Jennifer August (11 page)

He quirked that arrogant brow at her again. “View our chambers? I must admit, I’ve never heard loving called that before, but if that is your preference?”

She glared up at him, lips pursed and foot tapping, searching for the perfect scathing words.

“Pax, lady-wife, I but tease you. See to your duties, I will have words with you before the evening meal.”

She nodded and turned away, not trusting herself to speak. The man had the most unnerving affect on her. She had never known anyone who could raise her normally docile anger with naught but a single word or stoke her passion with the softest of touches. ‘Twas maddening, exhilarating, dangerous.

“
Stirling
.” He stopped her at the entry to the great hall.

She glanced at him quizzically. “Aye, my lord?”

“‘Tis good you are well. It shall make viewing our chambers that much better.”

Chapter Six

Quinn sat at the lord’s table, in the lord’s chair, with
Stirling
to his left and Marcus to his right. Sir John and
Temple
, along with his ladylove, occupied the remaining chairs. Spread before them were the combined forces of his army and Falcon Fire. The tension in the room was nearly palpable. Quinn grimaced. The wounds of the recent war still bled in this hall. Lord Robert’s soldiers had not yet given up hope that William would quit
England
and return to his home across the water. And his own warriors eyed their Saxon brethren with wary, distrustful stares. Joining the two forces would be a challenge he must quickly accomplish. The longer he delayed his search for the traitor, the more opportunity for the rebels to attack William.

“Your trencher my lord Quinn.” A buxom young maid with dark eyes slid a wooden plate forward, rubbing her breasts along his arm with the motion. Her eyes were full of promise. He smiled coolly in dismissal, but she was persistent. She leaned close to him, so close he could smell the stale sweat that clung to her unwashed body. Her breath, though disguised with mint leaves, smelled sharply of turnips.

“My name is Portea, should you want anything my lord.”

“Be gone, girl,”
Stirling
spoke sharply, golden eyes narrowed and sparking fires of anger.

The girl pouted at her mistress. “But, my lady, I was only --”

“Not him,”
Stirling
warned and Quinn wondered if she marked her territory. He smiled inwardly, oddly pleased by her snappish possession.

“Thank you,” Quinn murmured when the girl left in a huff. Slicing a piece of venison, he chewed the tender bit thoughtfully, surprised at the flavorful taste. Curious, he reached for another piece. It was the same. “Tell me lady-wife,” he began, “I have noticed the cleanliness of Falcon Fire, the sweet rushes, the delicious food. ‘Tis most unusual. Are you responsible?”

She turned her glare on him. “Of course, sirrah. Did you think the hall ran itself?” She reached for the chalice of mead and sipped lightly.

He laughed, his mood one of anticipation. He leaned closer, inhaling the sweet lavender-scent of his wife’s skin.
Wife.
The word slid through his mind like warm honey, like the taste of her passion as she found her release. He clasped her hand and tugged it over to his lap, pressing her fingers against his thigh. He slid his own palm along the satin brocade covering her hip, squeezing gently. She inhaled sharply, but did not turn to look at him again. “Your beauty is remarkable,
Stirling
. ‘Tis an honor to call you wife.” He slipped around her hip, dipping into the juncture of her thighs. Her fingers contracted against his leg, the sharp nails sending pulses of erotic tension to his shaft.

“Should you continue to provoke me thus, little warrior, we shall finish our meal early and view the kitchens.”

“I?” She gasped softly, tugging at her hand. “I do nothing, Sir Norman.”

He smiled at her whispered wrath.

“Does my hand disturb you?” He drummed his fingers over the mound of flesh through the dress and she squirmed, heat rising to coat her cheeks with a rosy hue.

“Aye.”

“Good.” He pulled away and released her hand as well. He laughed as she scooted her chair as far away from him as she could without bumping
Temple
.

