impatience as the silence grew. She vowed not to speak again, until he did so.
“Are you going to ask, my lady?” Laughter now coated his words and she glared at him.
“I can see why you’ve known naught but fighting, my lord. Indeed, I would not be surprised to discover you were the cause of most brawls.”
He chuckled and wrapped his warm arm over her shoulders, turning her toward the stairs. “We’re to celebrate the joining of our two halls, Stirling. My men and yours, coming together as one unit.”
He rubbed the exposed skin of her shoulder, leaving trails of warmth in his wake. “And, privately, of our own joining. You are well?”
“Of course, sirrah,” She smoothed a hand over her skirt, a dart of heated memory zinging through her. Indeed, the pain was already forgotten, replaced by the memory of exquisite pleasure. “All is quite well with me. What of you?”
Quinn grinned wolfishly and leaned closer. “Hard and in need of your warmth. Come, my lady.” He started up the stairs, tugging at her hand, urging her to follow.
“My lord, I’ve work to do. Menus to plan, villagers to see, wounds to tend. I’ve no time to…” she choked on her embarrassment. “…to view our chambers,” she finished.
He quirked that arrogant brow at her again. “View our chambers? I must admit, I’ve never heard loving called that before, but if that is your preference?”
She glared up at him, lips pursed and foot tapping, searching for the perfect scathing words.
“Pax, lady-wife, I but tease you. See to your duties, I will have words with you before the evening meal.”
She nodded and turned away, not trusting herself to speak. The man had the most unnerving affect on her. She had never known anyone who could raise her normally docile anger with naught but a single word or stoke her passion with the softest of touches. ‘Twas maddening, exhilarating, dangerous.
“Stirling.” He stopped her at the entry to the great hall.
She glanced at him quizzically. “Aye, my lord?”
“‘Tis good you are well. It shall make viewing our chambers that much better.”
Chapter Six
Quinn sat at the lord’s table, in the lord’s chair, with Stirling to his left and Marcus to his right. Sir John and Temple, along with his ladylove, occupied the remaining chairs. Spread before them were the combined forces of his army and Falcon Fire. The tension in the room was nearly palpable. Quinn grimaced. The wounds of the recent war still bled in this hall. Lord Robert’s soldiers had not yet given up hope that William would quit England and return to his home across the water. And his own warriors eyed their Saxon brethren with wary, distrustful stares. Joining the two forces would be a challenge he must quickly accomplish. The longer he delayed his search for the traitor, the more opportunity for the rebels to attack William.
“Your trencher my lord Quinn.” A buxom young maid with dark eyes slid a wooden plate forward, rubbing her breasts along his arm with the motion. Her eyes were full of promise. He smiled coolly in dismissal, but she was persistent. She leaned close to him, so close he could smell the stale sweat that clung to her unwashed body. Her breath, though disguised with mint leaves, smelled sharply of turnips.
“My name is Portea, should you want anything my lord.”
“Be gone, girl,” Stirling spoke sharply, golden eyes narrowed and sparking fires of anger.
“Not him,” Stirling warned and Quinn wondered if she marked her territory. He smiled inwardly, oddly pleased by her snappish possession.
“Thank you,” Quinn murmured when the girl left in a huff. Slicing a piece of venison, he chewed the tender bit thoughtfully, surprised at the flavorful taste. Curious, he reached for another piece. It was the same. “Tell me lady-wife,” he began, “I have noticed the cleanliness of Falcon Fire, the sweet rushes, the delicious food. ‘Tis most unusual. Are you responsible?”
She turned her glare on him. “Of course, sirrah. Did you think the hall ran itself?” She reached for the chalice of mead and sipped lightly.
He laughed, his mood one of anticipation. He leaned closer, inhaling the sweet lavender-scent of his wife’s skin. Wife. The word slid through his mind like warm honey, like the taste of her passion as she found her release. He clasped her hand and tugged it over to his lap, pressing her fingers against his thigh. He slid his own palm along the satin brocade covering her hip, squeezing gently. She inhaled sharply, but did not turn to look at him again. “Your beauty is remarkable, Stirling. ‘Tis an honor to call you wife.” He slipped around her hip, dipping into the juncture of her thighs. Her fingers contracted against his leg, the sharp nails sending pulses of erotic tension to his shaft.
“Should you continue to provoke me thus, little warrior, we shall finish our meal early and view the kitchens.”
“I?” She gasped softly, tugging at her hand. “I do nothing, Sir Norman.”
He smiled at her whispered wrath.
“Does my hand disturb you?” He drummed his fingers over the mound of flesh through the dress and she squirmed, heat rising to coat her cheeks with a rosy hue.
“Aye.”
“Good.” He pulled away and released her hand as well. He laughed as she scooted her chair as far away from him as she could without bumping Temple.
Jennifer August Page 8
