Love Above All (29 page)

“With only half a dozen men-at-arms to help
him,” William added, “and it’s growing dark.”

“Quentin will return when he captures
Gillemore,” Royce said. “Though, from the mood he was in when I
insisted he leave us, I won’t be surprised if he kills every
remaining Scot with his bare hands.”

“I can’t say I blame him for wanting to get
away from Janet’s sharp tongue,” William said. “To listen to her,
you’d think Quentin was the man who tried to kill Fionna.”

In a way, he was,
Royce thought.
Quentin was the intended victim, and Fionna was in the way. If I
know Quentin, the guilt will live with him for the rest of his
life.

With a sigh Royce set thoughts of his
friend’s distress aside until later. For the moment, there was work
to do.

“We can’t stay here,” Royce said to William.
“There’s a suitable field a short distance ahead that one of the
scouts located shortly before we were attacked. We’ll camp there
tonight, under heavy guard in case Gillemore or some of his friends
should manage to slip past Quentin and decide to return in hope of
setting Murdoch or Colum free. I want extra guards to watch those
two.

“Have the baggage wagons taken to the field
and unloaded as quickly as possible,” Royce continued his orders.
“Then bring the wagons back to carry the wounded. By that time we
should know who can walk or ride, and who needs to be carried.”

“I’ll see to it.” William started toward the
wagons and the servants who waited with them. Then he turned back.
“Royce, will Fionna live?”

“I don’t know,” Royce answered. “And,
frankly, I’m afraid to ask Janet for her opinion on the
subject.”

Quentin and the men-at-arms who had gone with
him reached Royce’s camp near sunrise, bringing with them Gillemore
and a handful of bedraggled Scottish warriors. By that time Quentin
had calmed his raging emotions enough to accept Royce’s wisdom in
sending him away from Fionna to capture the fleeing Scots. But a
busy night of searching, coming immediately after an exhausting
battle, did nothing to ease either Quentin’s anger at Murdoch, or
his worry over Fionna’s condition.

After dragging Murdoch off her bleeding body,
Quentin had held her in his arms, refusing to put her down. The
fearful possibility that Fionna might die had reduced him to tears
for the first time in his adult life. Janet’s frantic screams at
him to get away, that he’d done enough damage, left him consumed
with guilt. Only Royce’s firm insistence had finally convinced him
to hand Fionna over to Janet’s care and to allow Braedon to tend to
the wound on his thigh.

Quentin was not seriously hurt, but the
slight, lingering discomfort in his thigh served to remind him that
he continued to live, that he was able to stand and walk and to
mount his horse and ride, only because of Fionna’s quick
action.

As he rode into the camp he looked toward the
blue tent where he knew Fionna was lying. The instant he dismounted
and handed the prisoners over to Royce, he was going to enter that
tent and neither Janet nor Royce was going to prevent him from
staying at Fionna’s side until he was certain she was going to
recover. Since the moment he had left her, he had been praying for
her life to be spared.

Royce’s people were already astir. Quentin
could see that at least some of them were preparing to ride. The
sight of saddled and bridled horses and men in chainmail brought a
chill to his heart. If Fionna was too badly wounded to ride, why
was Royce preparing to move on? What had happened during his
absence? Had all of his prayers fallen on deaf heavenly ears?

Janet came out of the tent. Pale of face,
with dark shadows under her eyes, she stared at Quentin with an
expression of cold distaste.

“How is Fionna?” Quentin asked the moment he
saw her.

“She is asleep, so don’t you dare waken her,
or you’ll answer to me,” Janet warned.

“Will she live?” Quentin almost fell off his
horse in his haste to get to Fionna. He was so weary he could
barely stand, but he pulled himself together long enough to tell
one of the men-at-arms who rode with him to take the prisoners to
Royce. Then Quentin approached Janet, using his superior height
allied with the angry frown and the glare that usually intimidated
even the bravest of men. Janet was not to be intimidated. She stood
toe to toe with him and glared right back.

“No thanks to you,” Janet said in a voice
like a slashing steel blade, “my sister will survive.”

“Thanks be to God!” Shaking with relief,
Quentin closed his eyes for a moment while he tried to to compose
himself before continuing the inevitable duel of words with Janet.
“How bad are her wounds?”

