Love Above All Page 11

  Quentin’s arm tightened around her waist, and his mouth came down hard on hers. Fionna didn’t fight him. She opened her mouth, giving herself up to him, and to the delicious heat growing inside her with every thrust of his tongue against hers. Quentin released her hand, turning his own hand so his fingers were stroking her breast. Pressed close to each other as they were, she was aware of his growing physical need.

  Suddenly, he pushed her back, breaking their intimate contact, his hands on her shoulders keeping her from renewing it. In the dim light she saw the dangerous glitter of his eyes.

  “Temptress.” His voice sounded remarkably like an angry growl. “I’ll not be seduced by you a second time.”

  “I never seduced you!” she cried, forgetting to keep her own voice low.

  “Listen to me well, Fionna. I will not lie with you; first, because I am no despoiler of maidens and, second, because I do not entirely trust you.”

  “Why are you accusing me? I am not dishonest.” But he was, for he hadn’t mentioned the possibility of his betrothal.

  “Can you deny you are keeping secrets from me?” he asked.

  “Nothing important,” she whispered. “Not now.”

  “What an interesting choice of words. Am I to assume you have been keeping secrets, but you no longer are? Or, perhaps, the secrets you’ve been keeping no longer matter? Why is that, Fionna? Have you successfully led me into your brothers’ trap?”

  “No! I’ve been trying to keep you out of their trap.”

  “Oh?”

  The chill in Quentin’s voice alerted Fionna to her mistake. She must be more careful, and she must stop thinking about the youthful Lady Eleanor.

  “I am speaking of the trap Murdoch and Gillemore set for me,” she said, “the test of my loyalty to them that ended with me thrown into Liddel Water. Once you rescued me, if my brothers had discovered me still alive and with you, they’d have killed us and everyone with us. That’s all I meant.”

  “Is it? Nothing more?” His voice was silky, encouraging her to tell him the rest of it.

  But she couldn’t tell him. What else she had overheard her brothers saying was not Quentin’s concern, and knowledge of it would place him in greater danger, for he’d assume he ought to do something about it. She knew him well enough by now to be sure he’d try. She also knew he’d fail, and likely lose his life in the bargain, for from what she’d heard, no one could save the man Colum had taken to France in shackles.

  “I have nothing more to say,” she whispered.

  “Of course not.” Quentin removed his hands from her shoulders. For a moment he stood watching her in the dim light. “If I were not an honorable man I’d ride away and leave you here, and I’d advise Royce to take his men and do the same.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “No. I will keep my word. But afterward—”

  “Yes? Afterward – what, Quentin?”

  He didn’t answer, and she couldn’t read his expression. He turned on his heel and left her.

  “What is that?” Fionna asked the following afternoon. She pointed to a line of rough stones that lay directly ahead of them.

  They had been riding through hilly country all day, in a drizzling rain and mist that hid their surroundings and made some of the men grumble about the cold. Then, just at sunset, the clouds broke and there before them lay wide-open, rolling moors that were bathed in golden sunshine. The stones Fionna had noticed were the remnants of a long wall that slashed across the late autumn landscape, winding over hills and through wide valleys, punctuated at regular intervals by crumbling stone buildings. From Fionna’s vantage point she could see two such buildings.

  “Centuries ago a Roman emperor built the wall and the guardhouses in hope of keeping the northern tribes out of Roman territory,” Quentin responded to Fionna’s question. “When it was first built, the wall extended from Solway Forth to the River Tyne in the east. Most of it is in ruins now, as you can see.”

  “I never noticed it at Carlisle,” she said, frowning at the broken remains.

  “We arrived at Carlisle after dark. You couldn’t see much at all,” he reminded her.

  Though it was late in the day, they didn’t stop at the wall, but rode through a wide gap in the stones. They continued northward, heading toward the Cheviot Hills, and they camped in an open field that night.

  “I find I can travel more rapidly when I don’t avail myself of the hospitality of castles or abbeys,” Royce told Fionna. “Without the need to be polite to any host, I can begin and end the day’s riding whenever, and wherever, I want.”

