Jennifer August

by Knight of the Mist

  The giant continued as if Tristan had not spoken. “‘tan clever, Calvin rule us, ‘tan rule Calvin.” He laughed uproariously until Tristan swatted him with his whip, catching the big man across his arm.

  Seizing the opportunity, Stirling hurled herself from the horse, landing with a painful crash on the ground. She jumped to her feet and ran deeper into the woods, where their horses could not follow.

  “Nay,” Tristan shrieked. “Stirling, come back.”

  She turned toward home, praying she could find her way, foraging further into the dark shelter of the forest. She heard them crashing through the brambles behind her, the pounding hooves as their horses tried to follow. She increased her speed, risking a glance back, seeing nothing. She tripped over a branch and fell sprawling to the ground, the wind stolen from her lungs. She gasped for air, pushing herself to her knees.

  A low growl emanated from the brush beside her and she froze. A wolf? Would he attack if she moved or if she remained still? The leaves rustled and a dirt spattered white leg dropped forward, quickly followed by the massive head and snapping fangs of Snow. Stirling nearly wept with relief, flinging her arms around the hound’s muddy neck and holding on to her. She rumbled continuously, licking everywhere and pushed herself closer, wiggling her body, forcing Stirling to stand.

  “There are two, Snow, Tristan and another. We must flee. Can you take me home?”

  The dog nodded, Stirling was sure of it, and inched back to the brush she’d hidden in. Stirling pushed the brambles aside, ignoring the scrapes and cuts they inflicted, until reaching a faint trail. “Is this the way they came?”

  Snow yipped quietly and began a slow canter down the path. She was leading her home. Stirling wasted no time following the dog, eager to feel the safety of Quinn’s arms wrapped around her.

  A sharp pain in her side nearly doubled Stirling and she faltered, easing up on the fast pace, her bare feet burning from the sharp rocks and sticks that poked them. Snow whirled and began barking just as a tremendous crash sounded beside her. Stirling flung herself away from Jax’s clutching hands, rolling to the carpet of leaves on the forest floor. Snow streaked past her, leaping on the big man’s chest. Jax stumbled backward. Again the white dog rammed him sending the unbalanced man crashing to the ground. In a flash, Snow was upon him, sinking her sharp teeth into Jax’s unprotected throat. Stirling closed her eyes at the gurgle of pain and the sight of the big man jerking on the ground. When she looked again, Snow stood, paws on Jax’s chest, her muzzle covered in blood and howled to the sky. The dog looked at her and barked sharply. Finally gathering her wits, Stirling jumped to her feet and ran in the opposite direction, right into Tristan’s waiting grasp.

  He smirked. “I told you, Stirling, you’ll not slip through my fingers again.” Shadowy evil darkened his face and he shook her hard. “Do not try to escape again or I will be forced to punish you.”

  Stirling pasted a look of fright and anxiety on her face while reaching for his waist. Hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, she raised her knee, slamming it into the fleshy softness of his manhood. He shrieked, eyes wide and mouth agape, then released her and clutched himself. She yanked his sword free, slicing through the flesh of his left arm. He screamed again, clamping a hand over the wound.

  “You’ll not kill me, Stirling,” he wheezed, inching forward, straightening slightly.

  She waited until the black center of his eyes flared and he lunged forward, then brought the blade up at an angle, impaling his innards stomach to chest. She gripped the hilt with both hands and held his disbelieving stare as he slid down the lethal length of his own sword. “You’re wrong, Tristan, I will.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Stirling perched on a fallen log and stared at Tristan’s dead body. She’d never taken a life before and she couldn’t seem to get warm. She rubbed her hands together, tugging the sleeves of her torn dressing gown as far over them as she could. The many rips and tears let as much of the chill in as not. She fretted over the ruined lace edging.

  Yet another article of clothing destroyed and certain to incite a lecture from Millane. If she ever made it home. Stirling looked around, calling for Snow, trembling away another chill. A faint bark sounded to her right, the direction she’d been running when she encountered Tristan. Her teeth chattered. She looked down the path. Snow sat in the middle of the trail, head tipped and ears cocked, watching her quizzically.

  Get up, you must go now.

