Love Above All (27 page)

With that abrupt and untrue explanation, he
spun on his heel and departed from the tent, knowing if he stayed
he’d kiss the frown off her brow, then he’d plunge his tongue into
her delicious, moist mouth, and plunge the rest of himself into
her, too, as deep and as often as he could, until he was satisfied.
As if he ever could be satisfied and finished with Fionna.

Wondering what in the name of heaven he could
possibly do to rid himself of his constant, aching need for Fionna,
he glared at Royce when he reached the dining tent.

For once Royce ventured no humorous comments.
Perhaps, as the only man of Quentin’s acquaintance who had ever
admitted being emotionally bound to a woman, Royce understood his
friend’s torment and thought it best not to incite his anger.

Braedon and Sir William joined Royce a moment
after Quentin did. Their presence offered Quentin a brief
distraction as they all sat down together to break their fast while
they discussed the quickest route back to Wortham.

A puzzled Fionna watched Quentin cross the
campsite with rapid strides and disappear into the dining tent. She
almost followed him to ask why he was angry. But she changed her
mind when she heard Janet moving.

“Good morning.” Fionna made her lips curve
into a smile before she turned to her sister.

“Was Cadwallon here all night?” Janet asked.
She swung her feet to the ground so she could sit on the side of
the cot. Fionna noticed that she hadn’t let go of Cadwallon’s hand.
He was either still asleep, or pretending to be. Janet put out her
free hand to trace the line of Cadwallon’s mouth.

“My brave knight,” Janet whispered. Then she
transferred her attention to Fionna.

“If Cadwallon was here,” Janet said, “then,
where were you?”

“I found a bed elsewhere.” How easily the
twisted version of the truth fell from her lips. Fionna didn’t even
blush when Janet stared at her, comprehension filling her gaze. A
fallen woman, indeed, Fionna silently scolded herself, a woman
eager to trip and fall into Quentin’s bed again.

“I’d have thought you were too proud to give
yourself to a Norman,” Janet said.

The harsh words, coldly spoken, lacerated
Fionna’s taut nerves. Stinging tears rose to her eyes. She
attempted to think of a response to Janet’s rebuke, but
couldn’t.

Janet was trying to ease her hand out of
Cadwallon’s grasp. When he didn’t let go, she jerked herself free.
Cadwallon muttered a few words in Welsh that sounded like an oath,
and sat up.

“So,” Cadwallon said to Janet, “I perceive
your health is much improved, my lady.”

“I was never ill,” Janet snapped at him.
“Only your lack of wits led you to think I was. You used my
supposed indisposition to take my sister’s bed, thus forcing her
into Quentin’s bed! For shame, Cadwallon! You are no true
knight!”

“What are you accusing me of now?” Cadwallon
demanded. Yawning, he dragged his fingers through his sleep-tousled
brown hair until it stood straight up in places. “I beg you, Lady
Janet, let me wake up before you begin my daily
tongue-lashing.”

“You are already awake,” Janet pointed
out.

“Please, dear lady, use shorter
sentences.”

“I just did,” Janet said.

“No, I mean the nonsense you were spouting
before that, about me taking Fionna’s bed. As to your first point,”
Cadwallon told her, “you were ill, whether you will admit it, or
not. You fainted.”

“I never faint!”

“Because you fainted, Royce has decreed a day
of rest for your benefit. Regarding your second point,” Cadwallon
said, unperturbed by Janet’s reddening face, “I offered to sit with
you so Fionna could rest. She’s weary too, you know.”

“You mean, she’s weary after her night’s
activities in Quentin’s bed!” Janet declared.

“My dearest lady, I do sometimes wonder
exactly what you learned in that supposedly strict convent,”
Cadwallon said.

“You miserable wretch!” Janet cried.

Laughing, Cadwallon caught her wrist the
instant before her hand connected with his cheek.

Fionna could bear no more. She fled from the
tent. Outside, the men were taking advantage of the break from
constant riding to oil their harness or to rub sand through their
chainmail, to clean it of rust and grime. Half a dozen men-at-arms
had just returned from a hunting expedition, bringing with them
several rabbits and a few birds. Some of the men spoke to Fionna,
wishing her good day as she made her way toward Quentin’s tent. She
imagined them looking after her with speculative gazes until she
was inside the tent and lost to view.

