Love Above All (9 page)

On that, they separated. Quentin did not
waste time gazing after them. The sky was growing darker, the air
was becoming noticeably damper, and he feared a heavy rain would
wash away all signs of Fionna’s passing. While searching along the
edge of the road he had noticed hoofprints heading into the trees
in the direction he expected Fionna to take.

He hadn’t mentioned his observation to his
men because he feared if they all went crashing eagerly through the
forest in search of her, Fionna, knowing he couldn’t afford to
waste much more time, would find a hiding place and stay there
until he called off the chase. Or else she’d panic and come to
harm, be tossed off her horse or tumble into a ravine. The thought
of her lying injured and helpless made him feel sick – and
increased his anger with her.

Quentin knew how to hunt, how to track an
animal or a man, and now he tracked Fionna. It was impossible to
move through such thick underbrush while on a horse without leaving
some indication of where the horse had gone, and Fionna was in too
much of a hurry to bother about concealment. Quentin followed the
broken branches on small bushes. He noted the occasional hoofprint
in mud or on patches of soft moss. Once he found a pile of horse
droppings and knew he was on the right path.

He met no one along the way. Almost half a
century earlier the Norman conquerors had stormed through this part
of the country they had claimed for themselves, reaching as far
north as the Scottish border to put down a Saxon rebellion,
killing, burning, and destroying as they went, until few of the
original natives were left alive. In the decades since then,
deserted farmland was left to return to forest and little
rebuilding had been done. In some areas the devastation was so
severe, and the land so thoroughly despoiled, that only grasses
grew.

Just as Quentin entered a wide swathe of such
grassy meadowland the skies opened and rain poured down. He guessed
Fionna would gallop directly across the open space, fearing pursuit
and seeking the shelter of the trees on the far side of the meadow,
so he did the same. As he plunged into the forest again wet yellow
and brown leaves fluttered around him, torn off the trees by the
wind and rain.

When darkness fell he lost the track, so he
gave up for the day, trusting he’d find the way again in the
morning. He spent a miserable night under a dripping fir tree,
wrapped only in his second-best cloak, having chosen to cover his
horse with his blanket. He slept but little. Most of the nighttime
hours he spent worrying about Fionna, wondering where she was and
if she had found a safe place to rest.

At dawn he rose wet and stiff, to continue
the search through a misty, showery day. His temper grew ever
shorter as Fionna’s path became more difficult to follow. He was by
now riding uphill through an ancient forest, with the trees so
close together that little light reached the ground, thus keeping
the undergrowth scanty. Whether Fionna left a clear path or not, he
knew her direction. In the same way a bird flies homeward at dusk
she was heading as directly as she could for Abercorn. He would
find his quarry. It was just a matter of time. Whether she would be
dead or alive when he reached her was another matter.

Throughout that long and frustrating day he
alternately cursed Fionna for her stubborn loyalty to her sister,
and prayed he would not discover her lying dead of a broken neck
or, far worse, dead of abuse by common outlaws, remnants of the
Saxon natives, or by raiders from Scotland, who occasionally made
forays far into Cumbria. As Cadwallon had noted, it was not a safe
area for any woman to wander in unescorted.

Toward evening he rode into a tiny clearing
in which sat a dilapidated hut, with a half-destroyed shed near the
hut. Fionna’s horse was in the shed, apparently curried with the
piles of discarded grass he noticed, and covered with Fionna’s
blanket. Her saddle and saddlebags were gone.

A faint scraping sound from the direction of
the hut told him where to look next. He dismounted, leaving his
horse in the shed. He’d take care of the animal later. For the
moment, he thought it wise to be able to remount and get away fast,
if it became necessary. He couldn’t be sure it was Fionna in the
hut, or if she was alone.

Walking silently and cautiously over damp
leaves, he approached the hut from the side. Part of the roof was
caved in, but the remaining thatch provided enough shelter to make
the little building appealing to anyone who wanted to get out of
the cold drizzle.

Upon hearing the scraping noise again,
Quentin moved around the corner of the hut to peer in through a
doorway with a broken, charred lintel beam and no door to be
seen.