  “And you can avoid having to answer prying questions,” she noted.

  “This mode of travel also means I cannot ask any prying questions,” Royce said, laughing, “and that is a sad situation for a king’s agent.”

  The next day they reached Liddel Water at a spot far east of the place where Fionna’s brothers had cast her into the cold river. Still, she crossed the water with a shiver of memory. Quentin had been in the vanguard of their troop, but he dropped back to ride at Fionna’s side as they forded the river. He said nothing. Quentin seldom spoke to her during that journey, but his mere presence was a comfort to her.

  The appearance of a large troop of armed men led by Norman nobles could not pass unnoticed by the local folk. Whenever they came to one of the rare villages and stopped to purchase bread if there was a bakery, men and women gathered to stare at them. The Scots kept their distance and they seemed surprised when Royce or his men paid for what they needed, rather than simply seizing the supplies.

  “They’ll be passing the word of our coming,” Fionna said to Royce.

  “So they will,” he responded. “No doubt, before we reach Abercorn all the lowlands south of the Firth of Forth will know we are conducting a lady to the abbey there, to take her holy vows. It’s likely the abbess will be expecting you. That belief should provide us with an easy entrance.”

  “Don’t forget,” Cadwallon said to Fionna, “that Fionna of Dungalash is dead. It’s Lady Ursula who wants to enter Abercorn.”

  Quentin said nothing. He just looked grim.

  In one of the villages through which they passed, Royce paused to buy a dark woolen shawl, a length of undyed linen, and a small wooden box containing straight pins. He gave the items to Fionna, telling her to make a wimple from the linen and the pins.

  “Bring the shawl to the dining tent tonight,” Royce ordered. “It occurs to me that you will need a few lessons in spying before we reach Abercorn.”

  That evening Royce dismissed his officers and the servants just as soon as the meal was finished. When only Fionna, Quentin, Cadwallon, and Braedon remained, Royce leaned forward, elbows on the table, and addressed Fionna.

  “Am I correct in assuming that you have seen nuns often enough to know how they walk?”

  “Walk?” Fionna responded, laughing a little at the question. “Nuns walk like everyone else, of course.”

  “You are no fool, Fionna. With a bit of tutoring, I do believe you can make a good spy. Now, think about what you have observed whenever you’ve looked at nuns.” Royce paused to let her consider his words, then said, “I have noticed the way you walk with a determined stride, as if you will challenge anyone who tries to stop you.”

  “That’s because I watched the way my sisters-in-law behaved,” she said. “My brother, Murdoch, has had three wives, each of whom tended to cringe before him, probably because Murdoch believes in beating his wives. I learned as a girl that, if I stood up to him, he’d leave me alone or confine himself to a single swipe at me. Though standing up to Murdoch didn’t prevent him from trying to kill me,” she added.

  “Murdoch will pay for mistreating you,” Quentin promised.

  “Let us return to the original subject of this lesson,” Royce said. “Fionna, I want you to try to recall the way nuns walk.”

  “Slowly,” Fionna said, obeying the order, “with bowed heads and clasped hands. Nuns always appear meek.
They walk as if they don’t want to be noticed.”

  “Exactly. They walk like this.” Royce rose from the table. He folded his hands together at chest level, bent his head and shoulders as if to examine the ground, and took a few short steps around the tent.

  “Yes!” Fionna cried. “That’s it; that is a nun’s walk. How clever of you to have noticed. Royce, with the right clothing, you could pass for a nun.”

  “I have done so, once or twice,” Royce said, breaking free of the impersonation to grin at her. “Unfortunately, a man can appear to be a woman for only a short time, no more than a day at most.”

  “Why?” Fionna asked. “You seemed a near-perfect nun to me.”

  “Beards,” Royce said. “Women don’t grow them. Men do. A man who’s pretending to be a woman must shave twice a day, which will result in certain nicks and scrapes. The inevitable bloodshed from those cuts will, in turn, result in embarrassing questions.”

