Jennifer August (27 page)

A roar ripped over the battlefield and she gasped as Quinn broke free, galloping toward them. She blocked another blow with her shield, the shock reverberating up her arm. Unable to hold the weight any longer, the shield fell useless at her side and she took a glancing blow to her shoulder. Reeling in the saddle, she struck out with her sword, slicing through the unprotected flesh of her opponent’s gut. The other howled as Quinn charged into the midst of their private battle, his sword flashing with the speed of his attack. Both mercenaries ignored her and
Stirling
backed Bluefire away, confident in her husband’s abilities to handle both men.

She watched Quinn, awed by his skill with a blade as he cut down the first mercenary, then spun to face the other.
Sparks
flew as their swords met, withdrew and slashed again. Pushing up her helm,
Stirling
glanced behind her, relieved to discover Quinn’s army had roundly defeated Calvin’s men.

“
Stirling
,” Quinn’s hoarse shout snapped her head around. The remaining mercenary galloped toward her, swaying in the saddle, blood streaming from his neck. He leaned toward her, his sword aimed at her head and she responded instinctively, thrusting aside his stroke, the force knocking him from his horse.

Quinn jumped to the ground, grappling with the injured man when he drew a knife and lunged. With a sweep of his legs, Quinn sent the brigand crashing to the ground, but still he would not yield and raised his knife arm. Quinn impaled the mercenary and he did not move again.

Looking up at her, his face hidden beneath his blood spattered helm, Quinn motioned toward the camp and she nodded. Heart heavy,
Stirling
kneed Bluefire up the hill, once again praying, though now she sought Quinn’s forgiveness.

Somehow, she knew ‘twould not be forthcoming.

She entered the camp and slid from her horse as a fierce tremble overtook her. Dropping to her knees, she ripped the helm off as bile forced its way from her throat. She stayed there until nothing was left, then drew a shaky hand across her mouth and rose. Ripping the cork from the drinking horn, she tipped it up, emptying the sweet contents into her mouth, washing away the bitter aftermath of war.

“Are you hurt?” Quinn’s cold voice sounded behind her and she turned slowly, clutching the horn to her chestplate.

“Nay. What of you?”

“Nay. Mount your horse, we return to Falcon Fire.”

She complied quickly, not wishing to further test his obvious anger.
Temple
and his Scots kept pace beside the mounted men as they journeyed home. John and his garrison of men remained behind, securing the keep. Snow darted in and out of the trees and Quinn rode silently in front of them all, never once looking or talking to her. With a sinking heart,
Stirling
redoubled her prayers to God.

Chapter Twenty

“You are too harsh on her, my lord,”
Temple
murmured, sipping a cup of mead.

“Leave it,
Temple
,” Quinn snapped, his fury with
Stirling
still raging. ‘Twas the reason he pushed them so hard, turning the three day journey into barely one night spent on the ground. He’d hoped exhaustion and sleep would clear his mind, but the trick had not worked and anger still tore at him. She came close to death with her idiocy, ‘twas all he could think of and the reason he spent the night watching her every breath.

“I will not leave it. We put Marcus in the ground tomorrow and whether you admit it or no, you will need her comfort.”

“I need no woman’s succor, only her obedience.”

“You mean submission, do you not, Sir Norman?”
Stirling
appeared in front of him, lips pinched and features wan.

He shrugged. “‘Tis not my word, but ‘twill suffice.”

“Nay, ‘tis your demand that I humble myself before you and allow myself to be guided through my life as a simpleton.”

He surged to his feet, slamming his hands down on the table and leaned forward. “I demand you obey me for your safety, not to humiliate you.”

“‘Tis not how I see it.”

“Damn your sensibilities, woman,” he snarled. “Your disobedience nearly cost you your life.”

“‘Twas an oddity, my lord, I do assure you. Never have I been forced to combat as the Knight. ‘twill not happen again.”

“You are right,
Stirling
, it shall not. You will turn over your armor to me.”

“Nay. You cannot mean it.”

“I do. I’ll not risk my wife because of an imaginary legend.”

He strode from the dining hall and out the door, leaving Stirling alone with
Temple
.