There, tucked far enough under the remaining
roof to be on relatively dry ground, Fionna sat cross-legged on the
earth floor of the hut. A pile of leaves and sticks lay in front of
her and she was busily striking two bits of stone together. She
hadn’t seen him yet. Quentin’s best cloak, the warm, heavy one he
had let her wear, was tossed carelessly onto the dirt, with her
saddle and saddlebag next to it.

Quentin debated with himself whether he
preferred embracing her in relief at finding her alive and
apparently unharmed, or whether he wanted to strangle her out of
long-contained anger. He decided on words.

“If I had realized how shabbily you would
treat my belongings,” he said into the silence, “I would never have
allowed you to use them.”

“Oh!” Fionna jumped to her feet. She remained
upright for only a moment before her face went white and she began
to collapse.

Quentin stepped forward to catch her. He
lowered her to the ground, wondering as he did so whether she was
only pretending. But she remained limp in his arms, something he
was sure she’d never do if she was conscious. He laid her flat and
began to rub her hands. After a time her eyelids fluttered, though
she kept them closed.

“Why did you follow me?” she whispered, so
faintly that he had to lower his head close to hers to hear her. “I
thought you were near enough to England that you’d keep going and
not pursue me.”

“Surely, you never imagined I’d abandon you?”
he exclaimed.

“Janet,” she whispered, as if the single word
held all the explanation she thought he’d require.

“Yes, I know,” he responded with considerable
sharpness. “Your sister’s wellbeing takes precedence over all else,
including your own life. How will it help Janet if you are murdered
while attempting to reach her?”

A lone tear trickled from beneath Fionna’s
closed lids. She turned her face away from him, as if she didn’t
want him to notice it.

“Why couldn’t you trust me to keep my word to
you?” Quentin asked in a kinder tone.

“Where my sister’s life is concerned, I trust
no one!” she cried. “I keep telling you, there isn’t time – we
don’t know when Colum will return from France, or when my brothers
will take her away from Abercorn. Oh, why won’t you listen to
me?”

“Perhaps for the same reason you haven’t been
listening to me,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “Our
obligations are at odds.”

He watched her take a deep breath and swallow
hard before she opened her eyes and looked at him. The clear blue
of her gaze, swimming with unshed tears, tore at Quentin’s heart.
She was foolish, dangerously impulsive, and brave beyond the
courage of any other woman he had ever met.

“Yet despite your obligations, you came after
me,” she said. “Where are the others? I’m sure Braedon will be as
angry with me as you are. Braedon likes me not at all. But, perhaps
Cadwallon will understand my reasoning.”

“I came alone.”

“What, unescorted through these dangerous
lands?” Her tone was mocking but something altered in her gaze,
fear and worry softening into a warmer, gentler look, as if she was
glad to see him.

Quentin could not bear that look. Fionna was
just one of his many obligations. He was responsible for her
safety, but he didn’t want her thinking his concern was anything
more than chivalrous interest in a mistreated woman. He’d see her
to safety in England, and do his best to help her sister, as he had
promised. Then he’d return to his duties for King Henry. Once he
was at court again, he’d forget Fionna. It could not be otherwise;
there was no place in his life for a woman who expected more from
him than he was willing to give.

“Were you trying to start a fire?” he asked
in a rougher voice than he meant to use with her.

“I found some dry leaves in a corner of the
hut,” she said, pushing herself to a sitting position, “and I
gathered a few branches. Everything is so wet. Oh, dear, my head is
spinning.”

She would have fallen backward if Quentin
hadn’t caught her and steadied her with his hands on her shoulders.
He gave her a quick shake, wishing the motion would shake some
ordinary sense into her. He began to scold her, using the same tone
he employed when dressing down his men-at-arms for some infraction
of the strict rules he expected them to obey.

“Do you understand that you are still weak
after nearly drowning?” he asked. “You ought to be lying in a warm
bed with a hot brick at your feet.”

