He did not rouse fully, not opening his eyes, but managed to swallow most of the liquid. She peered into the mug, he’d not taken enough. She shook him harder.
“More, my lord.”
His glare, red-eyed and bleary, was not alert. “Damn demanding wenches,” he said thickly, but obediently gulped down the drink when she held it to his lips. He squinted and opened his mouth again, then closed it as the healing sleep overtook him once more.
Stirling gathered up the herbs and cup, hiding them beneath her gown, slid back the bolt and walked calmly through the doorway.
“How does he fare?” Temple asked quietly.
“I will know more in time,” she murmured and walked away quickly, Temple’s curious stare searing her neck the entire way to the Lord’s chambers. She turned at the door and waved, giving him a slight smile. He did not return either gesture, his dark brows drawn into a deep vee.
She sighed and slipped into the room. What was done was done. She only hoped ‘twas the right thing. Easing under Quinn’s strong arm, she sought the shelter only he could provide. He caressed her back, his warm hand soothing her with wide, sweeping passes and drew her closer. Praying to God for Marcus’ safety, she drifted to sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
A sharp knife pressed to her throat woke Stirling. A rough palm clamped over her mouth.
“Not a sound, or the Norman bastard dies.” An evil voice hissed in her ear. She nodded slightly, fear pumping through her. She slid a glance at Quinn. How did the intruder enter the room without alerting him?
She had no time to ponder the dilemma. Her attacker jerked at her arm, nearly pulling her off the bed.
“Careful,” another voice whispered. “He’ll wake.”
“Kill him, then, and be done with it.”
Stirling realized they would show no mercy. She sank her teeth into the fleshy palm of the one holding her, then screamed Quinn’s name when her mouth came free. Immediately, her husband rolled from the bed, scooping up his sword, gaze focused on her and her captor. His wet hand stifled her warning once more.
“Stupid bitch, he’ll die for that.” Her attacker sneered, holding the knife to her throat and backing away.
“Not likely,” Quinn retorted, shadowing the man’s movements. The guards called out from the corridor, rattling the barred door.
Stirling shook her head, ignoring the knife point pricking her neck, trying to warn Quinn of the huge man behind him. But ‘twas too late. The giant smashed his mace across Quinn’s skull, dropping him to the floor with ease. Stirling keened harshly at the sight of her husband, bleeding and unmoving, sprawled on the stone floor, her own heart stopped in fear.
“Quinn!” Her muffled scream had no affect on him.
“Come, Jax, we must hurry.”
Stirling struggled against the strong arm clutching her, kicking her legs backward and tearing at his flesh with her teeth. “Damn woman, she’s more trouble than she’s worth. Ought to just kill her now and be done with it.”
“Can’t, ‘tan. Need her,” the lumbering giant responded, coming forward. He stopped in front of her, a broad smile on his face. “Be good, little girl, or Jax put you to sleep, too.”
She glared at him, hoping he could see her hatred. They would pay for what they’d done. The big man appeared unaffected by her spite, a rumbling laugh issuing from his massive chest.
“Jax think you no like him. Too bad.” He raised his broad fist and smashed it into her jaw. Stirling blinked at the spots and knew no more.
“You hit her too hard, damn it.”
“She be okay, ‘tan, no worry.”
“Aye, well, they’ll break that door in soon, we must go. Pick her up. You hit her, you carry her.”
The giant lifted the light bundle into his arms, then slung her over his shoulder, wincing when her head flopped against his back.
“And be careful,” ‘tan warned, slipping into the dark passage of the hidden corridor.
“Aye, ‘tan, Jax always careful.” He stepped into the shadowy darkness and breathed deeply. “‘tan, why we not fight the soldiers? Much better to leave in light, than this way. Jax no like the dark.”
“We’ve no choice, Jax, ‘tis not as though we are welcome. Now be quiet, we’re almost to the wall.”
‘tan eased open the wooden door that led from the outer guard wall to the dense forest surrounding Falcon Fire. Jax did not like the darkness of the trees any better than he did this hall, but he did not want ‘tan mad at him, so he followed, the girl still clutched against him. Slipping into the forest, they found their mounts nibbling at the grass.