“Not bad enough to kill her,” Janet
snapped.

“So you just said. Tell me exactly what
Murdoch did to her.”

“The details of my sister’s injury,” Janet
informed him, “are not your concern.”

“The devil they aren’t! Fionna deliberately
risked her life to save me – from your brother, I might add. I have
a right to know how badly she was injured.”

“Why?” asked Janet. “Do you plan to marry
her?”

“That decision, little girl,” Quentin said,
choosing to insult her and shake a finger under her nose, rather
than strangling her as he longed to do, “is not your concern. Now,
answer me at once, or I’ll learn for myself what I want to know.”
He used his intimidating frown on her again and, to his surprise,
Janet backed down and supplied the answer he wanted.

“Fionna has a cut on her left side. Murdoch’s
blade may have nicked a rib,” Janet said. “The wound is clean and
so far shows no sign of festering.”

“That’s good.” Quentin took a deep breath,
intending to insist that she allow him to see Fionna at once.
Before he could speak, Janet continued. From the anger he saw in
her eyes Quentin had the feeling she was almost pleased to tell him
something she was sure would upset him, even though she definitely
was not happy about what she was saying. Quentin knew Janet would
never rejoice in any harm done to Fionna. Dissimilar in so many
ways, the sisters were alike in their unbounded love for each
other.

“Murdoch’s blade also slashed the inside of
Fionna’s left arm, just above the elbow. That wound is far more
serious than the other.”

“Why didn’t you say so at once?” Quentin
asked.

“I sewed the wound edges together,” Janet
said, as if she was speaking of sewing a dress, “and I’ve been
bathing it with wine all night. Even if it heals well, she’s likely
to have trouble using the arm for a long time to come, perhaps for
the rest of her life.”

Janet sniffled and scrubbed at her eyes with
her fists, like a child trying not to cry. For the first time since
meeting her, Quentin understood how she used her shrewish tongue
and the appearance of anger to hide her fears from others. He
should have seen through Janet’s pretenses sooner, for he sometimes
employed the same tactics himself. Struck with sympathy for a girl
he’d disliked until that moment, he placed a gentle hand on her
shoulder. He expected her to shrug off the touch. Instead, Janet
laid her head on his chest. Her shoulders shook with silent
tears.

“You are overtired,” Quentin said, patting
her tangled red curls. “I’m sure you never left Fionna’s side all
night. Let me see her for a moment. Then I’ll make my report to
Royce and come right back here. I will stay with Fionna while you
rest.”

“My cot is in there, next to hers,” Janet
said, cold dislike for him returning to her face and voice. She
straightened her back and moved away from him to stand by the tent
entrance as if to guard it and keep him out. “I will not leave my
sister to your care. If I sleep, I will sleep by her side.”

Quentin’s sympathy vanished in a heartbeat.
This was the Janet he knew and disliked, the prickly, snappish girl
who never spoke a pleasant word if she could think of something
irritating to say. Fortunately, while he was still contemplating
his chances of success if he charged past her and into the tent to
reach Fionna’s side, Cadwallon appeared.

“Royce wants to see both of you,” Cadwallon
said.

“I cannot leave Fionna,” Janet responded,
glaring at him as if he were an enemy.

“I think you will want to leave when I tell
you that Royce is considering what to do with the captured Scots,”
Cadwallon said. “He’d like to hear your opinion, Janet. It’s your
chance to speak in Fionna’s behalf, since she is unable to speak
for herself.”

“Will he listen to anything I say?” Janet
sounded as if she didn’t believe it.

“I think he will,” Cadwallon said. “Suppose I
ask Royce to post a man-at-arms at the tent entrance? We’ll tell
him not to enter, lest he disturb Fionna, but if he hears a sound
from within, he’s to call you at once. Will that arrangement
satisfy your concerns?”

“I suppose so,” Janet said reluctantly. “I do
want to speak against Murdoch for what he has done. Very well,
Cadwallon, find a trustworthy man-at-arms.”

“While Cadwallon does that,” Quentin said, “I
am going to see Fionna.”

“No!” Janet cried. “You may not go in
there.”

But Quentin was not to be denied any longer.
He pushed Janet aside and stepped into the tent.

