Love Above All (3 page)

Again she struggled to say something.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “You’re safe
now.”

“Cold. So cold.”

He could hardly understand the whispered
words. Then she began to shiver and he knew what she meant. She was
returning to life and her body was reacting to the violence wrought
upon it. Her teeth were chattering, too.

Quentin threw extra charcoal on the braziers,
but the room remained chilly. The lady whimpered and shivered, the
sounds of her distress arousing Quentin’s protective instincts.
Here lay a helpless soul, who needed him. Taking up his cloak,
Quentin spread it over the blanket covering her. Then he lay down
beside her, wrapped blanket and cloak together around them both,
and gathered her close to his warmth.

After a time her shivering stopped. Alarmed,
Quentin put his hand on her bosom, to be sure her heart was still
beating. The sensation of his palm against her soft breast was so
disturbing that he snatched his hand away and almost left the bed.
But she needed him, needed whatever heat he could give her, so he
held her closer still, until her breath brushed across his throat
like soft, sweet gusts of springtime air. He lay there, rigid and
wide awake, clasping her against him as the night hours wore slowly
down toward daylight.

The woman in his arms slept peacefully, as if
she harbored no worries at all.

“I will help you.”

The words echoed through Fionna’s confused
mind. She lay still, keeping her eyes closed against the intrusion
of daylight while she tried to remember where she was and why she
was so deliciously warm, so languid and relaxed. A faint alarm at
the edges of her consciousness warned of some amorphous danger, but
she brushed the impression aside so she could remain as she was,
comfortable and secure.

Not until the wool-covered wall against which
her cheek was resting began to move did she understand that someone
was holding her, and that what she had first taken for a wall was,
in fact, a broad, manly chest. Strong masculine arms enfolded her
with a highly improper, yet strangely welcome, familiarity.

She opened her eyes to meet a questioning
grey gaze.

“So, they are blue,” the man holding her
said. “I did wonder.”

“What? Where?” She choked to a stop.

“Is your throat sore?” The man’s low-pitched
voice was weighted with a confidence that suggested he seldom
needed to raise it. “I should think both chest and throat would
ache. You coughed up half the river shortly after we found
you.”

“River?” she whispered, bewildered. Then,
“Liddel Water?”

The man did not respond; he just watched her,
apparently waiting for her to say something more. His hair was
shiny black, cut short all around in the same Norman style she had
seen worn by intruders into the borderlands – the intruders her
brothers despised. He was a Norman knight, then, with a
high-bridged, aristocratic nose and eyes the color of silvery
clouds after a spring rain, fringed by thick black lashes. Unable
to bear his penetrating stare any longer, Fionna closed her own
eyes.

“What is your name?” the man asked.

“Fionna of Dungalash.” She responded before
pausing to think, and instantly regretted telling him even that
much. He was a stranger and possibly dangerous.... He wouldn’t hurt
her, she was sure....

What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she
collect her scattered thoughts into a pattern that made sense?

“I am Quentin of Alney.”

“Norman.” It was all she could think of to
say and she was hard put to get even that much past her trembling
lips. She recognized his name, though she had never seen him
before. Sheer terror compelled her to open her eyes again and meet
his gaze as she wondered what incomprehensible working of time and
fate had brought the two of them together.

“Yes, I am a Norman.”

She wished his smile wasn’t so dazzling. She
wished he was wicked and ugly and smelled bad, so she needn’t care
what happened to him, for this was the man her brothers were
planning to seize and torture for information, and kill when they
were done with him, after which they’d use his death to their
advantage. She had overheard Murdoch say his name aloud, clearly
and distinctly, just before Gillemore had caught her and accused
her of eavesdropping.

She really did dislike the thought of so
strong and handsome a man brought low, with his lifeblood drenching
Scottish soil. At the moment, Quentin of Alney was still free and
very definitely alive. Did that mean Murdoch and Gillemore had
given up their mad scheme? Or had they just postponed it for a
time, until after Fionna was silenced by death?

“So are all the people with me Normans,”
Quentin said, “except for Cadwallon. As his name suggests, he is
half Welsh. We found you at the edge of the river, with your hands
tied behind your back. Would you care to tell me how you got
there?”

