Jennifer August (23 page)

Her heart froze as the brown vial bumped against her foot. The bottle did not belong to her. Gingerly she lifted it, examining the contents carefully. ‘Twas half full of ground powder mixed with tiny seeds, and though she could not determine the color, she recognized the pungent scent as Monkshood, the same poison that killed their prisoner. She concentrated on that day, on the body, on her conversation with Marcus.

Marcus! Her eyes flew open wide. Had he been attacked for his knowledge of the poisoning, rather than the bed linens?

The idea was illogical, but somehow she knew ‘twas correct. She looked at the bottle again. Whoever ground this lethal mix would surely try to kill him again. And if she did not stop it, they would succeed. Formulating a dangerous plan, she replaced the Monkshood under the table, grabbed a few bags of needed herbs and left the tower room.

Stirling
knew she should tell Quinn of her discovery, but feared doing so would put him in grave danger, and she could not lose him now. She must find a way to protect him and Marcus, from their silent predator. Even if doing so meant losing his trust. She’d rather him alive and hating her, than cold and buried when she could have tried to prevent his death.

When she rounded the corner from the third floor landing,
Temple
stood in front of Marcus’ chamber, a stern expression on his lean, square face.

“Why are ye walking the floors at this time o’ night, lassie? ‘Tis back to bed, you best be gettin’.” His friendly scolding did not soothe her, nor produce the usual smile.

“I must check on Marcus,
Temple
.”

“Well now, what would ye be needin’ him for? He’s not good for conversation, save a few loud snores.” He only chuckled at her murderous glance, but obligingly opened the door. “Be quick, missy, I fear what would happen should Lord Quinn discovered ye missin’.”

“Aye,
Temple
, quick.” She closed the door, securing the bolt into the iron brackets. Pulling various pouches from beneath her dressing gown, she tapped their contents into the mug sitting by the bed. Satisfied, hoping, she had the correct formula, she added water and shook Marcus’ shoulder.

“Drink this, my lord, ‘twill ease your pain.”

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.