Jennifer August (8 page)

“Aye.” Quinn lightly squeezed
Stirling
’s cold fingers, tamping his elation. So close.

The priest turned to his mistress. “To you, Lord Quinn brings the protection of his name and army, bountiful riches and restores your titles. Do you accept his offering?”

“Aye.”

Quinn gave a small sigh of relief at her firm response. ‘Twas done at last.

“Lord Quinn, have you a symbol to settle upon Lady Stirling so that all people will know she is your wife?”

“Aye.” Quinn withdrew the heavy gold ring he’d purchased on a whim nearly four years before. He realized as he slid the band onto her finger, the yellow tiger diamond matched the color of
Stirling
’s eyes exactly.

“And do you Lady Stirling wish to present your Lord with a token of your, uh, affection?” The priest cleared his throat and gazed at
Stirling
with wide-eyed innocence as Quinn glared at him. Her response and soft touch regained his attention.

“Most certainly, your Worthiness.” Keeping her gaze on his hand, she pushed a silver and ruby ring onto his finger. “The bearer of this ring is recognized as the lord of Falcon Fire and shall be treated with respect and honor as such.” He did not know if her loudly spoken words were meant to convince her or her people.

The priest swung the incense over both of them. “I declare you to be wed, a permanent and binding union which no man shall break under punishment from God and William, King of England. Rise Lord and Lady of Falcon Fire and seal your bond.”

They stood as one and faced each other. Gently, Quinn cupped
Stirling
’s silky cheek and lowered his head. He kissed her tenderly, rimming the delicate fullness of her lips until she trembled and a gasp only he could hear escaped her. He drew back and smiled, then turned to the assembled crowd, who cheered loudly. “I give you your Lady!” He raised their still-joined hands and kissed her white knuckles. “Be at ease, lady-wife, ‘tis almost over.”

She raised her brows, condescending merriment chasing away her bemused look. “Nay, Sir Norman, ‘tis only begun.”

# # #

‘
Twas done and could not be undone.
Stirling
nibbled her fingernail, then stared at the exotic ring Quinn gave her only hours earlier. The rectangle shape of the gem was unusual and the gold holding it looked like the fine lace the gypsies sometimes brought from the northern climes. The delicate and fragile appearance of the band hid a strength not readily visible and she did not fear breaking it. She wondered where he traveled to purchase such a trinket. And why.

“Your people,
our people
, have outdone themselves, lady-wife. The feast you swore impossible is quite delicious.” Quinn offered a morsel of roasted pheasant from the tip of his knife. She shook her head, reaching instead for her goblet of mead. Mayhap she could consume enough of the sweet drink to blur the remainder of the evening.

“Eat, my lady,” he murmured in her ear, easing the goblet from her hand. “I promise you, ‘tis well worth the effort.” Carefully he slid the meat from the knife blade, then held the succulent tidbit to her lips. Reluctantly she accepted the offering and bit into the pheasant. He smiled broadly.

“Well done, lady wife. ‘Tis wise you eat, you shall need your strength this evening.”

Puzzled she tilted her head, trying to deduce his meaning. She must have imbibed more of the mead than she thought, because she could figure no sense to his words. “Married but a few hours and already you fun me, sirrah. ‘Tis very ignoble, you know.”

He laughed and leaned closer, his breath, warm and moist, sweeping along her ear. She shivered. “I shall do much more than fun you, wife. As soon as ‘tis proper, you and I shall retreat to our chambers for the wedding night.”

Her eyes opened wide and she gasped. Their noses bumped when she turned her head and he stole a laughing kiss, then pulled away, reaching for his own drink. Licking her lips, she tasted the heady potent red wine he enjoyed and a dart of excitement pricked her. Irritated at her own response, she glared at him, but could think of no rebuke with which to scold him. Bedding her was his right, given freely by her acceptance of his ring. She looked again at the band and sighed. ‘Twas all happening so fast, her head spun. And her feet hurt. Nearly every man in the room, Saxon and Norman alike, begged a dance from her. She did not refuse any of them, enjoying the brief respite from her new husband’s searing eyes and knowing smile. She wondered why he did not escort her around the dance floor, not even once, but swiftly rejected the urge to ask. The less time she spent in his company, the better.

The strum of a lyre broke through the chatter of the assembled knights and villagers. Conversation halted and all eyes turned to the doorway, where a man dressed in an outlandish yellow and green tunic, green leggings and yellow, bell-tipped shoes stood. He stroked his fingers across the strings again and leaped forward, landing in the middle of the room.
Stirling
choked on her mead when she recognized the peculiar troubadour to be her dear friend Langeth, a knight in service to Falcon Fire. Quinn thumped her on the back until she was sure she would have bruises for a fortnight. “Enough!” She gasped. “Cease, prithee.”

He stopped whacking her, but his hand remained nestled in the cradle of her neck and shoulder, a warm innuendo of what was to come. With effort, she focused on Langeth, trying not to laugh. Or cry.

“Denizens of Falcon Fire,” he began, “‘Tis my honor this evening to entertain and amuse you as we celebrate this blessed day.”

Cheers rang out and glasses hoisted in the air.
Stirling
rolled her eyes.

“Who is he?” Quinn murmured, amusement running through his words.

“Sir Langeth. A junior member of John’s forces, but a most eager knight, to be sure.”

“And now, Lord and Lady of Falcon Fire, I offer a tribute, a song.”

