Jennifer August (22 page)

She brushed an escaped curl away from her face. “Why do you stare so, my lord?”

“We live in times of peril and uncertainty,
Stirling
. Wars abound and rebels seek to destroy all that we build.”

She frowned, why did he speak so? “My lord Quinn--”

He touched her lips with his finger and shook his head. “I would have a pact between us, one such as my parents had, that no matter what occurs beyond the walls of our bedchambers, there we shall always be honest. And true. And loving.”

“Loving, my lord?” Did he mean the sort of loving her mother and father spoke of? The intense, emotional bond that connected them, even after death? Excitement thrummed through her as she waited for his explanation. Could it be that her unspoken girlhood dreams of a loving husband were yet to be fulfilled by this dark
Norman
?

His slow smile held a wealth of sensual promise and warmth furled low in her belly. He stroked her cheek, trailing his blunt fingertip down her neck and along the curve of her bodice. She shivered, even as her nipples tightened, begging for his touch. “Aye, the loving we find in our bed, deep in the night. The kind that makes you cry out my name as you shake and quiver beneath me with the pleasure I give you.”

She could not hold still the tremble that wracked her inside and out at his bold words. Nor could she tamp her small amount of disappointment that he had not spoken of love.
Stirling
inclined her head. “Very well, my lord.” She sketched a brief curtsy and marched to the door. She tried to dislodge the discontent still swirling in her heart, but found the process difficult.

Loving, she scoffed. The man had no knowledge of the word. She grabbed the handle and yanked the door open, then stopped. But what if, she wondered, she could teach him the difference? Aye, ‘twas exactly what she would do, because somewhere in his loving there must be a way to discover his heart.

“Do you require something else,
Stirling
?” His deep voice resonated from behind her. She turned, eyeing him as he poured over the maps spread atop the oak table, his brow furrowed with what she thought was fascination. She smiled softly, remembering her father’s deep interest in the scrolls as well. Perhaps the two were more alike than she realized.

“Did you wish to visit Marcus with me?”

Quinn looked up, his gray eyes hazy with his faraway thoughts. “Hmm? Oh, nay, you see to him and report back to me should there be change.” His gaze dropped back to the map and he drew one long finger along some line etched on the parchment. Snow woofed sharply, jumped up and splayed her paws on the tops of Quinn’s map.

“Go on, hound, follow your mistress,” he ordered, not looking up.
Stirling
chuckled at his absorption and called for Snow, shutting the door behind them.

The white hound ran circles around her, butting her hands and growling playfully. “You’ve been trapped inside, too long, friend, haven’t you?” She crossed to the entrance and ushered her out. “See what trouble you can discover out there.” She watched her race along the dirt road leading to the village, until she disappeared over the rise and down the gentle slope. She hoped the hound would not disrupt the villagers too much.

After consulting with Dustin on the evening meal, she returned to Marcus’ chambers. Millane slept by his side, still kneeling on the floor, her hand clasping his.

“Millane, wake up,”
Stirling
softly murmured, touching the girl’s shoulder. Millane started with wild-eyed fear and sprang to her feet, her hand clutching the empty sheath at her waist.

“Oh, Lady Stirling, ‘tis you.” She laughed nervously and dropped her hand, her eyes skimming Marcus. “How does he fare?”

Stirling
looked at her curiously. “I’ve yet to check him, but I can see he still breathes. ‘Tis a good sign.” She moved to the wounded man and discovered his body cool to the touch and his breathing steady. Peeling back the linen bandages, she grimaced at the puffy flesh and redness surrounding the wound. He needed more of the poultice or ‘twould not heal properly.

“Retire to your own bed, Millane. He will likely sleep until the morn.”
Stirling
tugged at the maid’s arm, urging her toward the door.

“But what if he needs me?”

“He doesn’t require anything other than rest, fresh linens and more of the salve.”

“But do you have more?” The girl’s clinging fingers would not let go.
Stirling
yanked her arm away.

“Nay, I will need to grind more of the herbs, but ‘twill take no time a’tall. Go Millane, and rest. You may visit him on the morrow, after Lord Quinn has spoken with him, I promise.”

Stirling
managed to gently push Millane into the hall corridor. The girl turned to her once more, distress and exhaustion mingling in her face. “Is Lord Quinn going to punish him for concealing the sheet?”

Stirling
smiled, trying to ease the girl’s tangible fear. “Nay, he only wishes to talk of the person who attacked Marcus.”

Millane’s eyes brightened and she clasped her hands together at her chest. “Does Lord Quinn know who did this, then? Oh, how wonderful ‘twould be.”

