Love Above All (20 page)

Fionna heard Janet gasp in outrage. Before
anyone could say another word Janet’s chin was high and she was
shouting at her brother.

“Isn’t that just like you, Gillemore! How
dare you make such a suggestion to your own sister? You may not
recognize me after so many years apart, but oh, I do remember you
rutting amongst the serving girls at Dungalash!”

“Be quiet, woman!” Cadwallon ordered. He
caught the bridle of Janet’s horse, to prevent the girl from riding
directly at Gillemore as she was trying to do. Cadwallon issued a
second order through tight lips. “Keep your mouth shut!”

His caution came too late. Gillemore had
halted to stare at the rude maidservant, while Murdoch was pulling
his horse around to return and join the dispute.

“I will not be quiet!” Janet yelled at
Cadwallon. “Not when I have been insulted!” She struck at his
hands, trying to make him release her horse.

“What the devil?” Gillemore exclaimed,
squinting to peer at Janet. “Who is this wench?”

“Do you not recognize me? It’s me, Janet, you
wicked monster!” Janet cried.

“Janet?” Gillemore exclaimed, sounding
baffled by the girl’s accusations.

By then Murdoch had recognized his
sister.

“What are you doing here?” Murdoch demanded.
“Why have you left Abercorn?”

“Try to kill your sister, will you?” Janet
screamed at them, looking from Gillemore to Murdoch. “Try to force
me to marry that disgusting Colum, will you? How could you be so
brutal to your own blood kin? Both of you ought to be ashamed of
yourselves. But I doubt you know the meaning of shame!”

Janet continued to upbraid her brothers in a
loud voice, but no one was listening to her any longer. She was
shouting in the midst of a battlefield.

To Fionna’s eyes the scene was so completely
muddled that she could barely make out what was happening. She
could hear men yelling, and could hear the awful sound of sword
clashing upon sword-blade, but she could no longer see Quentin in
the melee. She tried to reach Janet, only to be stopped by two of
Royce’s men-at-arms, who were struggling with a pair of bare-legged
Scots.

Suddenly, a mailed fist seized the harness of
her horse and she realized that Quentin was pulling her to one
side, out of the fray.

“Braedon!” Quentin called. “Guard Fionna with
your life.” He tossed the reins to the squire.

“No!” Fionna shrieked in terror for him.
“Quentin, don’t leave me!”

But Quentin was already gone, riding straight
into the worst of the fighting. Fionna saw his arm raised, saw his
sword strike downward. Sickened, she looked away, into Braedon’s
accusing eyes. The squire bore a small gash just above his left
eyebrow, proof that he hadn’t avoided the fighting.

“Your sister deserves to be soundly beaten,”
Braeden said.

“I just pray she’s still alive,” Fionna
responded, knowing the accusation was justified.

The two warrior bands were evenly matched in
numbers, but Royce’s men were far better disciplined. Soon the
battle was all but over, and Murdoch and Gillemore were in retreat.
They fled with their comrades across the moor to the distant hills,
dragging their wounded and dead with them, and howling threats of
vengeance to come later. Royce called back his troop, letting the
defeated Scots escape.

“We haven’t lost anyone,” Royce said after a
hasty count of men-at-arms, squires, and servants. “Murdoch wasn’t
so fortunate. Despite his threats, I don’t think he’ll bother us
again for a while. All the same, I want to be gone from here. We’ll
ride on until we find a more defensible location than this moor,
and there we’ll make our camp.

“As for you,” Royce said to Janet, “look
around and count the men who were wounded, who might have been
killed, because you couldn’t hold your tongue. Think of the men on
the other side who
were
killed.”

“I am sorry,” Janet said. She sat her horse
white-faced and weeping, with her eyes grown huge at the sights she
had beheld over the past hour.

Fionna was torn between pity for her and a
most unsisterly desire to slap Janet’s face in retaliation for the
harm she had so thoughtlessly invoked.

“When we make camp,” Royce said, still
speaking to Janet, “you are going to help bind up the wounds.”

“Oh, yes,” Janet agreed, offering no excuses
and making no protest, “I will. I’ll do anything I can to repair
some of the damage I’ve caused.”

