Jennifer August (2 page)

Chapter One

Southern England
, August 1067

“So the rumors are true, John,” Stirling of Falcon Fire murmured to the captain of her guard, forcing away the nervous nausea swimming within her. She dropped the leather window covering and turned to face him, drawing a deep breath. The usually pleasing aroma of lavender that wafted in the air did nothing to soothe her agitation. “The Conqueror has indeed seen fit to give Falcon Fire to one of his knights. Someone approaches bearing the
Norman
’s banner.”

“You knew this would day come my lady.” The big man’s voice held a hint of resignation. “Lord Calvin,” he spat the monster’s name, “is going to make trouble over this, mark my words.

She shared a knowing glance with John. “Aye, and I would rather marry this Norman stranger than be at that monster’s mercy.”

“Lady Stirling, your search has not been completed. You must end it now.”

She held up her hand, silencing him. “Enough, John. I need your support, not your lectures. Just because he comes, does not mean my quest will end. I cannot just forget Father.” She turned her gaze away from her captain. “God only knows what this man will be like. Do you know who he is?”

The aging knight shook his head. “Only that he had his pick of all of
England
and chose you.”

She stiffened, both at the comment and the sound of horses in the courtyard. “He chose the land, not the bride. Most likely another fool who has heard the rumors of a golden treasure which does not exist.”

Certainly the
Norman
cared naught for the woman he was to marry. He’d not even sent an emissary to visit before making his choice, nor one to haggle the bridal price. She was not ready to meet the man who would take her to wife in a loveless marriage while reaping the bounties of her fertile lands. But she was no coward, either.

“Come, John. We shall greet them together.”

He held out his arm and they paced the length of the great hall to the front entryway. The huge oak doors opened slowly and a great cloud of dust, noise and armored men poured inside.
Stirling
tightened her grip, heart beating quick as a rabbit caught in a snare. Like that rabbit, she knew her capture was inevitable. Pasting what she hoped was a demure, if not a welcoming smile on her lips, she stepped away from John.

“Good eventide, sirs.” Though she spoke French, she chose to address them in her native tongue. A childish display of rebellion, but all she would allow herself, for now. “I am Lady Stirling of Falcon Fire.” She cast a curious glance over them, searching for their leader. A lean, blond-haired man stepped forward, a wide grin on his dust covered face. He lifted her hand and placed a soft kiss against it.

“
Bonjour, demoiselle
. I am Marcus Elonger, and have been sent here by King William.”

Stirling
relaxed slightly, warmed by the man’s genuine greeting and flawless English. Surreptitiously, she scanned his handsome features. Brown eyes danced merrily in his long, tanned face.

Was this her intended? This man with laughing eyes and gentle demeanor? Mayhap she misjudged him and this forced marriage would not be such a burden after all. “Welcome to my home, my lord. I hope your journey was pleasant.”

“All the more so just to gaze upon your beauty.” He winked and his smile broadened.

She knew her cheeks flamed as she tugged at her hand, but he refused to let go.

“Aye, that is all well and good, I suppose.” She tossed a pleading glance over her shoulder to John, who only shrugged.
Stirling
cleared her throat. “Aye, welcome to Falcon Fire.”

“You said that.”

“Enough, Marcus, free the wench so that we may be about our business.”

Stirling
narrowed her eyes at being labeled a wench by the deep voice echoing from the doorway of the keep.

“Of course, my lord.” Marcus winked again and stepped away, chuckling as a tall knight stalked forward.

Awareness tingled over
Stirling
’s skin at the sight of him. Surely this black knight could not be her betrothed! Unwillingly her gaze swept over him, from the long, tied-back thickness of his raven hair to the impossibly broad shoulders and powerful legs encased in dark armor. A broadsword was strapped low across his hips, and the cloth-covered hilt of another blade jutted from behind his head, the scabbard belted across his chest. She fell back a step, his mere presence like a physical blow.

“I will gladly appease your curiosity, demoiselle, after we eat and drink.” His battle armor gray eyes raked her body with a leisurely perusal, lingering at the rounded tops of her breasts.

Anger warred with unwelcome awareness. Mutinously she met his glare. “I wondered what sort of knight had won this land. Now I see William has given even his stable boy a boon!”

Laughter from the dark knight’s warriors bounced off the stone walls. The side of his mouth quirked upward, though the storm in his eyes did not calm. “You will call him King William. You are
Stirling
, I gather? The orphaned child of the traitor Robert?”

She stiffened, the sting of his words piercing her like a sharp blade. The arrogant man needed a lesson in manners.
Stirling
narrowed her eyes as she fingered the bag of herbs she always wore at her waist. Perhaps a potion to make him indisposed for a few days.

“She is Lady Stirling,” John stepped forward, voice filled with bullish insistence. “And her father was no traitor.”

The dark knight shrugged. “Matters not. I am now lord of this keep, and as I have said, I require food and drink.”

“And definitely a bath,”
Stirling
couldn’t help but mutter.

His icy gray eyes pierced her, full lips curling into a sensual snarl. “Aye and you will assist me.”

