She wanted to console him.
His sleeve covered his right hand where he gripped the walking stick. He pulled a knife from his belt as he approached her, offering it on the palm of his left hand before the Hawk could step forward to intervene. He granted her father a quelling glance, as if daring the Hawk to stop him, then presented the dagger to Mhairi. He leaned heavily on the walking stick as he bowed again before her and she was shaken by the change in him.
He looked like an old man, not a warrior who had been gone a mere seven years. He could not have seen thirty summers, for the age between them had not been so great as that. Clearly, his injuries were severe.
“I made a promise to a lady,” Quentin said, his voice a wondrous low rumble that still made Mhairi shiver. It was easy to recall his murmur in her ear as he corrected her stance, all those years before and how she had thrilled at his fleeting touch—never mind how she had dreamed of him. “And having come precariously close to death, I thought it time to see that pledge kept.”
Mhairi knew the sole promise he had made to her, knew it as well as her own name.
A blade of her own, of fine Toledo steel.
That was what he had promised.
And that was what he offered.
But it was his own blade. She recognized it, just as she had recognized him.
Mhairi had to lick her lips twice before she could respond. The gathered group were completely silent, and she was aware of her mother’s hand on the Hawk’s arm, keeping him from intervening.
It was impossible to forget that she had learned to throw a knife with this very weapon.
Impossible to forget that the lesson in question had seen Quentin expelled from Inverfyre.
It was also impossible to not admire that he had defied her father’s edict and returned, just to give this blade to her.
“Not your dagger,” she managed to say. “I thought you meant another.”
“It is the only blade of Toledo steel in my possession,” Quentin said mildly. “It had been my plan to acquire another, but I am unlikely to find the means now.” He shrugged, a casual gesture that did not seem casual at all when his eyes blazed such a vivid hue of green. “Indeed, I have no need of it, not any longer.”
Mhairi frowned, for a fighting man always had need of his weapons. Her gaze roved over his humble garb, seeing its import only now. He fought no longer.
But why?
“Why…” she started to ask, then recalled that Quentin had always favored his right hand. He could fight with either hand, all knights of merit could, but his natural preference was for his right.
And that hand remained hidden by the hem of his sleeve.
“What has happened to you?” she demanded, hearing her mother’s quick inhalation of disapproval for such boldness, but did not care.
“Take the blade,” Quentin said, steel in his tone.
“Show me,” Mhairi replied, equally resolute. When he did not move, she reached for his sleeve.
Quentin froze, then he nodded. “I would not show most ladies, but you were always different, Lady Mhairi.” His voice softened. “You were always a warrior in your heart and unafraid to face the truth.” He extended his left hand and gave her an intent look. She accepted the knife from him, its weight cold in her grasp, knowing that he would not show her otherwise.
Then Quentin flung back his cloak, putting his right hand atop his left on the head of the walking stick, so that its injury could not be disguised.
The index finger had been carved away and there was a cruel scar upon the back of his hand. The Hawk swore under his breath at the sight and her mother murmured Quentin’s name.
“You cannot fight,” Mhairi said around the lump in her throat.
“Not well enough to do it long.” Quentin’s smile was crooked now and more bitter than once it had been. His voice was hard. “I will beg for the rest of my life, unless the Hawk means to keep his pledge to see me executed if I dared return to Inverfyre.” He did not so much as glance at the Hawk, his gaze unswerving from Mhairi. She knew her eyes widened, for she had been unaware of this detail. “But I would not have you think I broke my oath to you by choice.”
He had returned to Inverfyre, for her, even knowing that it might be his last deed. Mhairi’s heart clenched. Heat simmered between them, heat that was both familiar and new. Mhairi hated the anger she sensed within Quentin, though still she was drawn to him. Nay, she was more drawn to him than before, and wished she could dismiss his newfound bitterness.
She wished he could be as he had been before.
He suddenly averted his gaze from hers, perhaps glimpsing her thoughts as readily as he had once before. He turned to the Hawk with challenge in his expression.
What would her father do?
Mhairi’s heart thundered.
“I trust you do not mean to condemn me for touching your lady wife, as well,” Quentin said, his tone colder than the most frigid winter night.
“Of course not,” the Hawk said, though his manner was stiff. “I owe you my gratitude, Quentin de Montgomerie, and welcome you to Inverfyre. Will you come to the hall and be my guest this night?”
“Guest?” Quentin echoed. “Do you feed condemned men before their execution at Inverfyre now?” Something in his manner made Mhairi wonder if execution had been his hope, if he had imagined the Hawk might end his misery.
Her father paused, then uttered the question in Mhairi’s heart. “Did you mean to provoke me to keep my pledge?”
“I did think you might render the final blow, for you are a man who keeps his word. I ask again: do you mean to treat me as a guest this night and a villain on the morrow?”
“Surely you would not welcome death,” Aileen said, clearly trying to diffuse the tension between the two warriors. “Surely you did not court it by your return.”