Suddenly, she knew that Janet was right.
Simple pride should have kept her from lying with Quentin – with a
Norman. Were she a Norman, too, or if she possessed a suitable
dowry, he’d insist on marrying her after what they had done
together. She was naught but a foolish Scottish girl, with not a
farthing to her name, who had thrown herself away on a great lord,
on a man who could not possibly care for her.

After the way Quentin had repeatedly poured
himself into her last night, she could be carrying his child.

Just as she reached that point in her
self-recriminations, Quentin stepped through the tent flaps.

“I thought you were with Janet,” he said.

“I was, until she and Cadwallon started
arguing. I came here to be quiet. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

She had the feeling he did mind, that he
didn’t want her there.

“I’ll go now,” she said.

“Why?” When she tried to push around him to
get out of the tent, he caught her by the shoulders. “Fionna, what
is it? What did Janet say to you?”

“That I ought to have more pride than to give
myself to a Norman.”

“Is that what you think, too?”

“No,” she said, as firmly and calmly as she
could. “The fact that you are a Norman has nothing to do with it.
But I have been foolish, and we both know it.”

“I vowed to protect you.” His voice cracked
as he continued, “I’ve hurt you, instead.”

“I participated most willingly.” Her
assertion brought a flickering smile to his lips.

“You’ll never cast blame on someone else, if
you can take it for yourself,” he said. “That’s one reason why I -.
Fionna, I will find a way to right the wrong I have done to you.
That is a vow I will keep. On what is left of my honor, I swear
it.”

She’d rather hear him swear he loved her. She
ached to tell him that she loved him, and would for all eternity.
But now, too late, when she was ruined beyond repair and might be
with child, her pride surged forth at last, reborn by Janet’s
scathing words.

She would not beg for anything from Quentin.
If, as she knew noblemen sometimes did with their mistresses, he
invited her to live in some snug little cottage tucked away on his
estate at Alney, where he could easily visit her a couple of times
a month for a panting, sweaty hour or two, she’d throw the offer
back in his face. If, worse yet, he tried to marry her off to one
of his men, as Murdoch had once done with a girl he had gotten with
child, she’d go back to Scotland and stay there, no matter what her
brothers did to her.

She wanted all of Quentin, forever. Failing
that, she wanted nothing to do with him, ever again.

“I have been told that King Henry has chosen
a second wife for you.” She spoke quietly, with no hint of reproach
in her tone.

“You heard it from Cadwallon, of course. He
shouldn’t have said that.”

“I’m glad he did. It was a kindly meant
warning, which I chose to ignore. You mustn’t blame yourself,
Quentin. You have no choice but to obey your king.”

She stood there in his tent that still
smelled faintly of their lovemaking, and she looked straight at
him, but she made no move to touch him.

When Quentin lifted her hand and kissed it,
then attempted to pull her closer, her resurrected pride made her
remove her fingers from his grasp as soon as she decently
could.

She noticed the evidence of his rising
passion for her and recalled the hard, masculine splendor that lay
beneath his plain wool tunic. She felt the now-familiar warmth
beginning to spread downward to the spot where they would join and
fuse into one being. Never had she experienced so intense a longing
as her desire to lie down on his cot with him, and to let him carry
her to the heights of passion.

Then she looked into Quentin’s eyes and saw
by the sorrow in his gaze that he understood she would not do what
she most wanted.

“Have patience,” he said. “Trust me. This
time I will keep my oath.”

“My sister needs me,” she told him.

“Fionna.”

It was not a question, nor a demand that she
remain. She believed he uttered her name simply to acknowledge what
they had known together, the unique, incredible beauty they would
not enjoy again.

Quentin stepped aside to let her leave the
tent.

After Fionna was gone he stared blindly at
the tent flap for a long time. He was still standing in the same
spot when Cadwallon appeared, toting a bucket of hot water for his
morning wash and swearing at Janet under his breath. Cadwallon set
the bucket down so hard that a good portion of the water sloshed
out of it.