Fionna was either asleep as Janet claimed, or
she was unconscious. It could have been either, for her cheeks were
flushed as if she suffered from a fever. Her face was chalk white,
except for the flushing and the bruise from Murdoch’s sword along
her left temple. Her eyes were sunken above her jutting cheekbones,
and Quentin noted the dark, purplish shadows on her lids. When he
took her hand, it was hot and dry, though she did not move
restlessly, as victims of high fever often did. Fionna lay
perfectly still, scarcely breathing, and it was her stillness that
terrified Quentin.

He went to his knees beside the cot and
lifted her fingers to his lips. He smoothed back her hair and
kissed her brow. Still she did not move.

“Leave her alone.” Janet’s hissed words came
from close behind him. “Don’t disturb her.”

“Janet,” Cadwallon called softly, sticking
his head inside the tent, “the man-at-arms is here. And Royce is
waiting for us.”

“I expect Quentin to leave before I do,”
Janet said.

Quentin was too worried about Fionna’s
condition to argue. He longed to remain with her, yet duty required
him to be at Royce’s side when the Scots heard their punishment. He
pressed another kiss on her pale brow before he preceded Janet out
of the tent.

Royce had ordered all of the surviving Scots
brought to the center of the camp. They assembled in a ragged
group, with Murdoch, Gillemore, and Colum standing in the front row
and plenty of well-armed guards surrounding them. Most of them wore
bandages, though as far as Quentin could tell, none of them were
seriously injured.

“Thank you for coming,” Royce said to Janet.
He held out his hand to draw her to his side while he addressed the
prisoners.

“First,” Royce said to the Scots, “I want to
assure you that your dead are being decently buried at the edge of
this camp. I will supply a wagon to carry your wounded who are too
hurt to ride.”

A faint murmur of surprise rose from
Murdoch’s followers and Janet turned toward Royce with a
disapproving frown. But for once she kept quiet, merely compressing
her lips and waiting to hear what Royce would say next.

“The fittest punishment I can devise for
you,” Royce went on, “is to send you to King Alexander and let him
decide your fates. You will travel first to Carlisle, with my own
men-at-arms to protect you along the way, for you will be tied too
tightly to protect yourselves. At Carlisle, Lord Walter will, at my
written request, add his guards to mine in order to ensure that you
arrive safely at Edinburgh.”

“Safely?” Murdoch snarled at him. “You mean,
you want to be sure we won’t be freed from this unjust captivity by
like-minded Scotsmen.”

“We both know how dangerous these borderlands
are for travelers,” Royce said, smiling at Murdoch with a sweetness
that was belied by his sarcastic tone. “I wouldn’t want anything
dire to happen to you before you can face your king.”

“Wee Alex is not my king,” Murdoch
responded.

“I suggest you discuss your disloyalty with
him,” Royce said, his smile vanishing. “You will leave at
once.”

“No!” Janet cried. Simmering with undisguised
outrage, she faced Royce. “Why did you bother to ask me to be
present when you had already made up your mind what to do with
these felons?”

“Actually, the decision is not mine to make,”
Royce said. “You must understand that the situation is rather
delicate. Alexander’s brother, David, is ruler of the land where we
now are, but he is at the moment at the English court, with King
Henry. While yesterday’s attack was made on David’s territory, most
of the crimes that concern us – the attempt on Fionna’s life, the
unauthorized capture and deportation of an English spy, the plot to
kill Quentin in hope of creating violent hostilities between
England and Scotland, and the earlier attack near Abercorn – were
all committed on Scottish soil. Therefore, I am duty bound to send
your brothers and their accomplices to Alexander for judgment. I
asked you to join us, Lady Janet, so you might have the opportunity
to voice your opinion directly to these men.”

“They are traitors and murderers!” Janet
declared with bitter forcefulness. “They all deserve to be
executed.”

“You stupid girl!” Murdoch yelled at her.
“You and your cursed sister are more trouble than you’re
worth.”

Quentin had remained quiet to this point but
upon hearing Murdoch’s heartless words he was compelled to
speak.

“Fionna lies just a few paces away, fighting
for her life,” Quentin said. “Your sword wounded your own sister,
possibly to her death.” He choked on that last word and fell silent
again.