“Ah, my lady,”
Temple
inclined his head. “I do not blame you for choosing me over that ne’er do well. ‘Tis a wonder you married him a’tall, with my handsome visage so near to you.”

Laughter broke out, easing the tensions somewhat. Quinn settled back into his chair, content to let his men guide the course of the meal. He knew, before the moon fell on this night, all the soldiers in the keep would be as one. Or gone.

“Hah. ‘Tis more of a wonder I didn’t run screaming for the convent when the lot of you arrived!” Though he couldn’t see her face, Quinn heard the sting of sarcasm in her voice as she sparred with
Temple
, and grinned. His wife had mettle. She would need it.

Quinn pushed the lord’s chair back from the table to stretch his legs out and crossed his arms over his pleasantly full stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate a meal as satisfying as this one. His wife ran an efficient household, of that much he was certain. The rooms were clean, the food more than edible and the people happy. But
Stirling
seemed saddened.

He looked at her trim back and golden hair. Her title had been restored, she remained in her own home and he would deny her no money. What more could a woman ask? Quinn knew with a certainty something else eluded his new wife. And he intended to discover what it was. Just as soon as he found the bastard threatening William.

If all went well,
Temple
will learn more in the next few days. Then, the threat will be eliminated, William will grant Quinn’s release and the only concerns he will have will be deciding which crops to grow and which rooms to view with his wife.

Quinn glanced around the noisy chamber, pleased by the sight of the men eating and drinking with each other. Though they did not mingle as much as he like, ‘twas a good beginning. ‘Twas the start he would take. Quinn’s attention was taken by the conversation between Marcus and Falcon Fire’s captain-of-the-guard.

“Were they so anxious to have Lady
Stirling
married?” Marcus asked John. “Their celebration seems a bit excessive.”

“They celebrate many things, my lord. Your wedding, the future of the keep, the Knight of the Mist.”

Quinn leaned forward, drawing their attention. “Knight of the Mist? What women’s stories do you speak of?”

“‘Tis the legend of the House of Fire.” John drained his tankard of ale and wiped away the foam with one meaty forearm. “The tale says when this house is attacked, the Knight of the Mist shall come forth to help defend the walls and protect those who abide here.”

“Protect them against what?” Quinn’s voice held sardonic amusement.

Sir John looked at him sharply. “‘Tis no laughing matter,” he retorted, half-rising from his chair. The room grew quiet. Quinn waved the big soldier back down.

“Calm yourself, man. I mean no slight. I have heard many such tales, all of which were false. Tales of mystery usually intended to raise the interest of a wealthy or powerful lord. Or to dissuade one from offering for the daughter of the house.” Quinn’s men laughed, the Saxon soldiers straightened on their benches. Their actions did not go unnoticed by either man.

“We’ve seen him, my lord.” Several grunts of agreement came from the Saxons.

“Have you? When?”

“That’s enough, good sirs.”
Stirling
’s steely tone cut across the blustering voices of her men. “Lord Quinn is rightful lord here now. There is no need to bring up such old tales.”

“Nay, lady,” Quinn silenced her, though his name on her lips pleased him greatly. He would coax it from her later, when only he could hear it breathed in a husky sigh, an erotic moan. “I would hear this story.” He nodded at Sir John. “When did you see this Knight of the Mist?”

“Many times, he’s come to us, my lord. In the midst of battle, when all seems lost, he appears. Sometimes at the side of the lord, and other times at the top of a hill. Or the edge of the battlefield where all of Falcon Fire men can see him.”

“Really, my lord, ‘tis nothing more than a tale told to children in the dark of night. Have a bit of cheese, sirrah.”
Stirling
held a piece to his lips and he grinned, closing his mouth over her slender fingers. Her eyes widened and her breath caught, a slow blush creeping over her delicate cheeks. He liked the way his wife responded to his every touch. Such a reaction made caressing her all the more desirable. He winked and she looked away, nibbling at her bottom lip. He shifted in his seat, the image of her lips and teeth nibbling him stirring his desires to an uncomfortable sitting position.