She blanched. ‘Twas not uncommon for the lady of the house to bathe visiting lords, and in fact, was expected. But for a maiden to do so was forbidden. She crossed her arms and raised her chin. “I will not.”

He stalked toward her though no sound came from his booted feet against the flagstone floor. Amazed at the control he exerted over his powerful body, she offered no resistance when he tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. “You will. Now.”

The heated strength of his fingers dropped to her wrist, clamping around her newly-sensitive flesh with iron intent. With her in tow, he started toward the staircase at the back of the entry. She had no choice but to follow.

“Marcus, see to the men. And find a kitchen maid to ready a meal.”

His crisp command of her servants chafed.

“As you will, my lord,” the man called back, laughter coating each word. With a loud clap, he barked out orders.

Stirling
seethed at the sound of her suddenly compliant servants scurrying to perform the invader’s bidding.

Who was this rigid warrior?

She seethed at his lack of manners; he’d not even introduced himself.

“I demand you release me.” She tugged at his big fingers, wrapped around her wrist like an iron manacle.

“Nay.”

He stopped at the first landing, glancing both left and right at the doors lining the halls, then shook his head.

“Upstairs.”

They rounded the landing and climbed the next set of steps. Again he stopped, glancing each way. His gaze lingered to the right where her rooms were, but he pulled her left and down the hallway. Unerringly, he pushed open the door to her father’s chambers, untouched since the day he’d been dragged away in chains. Whorls of dust rose to greet them.

Coughing, the black knight released her and strode to the window, untied the rope and flung open the covering. He did the same with each of the other three windows until the air no longer danced with motes of dirt.
Stirling
remained near the door, tempted to flee to her room, unable to face the pain of her past, unwilling to face the shadows of her future.

“‘Twould not be wise,” he said, as if he knew the thoughts chasing through her mind. Motioning her forward, he unbuckled both sword belts and laid them on a sturdy oak table near the bed. Arms spread wide, he nodded. “You may remove my hauberk.”

She shook her head. “‘Tis your squire’s job.”

“He’s dead and I haven’t had time to appoint a new one. ‘Tis a simple enough task and one you will perform as my wife. Come.” He motioned her forward, the challenge clear in his hooded gaze.

She glared at him, but sensed she could not win this battle.

“Very well, then,” she snapped ungraciously, stepping behind him, pushing aside the dark blue cape covering his armor. The scent of leather and musky sweat filled her nose. Sniffing, she decided ‘twas not so unpleasant, but he did require a bath. Leaning closer she detected another faint aroma, a pleasant woodsy odor that teased her nose with familiar pain. Hawthorn. She drew back slightly, startled. Her mother used to boil the leaves of the hardy plant into a liquid for her father’s bath. She claimed they eased his aches and the fragrance was quite pleasing.

“What is the problem now?” the dark knight demanded gruffly and the memory faded.

“Naught, Sir Norman.”

He held the heavy breastplate as she struggled with the stubborn buckle that anchored it. It refused to release its hold and she nearly shouted with anger. “I cannot unfasten the bloody thing. ‘Tis hopeless.”

He shook his head and heaved a deep sigh as if pooling all his discontent in that one long breath. She hoped he fell unconscious from lack of air.

He didn’t.

Pity, that.

“Pull the strap to the left, then yank on the buckle. ‘Twill come free,” he ordered, voice crisp and gruff.

She grabbed the leather and did as he instructed, amazed when the hook slipped free. Stepping back, she dusted her hands off. “There, I am certain one of your men can assist you further.”

Again he encircled her wrist in a light, but unbreakable grip, holding the heavy metal armor aloft in his other hand. She gulped at both the display of strength and unflinching resolve on his face.

“Nay. You will assist me.”

She lowered her gaze so he would not glimpse the anger she knew flared in her eyes.

 
Aye, definitely a potion to make his innards twist.
“I will have water heated for you,” she said when at last she’d controlled her ire.

“My lord,” he said, tossing his armor to the bed. The iron garb crashed against the feather ticking with a loud clatter. More dust kicked up, surrounding the bed and twirling into the air.

She waved the motes away and looked at him in confusion. “Pardon?”

“You will address me as my lord or Lord Quinn.”

She inhaled sharply.
Arrogant bastard.
“Is that your name then? Quinn?” She kept her voice as calm as possible, but even she heard the disdain in it.

“Aye. Quinn de Trefoid.” He released her wrist and turned away.

She tucked her still-tingling arm into the folds of her skirt, watching him wary regard as a sense of familiarity surfaced.

Who was this man?

He tugged his dirt-stained blue vest over his head, baring the black-dusted strength of his muscular chest. “Order the water, demoiselle.”

Good God, he was huge. Little wonder that he could lift the weight of his armor with but one hand. He looked to be carved from stone, so defined was his muscular physique.
He is the enemy
,
Stirling
chastised herself, appalled to find her mouth dry and pulse racing. She opened the door and walked to the landing rail. He would not do. Not at all.