“Give her to me,” ‘tan ordered when he mounted his horse. Jax laid her in ‘tan’s arms. The other man shifted her weight, pressing her rolling head against his shoulder. For man who hates her, Jax thought, ‘tan likes her much. He chuckled at his own joke, then mounted his towering mottled steed.
“We must reach the keep before daylight,” ‘tan murmured and slapped his horses rump with the reins.
“Challenge,” Jax yelled with a grin. Bent low over his horses neck, he followed ‘tan at a breakneck speed. This time he would win.
# # #
“Is he alive?” The hushed question roused Quinn and he groaned, his head aching and body cold. He opened his eyes, staring at the stone floor beneath him.
“What in God’s name happened?” he muttered, pushing himself to his knees. The room spun and nausea curled in his stomach. Hands reached out to steady him. He looked into Temple’s concerned face.
“Temple?” He blinked to clear his blurry vision.
“Aye, lord. Can you stand?” The Scot helped him to his feet and someone draped a fur pelt over his naked shoulder.
Quinn swayed slightly, but managed to remain upright. “What happened? Why are you here?”
He concentrated, seeking the memory, but only vague images appeared. And the effort made him hurt worse. He rubbed the back of his head, finding a lump the size of his fist, his hand coming away wet with blood. He glanced around at the knights and servants milling in his bedchamber, the door broken, clearly destroyed by the back-breaking strokes of an ax.
“Where is Stirling?” Panic seized him. A struggle?
“My lord,” Temple began, clearly reluctant to speak. “My lord, they’ve taken Lady Stirling.”
“Nay,” Quinn whispered with anguish. “Who?”
“We don’t know lord, they came under cover of darkness.” Temple handed him a pair of breeches.
Quinn grew steadier with each enraged breath. Each lungful of air lent him strength. He pulled the clothes on quickly. “Report,” he demanded.
Temple eased away, moving to the gaping hole in the far wall. “They used the secret corridors, my lord. We lost two of our best men.”
“And Stirling?” he asked.
“I assume they’ve taken her with them, my lord. We’ve not found her…” He gulped. “Her body.”
“Mount a search. Every able man will ride.” Quinn strapped his sword belt around his waist, ramming home the lethal silver blade, fear for Stirling guiding his actions.
“My lord, there’s more,” Temple’s voice cracked.
“Speak, Temple. We’ve no time to lose.”
Temple just stared at him, throat working, lips tight. Quinn’s gut clenched and he clasped his friends arm.
“You said you found no blood. What has happened, Temple?”
He looked at Quinn sadly. “‘Tis Marcus.”
“Marcus?” Quinn roared, shoving past the Scot, nearly sending him to the floor. He stormed into Marcus’ chamber to find Millane crumpled at the foot of the bed, harsh sobs wracking her form. Sir John stood at the head, sorrow etched in his face. He shook his head.
“Nay,” Quinn bellowed. He could not lose them both. He laid his hand to Marcus’ white face. Cold, cold as ... death.
“Nay,” he whispered, seeking a heartbeat. Nothing. Silence reigned in the room, save for the rasp of Millane’s tears. John
clasped his shoulder, gently turning him away.
“I’m sorry, my lord, he’s dead.”
“Out, everyone get out,” Quinn ordered harshly. He fought back the immense sorrow, focusing instead on the rage. Anger he knew, anger he could control. When only he remained, he shut the door and knelt by his friend’s side. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them away. Warriors did not cry, Marcus would be the first to tell him so.
“What happened, Marcus? She said your injuries would heal.”
Quinn bowed his head and clutched Marcus’ cold hand. “I will find who did this, old friend, you both have my word on it.”
He left the room without another look, his mind bent on finding Stirling and extracting his own justice against the bastards who’d dare to take her. He bounded down the staircase, and out the door of the great hall. Temple and his band of warrior Scots stood to the side of the mounted regiment, now led by Sir John. Sorrow panged Quinn’s heart, should be Marcus at the head.