“‘Tis not a fable,
Stirling
, as well you know,” John censured, the sharp tone reclaiming Quinn’s attention. He frowned at John’s impudence, but held his tongue as the man continued. “He’s come for hundreds of years, to each lord who needs him. Even you have seen the knight, my lady. Why deny his existence now?”

Quinn’s brow rose. John took this legend more seriously than he had first thought. And his wife did not. Most odd. Her reluctance to speak of this knight intrigued him. “What does this apparition look like?”

“Silver, sir. A silver knight on a white horse, bearing a shield of iron and lethal twin blades. He rarely speaks, but his mere presence is enough to rally the most defeated soldiers.” The grizzled knight nodded his head and glared, as if daring Quinn to challenge his words.

Quinn blinked slowly, easing the sudden burst of excitement racing through him to a slower gait. ‘Twas only a legend, he reminded himself, but thought of the small sword he carried. The one given him by a mysterious knight clad in silver. He must learn more. “And where is this knight now?” he queried, keeping his tone even and disinterested.

“He disappears, my lord. Melts back into the mist that bore him.”

“Why did he appear to begin with?”

“As I’ve said, he protects us from -- “ A loud curse drowned out John’s words.

“Filthy
Norman
dog!”

“Saxon swine!”

Two knights stood, nose to nose, glaring at each other. The Saxon’s tunic was soaked with ale, the
Norman
wore a bowl of wild carrots on his breeches. Quinn smiled with satisfaction and leaned back in his chair, though he was loathe to let the conversation die. He would find a way to speak of it later. He must.

John sank down beside him, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. The high-pitched screech of wood scraping over stone, bounced off the walls as benches were shoved back and tables overturned. Insults, shouts of anger and war cries added to the noise.

“My lord,”
Stirling
yelled into his ear. “You must stop this. Oh.” She ducked into his chest as a trencher flew over their heads. He seized the opportunity and pulled her into his lap.

“Nonsense. ‘Tis just what they need. This will bleed their anger at each other.”

“But why are they--” He silenced her with a kiss, luxuriating in the taste of her soft mouth. Sweetened with the honey mead she enjoyed, her moist warmth aroused him instantly. When he pulled away, her arms tightened around his neck and she urged him back. He shifted her light weight in his lap, inhaling sharply when the cleft of her buttocks rubbed against his straining shaft. He intensified the kiss, opening her lips and darting his tongue inside. He teased the edges of her mouth, stroked the length of her tongue with his and swallowed her moan when his hand cupped her breast. The sudden sway of the chair jerked him to reality and he quickly leaned forward, setting all four chair legs back on the floor.

“We must continue this later, lady wife. Soon I shall need all my wits, and I fear you kiss them right from my brain,” he teased her, stroking the golden hair that tumbled from its confines and slid her from his lap. She stood, the blush full on her cheeks once more. Intrigued, he noticed the tint traveled down her neck and disappeared under the neckline of her bodice. He must find out just how far that blush went.

“I will retire to our chambers, my lord.” She glanced at the fighting men and bit her lip. “Such displays upset me.”

“‘Tis early,
Stirling
, stay with me,” he commanded, but she shook her head and quit the room, disappearing into the corridor to the kitchens.

Though tempted to go after her and enforce his demands, instead he returned his attention to the brawl. He watched as two more bodies crashed to the ground, each wrestling for domination. The victorious
Norman
grasped the long, unkempt hair of the man beneath him and pounded his head into the stone floor. The man groaned and his eyes rolled backward as he passed out. The
Norman
’s grunt of triumph was cut short by a chair breaking over his head. He fell unconscious on top of his opponent. Portea, still holding the back of the chair, dimpled at Quinn and curtsied. Tossing her weapon aside, she picked up her tray and hurried from the room. Quinn shook his head and laughed.