Royce pushed them onward for another couple
of hours, saying he wanted to put as much distance as possible
between Murdoch’s wild Scots and his own people. Finally, he chose
a sheltered spot nestled against a steep hill. There he posted
sentries. While Royce’s servants were erecting the tents, Fionna
went to work helping to tend the wounded. Most of the men had
sustained cuts or scratches. Only two were hurt badly enough to
rouse serious concerns for their welfare. Those were the two men
whom Royce assigned to Janet’s care.

“Cadwallon will assist you with them,” Royce
said. He lifted one finger to stop the protest Janet began to voice
at the mention of Cadwallon’s name. “Cadwallon is strong enough to
hold them down while you sew up their wounds. I trust you will
learn something from the experience.” With that, Royce left
her.

To Fionna’s surprise, Braedon was proving to
be a useful aid to her in her own efforts at sewing and bandaging.
Braedon’s hands were deft, and while he spoke little, what he did
say seemed to be comforting to the wounded men.

“Thank you,” Fionna said to him as they
finished with the last of the injured. She sat back on her heels
and rolled her shoulders to relax her tight muscles after more than
an hour of bending over men who were sitting or lying on the
ground. “Braedon, are you sure you don’t want me to clean that
wound on your forehead? I will gladly tend to it.”

“It’s nothing, barely a scratch,” Braedon
answered. He eyed her for a moment before continuing. “However,
Quentin wasn’t so fortunate.”

“What do you mean?” Fionna leapt to her feet
and looked around, expecting to see Quentin.

“He’s in his tent with a lacerated arm,”
Braedon said.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? All this
time, I thought he was with Royce. I didn’t know he was
injured.”

“He wouldn’t have let you – or anyone else –
touch him until the men-at-arms were cared for,” Braedon said.
“That’s Quentin’s way. It’s one reason why his men will follow him
anywhere. If you can find some clean bandages, I’ll fetch a bowl of
fresh water from the stream and I’ll meet you in his tent.”

Fionna found Quentin sitting on the side of
his cot, holding a bloody cloth to his upper left arm. Someone,
either Braedon or one of the other squires, had divested him of his
heavy chainmail and his gambeson, so he wore only his linen
knee-length under-breeches. From the bucket of dirty water near the
cot Fionna guessed he had made an attempt to bathe. His hair was
damp and his face and upper body were clean.

“I thought Braedon was coming to see to
this,” Quentin said, indicating his injured arm.

“He’ll be here in a moment. Let me look at
it.” Fionna sat next to him and pulled his hand away from the
wound.

“It bled freely at first, which is a good
sign,” Quentin said.

“Yes, I know it is.” Gingerly, she poked at
his arm above and below the wound. “The bleeding has stopped now,
which is a better sign.”

“Yes.” His fingers rested on top of hers.

She looked into his eyes, then found she
could not look away.

“You could have been killed,” she whispered,
horrified by the possibility.

“But I wasn’t,” he said, smiling a
little.

“I am so glad.” Still his eyes held hers.

“Quentin—”

“Here’s the water.” Braedon came into the
tent bearing a bowl and a pitcher, both of which he set down on a
stool. Neither Quentin nor Fionna paid any attention to him.
Braedon cleared his throat. “I brought some wine, too. Tell me how
I can help.”

“I will see to Quentin’s injury.” Tearing her
gaze away from Quentin was difficult, but Fionna managed to do it,
so she could look at Braedon. “I don’t think it needs sewing, just
a bit of wine poured over it and a clean bandage.”

“I’ll be glad to bandage it,” Braedon
offered.

“Go and find something to eat,” Fionna said
to him. “After the last few hours you’ve earned a bit of rest. You
ought to see to that cut on your forehead, too. I’ll stay with
Quentin.”

Braedon looked from Fionna to Quentin as if
he was seeking the answer to a question he’d rather not ask. Then
he nodded and silently departed, taking care to close and fasten
the tent flap after himself.

Bandaging the wound took Fionna only a few
moments. Apologizing for it took much longer.

“This is my sister’s fault,” she said,
keeping her gaze on the strip of leftover linen she was trying to
reroll neatly, though her fingers were trembling badly.

“Murdoch’s party could have been trying to
provoke a quarrel,” Quentin said. “Certainly, Gillemore was
deliberately insulting. I cannot blame Janet for taking
offense.”

