Love Above All (35 page)

Sir William and the men-at-arms he led
returned to Wortham Castle just ahead of a heavy snowstorm.
Catherine invited him to sit at the high table that night, so he
could inform the ladies as to what the fate of the Scottish
prisoners was to be.

“Before we departed from Carlisle, Lord
Walter sent a pair of riders to the highlands with an urgent
message for King Alexander,” Sir William revealed. “We never did
see the king, but by the time we reached Edinburgh, Alexander’s
orders were there, waiting for us. Murdoch, Gillemore, and Colum
have been cast into the most secure dungeon in that fortess on the
rock. They are being held there, separate from each other and in
chains, until the highland rebellion is put down. After that, King
Alexander will have time to judge them and to decide what their
punishment should be.

“My lady,” Sir William said to Fionna, “we
were told that your brothers are considered traitors, and it’s
believed their fates will be severe.”

“When I think of all the wicked deeds they
committed, and what they tried to do to Fionna and me,” Janet
declared, breaking into the discussion with a touch of her old
sharpness, “they deserve whatever punishment King Alexander metes
out to them.”

Fionna’s opinion was more divided, and she
thought it better not to voice it. Unlike Janet, she had spent the
last ten years at Dungalash. During that time she had heard, over
and over again, the arguments of her brothers and their friends
against the Norman intrusion into Scotland. She understood how
angry Scotsmen were at being displaced to provide land for Norman
lords, and she had heard dire predictions of eventual English
control of Scotland. She wasn’t sure who was right, and who was
wrong. She did believe changes were inevitable; she just wished
they could be peaceful. But she feared there would be bloodshed
along the border for decades to come.

Whatever the future of Scotland, the
information Sir William brought had put an end to her life there.
She could never return to Dungalash, nor could Janet. But where
they would go, or how they would live, she didn’t know.

The snow continued for days, keeping everyone
indoors. The inhabitants of Wortham Castle didn’t seem to mind.
They were preparing for Christmas. The women began by cleaning the
chapel. When it was scrubbed to their satisfaction they cleaned the
great hall, the lord’s chamber, and several guest rooms.

“You cannot expect guests to arrive in this
weather,” Fionna said to Catherine.

“Perhaps not,” Catherine agreed, “but my
father will return as soon as he can, and he almost always brings
guests with him. In the meantime, we will be well prepared to
celebrate the blessed season.”

No guests appeared. Not even a wandering
minstrel or a traveling acrobat showed his face at the castle gate.
The snow continued, piling up in windblown drifts. Undeterred by
the bitter cold that made it dangerous to venture out of doors for
more than a few minutes, Catherine oversaw preparation of a fine
Christmas banquet. Members of the household ate heartily, then
entertained themselves with songs, dancing, and wrestling
matches.

Janet was enjoying herself. Fionna tried to
join the fun, but she was too disheartened to take part. She used
her continuing weakness as an excuse to refuse all offers to join
the dancing.

Twelfth Night came and went. The Yule log was
reduced to ashes; the holiday greenery was swept out of the great
hall.

Toward sundown one afternoon in late January,
Royce and his men-at-arms finally returned. Quentin came with
them.

“I was beginning to worry about you,”
Catherine exclaimed, embracing her father. “You’ve been away so
long.”

“King Henry insisted we must spend Christmas
at court,” Royce explained. “We were heartily sick of St. Albans
before we finally left.”

“Where is Cadwallon?” Janet asked of
Royce.

That wasn’t a simple question, Fionna
thought, hearing her sister’s waspish tone. It was a demand. Janet
had expected Cadwallon to return to Wortham with Royce and that
expectation explained why she had remained so cheerful for so many
weeks. Now, with her hopes blighted, Janet was reverting to her old
ways before Fionna’s eyes. Her formerly glowing face suddenly
became hard and pinched. Her eyes snapped in fury and her voice was
sharp.

“King Henry had a minor task for Cadwallon to
see to,” Royce said. “There is a certain castle that needs to be
besieged and taken.”

“I see.” Janet turned away so quickly that
Fionna was sure she was close to tears. A moment later Janet
whirled around to confront Quentin.