“Surely, I cannot welcome my survival in such a state as this,” Quentin replied, his tone harsh. “I have kept the one promise that was outstanding, though, and so my task in this world may be done.” He lifted his chin, proud again. “Perhaps I will die this night in your hall, Hawk, and your honor will be served.”
“Nay,” Mhairi said without meaning to do as much.
Her father cast her an unexpected smile. “Nay, as Mhairi says.” He offered his hand to Quentin. “I thank you for your intervention this day, Quentin, for otherwise this moment would be much less merry. I believe it negates the old matter between us. Shall we be allies once more?”
The newly arrived knight hesitated for only a moment, then he put his marred hand into that of the Hawk. The Hawk did not flinch, to Mhairi’s pleasure. The two shook hands in agreement and Mhairi could not silence the thrill of excitement in her belly.
Quentin had returned!
The Hawk indicated the keep. “On this night, I bid you come to the hall, eat and drink with me. I would hear of all your adventures these past years.”
Quentin was not fooled. The Hawk wished to learn what else he had learned of the MacLarens and their schemes.
“You know Reinhard, of course, who is now Captain of the Guard.”
Quentin and Reinhard acknowledged each other, Reinhard’s suspicion more than clear. The trio continued toward the keep, her father discussing accommodations for Quentin for that night and doubtless telling him of changes at Inverfyre.
When Mhairi might have followed closely to hear what was said, her mother claimed Mhairi’s hand and held her back.
“What a tribute for a man to risk his life to keep a promise to you,” Aileen said quietly. “And it is a fine blade. May I see it?”
Mhairi surrendered it to her mother, who studied it before returning it to her. “I should not take it, for it is his only blade.”
“Do not insult him, Mhairi,” her mother advised. “Do you find the sight of his scars horrifying?”
“Of course not. Quentin’s heart is true, even if he has lost an eye and a finger.”
“If not more,” Aileen noted with a sh
rewd glance at her daughter.
“His nature is as it ever was,” Mhairi insisted. “He is honorable and keeps his word. Surely that is of greater import than his injuries?”
“Surely it is, if it is true,” Aileen replied. “But he is filled with a fury I do not recall.”
“Surely it is reasonable that he should feel cheated by his injuries?”
“To feel cheated is one matter,” her mother said. “To become bitter and resentful, or worse, to blame another for one’s misfortunes, is quite another.” She gave Mhairi a hard look. “Though I am saddened to say as much, I will sleep better when Quentin is gone from Inverfyre.”
“He saved you!”
“And he has become such a stranger that I wonder why.” Aileen shook her head. “He cannot depart soon enough.”
Mhairi helped her mother return to the hall, though they did not speak again. She could not help but be saddened by the prospect of Quentin leaving again. It seemed to Mhairi that he had need of some compassion, and where else should he find it but here at Inverfyre, which had been his home.
She had to speak to him as soon as possible, for she doubted she would have many opportunities to do as much. And indeed, she suspected that once he left, he would never return again.
The shy and serious maiden had become a beauty.
Quentin did not know what he had expected, but it had not been Mhairi, grown nigh as tall as him, a slender woman with enticing curves and a familiar resolve in her gaze. He had been shaken by the change in her, and by his own reaction to the sight. He had always found her attractive, but now she shook him to his marrow. He desired her and yearned to speak with her, and wanted her companionship more than ever.
He would be able to deny her nothing at all now, not if she appealed to him, and that made him feel even more vulnerable than he knew he was.
He knew he would savor that first glimpse of her for the rest of his days. She sat astride her palfrey as if born to the saddle, her chin high and the peregrine on her fist. He recalled the tales he had heard over the years of Viking goddesses, beautiful, merciless and forthright. Mhairi’s dark blonde hair was bound back in a braid that trailed down her back, that and her simple garb revealing that she was as pragmatic as ever.
But she was an inquisitive child no longer. He doubted she asked others for favors with the same trust and conviction that she had once shown to him. Nay, she had the impassivity of a warrior, or better, a Valkyrie come to claim his soul, and he would have liked to have seen her hunt.
She took after her mother, that was most clear, and perhaps had adopted her cool manner from her peregrine. Her gaze had swept over him as he fumbled to his feet and he wondered if he had imagined a hunter’s disdain for the infirm in her blue eyes.
It was clear to Quentin that there could be no place in the world of this fierce maiden for one such as he had become. She would have no tolerance of infirmity of any kind. She would see it as weakness, as a mark that he should be the one culled from her herd, and it was the last indignity that this woman should find him wanting.
What Mhairi did not know was that his injuries were far less than Quentin would have others believe.
He was irked, to be sure, that she of all people did not discern the truth and accepted the view of himself that he presented to others. He had taught her to observe. He had taught her to pierce illusion and that she had not seen past his own disheartened him.
Fury had helped him to drag himself to aid under the hot sun. Anger had fueled his determination to survive and to recover to the best of his abilities. Resentment had driven his footsteps north to Scotland and to Inverfyre, but now the potent emotion he had come to rely upon was changing.
He had been outraged when he had overheard the MacLarens scheming in the forest the night before. He still could not believe the instinctive reaction that had sent him leaping forward to save Lady Aileen. And the sight of Mhairi had shaken him to his marrow—because of the wave of longing it had awakened.