“Cursed women,” Cadwallon grumbled, his voice
muffled by the rumpled tunic he was pulling over his head.
“Unreasonable creatures, all of them. They can drive a man mad
without even trying.”

“Amen,” said Quentin.

“I need a title,” Cadwallon stated. “And a
nice piece of land to go with the title.” The muscles in his brawny
arms rippled when he splashed water over his face and
shoulders.

“Do you?” said Quentin.

“Aye. And once I have them, I’ll tame that
stubborn wench. See if I don’t. I’ll teach her who’s the lord and
master.”

“Will you?”

“I’ll smack her pretty backside every time
she unleashes her viperish tongue on me. I can think of better uses
for a woman’s tongue.” Cadwallon turned to stare at Quentin, who
hadn’t moved from his position by the tent entrance. “You look like
death.”

“Thank you,” Quentin said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I,” said Quentin, “have made the biggest
blunder of my life. There is no way to rectify it until I can speak
to King Henry. And by then, it may be too late.”

“I know what you mean.” Cadwallon flipped
open the lid of the basket that held his belongings. He grabbed a
fresh undershirt from the basket and used the shirt to dry his face
and chest before he put it on. “Give a woman a chance, and she’ll
turn a man’s life upside down. Or, inside out, depending on where
you started with her in the first place. What we need, my friend,
is a few cups of wine, to make us forget.”

“Too much wine will only make my head ache,”
Quentin said. As for forgetting, he didn’t think he ever would.

Fionna knew she was right about Murdoch’s
intentions. He was too clever to attack Royce’s party while they
were still under the protection of King Alexander’s men-at-arms.
Nor were her brothers likely to strike after their chosen victims
had crossed into northern England, where marauding bands of
Scotsmen who ventured so far south and were caught, were likely to
be hanged with few questions asked. Murdoch would not risk being
hanged. Therefore, Fionna reasoned, the attack must happen
soon.

That was why the closer they were to England,
the more nervous she became. Her impression that she and her
companions were being watched grew ever stronger. Nor was there
much to distract her from her fears over her brother’s schemes.

Quentin no longer rode with her. He kept his
distance, staying in the vanguard of the troop, usually at Royce’s
side. Fionna was left entirely to Janet’s company, with Cadwallon
and, occasionally, Braedon in attendance. Though the women were
surrounded by Royce’s men-at-arms at all times, Fionna’s continuing
unease must have communicated itself to Quentin. On the last
afternoon before they reached English soil he surprised her by
leaving Royce and dropping back to join her.

“Don’t look so worried,” Quentin said. “We’ll
not let down our guard. Royce and I do understand that if Murdoch
means to attack, he’ll have to do it today, or early tomorrow.”

“Be careful, Quentin,” she responded. “I’m
sure Murdoch still wants to cause an incident by killing you.”

“He will not succeed.” Quentin’s grey gaze
held hers for a long, tense time before he looked away. He nudged
his horse forward, departing from Fionna’s side without another
word.

She watched him go with hopeless longing in
her heart.

They were riding on a track that curved to
the southwest as it wound around the base of a high, rugged hill.
Other, equally precipitous hills crowded close on either side,
making it impossible for horsemen to venture more than a few yards
off the narrow road. Thus, the group was strung out in a thin line
with the baggage carts in the rear, guarded by a few
men-at-arms.

By chance the day was clear, with neither fog
nor rain to offer protection to anyone skulking after them, a fact
that should have reassured Fionna, but did not. She felt a chill
along her spine and glanced about nervously. Then, as they came
round the curve of the hill, the lowering sun shone directly in
their eyes and for a few moments Fionna was unable to see much at
all. From the complaints the men nearest to her were making, they
were having the same problem.

Clever Murdoch had chosen his time and place
carefully. He and his men had apparently been circling around
Royce’s party, for he appeared suddenly from the west, riding out
of the shadowy shelter of the steep hillside at the head of a
surprisingly large band of fellow Scots. They didn’t bother to make
demands or offer challenges as honest opponents were bound to do.
In silence, with the bright sun at their backs, they quickly
deployed themselves across the road like menacing silhouettes,
blocking the pathway from hillside to hillside.