She was about to demand he tell her why he
wanted to know, when she suddenly realized she hadn’t a stitch on.
She was lying naked in a bed, talking with a strange man who was
marked for death, though he wasn’t aware of it, and she hadn’t even
noticed her state of undress until this moment. If her brothers
learned where she was, they’d kill Quentin for taking liberties
with her. No, she realized with a hiccup of near-hysterical
laughter, they’d kill her first, and this time they’d make certain
she was dead. Then they’d carry out their scheme to murder
Quentin.

She sat up so quickly that her head began to
reel. Quentin put an arm around her shoulders to steady her, while
with his free hand he drew the blanket up to cover her breasts. His
long fingers brushed across her skin. Fionna smothered a gasp and
grabbed the blanket from him.

“We left you unmolested,” Quentin said. “In
case you were wondering.” The corner of his mouth twitched, as if
he was repressing a smile.

“We?” she repeated. The possibility that all
of his people had viewed her unclothed body sent the blood rushing
upward from her toes to the top of her head.

“Braedon, my squire, helped me to undress and
bathe you. I assure you, he is a discreet young man.”

“Only you, and one other man.” It was bad
enough, but certainly better than a whole troop of men staring at
her. She let out a long breath. But there was something else she
wanted to know and she wasn’t sure how to ask. “Did he-?” she began
and stopped, unable to say what she was thinking. She didn’t have
to say it; Quentin understood.

“Did he keep you warm on the other side?” he
said, finishing her embarrassed thought. “No. You and I were alone
last night and as you will note, I am dressed.” He slid out of the
bed to stand before her in tunic and hose.

“But I am not dressed,” she said, fighting
against a sense of loss at the removal of his warmth and strength
from her immediate vicinity. She ought to be glad he was no longer
hovering over her. Disturbed by her longing to have him return to
the bed, she made her voice cold and demanding. “What did you do
with my clothes?”

“They were wet. Braedon saw to them. They
should be dry by now.”

“Then have them brought to me.”

“Not until you answer my questions.” He
caught her wrist, turning it over, one finger tracing the red mark.
“Who did this to you? Who tied you and threw you into the
Liddel?”

Fionna’s mind was clearing rapidly. Her head
ached and her chest felt tight whenever she tried to take a deep
breath, but that was most likely the result of all the water
Quentin claimed she had swallowed and then brought up again. She
remembered everything, every detail of her ordeal, right up to the
log scratching her face. She lifted a hand to touch the spot. At
that moment, as she fully understood her situation, she began to
devise a desperate plan.

Quentin had saved her life. He seemed to be
willing to share the credit with his companions, but Fionna had
watched a few chieftains leading their clans, so she recognized a
true leader when she saw one. Quentin was the man who had
discovered and rescued her. Therefore, she owed him his life in
return.

“You needn’t be afraid,” he said. “I can
protect you. In addition to my two friends, I have men-at-arms with
me. Fionna, who tried to kill you?”

“They must think I’m dead,” she replied, “so
I’m not in any immediate danger.”

“I wouldn’t wager a single farthing on that
notion,” Quentin told her. “You are no peasant girl, to be
mistreated by a lord who knows no one will ask questions. Someone
will be looking for you.”

“I’ve been told the Normans habitually
mistreat peasant girls.” She spoke without thinking because she was
preoccupied with the details of her plan. Almost immediately she
saw she’d made a mistake. Quentin’s face went utterly cold, his
high cheekbones sharp in the dim light .

“Do you make a habit of insulting the men who
rescue you?”

Though he spoke in a scathing tone worthy of
a great lord, still he did not raise his voice. Unlike Fionna’s
brothers, Quentin did not shout at her. Apparently, he was a quiet
man. He seemed to be a gentle man, too. So far he hadn’t handled
her roughly or threatened to beat her.

“I’ve never been rescued before,” she
whispered. “Please forgive me. My brothers always speak
disparagingly of the Normans who have come to settle in Scotland,
so I just assumed you’d abuse an unconscious woman. But why should
I ever again believe anything my brothers say?” she ended with
unconcealed bitterness.