Instead of being executed by the Hawk for daring to defy him again, Quentin was welcomed as a guest. The gesture was the true mark of the Hawk’s character, but Quentin felt as if he had lost his lodestone.
He should have been angry with the Hawk still. He should have been resentful that he could not ask for the hand of the woman he desired, now more than ever. But instead, Quentin found himself reconsidering his own choices and finding that his anger lodged there. He had never been worthy of Mhairi, even when whole. No man of sense betrothed his daughter to a man-at-arms in his employ, and the Hawk had good sense. And truly, the Hawk could not be blamed for every choice Quentin had made since leaving Inverfyre so many years before.
It had been his own desire for just a little more coin before returning here that had put Quentin on the road where he had been robbed.
Truly, Inverfyre was as enchanted a holding as he had always heard.
Quentin hobbled to the stables where he had been granted a pallet, struggling to recover the outrage that had been his constant companion since the robbery. Nothing had changed, after all. What would his future be? That of a beggar? It was less, far less, than the life he had hoped to live. It was unjust!
He would yet be whole if he had remained here.
But he had not remained at Inverfyre, because he had provoked his laird with defiance. Quentin had disobeyed the Hawk’s command, to be sure, but that man must have seen the truth of his daughter’s nature. Mhairi was better with a good tutor than with none at all. She had a skill with a bow and even with a blade that was uncommon. How could a father not encourage a child to follow her desire?
It was a thin argument and he knew it well. His fury ebbed with each step he took through this fair and prosperous holding. Quentin had not blamed the Hawk’s protective instinct when he had been initially expelled. He had tried to fulfill the Hawk’s challenge and had nigh succeeded. He had been so close to triumph when it all had been snatched away. And now he had no hope of earning such coin again.
For the first time since he had been injured, Quentin felt despair. His anger had nigh deserted him and in its place was only a sense of futility. He felt old and broken, and did not have to exaggerate his limp.
Indeed, he felt the urge to weep for what he had lost, to gnash his teeth at his own part in his misfortune, and knew it was time he found solitude to mourn.
Mhairi helped her mother to the solar and stood by as Genevieve checked her injuries thoroughly. Her father had retreated to the small chamber where he kept his accounts and her mother refused to see him troubled for what she called a minor incident.
“You will be sore,” Genevieve said with a smile when she was done. “But only for a few days. There will be no riding to hunt.”
Aileen stretched out on the bed with a wince. “To be sure, none of us will leave Inverfyre until the MacLarens are routed again.”
“Why would they attack now?” Mhairi asked.
Her mother shrugged. “Because they are numerous enough. Because one of them is old enough or bold enough or won the support of his kin.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “I had thought the matter resolved when so many died in the second assault upon Inverfyre, when your father and I wed, but clearly I was wrong.”
“Did Quentin knew of their intent?” Genevieve asked as she packed her bag of herbs. “Or did he simply see them in time?”
“I cannot say,” Aileen replied, then yawned. “I have no doubt the Hawk will find the truth and in this moment, I am sufficiently tired to leave the matter in his hands.” She smiled at Mhairi. “You do not need to sit with me. Go to Evangeline. Doubtless she is upset by the events of the morning.”
“Yes, Maman,” Mhairi agreed, having no intention of going to her sister. If she wished to learn what Quentin knew, there was only one sensible person to ask.
But if her plan was guessed, she would be stopped.
The solar occupied the top floor of the tower of Inverfyre, while the chambers of the Hawk’s children were on t
he floor below. The hall was on the great hall and Mhairi could not hear any conversation there as she left the solar with Genevieve. It was usually quiet in the morning, while the men went about their chores. The activity was in the kitchen before the midday meal.
She halted on the landing on the floor below, as if intending to go into the chamber she shared with Eglantine. “I thank you for your assistance this day,” she said to the healer, who smiled.
“I suspect Talbot had the greater challenge in the falconry. The birds were agitated indeed.” The older woman touched Mhairi’s arm. “She is fine.”
Mhairi nodded agreement and waited on the landing until the healer was out of sight. She counted to a hundred to give Genevieve time to cross the hall, then descended with care.
The hall was empty, just as she had anticipated. She crossed it quickly and silently, ducking into the bailey. She clung to the shadows as she made her way to the stables, ensuring that no one saw her enter.
Quentin would be given a pallet over the stables. It was where all male guests who were not noble were invited to sleep. The smith was at his forge, his boy fetching water for him, and a palfrey in need of a shoe tethered beside him. Two men gossiped beside the smith, watching his work. The ostler was walking a destrier in the bailey, checking its gait, and Mhairi recognized the warhorse that had been limping of late.
She saw two boys carrying buckets of steaming water from the kitchens to the far end of the stables and guessed where she would find Quentin. The Hawk’s hospitality always included a hot bath for those who had journeyed far.
Mhairi looked left and right, ensuring that she was not observed, and silently crept closer.
Chapter Two
The Nutcracker Reimagined: A Collection of Christmas Tales Page 2
