They stepped outside to find Quinn astride his black war-horse, holding the reins of Stirling’s mount saddled beside him. Snow loped in the courtyard, chasing flies and the occasional maid who wandered too close.
Quinn nudged the horses closer, then dismounted. Striding purposefully up the steps, he offered her a courtly bow. “Join me, Lady Stirling.”
She took his arm, sampling the firm muscles beneath her fingers. He was dressed in a simple blue shirt, the collar strings loosened, giving her a glimpse of his muscular, hair-dusted chest, and a pair of loose black leggings. His black boots laced up to his knee and he wore his ever-present sword strapped at his side. As they descended the stairs, Stirling looked to her small roan, saddled and standing next to Quinn’s massive war-horse. The mare looked quite content in the big horse’s shadow. Had everyone acclimated themselves to the Normans so quickly? Even she had given in to the dark warrior’s exquisite touch and heated mouth with ease.
Quinn escorted Stirling to the mounts, wrapped his hands around her small waist and settled her on the leather seat atop her horse. He grinned at her befuddled expression as he remounted.
“Where are we going, my lord? Should you not see to the defense of the keep? Training the men?”
He laughed. “Marcus and Sir John have that well in-hand.” He held up a palm. “And Temple is delving into the other matters. We’ve this day alone, my lady. Enjoy it with me.”
Stirling looked at Millane who winked and waved heartily. “Take great care with her, my lord.”
“You can be certain, I shall.” Quinn whistled to Snow and kneed Charon’s flanks, urging Stirling’s mount to follow. She tugged at the reins and he released them. In a trice she rode beside him, back stiff and legs astride.
He raised a surprised brow. “‘Tis unusual seating you have, Stirling.” They cantered out of the bailey, riding along the northern wall of the keep. Quinn intended to remain within the protective boundaries of Falcon Fire, but he wanted no interruptions from the knight’s training.
She smiled. “I never could sit a horse to the side. Invariably I fell off.” Her laughter rippled over him, pleasing his ears and gladdening his spirit. “Father, afraid I would be trampled, insisted I ride thus. And I have since my fourth year.”
“An early age to mount a steed,” he noted, cutting to the right without warning.
She followed immediately. “Your horse is well trained.”
“Aye,” Quinn replied, eyes searching the trees bordering the trail. “He’s honed for the noises of war and battle, the smell of blood and the screams of the dying.”
When she did not reply, he glanced over, then smothered a smile. Her pale complexion had taken on an even whiter hue. He decided his wife possessed a weak stomach. “My apologies, Stirling, if I’ve upset you.”
“I am fine, sir, do not concern yourself.” She looked around. “Where do we go?”
“Over that rise is a small meadow, do you know it?”
She nodded. “I believe so. ‘Tis near the reefs at the corner of our property.”
“Aye.” They topped the hill, and rode to an outcropping of rocks. Snow roamed the outer perimeter of the clearing, before sprawling at one edge. Quinn leapt from Charon and assisted Stirling with her dismount. The simple act of touching her brought him immense pleasure and he pledged to indulge often. “Do not move. I’ve something for you.”
He circled the group of boulders, reaching into a narrow opening formed by two of the rocks. He pulled a cage out and clicked his tongue. The bird inside immediately trilled in return.
“A falcon, my lord?” Stirling’s excited voice came from behind him and he shook his head, wondering if she ever obeyed the simplest order.
“Aye, a peregrine. I had intended to gift you with her at our wedding feast.” He pulled a leather gauntlet from his belt and held the glove out to her. She slipped it on, tying the laces below her elbow while he removed the blue and silver cloth covering the bird. Stirling gasped.
“She’s beautiful. What is her name?”
“I leave that to you.” He opened the cage and coaxed the bird onto Stirling’s outstretched arm. “Have you hawked before?”
“Not in many years. Father and Mother would bring me out with them occasionally, but since Mother died…” She stroked the breast feathers of the hooded bird. “What shall I call you?” she cooed.
Quinn watched, fascinated as Stirling gentled the peregrine with soft touches and whispered words. The bells of the bird’s jesses tinkled as she hopped side to side, bobbing with each movement.