“I believe he said Marcus knows and tried to speak of it before he fell unconscious.” Grabbing the girl’s arm, she walked her to the stairs. “Now go, I order you to rest.”
Stirling
smiled to lessen the harsh command, but inwardly wished the maid would take her leave, and quickly.

To her surprise, Millane flung her arms around her, hugging her tightly. “Thank you, my lady, for all you’ve done.”

“I could do no less, Millane,”
Stirling
murmured as the girl tripped hastily down the winding stairs. When at last she was gone,
Stirling
journeyed to the tower chamber, taking great care to clean the mortal and pestle before grinding the herbs necessary for Marcus’ recovery. When she returned to his chamber, she mixed them into a thick paste, applied it liberally and re-bandaged the wound.

She stayed with him for a time while he tossed and turned restlessly in the bed, muttering incoherently, as his body fought the damage the assailant’s knife had inflicted. When the dinner bell gonged, she called for a guard, ordering him to remain in front of Marcus’ door. The man looked at her blankly until she repeated the command in French. He smiled and nodded several times before placing his back against the door and scowling fiercely.

The second bell rang and
Stirling
descended the stairs and slipped into the dining hall. The room was sparsely occupied, as most of the men were stationed along the great walls, keeping careful watch over them. The few men at the tables stood as she walked in, and bowed low. She returned their gallant gesture with a curtsy and made her way to Quinn’s side. Gripping her hand, he helped her onto the dais.

“How is Marcus?” he asked above the low buzz of the knights’ conversations. He slid a trencher between them, efficiently tearing off portions of pheasant and adding spiced peas to the wooden bowl.

“He has not awakened yet, though he mumbles and moves around. His continued sleep is most unusual.” She poured a draft of mead into her mug, before continuing. “I replaced the linens and the ointment, but I do not like the look of the wound. It festers.”

Quinn blanched as he dipped a portion of pheasant into a bowl of sauce. “Please madame, not while we eat.”

Stirling
giggled, cutting a wedge from the round cheese slab. “At last a weakness, my lord?” she teased.

He looked affronted. “Not a weakness, a preference. I would that you not speak of such things at the meal, ‘tis all.”

“Why not? ‘Tis nothing more than human flesh, crusted a bit, ‘tis true, but--”

“Enough,” he ordered, pushing the trencher at her. “I am not hungry. My appetite has suddenly flown.”

Stirling
chuckled again, inching the plate closer to him. “Very well, my lord, I will speak no more of it. Eat, please.”

His look of disgruntled mistrust nearly sent her into another fit of laughter, but he finally reached for a bit of meat, gingerly stuffing the piece into his mouth.
Stirling
steered the conversation to a safer topic, telling him instead, of the villagers and their lives as he asked.

“Shall we retire now, lady-wife?” he asked in her ear. Surprised,
Stirling
realized the time had flown as they talked and the hall now stood deserted. Again, tongues of pleasurable heat flared, as remnants of their earlier conversation returned.

She peered up at him through her lashes. “Aye, lord, I am quite agreeable.”

He pulled her to her feet, kissing her with bruising tenderness. “Come, lady-wife, if we don’t view our chambers soon, I fear I shall burst.” His resonant laugh echoed low in her ear as his need pressed firmly against her, lending truth to his words. Hand-in-hand, they climbed the stairs to the seclusion of their chambers.

Quinn shot home the bolt and leaned against the door, grinning with seductive intent. “I hope you are well-rested, lady-wife, I suspect ‘twill be a long night.”

Chapter Fifteen

Her blush enchanted him, as did the obvious eagerness of her body. Her nipples tightened, pressing against the soft drape of her gown as she leaned slightly forward.

“Shall I act as your lady’s maid?” he asked, moving aside the dress and caressing her silken shoulder. She trembled.

“If you wish.” She tipped her head, scooping back the blonde locks barring his way. Quickly he unlaced the ties that hid her from his view. She stepped out of the gown, but did not face him. His hungry gaze roamed over her gently curved back, round derriere and supple legs concealed only by the gauzy linen of her chemise. Finally, and with excruciating slowness, she turned, her arms clasped over her firm breasts, hiding their beauty from him.

“Surely you are not finished, my lord?” Her coy question, filled with seductive promise, was reflected in the golden pool of her heated glance and the sultry tilt of her full lips.

He pulled her arms away and flicked a hardened nipple before tugging at the satin ribbon holding the sheer material closed. With each patch of skin he exposed, she shivered and he bit back a groan.

“Indeed you are beautifully made,” he growled, easing the covering to her hips, feasting on the sight of her luscious nakedness. He vowed to take the entire night and sample every delectable inch.

Stirling
’s sensual laugh pulled his gaze away from her berry-tipped breasts to the smoldering desire in her eyes. “You have quite a wolfish look on your face, husband. Should I fear for my life?”

