Love Above All Page 7

  He hadn’t mentioned his observation to his men because he feared if they all went crashing eagerly through the forest in search of her, Fionna, knowing he couldn’t afford to waste much more time, would find a hiding place and stay there until he called off the chase. Or else she’d panic and come to harm, be tossed off her horse or tumble into a ravine. The thought of her lying injured and helpless made him feel sick – and increased his anger with her.

  Quentin knew how to hunt, how to track an animal or a man, and now he tracked Fionna. It was impossible to move through such thick underbrush while on a horse without leaving some indication of where the horse had gone, and Fionna was in too much of a hurry to bother about concealment. Quentin followed the broken branches on small bushes. He noted the occasional hoofprint in mud or on patches of soft moss. Once he found a pile of horse droppings and knew he was on the right path.

  He met no one along the way. Almost half a century earlier the Norman conquerors had stormed through this part of the country they had claimed for themselves, reaching as far north as the Scottish border to put down a Saxon rebellion, killing, burning, and destroying as they went, until few of the original natives were left alive. In the decades since then, deserted farmland was left to return to forest and little rebuilding had been done. In some areas the devastation was so severe, and the land so thoroughly despoiled, that only grasses grew.

  Just as Quentin entered a wide swathe of such grassy meadowland the skies opened and rain poured down. He guessed Fionna would gallop directly across the open space, fearing pursuit and seeking the shelter of the trees on the far side of the meadow, so he did the same. As he plunged into the forest again wet yellow and brown leaves fluttered around him, torn off the trees by the wind and rain.

  When darkness fell he lost the track, so he gave up for the day, trusting he’d find the way again in the morning. He spent a miserable night under a dripping fir tree, wrapped only in his second-best cloak, having chosen to cover his horse with his blanket. He slept but little. Most of the nighttime hours he spent worrying about Fionna, wondering where she was and if she had found a safe place to rest.

  At dawn he rose wet and stiff, to continue the search through a misty, showery day. His temper grew ever shorter as Fionna’s path became more difficult to follow. He was by now riding uphill through an ancient forest, with the trees so close together that little light reached the ground, thus keeping the undergrowth scanty. Whether Fionna left a clear path or not, he knew her direction. In the same way a bird flies homeward at dusk she was heading as directly as she could for Abercorn. He would find his quarry. It was just a matter of time. Whether she would be dead or alive when he reached her was another matter.

  Throughout that long and frustrating day he alternately cursed Fionna for her stubborn loyalty to her sister, and prayed he would not discover her lying dead of a broken neck or, far worse, dead of abuse by common outlaws, remnants of the Saxon natives, or by raiders from Scotland, who occasionally made forays far into Cumbria. As Cadwallon had noted, it was not a safe area for any woman to wander in unescorted.

  Toward evening he rode into a tiny clearing in which sat a dilapidated hut, with a half-destroyed shed near the hut. Fionna’s horse was in the shed, apparently curried with the piles of discarded grass he noticed, and covered with Fionna’s blanket. Her saddle and saddlebags were gone.

  A faint scraping sound from the direction of the hut told him where to look next. He dismounted, leaving his horse in the shed. He’d take care of the animal later. For the moment, he thought it wise to be able to remount and get away fast, if it became necessary. He couldn’t be sure it was Fionna in the hut, or if she was alone.

  Walking silently and cautiously over damp leaves, he approached the hut from the side. Part of the roof was caved in, but the remaining thatch provided enough shelter to make the little building appealing to anyone who wanted to get out of the cold drizzle.

  Upon hearing the scraping noise again, Quentin moved around the corner of the hut to peer in through a doorway with a broken, charred lintel beam and no door to be seen.

  There, tucked far enough under the remaining roof to be on relatively dry ground, Fionna sat cross-legged on the earth floor of the hut. A pile of leaves and sticks lay in front of her and she was busily striking two bits of stone together. She hadn’t seen him yet. Quentin’s best cloak, the warm, heavy one he had let her wear, was tossed carelessly onto the dirt, with her saddle and saddlebag next to it.