“Your spirit is fierce, little hawk. I will call you Gillian, for my mother.” The bird trilled and clutched at her leather-clad arm. Stirling laughed and removed the bird’s hood. Mahogany eyes, sharp as her beak gazed at them intently. Quinn smiled, pleased at his wife’s enchantment with his gift.
“Is she trained, my lord? Can we fly her?”
“Aye.” Quinn gripped her elbow lightly as they trekked across the uneven ground to the center of the clearing.
“She responds to a three note whistle, comme ca,” he pierced the quiet with the bird’s call.
Stirling practiced the whistle several times until Gillian cooed acceptance. She smiled with delight when the bird trilled and butted her hand. “You want to fly, don’t you, little one? Then go.” She cast Gillian into the air, watching with breathless pleasure as the falcon raced across the sky, searching the grass for prey.
Snow barked and scampered forward, circling them. She knocked Stirling against her husband’s broad chest, pulling a startled gasp from her.
“Your pardon, my lord.” She did not move away from his compelling strength, though logic urged her to do so.
“Nay, lady, my pleasure.” His arms tightened around her back.
Stirling allowed herself a moment of peace and security in the shelter of his arms until guilt propelled her away. “Tell me about your family, my lord.”
“Why?” he asked, voice suddenly stiff. Her easy companion had disappeared.
“Why not?” She tipped her head. “You know of my lineage, but I naught of yours.”
“Are such things important to you, lady-wife?”
She wondered at his odd reluctance. ‘Twas an innocent enough request. “I meant no insult, sirrah, only to satisfy my curiosity. Mother always said I had more than my fair share.”
Quinn shrugged, but did not look at her. “I am a simple man, Stirling, all that you see, is all that I am.”
“I doubt that, my lord. Simple is not a word I would use to describe you.”
“Nay?”
“Indeed not.” She laughed and eased a few steps away. “Arrogant, stubborn, rigid.”
He caught her round the waist. “Rigid, I would agree with.” The truth of his words pressed against her belly as he molded her closer.
“My lord, ‘tis too soon…” She inhaled sharply when he bit the base of her neck with gentle pressure.
“I know, more’s the pity.” He glanced at the sky. “The day grows long. Call your bird, lady-wife, we must return.”
She sighed, sorry the peaceful time had been so brief.
Quinn stroked her cheek with a blunt fingertip. “Do not fear, Stirling, Calvin shall not have you.”
“I am not a possession to be given nor had,” she bit out, then slumped with sudden fatigue. “He has much power, my lord. More, I fear, than you ken.”
“He is not a consideration, lady-wife. None but God shall part us now. Call your bird.”
Stirling nodded and pursed her lips to reclaim Gillian just as a shrill war cry rent the air.
Chapter Nine
Quinn cursed and whirled toward the sound of the yell. Snow’s ferocious barking and the peregrine’s piercing shriek added to the cacophony. He shoved Stirling behind him as three men burst from the cover of the forest. Though dressed in unkempt rags, he noted they carried finely honed blades, held as though well-trained in their use. He drew his own sword and stepped forward, wi
dening the distance between them and Stirling.
“To the horses,” he snapped at her. “Hold,” he commanded the charging men, hoping they would heed the warning, certain they would not. He prepared himself for battle.
The first man reached him quickly, silver blade slashing through the air in a lethal arc. Quinn caught the ferocious blow along the edge of his weapon and threw the attacker stumbling back. These were no common brigands. Somewhere, these men had been trained as knights.
“Get to the keep,” Quinn yelled at Stirling, eyeing the renegades with new caution.
Snow howled as she sped past Quinn and lunged at the man struggling to regain his feet, pinning him to the ground. The other two men separated, one on each side of him. Quinn turned, deflecting one blow and bracing himself for the other that never fell. Sparks flew and the clash of blade on blade screeched through the meadow as the men fought. Quinn struggled to end the fight, desperate to protect Stirling. Grimly, he battled the dead-eyed man in front of him, hoping she made it to the horses safely. Her enraged scream told him she had not. He risked a glance, but saw only Gillian swooping the field in diving circles.