“Be patient with him, lassie, such things as worry are new to him.”

Stirling
smiled sadly. “I fear I’ve ruined what chance we had together, but I could not forsake my men. They needed me to appear as I’ve always done. As has always been done.” She stared after Quinn, hurt by his coldness. “He must understand this.”

“Do not go agin him, my lady. His mind is set and ‘twill only cause ye more pain to cross him.”
Temple
awkwardly patted her shoulder with his big palm. “He will need you on the morrow, whether he will say so or no.”

“Marcus.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Lucifer’s tail I forgot about him.”

Temple
frowned at her. “Forgot? But my lady, we bury him --”

“Nay, nay, he is not dead.”
Stirling
lifted the hem of her skirt and raced from the room, seeking out Cook. She found the woman overseeing the kitchen staff and quickly pulled her aside.

“The keys, Cook, I must have the keys.”

“My lady?” Cook scratched her head, confusion written across her face.

“To Marcus’ room.”
Stirling
tempered her voice. “I must see to him. Has anyone entered the room since we have been gone?”

“Nay, Lord Quinn forbade it.”

“Good, now give them to me. Quickly, please.” She grabbed the silver ring of jangling keys and streaked up the stairs, counting the days he’d lain alone. Five all told with no food or water, could he have survived?

Reaching his door, she fumbled with the keys, her fingers shaking so badly, she could barely fit the brass key inside the lock. Finally the latch gave way and she shoved the door open, nearly falling inside. The stench of unwashed body and unemptied chamber pots gagged her as rounded the bed to his side.

“Marcus? Marcus, can you hear me?” She shook his shoulder, alarmed at the clamminess she encountered. Nay, he must awaken. “Marcus, open your eyes.”

“He is dead, my lady, as you should be.”

Stirling
whirled at the malicious voice, her eyes widening as Millane stalked into the room.

“What nonsense do you spout, Millane?” Shaken by disbelief,
Stirling
edged away from Marcus’ body, easing toward the door. Millane stepped in front of her, an evil smile curling her lips.

“I was so close,” she spat, her hand snaking out and grabbing a fistful of
Stirling
’s hair, yanking her head painfully to the side. “But for your cursed Norman husband, this keep would be mine.”

Stirling
flicked a glance behind Millane, seeing no one about. All the soldiers were in the barracks, resting from the battle. God only knew where Quinn was. She looked into Millane’s wild eyes. She must stall the maid until she could form a plan.

“I do not understand.”
Stirling
tugged away from Millane’s grip, wincing when the girl tightened her hold.

“Of course you do not. You have never known hunger. Never felt the sting of a man’s fist against your cheek or spread your legs and suffered beneath a soldier.” Her face twisted cruelly. “But you will.”

“Nay.” Panic seized
Stirling
. The girl was mad. “Why, Millane?”

“For years I have catered to you and your family, forced to bear the burden of servitude you placed on me when all should have rightfully been mine.” Millane pulled her toward the door and
Stirling
bided her time; she would cry out when they entered the corridor. She prayed
Temple
still sat below.

“Let me help you.”

“Oh you will
Stirling
, have no doubt on that.”

“What will you do?”

“Ransom you to your besotted husband, then kill you both.”

Her crazed laughter snapped the panicked hold gripping
Stirling
and she clasped her hands together, slamming her fist hard into Millane’s belly. The maid bent double and Stirling scooted around her, dashing for the corridor, screaming for
Temple
. Millane caught her from behind, knocking her knees to the floor.

“‘Twill be a pleasure to spill your blood, arrogant bitch.”

Again Millane’s hand tangled in her hair, drawing her head back.
Stirling
closed her eyes and prepared for the blow, but none came. Millane slammed a damp cloth over her nose and mouth.
Stirling
drew in a harsh breath, flailing against the woman, but her strength lapsed quickly and her mind darkened as she succumbed to the effects of the noxious fumes.

###

“I would have the keys, Cook.” Quinn held out his hand but the woman only looked at him, a perplexed frown wrinkling her plump brow.

“Why I gave them to my lady, sir.”

“When?”

“Nigh on an hour I would say.”