  Quentin debated with himself whether he preferred embracing her in relief at finding her alive and apparently unharmed, or whether he wanted to strangle her out of long-contained anger. He decided on words.

  “If I had realized how shabbily you would treat my belongings,” he said into the silence, “I would never have allowed you to use them.”

  “Oh!” Fionna jumped to her feet. She remained upright for only a moment before her face went white and she began to collapse.

  Quentin stepped forward to catch her. He lowered her to the ground, wondering as he did so whether she was only pretending. But she remained limp in his arms, something he was sure she’d never do if she was conscious. He laid her flat and began to rub her hands. After a time her eyelids fluttered, though she kept them closed.

  “Why did you follow me?” she whispered, so faintly that he had to lower his head close to hers to hear her. “I thought you were near enough to England that you’d keep going and not pursue me.”

  “Surely, you never imagined I’d abandon you?” he exclaimed.

  “Janet,” she whispered, as if the single word held all the explanation she thought he’d require.

  “Yes, I know,” he responded with considerable sharpness. “Your sister’s wellbeing takes precedence over all else, including your own life. How will it help Janet if you are murdered while attempting to reach her?”

  A lone tear trickled from beneath Fionna’s closed lids. She turned her face away from him, as if she didn’t want him to notice it.

  “Why couldn’t you trust me to keep my word to you?” Quentin asked in a kinder tone.

  “Where my sister’s life is concerned, I trust no one!” she cried. “I keep telling you, there isn’t time – we don’t know when Colum will return from France, or when my brothers will take her away from Abercorn. Oh, why won’t you listen to me?”

  “Perhaps for the same reason you haven’t been listening to me,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “Our obligations are at odds.”

  He watched her take a deep breath and swallow hard before she opened her eyes and looked at him. The clear blue of her gaze, swimming with unshed tears, tore at Quentin’s heart. She was foolish, dangerously impulsive, and brave beyond the courage of any other woman he had ever met.

  “Yet despite your obligations, you came after me,” she said. “Where are the others? I’m sure Braedon will be as angry with me as you are. Braedon likes me not at all. But, perhaps Cadwallon will understand my reasoning.”

  “I came alone.”

  “What, unescorted through these dangerous lands?” Her tone was mocking but something altered in her gaze, fear and worry softening into a warmer, gentler look, as if she was glad to see him.

  Quentin could not bear that look. Fionna was just one of his many obligations. He was responsible for her safety, but he didn’t want her thinking his concern was anything more than chivalrous interest in a mistreated woman. He’d see her to safety in England, and do his best to help her sister, as he had promised. Then he’d return to his duties for King Henry. Once he was at court again, he’d forget Fionna. It could not be otherwise; there was no place in his life for a woman who expected more from him than he was willing to give.

  “Were you trying to start a fire?” he asked in a rougher voice than he meant to use with her.

  “I found some dry leaves in a corner of the hut,” she said, pushing herself to a sitting position, “and I gathered a few branches. Everything is so wet. Oh, dear, my head is spinning.”<
br />
  She would have fallen backward if Quentin hadn’t caught her and steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. He gave her a quick shake, wishing the motion would shake some ordinary sense into her. He began to scold her, using the same tone he employed when dressing down his men-at-arms for some infraction of the strict rules he expected them to obey.

  “Do you understand that you are still weak after nearly drowning?” he asked. “You ought to be lying in a warm bed with a hot brick at your feet.”

  “I have never had a hot brick placed at my feet, and it’s you who forced me to ride in the first place,” she said with a ripple of bitter laughter that sent chills down Quentin’s spine.

  “Well, at least we can have a fire,” he said, without acknowledging the truth of her accusation.