  The command flitted in her head, urging her to follow the faithful dog.

  Stirling rose to her feet, jarring the long sword next to her. She looked at it blankly. ‘Twas his. How had it come to rest here? Again her eyes skimmed Tristan’s still body, then she remembered. He’d reached for her one last time and she jerked back, still clutching the hilt. The blade slid easily from his body, throwing her off balance, and she’d fallen.

  Tristan’s scarlet grin was forever branded in her memory as he’d dropped beside her, the talon claws of his hand reaching out. Aye, ‘twas then she’d scrambled to her feet, dragging the heavy sword with her to the safety of the log should he rise and attack her again.

  Snow barked loudly, almost impatiently, and she struggled to clear her mind. She must return to Quinn, to the warmth of his arms. Bending down, she retrieved the sword, wiping away Tristan’s blood on the moss covering the dead log. Slowly, feet still painfully tender, she limped toward Snow, trusting in her to see them home.

  The wolfhound eased beside her, sheltering her legs from the wind with the heavy coat of her fur as they walked.

  “‘Tis odd, you know,” she mused. “In all the years I have portrayed the Knight of the Mist, in all the legends I heard of him, I never once thought of death.” She looked at her hands, outwardly dry, but in her mind dripping with Tristan’s blood. She rubbed her free palm along her thigh, wincing when she drove a bramble deeper into the flesh.

  There was no other choice.

  Startled, Stirling looked up from the wound, seeking the owner of the voice, but no one was about.

  “I am going mad,” she whispered sadly. Snow’s deep yip seemed to disagree, but she knew ‘twas truth. Taking a man’s life was a sin and one you could not buy redemption from. Such an event was certain to warp her mind.

  He would have done the same to you.

  She stopped in the middle of the road. “Who’s there?” she demanded. No one answered.

  Snow whined, straining forward. Another glance and Stirling reluctantly continued onward.

  “Do you suppose Quinn has ever felt this unbearable cold?” she asked the dog, who jerked her head up and down. “Aye? ‘Twould be a comfort, I suppose, if ‘tis the norm. ‘Tis just so cold, my fingers ache from the chill and each breath spears my lungs, like shards of ice.”

  Stirling stopped in the road, dropping the sword flat on the ground and pulled her tattered dressing gown tightly, shutting out the frigid blast of air assaulting her. Snow sat, watching her closely. Stirling deemed it strange that the offensive iciness did not even ruffle the dog’s fur. She glanced at the mid-morning sun, wondering where its usual warmth had flown. She did not know how much further she could travel and feared night would be upon them before they reached Quinn. She shuddered at the thought of what creatures would stalk her from the canopy of the forest.

  “We must continue, Snow.”

  She picked up the sword in her other hand and Snow obligingly trotted around to the opposite side. They’d taken but a few steps when Snow stiffened, then shot away from her, racing along the path. She disappeared down a slope, leaving Stirling alone on the trail.

  “I like that,” she muttered, pursing her lips. She swore she even glimpsed the faithless dog’s tongue hanging out in her scampering excitement.

  Stirling’s eyes widened. Excitement? Quinn?

  She bolted forward, dragging the sword behind her. Was it possible? Had he found her? She prayed ‘twas so.

  Quinn topped the rise, his heart skipping a b
eat at the sight of his wife, bloodied and bedraggled, trailing a long blade behind her. He yanked back on Charon’s reins, leaping from the saddle before the horse stopped completely.

  Her steps faltered and he barely caught her before she crumpled to the ground.

  “Stirling,” he choked out, his intense gratitude at finding her alive making speech nearly impossible.

  He pressed his lips to her tangled blonde hair, inhaling the piney scent clinging to her. She trembled in his embrace and the sword plopped to the ground as her arms crept around his waist, hugging tightly.

  “I prayed you would come,” she finally whispered.

  He tipped her chin up, wiping away the trickle of tears with his thumb.

  “I could do naught else,” he replied hoarsely, visions of what might have happened flashing through his mind, even as he wondered what actually transpired. Who had taken her? He looked up and down the trail, seeing no one. Where were her captors? She shook violently, crying harder. His questions must wait, she needed proper care and attention. They would return to Falcon Fire.

