Jennifer August (28 page)

“Boy, rouse Sir John.” Quinn threw Charon’s saddle on the horse’s back and vaulted into the leather seat. “Tell him to guard against Calvin.”

“Aye, sir.” The boy took off across the mud spattered ground, heading for the barracks.

“Quinn, wait,”
Temple
yelled from the great hall.

“Meet me at the glade,” Quinn ordered and bent low over Charon, urging the black horse from the bailey and toward
Stirling
.

Fear ate at him as he rode, images of
Stirling
at Calvin’s mercy nearly making him retch. His proud wife’s rebellion would surely be met with severe retribution. Quinn held no doubt
Stirling
would stand against her vile neighbor, ‘twas not in her nature to bend. Her sharp tongue and agile mind, coupled with the iron heat of her pride, the quirks that made him love her so, would cause her naught but harm in Calvin’s eyes.

Love?

Quinn inhaled sharply as truth dawned on him. His marriage, nothing more than a carefully constructed ruse to draw out a traitor, had become real. And now that traitor threatened to end it all too quickly. Nay. Quinn focused his anger on Calvin vowing the fat man would not live out this day, nor would the traitorous bitch Millane.

Quinn eased back Charon’s reins as he approached the hills surrounding the glade, ducking into the dense trees dotting them. Calvin’s guards would not spot him so easily thus concealed. Dismounting, he tied the horse to a tree branch and drew his sword from its sheath. Bowing his head, he whispered a prayer for
Stirling
’s safekeeping then slipped up the hill, vengeance guiding his silent steps. Cresting the top of the glade, he looked down on Calvin’s camp, counting more than a dozen mounted knights, and over two score of the ragtag mercenaries, but no
Stirling
.

A small tent, pitched at the base of a stand of pines, shook and the flap tore open. Calvin stumbled out, red-faced and huffing. He shook his fist at the tent, adjusted his belt and puffed out his chest, glaring at the snickering soldiers around him.

Fury rocked Quinn. Had the bastard tried to attack
Stirling
? Half-rising to full height a strong hand against his shoulder pushed him back down. Quinn threw himself away from the unknown assailant, bringing his sword to point.

Temple
glared down at him. “‘Tis soft she’s turned ye, damn yer eyes. We made enough noise to wake William from a sot. Are ye tryin’ to git kilt, ye blasted, ach.” He waved his hand disgustedly. “Ye dinna even ken my words.”

“Are your men ready?” Quinn ignored the Scot’s rebuke, whipping his head toward the camp as an outraged bellow echoed through the glade. Once more the tent shook and a tall, dark-skinned mercenary fell out, clutching between his legs. Fierce satisfaction ripped through Quinn.
Temple
’s powerful grip forestalled another hasty flight to her side.

“You’re no good tae her like this, mon. She needs Quinn the Avenger, commander of William’s armies, not a fool who canna, willna see the dangers before his eyes.”

The truth of
Temple
’s harsh words sobered Quinn and he nodded his head. “You have the right of it, my friend.”

He closed his eyes and cleared his mind, seeking the balance of control that had always served him so well. Forcing aside his own fear, anger and guilt, he focused on the honey image of
Stirling
, smiling at him, her golden eyes winking with laughter. His eyes snapped open as he once again mastered his own resolve.

“Where are your men?”

Temple
grinned and rocked back on his heels. “Aye, now, ‘tis more like it. They surround the glade, and we’ve taken out all of his guards.” Pursing his lips, he tipped his head. “Willna be much of a fight, hardly worth our time, ye ken, but should be a good bit of sport nonetheless. We more than outmatch his men, they’ve only four to one on us.”

“Stay here and await my signal.” Quinn retrieved Charon and swung into the saddle, sheathing his sword.

Temple
’s mouth gaped again. “Ye canna go down there alone.”

Quinn grinned. “Aye, I can.”

Kneeing the horse past
Temple
, he cantered through a copse of trees and onto the edge of the glade. Stiffening in the saddle, he drew forth
Stirling
’s image again, preparing himself for battle.

“Calvin of Thornhatch, stand and meet me,” he bellowed, watching closely as the knights and mercenaries scrambled for their weapons and horses. They formed a tight knot, placing themselves squarely in front of the tent housing
Stirling
. Calvin’s flushed, round face peered at him from behind the rows of men.

“Did you bring the ransom?” he squeaked.

“Aye.” Quinn patted a saddlebag.

The men shifted, parting slightly as Millane forced her way through. Grinning maliciously, she yanked on the end of a rope.
Stirling
lurched forward, nearly dropping to her knees as the rope suddenly whipped back and bit back a cry on the rancid material stuffed in her mouth. Quinn flicked his eyes over her, but no expression crossed his face.

“You have my property, madame.”

His voice sounded cold, bored.
Stirling
stiffened at the slight, glaring at the soldiers when they snickered. Drawing herself up, she tipped her head back proudly. She’d not begged for Calvin and she would not beg for Quinn, but she could not hold back the tears that threatened at his callousness. She dared to meet his eyes again, surprised to find them warm and calming. Understanding dawned and she relaxed, ready to follow his silent commands. “What must I do to retrieve the baggage?”

“Baggage?” Millane repeated with a sneer. “Your foolish games will not work with me, Bastard Avenger. Well do I know your infatuation with her.”