“I can blame her. Janet started the battle.
If only she’d had sense enough to keep quiet and let Royce handle
the situation, Gillemore would have given up making nasty
suggestions. Then they’d have ridden on and never recognized her.
Or me.”

“I’m not sure they did recognize you. They
weren’t expecting to see you, remember. And you did nothing to call
attention to yourself.”

“What does it matter now? They know Janet has
left Abercorn. They’ll try to get her back. They have to, for she
is Colum’s reward. They will attack again. More men will be
injured. Perhaps, some will die of their injuries. All because I
couldn’t leave my sister to her fate, and because Janet must argue
whenever she’s afraid.” Fionna heaved a great sigh. “I wish I had
never involved you, or your friends, in my problems.”

“I involved myself. Or have you forgotten how
we met?” Quentin caught Fionna’s hand just as she was bending to
lay the rolled-up bandage on the stool. He gave one sharp tug and
she was sitting on his lap. “Janet is Colum’s reward for doing
what?’ he asked.

Fionna didn’t answer. She didn’t want to
think about Colum, or about her brothers. Quentin filled her
thoughts and all of her senses. His thighs were hard, solid muscle.
His arms were strong coils around her. She put her hands on his
shoulders, feeling the strength of him beneath her fingers.

“I am so sorry you were hurt,” she whispered,
knowing if it became necessary he’d fight again, to the death if
need be, to protect her and her irritating, thoughtless sister.

“I’m not sorry,” he said. “Not if being
slightly hurt gave us this moment together.”

He tightened his arms, pulling her nearer,
until her breasts were pressing against his bare chest. She wished
her chest was bare, too, so she could feel the texture of his body
hair against her skin. The thought came unbidden, startling her,
making her gasp as a remembered warmth swept over her.

Then Quentin kissed her. It was not an
exploratory kiss, aimed at discovering what her reaction would be.
Nor was it a desperate kiss, as if he thought they could be
interrupted at any moment and he’d better do it quickly, if he was
going to do it at all. No, this was a firm and leisurely kiss, a
kiss that said he expected a warm response from her, but would not
force her if she chose to reject the touch of his lips on hers.

Gently he coaxed her to open her mouth.
Smoothly his tongue slid into her. When Fionna wrapped her arms
around his neck and kissed him back with no hint of hesitation or
of question, Quentin spread his thighs a bit, letting her feel his
arousal.

As he doubtless intended should happen,
Fionna recalled the pleasure he had shown her the last time they
had been alone and so intimate together.

“Thank heaven you weren’t killed,” she
murmured when he finally released her mouth to bury his face in her
throat.

“I am very much alive,” he said, his laugh a
warm breath against her ear. “As you can surely tell.”

Quentin knew he wasn’t thinking clearly.
Always, in the aftermath of battle when he found himself still
alive, he experienced an upwelling of relief and of exuberance in
the simple fact of his continued existence. It was this exultation
combined with a bit of lingering blood-lust that made him kiss
Fionna so eagerly.

But it was she who pushed him back to lie
upon the cot, and she who took his hand and placed it on her
breast.

At first Quentin lay perfectly still, his
chivalrous nature contending with his aching desire for the woman
whose bright blue eyes shone with undisguised longing as she gazed
down at him. She was still wearing the plain linen wimple, the
cloth concealing her hair. Quentin wanted to see Fionna’s glorious
hair, wanted to run his hands through the thick, curling mass of
it.

The part of the wimple Quentin could see was
attached by straight pins to two narrow linen bands. One of the
bands circled Fionna’s brow and was fastened at the back of her
head with a pin. The second band wrapped under her chin to the top
of her head. The square linen cloth that formed the visible part of
the wimple was folded and pinned to the bands, to keep it securely
in place.

Quentin was unwilling to spend the time
necessary to unfold and unpin the tight construction. Instead, he
ran his hand along Fionna’s shoulder to the nape of her neck. Then
he jerked the entire wimple, bands, folded cloth and all, off her
head and over her face and tossed it aside. Her hair was tied back
with a ragged strip of cloth. This he easily snapped to let her
dark brown curls fall free around her face.

“Oh!” Fionna clapped a hand to her temple,
where one of the pins had scratched her perfect skin, leaving
behind a tiny trail of blood.