Jennifer August (6 page)

“Aye!” She threw her hands in the air. “With you in command, ‘tis a wonder William ever won a battle, much less defeated Harold’s forces. What did you do, talk them to death?”

Untying the leather covering, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared out the window. “Join me.” It was not a request.

She sighed, long and hard, but moved to stand beside him. “What?”

“‘Tis interesting, but from this window, you cannot see the southeast side of the keep, nor the stables.”

She stilled, her breath catching in her throat.

He half-turned, his intense gaze sweeping down the length of her body. Without warning, he grabbed the front of her wrap and tore away the sturdy linen.

Chapter Three

“Do you always retire fully clad? ‘Tis bound to make our wedding night interesting.” Though fire-hot anger scorched him, Quinn fought to retain his hard-won control. ‘Twas nearly an impossibility.

His betrothed stood before him, dressed neck to heel in the colors of a thief, defying him with her golden glare. No other woman would ever dare such a thing.

“Is your prowess as a lover so lacking you must rip the clothes from an unsuspecting woman?” she countered.

He battled his admiration for her, while further tamping the heat of his anger. “What were you about, to be dressed such?” He frowned and stepped closer, clasping her hips and turning her slightly. His brow shot up in amazement. “Breeches? You traipse the keep in men’s garb?”

She glared at him, and tried to pull away from his grip. He tightened his hold, the supple touch of her as intoxicating as the finest red wine.

“I do not traipse. I merely wander.” She sniffed and pushed at his hands. He did not let go. Possibilities ran rampant through his mind: another man, a traitor, escape.

“Do not test me, demoiselle. Your position here is precarious enough without adding betrayal. Where did you go?”

“Have I no right to be alone?”

“Nay.”

She pressed her lips together, pinning him with the steeliness of her gaze, then lowered her eyes, sighing softly. “I needed to think.”

“About what?” He did not trust this vixen or her sudden compliance. Long ago he discovered most people who hid secrets eventually spilled them in unguarded fits of temper. He sensed
Stirling
would not slip so easily, but he would find a way. He always did.

“About this marriage. About you.”

“‘Tis done. Nothing to ponder or question.”

She stiffened, attempting to break free of his hold once more. He released her, and she moved to an oak chair near the hearth. “Aye. To you ‘tis nothing more than meaningless words uttered before witnesses. You gain lands, titles, monies. All the spoils of war.”

“Aye. You speak the truth.” He stood in front of her, legs akimbo, hands on hips. Impatience set in. “Pray, demoiselle, enlighten me. Why would you require such clothing, indeed how did you come by these articles, to merely think?” He tilted her chin up, forcing her gaze to meet his. He nodded at the defiance still churning in her tawny depths. “Aye. You play the innocent quite well.” He leaned down until their eyes were level. “Be warned,
Stirling
, I am not a man to be crossed.”

“And I am no spoil of war, no trinket to be traded from one man to another. I am a daughter of
England
, a lady of breeding, and demand to be regarded and treated as such.”

“And have you been treated otherwise?”

She jumped to her feet, her heel jabbing him in the shin with some force. He grunted, positive ‘twas done a’purpose . She mimicked his stance, though he doubted she realized the enticement her thrusting breasts presented. Or the lush outline of her hips encased in the black breeches. He dragged his attention back to her blustering words.

“Most certainly I have been treated with disrespect. You’ve not been in this keep a whole day and already I’ve been labeled a wench, a maid, and a traitor.”

“And are you?”

“Am I what?” she yelled, irritation evident.

“Are you a traitor?”

“Nay!” Her denial was quick, loud and adamant.

His warrior’s instinct told him she spoke the truth, but he looked upon the dark clothing again, fighting past the allure of her sleek thighs molded by the tight fabric. After warring with himself, he nodded. He would have her secrets, but he would take his time ferreting them out.

“All will proceed as planned, however, we shall wed on the morrow.”

“Surely you jest. ‘Twill be impossible to prepare for such an occasion in so few hours.”

“You’ve been warned, demoiselle. I suggest you take the remaining hours before dawn to rest. We wed immediately after morning vespers.” He strode to the door, then turned and looked at her. “And
Stirling
, keep the breeches, I rather like you in them.”

He shut the door swiftly, grinning at the thunk of an object shattering against the wood. His bride’s temper nearly matched his own.

“Lord Quinn?” the guard queried, his face a mask of polite disinterest.

“Stay to your posts. Lady Stirling is not bound to her chambers, but she is not to wander about alone, either.”

“Aye, Lord.”

Quinn walked the short distance to his own rooms, eager to seek the comforts of his bed. The sparkling cleanliness of the solar gave proof at least the castle maids obeyed him. Though
Stirling
maintained the rest of the keep in surprisingly pristine conditions, John informed him her father’s chambers had not been touched since the day Lord Robert was dragged away in chains. Quinn drew in deep breath filled with the light scent of jasmine, perhaps lavender. The mild aroma reminded him of
Stirling
and he scowled as her image instantly formed. Indeed the delicate scent was the only mild thing about her. She possessed a viper’s tongue, the wit of a fox and the temper of a wild boar. However, curbing the lady’s tongue, not to mention her apparent disregard for convention, would be a challenge he relished.

From habit Quinn carefully inspected the walls, windows and bed of the Lord’s chamber. Seeking hidden dangers had become second nature to him. The habit had served him well more than once.

