Jennifer August (16 page)

“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, widening 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 hands. “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.

The drafty tower, set high above the keep, had been her secret refuge for many years. Here, she and her mother would practice the unpredictable art of herbal healing. Oftimes,
Stirling
would sit, perched atop a rickety wooden stool and watch her mother whirl through the room, grinding powders, mixing herbs and discovering just the perfect recipe for what ailed their people.

Since her mother’s death
Stirling
had seldom returned, the room shrouded in painful memories of those happier times. Picking her way over broken bits of rock and fallen timber, she tugged the stool out and sat, elbows propped on the rock tabletop. A marble mortar and pestle, a final gift from her mother, beckoned, and she pulled the tools closer. Bits of brown powder clung to the sides of the bowl. She frowned. She’d not ground any herbs here for many months, yet the pestle gleamed as though recently stained with the oil of-- She raised the bowl and inhaled deeply, then coughed harshly.