Villagers swarmed up the hill, dressed in their nightclothes, clutching their children, alarm written on their faces. Quinn looked out at the lot of them, knights, villeins, servants. His glance skimmed over Langeth, clad in heavy armor and sitting rigidly atop his horse, to the small knot of household servants brandishing knives, pitchforks and heavy staffs. Even frail Dustin held tightly to a dirk, retribution staining his eyes. Their gesture helped ease Quinn’s sorrow and fuel his determination. He leapt onto Charon’s back, guiding the black war-horse through the milling crowd.
“We have been invaded.” His shouted announcement brought gasps of horror and shrieks of fear from the villagers. Charon reared slightly but Quinn easily controlled him, raising a hand. The crowd stilled. “Lord Marcus has been slain and Lady Stirling taken.” Shocked silence met his words, then boiled into cries of outrage.
“I will find your mistress,” Quinn shouted over them. “My wife shall return to Falcon Fire, but I need your assistance.”
An unkempt man, dragging his bandaged leg behind him, limped forward. “We will do anything for her, Lord Quinn. There’s not a man or woman among us who’s been overlooked by her ladyship.”
“Those of you men able to ride, see John, he will fit you out with a mount and a weapon. All others report to Temple.” The men scattered quickly, rushing to their designated posts.
“Lord Quinn.” A young woman carrying a small babe at her breast gained his attention. “What of the women? We offer ourselves as well.”
Quinn stared at her. Women never went into battle, ‘twas dangerous and forbidden. The image of Stirling dressed in her silver armor and brandishing her twin swords flashed through his mind. She’d defeated several warriors in the past, mayhap these women could as well.
Quinn nudged Charon to her side, looking down at her for a long, silent moment. Bravely she held his gaze, but he saw the quiver in her lip, the scattered fear in her eyes. Nay, they would not ride, but they would be armed.
“What is your name?”
“Gaelen, my lord.”
“I would that you take command of the keep, Gaelen. Bring all the children and the infirm to the great hall. You and the other women of the village will defend the keep against any attackers who try to storm the walls. Can you do that?”
She gulped, but nodded proudly.
“Good. Stay within the fortress and do not venture outside, not even to the bailey. I will send word when we have reclaimed our lady.”
“Aye, my lord, as you command.” She turned away, calling for the other women to gather around.
Quinn hoped ‘twas not a mistake, but he was left with little choice. Better to have them safeguarded now, and leave their men with clear minds. God knew how jumbled his own thoughts had been since learning of Stirling’s disappearance. And the knowledge he could not turn to Marcus made the situation worse.
Charon threw his head up, snorting loudly and stamping his feet.
Quinn stroked his silky black neck. “Easy, old boy, we must wait.”
He cursed his own impatience, but he longed to simply fly through the gates and over the hills, crying out Stirling’s name until she replied. Devil take the odds, he knew the rage bubbling below the surface of his calm would even any battle. He gripped his sword, fearing for a moment he would lose complete control and become a beserker. Such mindless savagery would do his wife no good.
“My lord?” Millane called out.
He turned Charon, facing the great hall. She stood at the top of the stairs, wringing her hands. “Aye?”
“What should I do with,” she choked on a sob. “With Lord Marcus’ body?”
Another slice through his tightly-kept composure. “In his travel chest lies a pair black breeches and a matching tunic sewn with the head of an eagle. Put him in those.”
“And then what, lord?”
“Leave him in his room until we return. I do not want him moved or disturbed.” Cook, dabbing her eyes with her apron, shuffled out the doorway and stood behind Millane. He motioned the heavyset woman forward.
“Aye, sir?”
Quinn leaned down. “You have the household keys?”
She bobbed her head, he took it for agreement.
“When the maid Millane has dressed Marcus, I want you to lock his chambers. No one goes in until I say.”
Again she nodded and he touched her shoulder. She looked up at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. “No one, for any reason. I am counting on you to see to this.” He could not explain his need to have her in control, but did not question it too deeply. “‘Tis an important time in the death of a knight, these next two days. ‘Tis when his soul makes peace with God and he must remain undisturbed.”
Cook drew herself up stiffly, new purpose shining from her face. “No one shall go in, I will see to that.”