“Nay, lady, ‘twill not hurt in the least.” He stroked her bare shoulders, clasped his hands behind her back and eased her closer. He gritted his teeth and shoved his growing need away, as the sharp points of her nipples skimmed his already burning skin. Vowing to pleasure her first, he lightly kissed her eyelids, sending them fluttering closed and eliciting a breathless giggle from her.

Sliding his bristled cheek along her downy soft one, Quinn absorbed every touch, every rustle as skin glided against skin. She turned her cheek, throwing him off guard, and trapped his mouth with hers. Her kiss, hesitant and unsure, charmed him and he allowed her to take the lead. He could not contain his groan when her curious tongue swept across his bottom lip, then parted his mouth and dipped inside, before quickly retreating.

Unwilling to part with the delightful taste of her so soon, he followed her, imitating her embrace. Lightly, softly, he caressed her lips and engaged her tongue in a desire-filled duel. Only when he thought his lungs would burst did he break away from her tempting mouth.

“Mayhap,” he gasped harshly, “I should be the one in fear of my life,
Stirling
. I forget to draw breath whenever our lips meet.”

She smiled but said naught, as she too, struggled for air, while her nimble fingers loosened the leather ties of his tunic. He stripped the blue material over his head, tossing the crumpled garment to the floor.

Stirling
, still breathless, drew her hand along the sculpted curves of his chest, awed by the strength she found there. Boldly, she touched him, studying his taut shoulders and muscular arms, built, she knew, by years of swordplay and service to his king. He flinched, but did not protest when she stroked down his rippled stomach, following the trail of black hair as it tapered and disappeared into his breeches.

“Careful, madame, or this night will indeed be short.”

His deep voice sounded strained and she admired his patience, but did not cease her exploration. She was fascinated by this man, her husband, and sought to know every bit of him. What pleased him, excited him, made him breathless. She walked around him, eyeing the incredible breadth of his back, inhaling sharply at the faint, but visible lash marks criss-crossing his flesh. She drew a finger along one of the lines from shoulder to hip, softly cursing whoever had done this to him.

“‘Twas long ago,
Stirling
,” he murmured and shrugged, the movement bunching his muscles against her hand.

“I do not care how much time has passed, ‘tis a cruelty you suffered.”

He arched, gasping, when she pressed her mouth to his back, gliding her lips the length of each scar, trying to soothe the long-ago injury. She did not remember seeing the faded wounds before and realized he purposefully hid them from her. Did he bare them now as an act of faith and trust? She prayed ‘twas indeed so.

Sliding her palm across the small of his back and around his waist, she faced him again, new determination strong within her. She would not squander this opportunity to open his heart further. Trust could beget love, she was certain of it. She smiled up at him.

“You are very pleasing, my lord.” She tugged at his breeches. “But I know more awaits.” She hoped he did not think her wanton, but the lure of his skin and the faint hint of hawthorn wafting to her nose, proved an irresistible, heady temptation.

He gave her a slow, devilish grin. “Indeed you are correct, my lady. Much more awaits us this night.” He knelt in front of her and gripped the linen chemise, holding her eyes captive as he stripped away the last barrier. His slow, meandering look burned down her body, from her mouth to the very core of her femininity, and she drew in a shaky breath.

“My lord, what are you about?”

“Pleasure,
Stirling
, this night is all about pleasure.”

He slid his warm bronzed hand around her ankle and up her leg with tormenting purpose until he stroked her thighs, seeking entrance. She could not deny him and eased her feet apart, her own hands clutching at his broad shoulders. She thought she would faint when his warm breath swept across her thigh, to the slight indentation in her belly, back to her leg. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, concentrating on the fire he stirred. The heat became nearly unbearable, but only he could control it. Only he could douse it.

Stirling
shrieked his name, gripping his head tightly when his tongue flicked the hardened nubbin straining from its nest of golden hair. The guttural cry pleased him and he flattened his tongue, laving her quivering flesh. He sought out each hidden crevice of her wet portal, nipping and teasing, until she shook and her juices ran freely. Sensing she stood at the brink, he lashed at her sensitive mound with increasing force and speed until her knees buckled and she fell heavily against him.

Scooping
Stirling
into his arms, Quinn stalked to the bed and gently laid her down. He stood over her, mesmerized by the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as her pleasure faded and she regained control. As she lay before him, bare and trusting, tenderness mingled with awe welled. The scars on his back still tingled from the brush of her lips. Never before had he known such compassion from a woman. She opened her eyes and smiled at him.

“Extraordinary, Sir Norman.”

He grinned. “We are not yet finished, little warrior.”

She rolled to her side, propping herself up on an elbow, her glance once again smoldering. “Then remove your breeches, my lord, and join me.”