A large brocade embroidered with Lord Robert’s crest hung from an iron bracket over one window. The other two bore simple, leather coverings, tied back to allow fresh air to circulate through the room. Two tapestries covered much of one wall, both portraying scenes of what he supposed were family events. One showed a knight, his lady and their court at the hunt. The other portrayed the same knight and dame, kneeling in front of a chapel, a be-robed man towering over them. Lords, ladies, knights and commoners crowded around them in smiling approval.

But it was the larger, more intricately woven hunting tapestry that drew him forward for a closer inspection. The dame had blond hair coiled around her head, and two small ringlets dangling against her delicate cheeks. He leaned closer, intrigued by the woven vision on the silver-white horse. Her smile seemed almost alive and he swore her blue eyes laughed at him. Most likely Lady Stirling’s mother. She possessed the same proud chin, full, sensuous lips and tipped-up nose as her daughter. Only the eyes differed. The mother’s eyes, the color of the deepest blue silk, paled in comparison to the fiery golden sparks of
Stirling
’s challenging gaze.

He turned from the intriguing cloth to seek his bed. The morrow would bring a new life, new bride, new people. Not to mention the land. ‘Twould belong to him. Rightfully. Legitimately. His dream lay within sight. Nothing, and no one would destroy it now. He stoked the slumbering hearth fire back to life then settled into the softness of the feather bed.

Arching and twisting his back, he sighed with each satisfying pop that snaked down his spine. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the hope of the morrow for a new beginning.
Stirling
’s image came to him, clearly vibrant. He saw her striking face etched into a mask of rebellious fury, her adamant refusal of him plain for all to see. He sat up, sweat forming on his forehead. If she knew, she could refuse him and he would be lost.

A knock sounded from the solar. Glad for the interruption, Quinn left the bed and stalked to the door. Marcus grinned at him from the other side. A group of giggling maids gathered on the landing behind him.

“I bid you good eventide, my lord.” He swayed slightly and clutched at the wall. “May I enter?”

Quinn held the door open. “Aye. Join me.”

His friend waved farewell to the women and stumbled inside. Quinn shut the door quickly and shot the bolt home. “Well done, Marcus. I swear you get better with each practice.”

Marcus grinned, the lazy look of drunkenness lifted easily from his face. “I was meant to walk the stage, not hold a sword, but alas, Father thought otherwise. ‘Tis why I am in your service, instead of entertaining the throngs at William’s court.”

Quinn snorted. “Entertaining the women, you mean.”

Marcus winked. “Aye, most definitely that as well.”

“Come, we’ve matters to discuss ere dawn arrives.” Quinn returned to the bedchamber and sank onto a cushioned chair. Stretching out his legs, he rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “God’s mercy, but I tire of battle, old friend.”

“William has promised your discharge from his command as soon as we discover the traitors, Quinn. It shall be done in as much haste as possible.” Marcus settled across from him.

Quinn nodded and closed his eyes, aching fatigue invading every part of his body. Marcus alone knew what possession of Falcon Fire meant to him. Lands, hope, heirs. “The wedding will be tomorrow.”

“Why so soon?”

“I discovered my betrothed clad in men’s black breeches, tunic and boots. She never explained the garb, but gave me a feeble excuse about wandering her room to
think
. I deemed it wise to move the wedding date up. The sooner she is under my hand, the better. As for the other-- soon, Marcus. It must be soon.”

“Aye, my lord. ‘Twill be easier when
Temple
and his men arrive.”

“Have you word from him, then?”

“Aye, they arrive tomorrow. He can’t wait for the wedding. ‘Tis a sight he’ll not believe unless he witnesses the deed with his own eyes.”

Quinn chuckled. “Damn rogue Scots warrior.”

“Can’t say as I blame him, Quinn,” Marcus commented. “‘Tis a day you vowed would never come.”

Quinn glared at him. “The past has nothing to do with the present. And neither do foolish vows spoken in the heat of battle.”

“As I recall, you were well past battle, my lord.”

“Leave be, Marcus. There is much to be done without dwelling on those days. Too many things are unknown here, the least of which is not Lady Stirling.” A strange sense of anticipation swept through him. Indeed the lady was intriguing. Mysterious. Defiant. Delicious. He could still taste the honey sweetness of her mouth and the tartness of her tongue. God’s teeth, he would taste her again. Her mind was as sharp as his blade and he wagered, just as deadly. Unbidden and unwelcome, another memory of a woman possessed of strong passions surfaced and he fought against its tragic reminders. But too late, caution tempered his anticipation. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“What troubles you, friend?” Marcus murmured.

“I am merely restless. We know not what evidence Lord Robert held, nor where it may now be. Who is this Tristan and why does he choose Falcon Fire? What does this small keep contain that he would risk life and limb to infiltrate it?”

“Information which I shall attempt to discover, my lord. Among other things.” Marcus waggled his brows and Quinn chuckled, the tension partially dissolved.

“Be sure to keep your other sword at hand. ‘Twould be a disgrace if I bore your body home wearing only bedclothes and a smile.”

“The ladies love me, my lord. They would never harm me!” Marcus affected his courtier manners. A disdainful sniff, the limp wave of his wrist, a negligent shrug. “I, for one, am more interested in your battle with the beautiful Lady Stirling. She is definitely not the quiet mouse we assumed her to be.”

“Aye, she has the temper of a termagant. ‘Struth, she does not like me.” Quinn returned. “I must find out what she knows of me. If she has discovered my lineage, I feel certain she will enact the Bastard’s Law and prevent the marriage.”

Marcus dropped all pretense and jerked upright. “Surely not, my lord.”