“I am not a settler. I have been in Scotland
on legitimate business, as an ambassador from the English king to
King Alexander,” he said. “I am on my way home. Was it your
brothers who tried to kill you?”

The sudden question caught her by surprise.
She’d thought she had distracted him from the issue of her would-be
murderers, but his intense manner told her he wasn’t amenable to
distraction. She was going to have to make up a story that was at
least partly true, in hope of convincing him that all of it was the
truth. And she couldn’t say anything that might make him decide to
remain in Scotland. Quentin must leave the border for English
territory as quickly as possible. It was her duty to speed him on
his way to the place where, surely, her brothers could no longer
threaten his life.

“Yes,” she said. “It was my brothers.”

“Why?” Quentin demanded.

“It’s just a family quarrel.”

“A quarrel serious enough to make men kill
their own sister?” He sounded as if he didn’t believe her.

“As I said, they think I’m dead, so I’m safe
now. It’s Janet I’m worried about.”

“Janet?”

“My younger sister. She’s in school at
Abercorn Abbey. Murdoch wants to remove her from the school and
marry her off to one of his friends, a brutal man. Janet is
terrified of her proposed bridegroom, and Gillemore always sides
with Murdoch, so poor Janet is helpless against their scheme.”

“Why did they decide to kill you?” His gaze
was so piercing that Fionna feared he didn’t believe any of her
story, though most of what she’d told him so far was true.

“They discovered my plan to reach Janet
before they did. I was going to ride to Abercorn and take her away
to – to England,” Fionna ended with a lie.

“Indeed? You’d spirit your beloved sister off
to a land ruled by the same Normans whom you dislike?”

“I didn’t say I dislike Normans, only that my
brothers do. But now I am free to carry out my plan to save Janet
without interference.”

“Do you think so?” He regarded her as if she
possessed no wits at all. “How will you travel, when you have no
horse? How will you eat without coins to buy food? Where will you
sleep at night? And how in the name of all the saints do you
imagine a young woman can ride alone through these lawless
borderlands without being captured and raped, or murdered? You call
that a plan? I call it madness.”

With fists planted on his hips he loomed
above her, tall and muscular and completely sure of himself, easily
the most intimidating man Fionna had ever met, more frightening in
his quiet intensity than both of her noisy brothers together. She
trembled before him.

“I have to save Janet!” she cried, not lying
now, frantic for her sister’s sake.

“Then let me help,” he said.

“Why would a Norman help me?”

Quentin shook his head, asking himself the
same question. She was remarkably appealing, with her bare
shoulders showing pale and slim above the rough wool blanket and
her dark, reddish-brown hair curling in long ringlets around her
face. Her emotional distress had put color into her cheeks and a
determined sparkle into her bright blue eyes. Fionna of Dungalash
was not beautiful, but she was intriguing and intelligent.

Her voice was wonderful to hear, low-pitched
and with only a faint accent. Quentin had never liked women whose
voices were high and shrill, attacking a man’s ears and causing
headaches. Like his wife’s voice. Quentin cut off that unhappy
memory the instant it arose. He did not want to think about his
late wife, or about the heiress King Henry had mentioned as a
possible reward upon successful completion of his mission to
Edinburgh. He would far rather gaze at Fionna.

She possessed the most perfect skin he had
ever seen or touched, and her recuperative powers were remarkable.
Any other noblewoman he knew would have lain in bed for days,
quaking and weeping after the kind of treatment Fionna had endured.
The healthy young woman in his bed appeared to be fully recovered
and prepared to set out at once to rescue her sister.

It was an admirable quest – and it was a pity
she was lying to him.

Quentin was certain at least part of her
story was false. In any land it was easy enough to force a girl to
wed the man her male kin chose for her. There was no reason to kill
a sister who objected, a fact that meant Fionna was deliberately
misleading him about her brothers’ motives. The more falsehoods the
lady uttered, the more interesting she became – and the more firmly
Quentin resolved to discover what lay behind her soft-voiced
deception. But he’d have to do so without compromising the
assignment that had originally brought him to Scotland and was
presently sending him back to England in some haste.