  “Of course.” Fionna began to laugh. “I never thought of that. I begin to believe I haven’t noticed much of what’s going on around me.”

  “Few people pay attention to apparently unimportant details,” Royce said. “But if you do pay attention, you will see and understand far more than other folk do. It’s a skill that can be learned, and it is remarkably helpful while spying.”

  “Perhaps if I had paid attention, I could have learned more of what my brothers were about, and learned it sooner,” Fionna said with a rueful sigh.

  “Royce’s ability to notice details that other people pass over is one of the qualities that make him such a fine spy,” Quentin said.

  “My spying days are over and done,” Royce responded with a coolness that ought to have silenced Quentin.

  “Are they?” Undaunted by Royce’s manner, Quentin smiled at his friend. “It looks to me as if you are enjoying yourself right now, as you scheme to send one of your agents into an abbey to bring out a girl who may as well be a prisoner there.”

  “Now, Fionna,” Royce said, ignoring Quentin’s words as if he hadn’t spoken at all, “let me see you walk as a nun does. Beginning tomorrow, I want you to wear the wimple and assume your role as a postulant. A few days’ practice will stand you in good stead. For tonight, just use the shawl as a head covering.”

  “Very well.” Fionna stood. She draped the shawl over her hair as she had seen old women do. Then she bent her head and shoulders in imitation of Royce’s demonstration. She took a few mincing steps.

  “Good,” said Cadwallon, nodding at her.

  “Not good enough,” Royce contradicted. “Fionna, you are moving like an old woman, but if anyone looks closely at you, it’ll be immediately apparent that you are not old. Think of impersonating a young woman, who is trying to learn to be meek. That way, if anyone does scrutinize you, your appearance will seem more natural. Try it again.”

  “Don’t bend over so much,” Cadwallon advised.

  “Take shorter steps,” Braedon said.

  Fionna tried again. And again.

  “Better,” said Royce, observing her with critical eyes. “You mentioned the way your sisters-in-law cringe. Try a bit of cringing.”

  “Cringing is not in my nature,” Fionna declared, straightening her back to glare at him.

  “You are doing this for your sister’s sake,” Royce reminded her.

  “So I am. But I am also supposed to be the noble Lady Ursula who, being a Norman, will naturally bow down only to God. And, perhaps, to King Henry.”

  “She’s right,” Quentin exclaimed, laughing. “Fionna, pretend you are Lady Agnes, resigned to entering a convent, but not entirely by your own free will. Now, try it again, please.”

  “Lady Agnes?” Fionna thought for a few moments, recalling the elegant posture of the wife of the constable of Carlisle Castle. “Yes, Quentin, I see what you mean. Is this better?” With hands folded rigidly before her, with head and shoulders just barely bent, Fionna walked around the tent, taking small, reluctant steps.

  “That’s it!” Royce declared. “That is exactly the appearance we want to convey. The abbess cannot doubt you if you appear at the door requesting entrance. Perhaps your beloved husband has recently died and you want to quit the world forever?”

  “Since she’s still a bit young to be a widow,” Braedon said, “perhaps she’s entering a convent in objection to the man chosen for her by her parents.”

  “That is also an acceptable excuse to get her in the door,” Royce said. “You decide for yourself, Fionna.”

  “Why should I need an elaborate background for an impersonation that will last only an hour or so?” Fionna asked.

  “If you know who the lady you are pretending to be is, and you are familiar with her family and her friends, then you will carry out a more truthful deception,” Quentin told her. “When you are asked questions about Lady Ursula – and you will be asked, make no mistake about that – you can answer immediately, and with apparent honesty, as the real Lady Ursula would do.”

  “A truthful deception,” Fionna repeated. “Now, there’s a phrase well suited to a spy. And it does make sense. I can understand how perfection in a spy’s deception could save his life.”

  “Or her life,” Royce added.

  “If I am to wear the wimple and pretend to be a postulant for several days, I will have to take care to walk as a postulant walks.” She tried her humble walk again, circling the tent once more.