  Vaguely aware of the shouts from Temple and his men milling behind him, Quinn swung her into his arms and strode to Charon.

  “Is she well, my lord?” Temple asked.

  “I do not know. She appears to be. Hold her while I mount.” Quinn entrusted her to Temple for a brief moment, then leaned down and scooped her onto the saddle in front of him. Laying her legs to one side, he settled her deeper into the crook of his arm, pressing her face against his chest.

  “Sound the horn, Temple, and return to the keep.” He glanced at the sword lying on the dusty ground. “Bring that with you.”

  Quinn turned the black warhorse and sent him cantering lightly toward home. He believed Stirling asleep, still as she was, until she spoke.

  “I thought you dead.” Her small voice wavered, sounding on the edge of tears once more, but no moisture soaked his tunic.

  “Nay, though I have the devil of a headache,” he bantered, trying to ease her mind.

  “Do not make light of it, my lord. He should have killed you.” Another hard tremor wracked her and she shifted, burrowing closer. The heat from her body seared him. Did she have the fever? Her tattered nightclothes offered little protection, but the temperature was mild and no rain spattered them. Mayhap, he decided, ‘twas the overexcitement of her night.

  “Rest, Stirling, until we are home. You are safe now.” She sighed and nodded, her soft breathing slipping into a peaceful rhythm as she slept.

  Once again, he’d underestimated the tenacious woman in his arms. Not only did she manage to escape her captors, but apparently, she’d injured them enough to take a weapon as well. ‘Twas indeed testament to John’s training, and her aptitude, he admitted. He’d thought her braggadocio to be nothing more than the romantic imaginings of a lonely girl. That assumption had been the basis of the argument he’d formulated for William in her defense. After all, ‘twas absurd to think a slip of a woman could brandish a weapon well-enough to stand down any knight. He would have to revise his defense, especially when his liege lord heard about this misadventure. She sighed and wiggled against him. Charon snorted and tossed his head.

  “Easy, old fellow,” Quinn murmured.

  Temple loped alongside him, easily keeping pace with the horse’s slow gait. “Does she sleep?”

  “Aye.”

  “I would speak with you of Marcus.”

  Quinn’s jaw clenched. The joy of finding Stirling had pushed his friend’s death from his mind. Guilt ate at him that not even the sad memory could not dislodge the warmth of his gladness.

  “When we return to the keep, Temple. I do not want her to know until she’s had time to rest.”

  “Now, my lord, ‘tis important,” Temple insisted.

  Quinn glared at him. Damn stubborn Scot, like a washer woman with a juicy bit of gossip, he’d not relent until the tale was told.

  “Quietly, then,” he muttered.

  “She went tae his room last night, ‘afore you were attacked.”

  “She is the healer, Temple,” Quinn responded. “‘Tis her responsibility to see to his wounds.”

  Temple nodded, staring at her. “Do you trust her Quinn?”

  “Aye, I do.” The truth of his own words surprised him. His mistrust of women was widely known, an idea he’d fostered for many years. ‘Twould seem Stirling shattered that ideal. “I do.”

  “Then so shall I,” Temple murmured. “But I would speak with her when we reach Falcon Fire.”

  “After she has rested, if she is agreeable, you have my permission.”

  Temple grunted and fell back to the forefront of his men.

  Shouts of laughter mingled with tears of happiness met their return to the keep. John’s garrison of mounted men stationed in the bailey, awaited them.

  “Can you stand alone?” Quinn murmured in her ear. She tilted her head back and sleepily grinned up at him.

  “Aye, sirrah, the gladness of my heart shall more than cover the simple pain of my feet.”

  He returned the smile and handed her down to the waiting John. He dismounted quickly and handed Charon’s reins to the stable boy before reclaiming his wife with an arm about her rounded shoulders.

  Gaelen and the other women swarmed from the great hall, pushing through the crowd of knights and surrounding their lady. Quinn crossed his arms and closely watched Stirling for any sign of weakness. Though he knew she should be inside, he was loathe to dislodge the happiness visible in her face.