  Releasing his hard grip on her shoulders he picked up the stones she had dropped. He struck them together in a sudden movement that carried with it all the irritation and frustration he was feeling. On his third try a spark flew into the pile of leaves. Fionna leaned forward to blow on the spark. Quentin noticed a pile of dry grass she had laid to one side. He added the grass bit by bit, and slowly the fire took hold and grew. Rising, he glanced around the hut, seeking larger pieces of wood to burn.

  “I saw some logs beside the shed,” Fionna said, “but they’re probably too damp to catch fire easily.”

  “I’ll check them. I need to care for my horse.” Quentin paused in the doorway. “Keep the fire going – and don’t even dream of leaving this hut. If you set one foot outside the doorway, I swear, I’ll beat you.”

  “I won’t leave.” She kept her gaze on the stick she was feeding into the small blaze. “I’m too tired to run away.”

  He stared at her, surprised beyond speech by her admission. Fionna weary and obedient was a creature unfamiliar to him. After days of observing her while she made secret preparations for her escape from him, he wasn’t sure he dared to trust her apparent weakness.

  By the time he had finished with his horse, then carried his saddle and saddlebags to a dry corner of the hut to rest beside Fionna’s gear, and dragged a few logs inside, it was again raining hard. Lightning flashed across the sky, thunder roared almost constantly, and the wind was so strong that Quentin wondered if the remaining portion of the roof would be blown off in the gale.

  Fionna had chosen a site well under the roof to start the fire, leaving just enough space between fire and hut wall for them to stretch out to sleep. Quentin noted the arrangement with approval.

  “The fire will keep wild animals away,” he said, “and the light will reveal any human trespassers who try to approach us.”

  “I was afraid a fire would encourage unwanted company to visit,” she told him, “but I was so cold, and I didn’t want to spend another night alone in the dark.”

  He refrained from pointing out that it was her own fault she’d been alone. A change of subject seemed a good idea.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, reaching for his saddlebags.

  “A little.” Her eyes were huge and shadowed, her face pale even with the firelight to warm it.

  “Shall we dine off my rations? Or shall we eat the bread you’ve been hiding in your saddlebag these last few days? It’s undoubtedly stale by now, but we can pour wine over the pieces to soften them.”

  “You knew?”

  “Did you imagine I wasn’t watching you?”

  “And I thought I was being so clever! Well, I’ve lost my chance, haven’t I? You aren’t likely to set me free, so we may as well eat my food and save yours for later. That way, you will have something to eat while you drag me off to England.”

  Her shoulders slumped, her whole appearance becoming so dejected that Quentin ached to ease her unhappiness. He couldn’t offer to take her to Abercorn immediately, so instead he offered the food he knew she needed.

  “I have a flask of wine,” he said, “along with a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. We’ll share our supplies until we can get more.”

  Unable to speak for threatening tears, Fionna only nodded. She voiced no objection when Quentin sat down next to her so they were side by side, with their backs against the hut wall. She watched in silence while he laid the food out between them on the napkin in which the cheese had been wrapped. He pulled the cork from the skin wine flask and drank, then passed the flask to her. She took great care not to allow their fingers to touch as she accepted the flask. There was nothing she could do about placing her mouth where his lips had been.

  Perhaps it was the result of extreme weariness after two days and a terrifying night alone, with little food consumed along the way because she was trying to conserve what she had in the saddlebag, or perhaps it was just the relief of having a strong companion with whom she felt safe. Whatever the reason, the wine went straight to her head. Suddenly, she was fiercely hungry. If Quentin had allowed it, she would have eaten all the cheese and most of the bread.

  “Save some for tomorrow,” he cautioned, stowing portions of the bread and cheese back in his saddlebags as he spoke. But he didn’t take the wine flask away from her.

  “Do you hope I’ll be too drunk to run away while you sleep?” she challenged him, lifting the flask to her lips yet again.

  “I think you need the fortification wine will provide,” he said in quiet response to her words. “We can always refill the flask with water from a stream. There’s no lack of water around here.”