Calvin eased next to Millane, toying with the rope. With a tug, he pulled
Stirling
close to his foul-smelling body. He licked his lips and stared at her breasts, his lust so tangible, it gagged her. He lined her lips with his fat finger, pulling the rag from her mouth and slipping his finger inside. She bit down on the offending digit and he yanked it back out with a howl.

“Bitch,” he snarled, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“Release my wife.”

Quinn’s cold, lethal voice sent a shiver through her. Calvin seemed not to notice the deadly intent in each word and continued to stroke her flesh from shoulder to shoulder.
Stirling
leaned away from him, fastening her gaze on Quinn once more. He was her security, her safety. He would not fail her.

“You were foolish to come here alone, Norman.” Calvin stroked her arm, then faced Quinn fully. He paced with swaggering arrogance in front of the men, shaking his finger at Quinn. “Now I have you, and her and the gold.” He crowed. “And which shall I enjoy the most, do you think?”

“You will not have the chance for either, fat man,” Quinn said calmly.

“‘Twill be your bride, whose legs I will spread gleefully and --” Calvin’s words ended on a gurgle and his arm flailed as he dropped to the ground, a knife protruding from his throat.
Stirling
looked away from the horrid sight, though she did not deny the fierce pleasure his death provided her. ‘Twas over.

“My thanks, Lord Quinn. He had become a burden,” Millane spoke coolly and
Stirling
’s gaze shot to her.

“Surprised?” she chortled. “No one suspects a woman of possessing anything more than the pleasure between her legs and certainly not the ability to gather or command an army.”

“You command them?”
Stirling
could not believe the words.

“Aye.” Millane glared at her. “‘Twas why I needed Falcon Fire. Those maps your father adored contained the sites of gold mines scattered beneath it.”

Stirling
gaped. “Gold?”

“Aye, you stupid cow. ‘Twas no need for you to marry the Norman bastard, a tuppence to William’s coffers would have assured your status, but you did not do it, even when I suggested so.”

“I thought you jested.”

“You are as half-witted as your mother was.”

Stirling
stiffened. “Mother?”

“Aye, she did not believe his tales either and sought to destroy the maps. She took them from him and ‘twas up to me to retrieve them.” Millane tugged on the rope, winding it around her hand. “She squealed when she died. Will you?”

Rage burned
Stirling
’s eyes and she closed them, breathing harshly. This madwoman had killed her mother and most likely, would kill her and Quinn as well. She opened her eyes. She would not die alone.

Stirling
jerked on the rope, catching Millane off-balance. The rope tore from her hands and
Stirling
bolted towards Quinn’s horse.

“Nay,” Millane screeched. “Archers, kill her.”

Stirling
gasped and looked over her shoulder, stumbling as the rope tangled between her legs, throwing her to the ground. The pounding of Quinn’s galloping horse masked the twang of the arrows as the archers let their deadly points fly, but she knew he would not reach her in time. She was going to die.

“Quinn.” Even as his name burst from her lips, the ground shimmered and blue mist spread out before her, solidifying into a silver clad figure atop a white horse. Lifting his glinting silver shield, the Knight of the Mist deflected the arrows, scattering them harmlessly at her feet. Mesmerized at the appearance of this apparition she thought only a legend,
Stirling
scrambled to her feet and reached out to him. In the next instant she was flying through the air as Quinn scooped her up, setting her in front of him on Charon. He reined the horse sharply to the left, avoiding another hail of lethal arrows as the silver clad figure galloped noiselessly toward them. He nodded, before turning back to Millane’s now-still army.

“You have no right to this land, Millane of Thornhatch. Take your pitiful army and flee this place.”

Millane swaggered forward, though her army stepped back a pace. “I do not fear you, ghost.” She drew closer, the sneer visible on her lips. “You are naught but trickery conjured by the witch woman,
Stirling
. ‘Tis but one more reason for her to die as the heretic she is.”

The Knight of the Mist cantered silently forward, stopping his white horse inches from Millane’s contemptuous glare.

“I am the guardian of Falcon Fire. I am the Knight of the Mist.” His loud proclamation scattered Millane’s remaining troops and they bolted from the glade only to be met by
Temple
and his band of warrior Scots as they dropped from the trees.

“Nay,” Millane screamed, eyes wild as she watched them flee. “He is not real.”

“I must aid
Temple
, lady-wife.” Quinn sliced through the ropes binding her wrists and slid her from the horse, handing her his long-bladed dagger. “Stay here and I will return for you.” Leaning down, he pressed a harsh kiss to her lips, then whirled Charon and entered the fracas.

Stirling
stood where he left her, gaze captured by the confrontation between the Knight of the Mist and Millane. She inched forward, longing to see this fabled protector closer.

“You have lost, Millane,” he stated and lifted a finger. “Leave this place.”

Millane’s features contorted into a mask of hatred. Her glare bounced from the knight to the battle around her coming to rest on
Stirling
. She took a step back at the evil emanating from the maid.

“‘Tis your fault.”

Millane darted around the knight and charged
Stirling
, jerking her knife free of its sheath.
Stirling
stood her ground, balancing her weight carefully and braced for the attack. Millane swung at her wildly and
Stirling
ducked, stepping away. The girl followed quickly, slashing at her, her eyes sparking vilely.