His opponent took advantage of the momentary lapse, his sword slipping through Quinn’s tunic, meeting his ribs. Quinn grunted and returned his attention to his opponent, slashing a groove through the man’s unprotected thigh. Quinn pushed him back with several more quick parries, keeping him unbalanced. But his opponent, obviously well-skilled in combat, fought back viciously. Clasping his broadsword in a double-handed grip, the mercenary used brute force to slash at him. Quinn avoided two hard lunges aimed at his heart, though the brigand’s blade left a thin slice across his chest. When Stirling cried out again, Quinn dove at his attacker, knocking his legs from under him. Rolling to his feet, he grabbed the man’s sword arm and twisted sharply until the snap of bone echoed. With a hard rap to the man’s temple, Quinn cut off his agonized scream, knocking him unconscious.
Spinning around, he searched for Stirling. His breath stilled at the sight meeting his eyes. The third man held her tightly, the point of his dagger pressed against her neck. A thin line of blood marred her delicate white skin. Fury, hot and powerful, rocked Quinn and he stalked forward.
“No closer, Norman,” the man ordered in a voice tinged with fearful desperation.
Quinn stopped, watching the renegade, and Stirling, closely. She appeared outwardly calm, her creamy oval face composed and tinged with what seemed to be exasperation. On closer inspection, he detected mounting fear in the depths of her golden eyes. The man’s firm hold on Stirling prevented any easy extraction. Quinn did not look at his wife again as he tossed his sword to the ground.
“I’ve no quarrel with you, friend,” he said with a calm he did not feel. “Why do you not let the wench go and return to Falcon Fire with me?”
The man laughed, wild-eyed. Quinn stepped closer. “Do you think me daft, Norman? Return and face the dungeons?” He backed away, the knifepoint still dangerously close to Stirling. More blood, more anger. “And she is no wench, as well I know the lady of Falcon Fire.”
“My lord,” Stirling called out confidently. “Offer the good man some coin, would you?”
The mercenary glared down at Stirling, the knifepoint dipping slightly. “Be still, woman.”
Quinn scooped his sword up and ran forward fear propelling his feet. He wasn’t going to make it. But then, Stirling thrust her elbow into her captor’s ribs. When he bent double, she whirled and smashed his jaw with her knee, before pulling away. He grabbed at her skirts as he hit the ground and she stumbled and fell next to him. Gasping, he raised the knife.
“Nay,” Quinn yelled as he lunged, arm extended as far as possible. Blade met flesh and sank deep inside the man’s chest with a satisfying, meaty thunk. The brigand collapsed next to Stirling, who gaped at his dead body.
Gillian lit on a nearby rock, the beat of her flapping wings stirring the loosened strands of Stirling’s blond hair, sending the heavy mass cascading down, covering her face from his view.
Quinn enfolded his wife’s trembling body, stroking her hair. “‘Tis all right, little warrior. You are safe.” He continued to murmur the soft, soothing words until Snows urgent barking pierced their cocoon.
The first mercenary, the one the huge hound had held pinned to the ground, managed to escape the sharp claws and fangs of the guard dog, but not without injury. Kicking Snow in the head, he grinned evilly and plunged his sword into the dazed beast’s side.
Stirling’s scream of anguish bounced off the trees, echoing with endless sorrow in Quinn’s head. Enraged, he sprinted forward, chasing his quarry to the stone walls bordering the reefs, heedless of his own bleeding wounds.
The man climbed to the top of the wall, where he stood, arms open wide, taunting Quinn. “Be always on your guard, Norman, for we are all around you. Victory will be ours. The true king shall reign.”
Quinn lunged, his hands clutching naught but air as the ragtag warrior flung himself backward into the roiling depths of the sea.
“Quinn, come quickly.”
Stirling’s tearful plea brought him sharply around. He hurried to her side, where she cupped Snow’s head.
He knelt beside the hound, head bent, hands tangled in the red-matted fur.
“She does not breathe,” Quinn said softly, surprised to find his faithful companion so. Many times before the beast had taken serious blows, but none ever felled her so completely.
“We must take her home,” Stirling choked out, tears coursing down her face. Quinn nodded, but remained silent, gaze snared with the blood staining his fingers. He wiped the red dampness along his breeches, suddenly desperate to have it gone.