“Why have you come to Wortham?” she
demanded.

“I invited him,” Royce said, his eyebrows
raised at Janet’s rudeness.

“I left my horse here,” Quentin said.

“Of course!” By now Janet was completely her
old self again. “You men think of nothing but horses and arms and
warfare. You delight in bloodletting.”

“Janet, stop this instant!” Fionna cried.
“Without any cause, you are being extremely rude.”

“I have cause!” Janet cried. “Cadwallon
promised – and now he has broken his promise. I shall never trust
another man – not ever!” On that passionate declaration, Janet fled
from the great hall.

“She could have waited to hear the full
explanation,” Quentin said.

“Cadwallon promised to return to her, but he
is absent. Is there more to say?” Fionna asked.

“Indeed, there is.” Quentin’s gaze caught and
held hers. “Much more.”

“So you claim.” Fionna glared at him,
trembling as she wondered when he was going to announce his
betrothal to Lady Eleanor. She was beginning to understand why
Janet greeted any new situation with anger and sharp words. Better
by far to be angry than to react to arbitrary masculine decisions
with ineffectual tears or with meek acceptance.

“Quentin,” Catherine said, breaking up the
incipient quarrel, “you will sleep in your usual room. I am sure
you will want to bathe and change your clothes. And so will you,
Father. I will order hot water brought to both of you. Excuse me,
please; I must speak to Cook about the menu for tonight.”

Royce called to one of his squires to come
with him, and together they started up the stairs. Quentin remained
where he was, staring at Fionna as if he wanted to devour her.
Fionna stared back, her irritation at his coolness rapidly turning
to outrage.

“Perhaps you will bathe me,” Quentin said to
her.

“Perhaps I won’t,” she retorted, sounding
just like Janet.

“Offering to bathe a guest is an honest
Norman custom,” Quentin said.

“It is an excuse for licentiousness,” she
snapped. “With customs like that, it’s no wonder my brothers
considered it well worth losing their heads to keep you Normans out
of Scotland!”

She expected him to become as angry as she
was. Instead, he laughed.

“Your brothers, and Colum, will all keep
their heads,” he said. “While we were at St. Albans, King Henry
received a letter from King Alexander. That unpleasant trio will
remain in prison for a time; then they will be accepted into
Alexander’s household, so he can keep a close eye on them.

“Now, my lady, I am cold and weary – and
ready for my bath.” Quentin caught her wrist and began to tug her
in the direction of the stairs.

“Release me at once!” she demanded. “I won’t
go with you.”

“Fionna, I want to speak with you in
private,” he said, lowering his voice. “I promise, I’ll not force
you to do anything you don’t want. You will not have to scrub me,
but the excuse of a bath will allow us an uninterrupted hour.
Please, come with me.”

She wanted to go with him; she wanted to
weep; she wanted to plead with him to make love to her. But she had
her pride and she remained angry, so she stiffened her backbone and
glared at him.

“Must I throw you over my shoulder?” he
asked, looking as if he might do just that.

“If you do, I’ll scream for Royce,” she
warned him.

“He won’t help you. Royce knows what I intend
to say to you.” He watched her for a moment, then added, “It
concerns Janet.”

“Janet? Is it something to do with
Cadwallon?”

“If you want to know, you’ll just have to
come with me,” he said.

“About Janet? Truly?” She took a deep breath,
preparing to give in. She told herself it was purely out of
curiosity. “All right, Quentin. Unhand me and I will follow
you.”

His brilliant smile made her senses reel.

She scarcely knew how she got up the steps
and into his room. The chamber was full of people. A maidservant
was tending to a brazier full of hot charcoal. Two menservants were
dragging in a wooden tub. Three more sturdy men brought buckets of
hot water to dump into the tub. Someone else supplied a bowl of
soap and an additional bucket of water for rinsing. A young woman
appeared with a supply of towels in her arms. Quentin’s squire came
in to help him remove his chainmail. The bedchamber certainly was
not a place in which to speak privately.