  “You must also practice speaking as a postulant would speak,” Braedon said. “Your voice is too clear and carries too far. Lower your voice and try to sound as meek as you look.”

  Fionna glared at him for the criticism, but Braedon’s smile was remarkably friendly and encouraging.

  “The advice is good,” Royce said. “Speak softly. Quote scripture if you can. Choose your words carefully.”

  “You can do it for Janet’s sake,” Cadwallon said.

  “Yes.” Fionna smiled at him. “For Janet’s sake. And once Janet is safely out of Abercorn, I will never bow my head again except at an altar rail.”

  On the sixth day after Fionna and Quentin met Royce on the old Roman road they rode into West Lothian, bypassing Edinburgh.

  “We’ll stop short of Abercorn tonight,” Royce decided, “so we will arrive there in midmorning tomorrow. That way, we’ll have at least a few hours of daylight left after we depart from the place. Once we have Janet, we’ll want to put distance behind us as quickly as possible.”

  For Fionna, it was a long and wakeful night. She sat at the table in Royce’s dining tent, picking at her food and scarcely hearing what the men were saying.

  “You must eat,” Quentin admonished her. “We can’t have you falling ill, or fainting by the roadside. The journey back to England must be accomplished even more rapidly than the pace of the last few days.”

  “What if Janet is no longer at Abercorn?” Fionna whispered. “What if my brothers have taken her away?”

  “Hush.” Quentin’s hand came down on hers, his firm grasp conveying his determination to carry out the promise he had made on the first day they met. “Assuming Janet remains at Abercorn, we’ll have her out of there by this time tomorrow.”

  “And if she’s not there?” Fionna could barely speak the frightening words.

  “Then we will find her, wherever she is,” Quentin said.

  “Have you thought what you and your sister will do once you reach England?” Cadwallon asked, sending a sympathetic look in Fionna’s direction.

  Having grown familiar with his bluff kindness, she decided he was trying to direct her thoughts past her fears of what the morrow might bring and onto a more cheerful subject.

  “During all our time together, and all our talk about rescuing Janet, you have never mentioned any plans for the future,” Cadwallon added.

  “That’s because I haven’t made any plans,” Fionna said. “I just want to know my little sister is far beyond our brothers’ reach.”

  “You are welcome to stay at Wortham,”
Royce said. “My daughter would be glad of the companionship of other ladies who are close to her in age.”

  “I cannot think a Norman noblewoman will want anything to do with a pair of fugitive Scottish girls.” Fionna spoke more sharply than she had intended.

  “Catherine might surprise you,” Royce responded mildly.

  “I am sorry,” Fionna said. “That was inexcusably rude of me after all you have done, and still plan to do, in our behalf.”

  “We all understand,” Cadwallon said. “The night before a battle is always a tense time.”

  “Do you think a battle will be necessary?” Fionna cried in alarm at the idea.

  “No – no, of course not. Abercorn isn’t an armed fortress.” Cadwallon bestowed one of his boyish grins on her. “It’s just that we want to be ready, in case of unexpected problems.”

  “What problems?” Fionna asked in sudden alarm.

  “I have already explained to you that we must consider every possibility,” Quentin said, “so we can be prepared for whatever reaction your request to see Janet elicits. Fionna, I think you should retire now. I’ll see you to your tent.”

  As Quentin rose from the table the comforting touch of his hand over hers changed to a definite tug that urged her out of her seat. The serious look in his eyes warned her not to protest his insistence that it was time for her leave Royce’s table. She went with him quietly.

  “Sleep well,” Royce called after her.

  “I don’t expect to sleep at all,” Fionna muttered to Quentin.

  When they reached her tent Quentin hesitated while she entered. Then, without invitation, he stepped through the flap to join her.

  “Yes?” She whirled to face him. “Was there something more you wanted to say to me? Perhaps another piece of advice on what and how much I ought to eat, or how long I should sleep, or how I should walk, or what I must tell the abbess when we reach Abercorn?” she finished on a shrill note.