“Good. We will bury him upon our return. Have Father Tiburon prepare a gravesite.”
“Aye, lord.” She looked behind him and he turned. Temple and his newly acquired soldiers fell into rank beside John’s mounted men. “Godspeed, Lord Quinn. Bring our lady home.”
“I will.”
He cantered Charon up and down the line of motley volunteers and seasoned warriors, noting they all held the same hard glint of determination in their eyes. He signaled the hornsman and the long wail of the battle cry filled the air. “To Stirling.”
# # #
Stirling, woken by the less-than-gentle gait of the horse, carefully slit her eyes open, looking first left, then right. Trees filled her line of vision on both sides. Her captors followed a barely discernible trail on the forest floor, leading she knew not where. Her jaw throbbed where that brute hit her and her bottom ached from the jostling ride. A flash of color in the trees caught her eye and she shot a look, but saw nothing.
She must escape these brigands, whoever they were, before they reached their final destination. God only knew what would happen when they arrived. She wiggled slightly, testing the security of her captor’s arms. They tightened immediately.
“Finally awake, Stirling?”
Tristan? She feigned sleep once more, shock more than effort keeping her eyes closed.
“Come now, that old trick won’t work with me.” He shook her harshly.
She glared at him over her shoulder. “Quinn will kill you for this, Tristan,” she spat, pleased when his smug grin turned dour and brooding.
He glanced behind him. “Impossible, he’s dead,” he finally muttered, pinching her arm. “Mind your manners, girl, or ‘twill be the worse for you.”
She refused to believe Quinn dead. She would know, she was sure of it. How could she continue to live without the other half of her heart?
“We will see, you miserable swine.”
Tristan pinched her again, raising an angry red welt. Stirling did not flinch, did not acknowledge his petty jabs.
“That bastard will not come, Stirling, I promise you. But even if he did, once we reach safety, ‘twill not matter. You and I will wed.”
Stir
ling snorted. “You forget I am very much married, Tristan.”
“‘Tis easily undone.”
“Even should Quinn be,” she shuddered, unable to say the dreaded word.
“Dead?” Tristan supplied gleefully.
She gritted her teeth, yearning to hit him or spit in his evil face, but she dared not, her opportunity would arise. “Even then, I would be a ward of the courts and William would never grant you permission to wed with me.”
Tristan’s smirk did not dissipate. “Widow or wed, your marriage will be undone by right of the Bastard’s Law.”
“Bastard’s Law?”
“Aye, your noble husband is nothing more than the squalling brat of a French knight and his whore. A bastard.”
Stirling inhaled sharply, why had Quinn not told her?
“Ah, you see the truth of my words.”
“‘Tis not your place to enact this law, ‘tis mine. And I shall not do it.”
“You will,” Tristan hissed.
“I pity you, Tristan, ‘tis obvious madness has taken your brain.”
“No be angry, pretty lady.” The huge man spoke from atop his equally large horse. “‘tan likes you much. He good man.”
Stirling raised a brow, taking in his immense girth. He topped Quinn’s height by a good foot or so and outweighed him by at least two stone. “‘tan?”
“‘Tis what Jax calls me.” Tristan murmured in her ear. She leaned away from his foul breath and unwanted closeness. His heinous laugh followed her. “You will not pull away from me for long, Stirling.”
She ignored him. “You are wrong,” she said to the big man. “tan is not a good man. He’s nothing more than a thief, a murderer, and a traitor.”
“Silence,” Tristan roared, cuffing her on the shoulder. Pain shot down her arm, numbing her fingertips. She could not control her wince, but vowed he would not control her. Again a flash of movement flitted through the trees, low to the ground, shadowing them. Could it be Quinn? Nay. Her husband would not merely keep pace and watch as these brutes mistreated her.
“‘tan no traitor,” Jax mumbled, flicking at the reins. “He good man. Make Calvin king.”
“Jax, be quiet,” Tristan ordered harshly, even as Stirling drew in a breath of disbelief. Calvin. She should have known he would be involved in this evil.
Jennifer August Page 19