Amid all the coming and going, Fionna could
easily have slipped away without Quentin noticing. Then again,
perhaps not. He kept glancing at her as if to be sure she was still
there.

She took up a position in one corner of the
room, where she pretended to watch the bustling activity. In fact,
she was watching Quentin, stealing quick little glances when she
thought he wasn’t watching her.

At last the servants departed, leaving the
tub full of hot water, a pile of clean towels on a stool near the
tub, and the charcoal glowing red in the brazier. The squire pulled
Quentin’s gambeson over his head, then gathered up the chainmail
and carried it off, saying he’d see that it was properly cleaned.
Quentin latched the door behind him.

“To prove to you how harmless I am,” he said,
turning with his hands at the waist of his linen underdrawers,
“I’ll bathe while I say what I mean to tell you.”

“You are not harmless.” She stared in
fascination as he pulled down his remaining garment to reveal the
solidly muscled flanks and the long legs she vividly recalled
caressing. Her fingertips began to tingle as she imagined the way
his skin would feel, the texture of his body hair and the
smoothness in certain places. She put her hands behind her back,
clasping them there.

Quentin noticed. His eyebrows rose and his
lips quirked as if he was trying not to smile. He stood before her
for a moment, letting her look at him, apparently unashamed of his
burgeoning arousal. Then he stepped into the tub and sat down,
sighing in pleasure as the hot water covered him to the waist.

“I forgot the soap,” he said. “Will you hand
it to me?”

She wished she dared throw it at him. She
longed to seize his dark hair and push his head under the water
until he yelled for mercy.

She picked up the bowl of soap and handed it
to him, taking care to avoid touching his fingers. Quentin looked
amused, but made no comment beyond a word of thanks. Then, because
her knees were shaking, Fionna sat on the edge of the bed and
frowned at him.

“What about Janet?” she said.

“First, I must ask you a question. Will you
marry me?”

“Of course not!” The words came out abruptly
because she was surprised and she was trying her best not to weep.
“How dare you insult me so? We both know you will not marry a woman
who has no dowry. No Norman nobleman would. Now, tell me about
Janet, or I will leave.”

She would, too, and he’d never dare pursue
her out of the room while he was wet and naked. Or would he?

“Who says you have no dowry?” Quentin
asked.

He was soaping himself, looking unconcerned
by Fionna’s threat. The fragrance of lavender reached her nose as a
few soap bubbles drifted into the warm air near the brazier.

“You know very well that my brothers will
never provide a dowry for me,” she said. “Quentin, I am becoming
extremely annoyed. You lured me to this room by promising to tell
me something about Janet. What is it?”

“King Henry is a generous man,” Quentin said.
“He knows how to repay those who are loyal to him or to his
friends. As a reward for the way you saved my life, he has granted
you a small honor.”

“What are you saying?”

“That King Henry has provided a dowry to
replace the one your brothers will never give you. I am told there
is a manor house on the property, where you and Janet may live if
you like, though I don’t expect Janet to stay there very long, and
of course, you cannot live there alone once she has gone. You are
too young and too beautiful to be safe living alone. Some renegade
knight is certain to come along and seize the place and force you
to marry him. You’d be much better advised to marry me.”

“I am not beautiful,” she said, dealing with
the one ingredient of his remarkable speech that made sense to
her.

“You are beautiful to me,” he said. “You
always have been.”

“But, about Janet,” she said. “You were going
to tell me about Janet.”

“King Henry has made Janet my ward,” Quentin
explained, as nonchalantly as if he was discussing the weather.
“It’s my penance for wanting to marry you.”

“What?”

“I believe my guardianship will only last for
a month or two,” Quentin said. “Once Cadwallon has established
himself at that castle in Devon, I expect to see him at Alney. He
will want to marry Janet immediately. They have been more
circumspect than you and I, my love. Cadwallon hasn’t bedded her
yet and from what he said to me, I gather he is eager to do so.”
Quentin picked up the bucket of rinse water and dumped it over his
head.

“What did you just say?” Fionna cried, unable
to believe her ears. Had he called her his love? More importantly,
did he mean it?