Stirling stood. “I’ll search for wood, we will make a litter for her.” She turned away, then looked back. “I’m sorry Quinn, ‘tis my fault she’s… dead.” Quinn gained his feet, taking hold of her shoulders. Grief etched deep grooves in his heart, but his touch was gentle as he smoothed her cheek with one finger.
“Nay, little warrior. Snow protected us. She died in battle. She died with honor.”
Stirling stemmed the wild sobs that shook her and drew back. She looked at the fallen animal again. Shock ran through her when she met the dog’s blue eyes, open and glazed in pain. She shook her head and pushed away from Quinn, gasping when she saw Snow’s tail thump the ground weakly.
“My God Quinn, she’s alive.”
# # #
Stirling knelt on the stone floor of the great hall beside Snow, anxiously watching her every ragged breath. The hound slept for now, aided by a tisane of herbs spooned into her mouth. There was naught she could do, but wait and worry and wonder.
When they’d returned to the keep, Snow in a litter and their attacker bound and stumbling on a rope behind them, she’d ordered a place in front of the hearth for the dog to rest. Millane settled the peregrine, while Stirling tended to Quinn’s cut flesh. When he gruffly demanded she see to her own injury and then his dog’s, she grudgingly complied, smoothing a poultice of lavender and rosemary over her throat, then gathering thread and needle to stitch Snow’s wound. Upon returning to the great hall, she was startled to find the injury nothing more than a scratch. The flesh, though reddened and a bit swollen, was sealed and in need of only a soothing lotion.
‘Twas remarkable. And a bit unfathomable.
She had seen the blade cut the dog deeply, wiped the blood from her hands and yet she bore hardly a mark from the horrific incident.
“What manner of beast are you, Snow?” she murmured, lightly caressing the white furry muzzle. She twitched slightly, but did not open her eyes.
“How does she fare, lady-wife?” Quinn’s commanding, though hushed, voice sounded behind her.
Stirling looked up, meeting his concerned gray gaze with a reassuring smile. “Particularly well, my lord, for an animal who appeared lifeless only a short while ago.”
He squatted beside her, rubbing the dog’s side with his strong, tanned ha
nds. “Aye, though ‘tis not the first time she’s survived such a blow, I have never thought her dead before. What of the wound?”
Stirling smoothed the fur away from the pink scar. “Healed.” She shook her head, unable to comprehend the impossibility of the animal’s recovery. It unsettled her and, she admitted, frightened her a bit as well. “Do you not find this strange, my lord? ‘Tis unnatural.”
Quinn shrugged, eyes hooded and face unreadable. “Nay, madame, typical for Snow. The physicians at William’s court concluded she has fast, strong blood and flesh, nothing more. She is simply a dog, Stirling,
She stood, only slightly reassured by his explanation. Snow was not just a dog, but she decided to let it drop, for now. “She will be fine, my lord, and underfoot very soon. What have you done with our attacker?”
Quinn unfolded his long frame, towering above her once more. With a frown he scrutinized her closely. A shock of black hair fell across his forehead and she pushed the lock away, fingertips lingering against his warm skin. He gripped her wrist, staring hard. “Do you know him?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Nay, of course I do not.”
He tugged, pulling her closer. “Are you certain?”
“If you’ve an accusation, my lord, then make it,” she challenged with growing anger.
“What of the other men?”
Stirling jerked away from him, furious with his questions. “Honor and honesty, my lord. You yourself said they were intertwined. Were your words of trust so blithely spoken? Has it begun, then? Will you subject my every word, every motion to your suspicious scrutiny?”
He shrugged “I will have only the truth from your lips, my lady.”
His cold words injured her more than she cared to admit. She thought they were forming a bond, a trust these days past. Apparently the Norman invader took nothing more from her than his pleasure. She drew herself up, icy resolve lending her purpose. “I do not know them. And I do not know you.”
Back rigid, her pride shielded from his hurtful accusations, she walked away, ignoring his commands to return. Marching up the winding staircase, she stormed past the guard at her door and up a set of near crumbling steps to an abandoned watchtower.
Jennifer August Page 12