His shout of laughter rang loudly in the room as he speedily complied with his demanding wife’s command. He slid alongside her smooth body, gently pushing her to her back once more. He kissed her lightly, then trailed his lips along the curve of her proud chin and down the column of her slender throat. She arched when he took a nipple in his mouth, her hands tangling the hair on his chest. He offered the same biting treatment to her other bud and she gripped his waist, head thrashing side to side.

He rotated his hips, pressing his hardness against her silken flank. Immediately her hand wrapped around him, stroking his heated staff with light, butterfly caresses. He feared he would go mad. Covering her hand with his, he tightened her grip and showed her how to pleasure him, then gritted his teeth when her quick study nearly sent him over the edge.

“Lie back, my lord,”
Stirling
boldly ordered, even as she continued the rhythm he’d shown her. Pleased, and more than a bit surprised when he complied, she eased down his lean body, maintaining her constant motion up and down his iron hard shaft.

Burying her face in the mat of black covering his chest,
Stirling
inhaled the musky scent of Quinn and leather. She followed the path of hair to her own stroking hand. Suddenly shy, she hovered over his hardness, unsure if she should taste him, if he would allow it. And even more uncertain if she should ask. She risked a glance at him. His eyes were closed, his face a mask of tense anticipation. Determined to evoke the same pleasure he’d given her, she darted her tongue along the tip of his moist shaft. She had no time to enjoy the salty hint of him as he hauled her back to his chest.

“Minx,” he growled and pushed her to her back. Rolling atop her, he framed her face with his hands, urging her legs apart with his muscular, hair-roughened thigh. In the next instant, he filled her completely, both in body and soul. Her eyelids drifted close at the riotous sensations swirling within her.

“Nay,
Stirling
, watch me. Watch us.” She looked up, their eyes locking as the pressure built. His glance slid down to where their bodies joined and he inhaled sharply. She followed the heated look and quickly jerked her eyes away.

“Look,
Stirling
. There is no shame in this loving. Only pleasure. Only us.”

She risked peering again, her breath hitching at the sight of his immense strength sliding so silkily into her body. Her heart hammered and droplets of perspiration beaded on her breast. Quinn quickened his pace and she clutched his neck, arching herself more fully into him, desperate to feel every emotion, every touch. With every surge he buried himself deeper into her soul. Again and again he pounded into her until she could no longer keep her eyes open, no longer keep the swirling spots of flame away. Giving herself up to the incredible sensations he created, she cried out his name and fell against the softness of the bed. He gripped her hips with bruising force, her name a guttural groan on his lips and spent himself deep within her.

# # #

The tower room was in shambles, her precious bottles of herbs and oils scattered across the stone floor. Stirling knelt in the midst of the ruin, weeping as she held the broken pieces of her mortar and pestle. All around her crushed leaves, fine powders and fragrant oils littered the room. But something was missing. Scrambling to her feet, she reached under the wooden table, searching for the box of lethal Monkshood. Gone!

A man’s voice roared in anger, a woman’s shrill scream rent the air and maniacal laughter assailed
Stirling
’s reeling senses. She spun, probing the darkness. A figure stood in the doorway, one pale hand beckoning. Gaining her feet,
Stirling
hesitated, sensing danger. She took a step forward.

Stirling
woke with a start, heart fluttering and nerves on edge. Slowly the dream came back to her. What did it mean?

“
Stirling
, are you well?” Quinn’s sleepy voice rumbled, his hand stroking her hip against the feather bed.

“Aye, my lord, return to sleep.” She waited until his breathing settled back into a deep rhythm then eased from the bed. Donning her dressing gown, she slipped from the room, nodding to the guards posted outside their door. Calmly lighting a candle from a wall torch, she walked up the stairs to the third level, crossed the battlement walls and climbed the crumbling staircase leading to the tower room.

She stopped before entering, afraid to push the oak door and finding her dream come to life.

“Do not be a ninny,
Stirling
, ‘twas only a dream.” With that rebuke, she eased the door open and slammed her eyes shut. After arguing with herself for several moments, she cracked her eyes enough to see the floor clear of any debris, and the wooden shelves laden with intact bottles and small herbal bags. With a sigh of relief
Stirling
marched into the room and checked each jar and every woolen pouch, relieved to find the contents had not been disturbed. ‘Twas only a dream. Climbing atop the rickety stool, she pulled down the box of Monkshood and other dangerous potions hidden away on the very highest shelf. A quick glance told her everything was accounted for. The wooden stool creaked in protest as she strained upward to return the wooden box.
Stirling
slowly eased down, breathing a sigh of relief when her bare foot met the stone floor until she stumbled over a rock and fell hard against the wooden table, jarring a bottle from beneath the oak surface.