Quinn turned on his heel and stalked up the stairs to Marcus’ room. Though his anger with
Stirling
had receded somewhat, he would say his farewell to Marcus in private. Rounding the corner, his pace slowed as he approached the room, not yet ready to confront either of them. Quinn stood in the hall gathering his control and finally moved forward. The door stood open, the keys dangling from the lock. Marcus lie on the bed, clad in the colors of his home, but
Stirling
was nowhere to be seen.

“Lady-wife, are you here?” Quinn stepped further into the room, but ‘twas occupied only by Marcus. Relieved, he pulled a chair closer to the bed and sank into it, wearily wiping his hand down his face.

“‘Twas Tristan, you know, and Calvin. The bastard fled before we arrived, but I have taken his keep.” Quinn leaned forward, clasping his hands between his spread knees. “And Tristan, well, ‘tis hard to imagine, but
Stirling
killed him. With his own sword, at that.” Quinn shook his head, wondering at his own sanity. “I do not know which poisoned you, but I will find Calvin. He has much to answer for.” Quinn stood suddenly, unable to bear another moment in the room, cursing the fates that allowed this to happen. Shoving his chair away, he stalked to the door and pulled it closed.

“Quinn.”

The whisper-soft call barely reached his ears and Quinn stiffened as he turned, pushing the door inward.

“Quinn.”

The call came again, definitely inside the room. He stepped through the doorway and glanced around.

“Who is there? Show yourself.”

“Here.” A chill rippled down his spine as Marcus’ hand slowly lifted and his ashen face turned to him.

“Marcus?” Quinn whispered incredulously, crossing himself, filled with unease at the impossibility that his friend still lived. He hesitated.

Marcus groaned and rocked on the bed. Quinn gaped as he struggled to sit up, finally reaching for his friend when he toppled to the side.

“God in Heaven, how?” Quinn whispered.

Marcus’ eyes fluttered open and his mouth worked. “Drink.”

Quinn looked around, spotting a ewer on the bed near the floor. He picked up the pitcher, gagging at the rancid stench it emitted.

“
Attends
, Marcus.” Quinn bolted from the room and raced down the hall to his own chambers where a pitcher of fresh water rested near the wash stand. Grabbing it, he sped back toward Marcus’ room, pausing at the top of the stairs. “
Temple
,” he yelled hoarsely. “
Temple
, to me”

A loud crash preceded the Scot’s dash up the stairs. “My lord?” He gripped his dirk, darting looks left and right.

Quinn struggled for composure. “‘Tis Marcus, he lives.”

Temple
’s eyes bulged and his mouth gaped.

“Come.” Quinn made his way back to Marcus’ side, slipping a hand beneath his shoulders and lifting him up. Marcus’ eyes fluttered open and Quinn tipped the pitcher to his lips.

“Drink slowly,” he urged. With each sip, his friend seemed to grow stronger. His color returned, washing away the waxy cast of near-death and his breathing deepened.

“Praise be to God.”
Temple
dropped to his knees and bowed his head, murmuring a prayer.

“No time,” Marcus gasped. “
Stirling
. Millane.”

“Quiet, Marcus, you must save your strength.”

“Nay, she’ll kill her.”

A premonition of dread engulfed Quinn. “‘Twas not
Stirling
who poisoned you, Marcus. Calvin is responsible.”

Marcus grabbed his hand, surprising Quinn with the crushing grip. “‘Twas Millane. She has
Stirling
.” He dropped against Quinn’s arm and closed his eyes.

Quinn shook him. “Marcus. Damn you, what do you speak of?”

“Millane poisoned me. She has taken your wife.” He slid his legs over the edge of the bed and Quinn helped him stand, fear again clutching at his heart.

“Taken her where?” he demanded.

“To Calvin, she’s to be his.”

“Nay.” Icy calm washed over Quinn’s fury as he turned to Marcus. “Do you know where?”

“The glade where you were attacked. He awaits them there.”

“Take him,” Quinn ordered
Temple
and ran from the room. Racing down the stairs, he burst through the entry door and bolted for the stables. Gavin, the stableboy, stumbled from his rack, bleary eyed and mumbling.