She giggled, well versed with his musical abilities. The poor man was tone-deaf. Of course, such criticism never deterred him, though ‘twas oft given.

“Proceed, troubadour.” Quinn waved his hand, gently caressing her neck with the other. She squirmed and tried to concentrate on Langeth and his eccentric dress.

“When the night wind blows and the sky turns dark, they say one will come, he who will flame love from one single spark. When all is lost and cannot be found, this love shall break through the barriers all around.” Langeth danced a small jig, then wildly strummed the lyre. The strident jangle grated on her nerves, but his words piqued her interest. “The fire of love shall burn bright. It will heal old wounds and make everything right. Trust each other, no one else, that which abides here cannot be felt. No sense, no sound, no sight, nothing but the love of fire and ice.” He finished with a flourish, dancing madly around the room, collecting trinkets, lady’s favors and coins for his strange toast.

Quinn’s gray gaze bore steadily into her. “What do you make of that, my lady?”

“He has always been most odd, Sir Norman. Perchance he drank too much of your French wine?”

“Mayhap.” He fingered the low neckline of her gown, raising goose bumps wherever he touched. “He has them well-entertained, lady-wife, now is the perfect time to adjourn to our chambers.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. She glanced around, but no one looked their direction.

“But our guests …” she gestured to the crowd.

“Will accompany us to the bedding if we do not escape quickly. ‘Tis not a fate I would wish upon you.”

She blushed and clutched his hand. “Nay, sir, I certainly do not wish this to be a public sport.”

“Do not be afraid,
Stirling
, I promise, come morning, you shall wonder why you ever hesitated.”

She inhaled sharply at his supreme arrogance. The man believed himself to be perfect, she felt certain. As he pulled her through the servant’s hall to the kitchens, the memory of another man’s arrogance and its consequences slammed into her. Even as Quinn urged her up the winding staircase to the third floor, Tristan’s betrayal washed over her. She knew not this handsome Norman invader, nothing of his family or his dreams. She knew only that he was a man of war and loyal to the crown-thief. Why then, did Quinn wed her?

They entered the solar of the Lord’s chamber and he closed the door, locking the bolt behind them.

“Sit
Stirling
, and ease your fears for a moment.” He indicated a chair, which she sank into, gazing around the room in amazement at the difference. “What is amiss now, lady-wife?”

“‘Tis hardly the same chamber. When Father…,” she hesitated, “departed, I ordered this chamber closed. Two years of dust and neglect accumulated, but I had not the heart to clean it.”

He handed her a goblet of wine. “I understand your sorrow, but you must look to the future. Together we will found a new legacy and our children shall inherit the outcome of our efforts as we re-build this keep.”

She sipped the potent red wine, eyeing him over the rim. He unbuckled the gilded leather sword belt that hung empty around his waist and laid the sheath on a chair. Next he lifted the loose red and black tunic over his head, mussing his black hair. The shirt landed atop the sword belt. She shifted in the chair, took a deeper draught of the wine and watched him warily. Heat coursed through her as he disrobed. When he pulled at the long-sleeved black linen shirt, she could remain silent no longer.

“Why did you marry me?” She perched at the edge of the chair, eager to flee, both the man and the reactions he stirred.

He paused, the shirt halfway up his stomach and raised a quizzical brow. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as her eyes helplessly followed the trail of black hair over his rippling, muscular abdomen to below the snug waist of his leggings. He let the shirt drop, and she collapsed back against the chair, draining the cup in one fell swoop. These puzzling sensations disturbed her. She could not desire this man, could not want him to remain here at Falcon Fire. He was her enemy. Wasn’t he?

“Why do you wish to know?”

She looked past his shoulder to the tapestry of her parents’ wedding. “You said you already owned the land and the keep. Why did you wed with me, the daughter of a known traitor, I believe you said?”

He shrugged. “I did not wish you to be cast into uncertain circumstances, ‘tis all.”

“Why would you care?”

“
Stirling
, this discussion will aid us in no way. Come,” he reached down, pulling her to her feet and against his warm body. The heat nearly seared her, but ‘twas so inviting she shuddered even as she urged herself to move. She did not. She looked up at him, captivated by the glint in his gray eyes. They shone bright as a ceremonial sword. “Did your mother tell you of the marriage bed?”

She did pull away then, embarrassment lending her strength. “Aye.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, stifling the heat that surged through them as he appraised her wolfishly.

“And what did she tell you?”

“Lucifer’s Hooves, Sir Norman, is this required? She told me the pertinent details, all I need to know of what shall occur. If you are so anxious to bed me, then do so and be done with it!” She stamped her foot and he chuckled. Narrowing her eyes and planting her fists on her hips only made him laugh harder. She whirled and headed for the door.

“Hold, lady-wife.” The amusement still visible on his face now competed with a churning heat deep within his eyes. “I would have you speak my name.”

She stiffened, not willing to give up this small rebellion, but knowing she must. Better this little thing if it would appease him, than a greater defeat. The hand restraining her gentled and he drew her to him, her back against his chest, his arm resting just above her breasts. She could not breathe. The inevitable, the unknown was nearly at hand. She tried to dissuade him one last time.

“Please, Lord Quinn, I beg you, give me time to adjust myself to this marriage. You must admit the newness of this --”

“Nay, lady-wife.” He turned her slowly. “The time for words is done.” Quinn slanted his mouth to hers, his kiss a slow and thorough exploration.