  He rose to lay a fresh log on the fire, while Fionna drank still more wine. She leaned her head back against the wall and yawned. Quentin took the wine flask from her unresisting fingers and put it away. He shook out the cloak he had been wearing and spread it on the ground, while Fionna watched. Only after he was finished did the obvious fact that they were going to have to sleep together sink into her wine-befuddled mind.

  She told herself it didn’t matter. She had already spent a night with Quentin, in a bed, and he hadn’t harmed her. Of course, during that previous night she had been unconscious and she hadn’t known Quentin, nor he, her. She was far from being unaware of him now, and he knew entirely too much about her.

  His broad-shouldered presence filled the hut. All of his movements bespoke an assurance that began to worry her.

  “Can you sleep in chainmail?” she asked, wondering how the metal links would feel beneath her fingers. If she rested her head on Quentin’s chest, would the metal rings mark her cheek?

  “I have slept in my armor many times,” he said. “It’s not the most comfortable way to rest, but it is assuredly the safest way, when one is in unknown territory. Lie down, Fionna.” He gestured, indicating that she should lie on the half of his cloak nearest the wall.

  “Do you want me there so I can’t escape without disturbing your sleep?” she snapped. To her great annoyance, the words came out slurred. She wished she had been more restrained with the wine flask.

  “I want you there, so I will be between you and any intruder,” he said. “I am not likely to sleep much.”

  “Oh.” Ashamed of her rudeness and suddenly very sleepy, she stretched out on the cloak. Her next words were even more slurred. “I am a great trouble to you, am I not?”

  “You have no idea how much trouble you cause.”

  He lay down beside her and pulled over them the cloak she had been wearing. The heavy wool was damp. Fionna shivered, regretting that she hadn’t thought to hang the cloak over a couple of the rough spots on the wall, so it could dry. Her dress was damp, too. She shivered again. Quentin did not move. Fionna turned on her side to face him. She regarded his stern profile against the firelight while she wondered what went on behind his apparently calm facade.

  “Your chainmail will rust in the dampness,” she said, speaking with great care so she wouldn’t slur the words.

  “I’ll clean it when I reach Wortham.”

  He turned his head so he could look directly at her. Fionna couldn’t make herself stop staring at him. It was as if she was drinking him in through her e
yes. Though she was lying on cold ground on a damp cloak, with another damp cloak over her, she was growing warmer. Quentin’s warm gaze was heating her. That, and the wine she’d consumed. She told herself it was the wine that made her move a little closer to him.

  Abruptly, Quentin was on his feet, striding away from her toward the doorway.

  “What is it?” Alarmed, she sat up.

  “I thought I heard something.”

  He stared out the opening for a time, while Fionna admired the way the rosy light from the fire made his chainmail glitter. The thought of being pressed hard against that mail stopped her breath in her throat.

  “Quentin?” she whispered, hoping he’d decide to rejoin her.

  “It’s nothing, just a night noise.” On his way back to her Quentin paused to add more logs to the fire. The flames blazed high. He knelt beside her.

  She knew she didn’t look her best. Her hair was coming out of its braid, her hands were dirty, and she was sure her face was smudged, but Quentin looked at her as if she were a lady of wondrous beauty.

  “You ought to be asleep,” he murmured, and gently touched her cheek. She pressed her face into his palm.

  “I believe I could sleep if you’d hold me,” she whispered. “I’d be warmer, and not so frightened.”

  “I don’t think holding you would be wise.”

  “I don’t care.” She reached toward him, sliding her hand around his neck to pull him closer. Quentin’s gaze became so intense that she felt devoured by it.

  Knowing she was behaving like a wanton, yet unable to stop herself, Fionna lay back, drawing Quentin with her until he was stretched along the length of her body, hard muscle and chainmail against tattered wool. He braced himself on one elbow so he was slightly above her, and his mouth was almost on hers.

  Fionna moistened her lips, certain he was going to kiss her. He didn’t. Instead, he lightly traced the bridge of her nose with one finger, and when her lips parted in surprise he slid his finger inside her mouth to stroke her tongue.