“I have never had a hot brick placed at my
feet, and it’s you who forced me to ride in the first place,” she
said with a ripple of bitter laughter that sent chills down
Quentin’s spine.

“Well, at least we can have a fire,” he said,
without acknowledging the truth of her accusation.

Releasing his hard grip on her shoulders he
picked up the stones she had dropped. He struck them together in a
sudden movement that carried with it all the irritation and
frustration he was feeling. On his third try a spark flew into the
pile of leaves. Fionna leaned forward to blow on the spark. Quentin
noticed a pile of dry grass she had laid to one side. He added the
grass bit by bit, and slowly the fire took hold and grew. Rising,
he glanced around the hut, seeking larger pieces of wood to
burn.

“I saw some logs beside the shed,” Fionna
said, “but they’re probably too damp to catch fire easily.”

“I’ll check them. I need to care for my
horse.” Quentin paused in the doorway. “Keep the fire going – and
don’t even dream of leaving this hut. If you set one foot outside
the doorway, I swear, I’ll beat you.”

“I won’t leave.” She kept her gaze on the
stick she was feeding into the small blaze. “I’m too tired to run
away.”

He stared at her, surprised beyond speech by
her admission. Fionna weary and obedient was a creature unfamiliar
to him. After days of observing her while she made secret
preparations for her escape from him, he wasn’t sure he dared to
trust her apparent weakness.

By the time he had finished with his horse,
then carried his saddle and saddlebags to a dry corner of the hut
to rest beside Fionna’s gear, and dragged a few logs inside, it was
again raining hard. Lightning flashed across the sky, thunder
roared almost constantly, and the wind was so strong that Quentin
wondered if the remaining portion of the roof would be blown off in
the gale.

Fionna had chosen a site well under the roof
to start the fire, leaving just enough space between fire and hut
wall for them to stretch out to sleep. Quentin noted the
arrangement with approval.

“The fire will keep wild animals away,” he
said, “and the light will reveal any human trespassers who try to
approach us.”

“I was afraid a fire would encourage unwanted
company to visit,” she told him, “but I was so cold, and I didn’t
want to spend another night alone in the dark.”

He refrained from pointing out that it was
her own fault she’d been alone. A change of subject seemed a good
idea.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, reaching for his
saddlebags.

“A little.” Her eyes were huge and shadowed,
her face pale even with the firelight to warm it.

“Shall we dine off my rations? Or shall we
eat the bread you’ve been hiding in your saddlebag these last few
days? It’s undoubtedly stale by now, but we can pour wine over the
pieces to soften them.”

“You knew?”

“Did you imagine I wasn’t watching you?”

“And I thought I was being so clever! Well,
I’ve lost my chance, haven’t I? You aren’t likely to set me free,
so we may as well eat my food and save yours for later. That way,
you will have something to eat while you drag me off to
England.”

Her shoulders slumped, her whole appearance
becoming so dejected that Quentin ached to ease her unhappiness. He
couldn’t offer to take her to Abercorn immediately, so instead he
offered the food he knew she needed.

“I have a flask of wine,” he said, “along
with a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. We’ll share our
supplies until we can get more.”

Unable to speak for threatening tears, Fionna
only nodded. She voiced no objection when Quentin sat down next to
her so they were side by side, with their backs against the hut
wall. She watched in silence while he laid the food out between
them on the napkin in which the cheese had been wrapped. He pulled
the cork from the skin wine flask and drank, then passed the flask
to her. She took great care not to allow their fingers to touch as
she accepted the flask. There was nothing she could do about
placing her mouth where his lips had been.

Perhaps it was the result of extreme
weariness after two days and a terrifying night alone, with little
food consumed along the way because she was trying to conserve what
she had in the saddlebag, or perhaps it was just the relief of
having a strong companion with whom she felt safe. Whatever the
reason, the wine went straight to her head. Suddenly, she was
fiercely hungry. If Quentin had allowed it, she would have eaten
all the cheese and most of the bread.

“Save some for tomorrow,” he cautioned,
stowing portions of the bread and cheese back in his saddlebags as
he spoke. But he didn’t take the wine flask away from her.