  “Did she tell you what happened, my lord? Who they were?” John asked gruffly from beside him. Quinn looked at the grizzled old knight, who unabashedly watched his mistress with tender pride.

  “Nay. We did not speak of it. The journey was long and she rested for the most part.”

  A wince crossed Stirling’s face when she shifted her feet and he strode to her side. Peeling her away from the crowd, he lifted her lightweight once more and took her up the stairs of the great hall.

  “My thanks, husband,” she murmured, looping her arms around his neck. “My feet burn terribly. I did not know how much longer I could stand there without crying out.”

  He chuckled pleased both her color and her humor were restored. The quiet, dazed woman he’d encountered a short while ago had disturbed him. ‘Twas as though his fiery wife had been encased in an icy cocoon. A barrier he could not break.

  “Straight to bed with you, Stirling, I’ll hear no arguments,” he said as they entered the foyer of the keep.

  “God in Heaven, our lady’s returned,” Cook blubbered, streaking forward.

  Quinn nearly lost his balance and his bundle when the woman threw herself at him, engulfing them in a bear hug. He stepped back, but she followed, her face buried in Stirling’s lap. Stirling stroked her gray head and murmured soft, comforting words he could not quite make out. He stifled a sigh.

  “Release me, my lord. Please,” Stirling added at his scowl.

  “You should be abed,” he muttered, but slid her to the floor, nonetheless. She pecked him on the jaw, squelching a groan at the pain raising up on tiptoe caused.

  “They worry about me, my lord. I am all they have left.” She patted Cook’s hand and led the woman to a chair, kneeling beside her.

  “I am well, Cook, and home. Cease this nonsense, ‘twill only make your eyes red and your nose run.” She tipped the woman’s wobbly chins up, smiling into her teary eyes.

  “Of course, my lady, ‘tis just so glad I am to have you home safely.” She drew in a deep, wavering breath, then brushed her hands along her well-stained apron. “You are right, ‘tis not crying I should be doing, but baking, and cooking.” She struggled to her feet, hugged Stirling one more time and ambled down the hall to the kitchens.

  Stirling remained kneeling, afraid to rise, the pain in her feet more intense and nearly unbearable. She looked down and gasped. Long bloody gouges streaked them, bits of dirt and pine needles clinging to the bottoms. She counted at lea
st three wicked brambles in her left foot alone. How could she walk to her chambers like this? She peered over her shoulder at Quinn, biting the inside of her lip.

  He raised a smug brow and she narrowed her eyes, pride surfacing quickly. She inhaled sharply and gripped the edges of the seat, mentally preparing herself for the pain about to assault her.

  “Little idiot.” Quinn tugged her into his arms. “‘Tis not a weakness to ask for help, Stirling.”

  She cut him a glare. “Aye, but ‘tis a sin to be so arrogant, I’m certain.”

  “You may ask Father Tiburon, he will probably agree with you.”

  He carried her up the stairs, brooking no more interruptions, staving off the staff who would speak with her with only a glare or a curt word.

  He gained the second landing and immediately she looked toward Marcus’ chambers. No one stood guard outside his room. What did it mean? Had she succeeded or failed?

  Quinn set her on the bed gently, then moved to the wash stand in the corner of the room. Her gaze followed him and was caught by the gaping hole in the wall where they had come for her. The door stood open and she wanted to close it, to seal forever the passages that had nearly killed both of them. She shivered, the cold creeping back into her soul.

  Quinn sat next to her, drawing her bruised and injured legs over his lap. She watched, fascinated at the tenderness he displayed while he washed each cut, sluicing water along her feet, until no dirt remained. With exquisite care he dug the thorns from her flesh, pulling each out with barely a sting.

  “You’ve a gentle side to you, my lord.” She stroked his arm.

  He shrugged. “‘Twill need some of your handiwork, I’m afraid. A potion or healing oil perhaps.”

  She nodded. “There is a bottle of liniment in my wardrobe that would suffice.”

  He retrieved the lotion, applied it liberally and wrapped her feet in a clean, linen square, rubbing them lightly. The soft pressure soothed more than just her pain, nearly sending her back to sleep. Drowsily, she met his gaze, then hid a yawn behind her hand.