Love Above All

By Flora Speer

Fionna’s ruthless brothers decide she must die for overhearing their treasonous plotting against the king of the Scots. They toss her into a nearby river, but she manages to make it to the riverbank. There she is found by Quentin of Alney who is returning from a diplomatic mission to King Alexander. Upon learning Quentin’s name, Fionna is terrified because he is the man her brothers intend to kill to create an incident that will lead to war between England and Scotland. Gillemore and Murdoch are furious that Alexander is allowing Normans to settle on Scottish land, and he’s changing age-old customs.

Fionna has never known kindness, but Quentin and his companions soon win her over. They agree to help her remove her younger sister, Janet, from an abbey where she’s being held until the brutal man she’s supposed to marry returns from transporting an English spy to French captivity.

Lord Royce of Wortham, an old friend of Quentin, joins the group. Long depressed after the early death of his beloved wife, he is cheered by recent events and agrees to help save Janet.
A difficult rescue, complicated by Janet’s unwillingness to accept Fionna’s explanation, followed by attacks from Gillemore and Murdock and their cohorts, all delay the return to England and safety. Along the way, Fionna is badly wounded when she tries to protect Quentin. Meanwhile, Janet wages a battle of words with Quentin’s friend, Cadwallon, who appears to be falling into love with the sharp-tongued girl.

Fionna has fallen into love with Quentin, though she recognizes he is far above her socially. Still, she gives into her emotions and sleeps with him. The party eventually reaches Wortham Castle, Royce’s home, and there his daughter, Catherine, makes them welcome and cares for Fionna’s wounds. But what hope can there be for happy endings for two Scottish girls, neither with a dowry, who have fallen into love with Norman noblemen?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flora Speer
• Release date: Apr 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311424174

Flora Speer

Flora Speer is the author of twenty-two book-length romances and two novellas, all traditionally published. The stories range from historical romances to time-travel, to futuristic. Born in southern New Jersey, she now lives in Connecticut. Her favorite activities include gardening (especially flowers and herbs used in medieval gardens,) amateur astronomy, and following the U.S. space program, which has occasionally been a source of ideas for her futuristic romances.

Book preview

Love Above All

By

Flora Speer

Smashwords Edition

Published by Flora Speer At Smashwords

Copyright © 2015 by Flora Speer

Cover Design Copyright, 2015,

By http://DgitalDonna.com

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Chapter 1

The Scottish –English Border

October, A.D. 1115

The leather thong was painfully tight around her wrists. Fionna hadn’t counted on that. She had been promised – ah, but it no longer mattered what she’d been told to make her come quietly to this terrible place.

She was standing at the edge of a cliff with her hands bound behind her back, and she finally understood beyond any doubt that the promises her brothers had made were lies. Though the night was dark, with the moon not yet risen, she could sense the void that lay just before her feet and she noticed the faint gleam of water far below. If Murdoch and Gillemore had their way that wee bit of brightness was the last light she would ever see.

But she wasn’t finished yet. She still had a serious protest left, one that ought to appeal to any man who hadn’t forsaken his hope of heaven in the Afterlife, and so she addressed the brother who stood at her left side, the sibling she deemed likely to feel at least a smidgen of guilt.

Gillemore, please, she begged, you know you don’t want to murder your own blood kin. You’ll be damned forever if you do.

Don’t tell him what he wants, Murdoch shouted into her right ear. The sound was painful to Fionna, making her wince. Murdoch never spoke softly, so he did not lower his voice as he continued. This is your fault, not ours. You have no right to eavesdrop on a private conversation.

I wasn’t eavesdropping. I told you before, Gillemore came out of the room and grabbed me as I was passing by, and then he dragged me before you to accuse me. Why won’t you believe me?

Because you’re lying, Murdoch told her, his words dripping with the cold viciousness in which he excelled. Sweet sister, do you imagine we’re fools? You know too much; you heard all our plans. We aren’t going to give you a chance to reveal what we said in that room to anyone with the power to stop us.

I wouldn’t betray you, Fionna insisted. I’m loyal to my own kin."

I don’t trust you, Murdoch declared loudly. Neither you, nor Janet. Lying bitches, both of you, and both of you will get what you deserve. Can you hear Liddel Water running below us? After all the heavy rain during the last week, it’s higher than it has been for years – so high that your body will be washed right down to Solway Firth and out to sea. You’ll never be found. Fishes will eat you, Fionna. That’s what happens to sisters who cross their brothers.

You promised if I’d agree to come quietly, you’d leave Janet alone, Fionna reminded him, grasping at the one hope left to her.

Oh, we’ll leave her alone, Gillemore said. For now, that is. Janet is welcome to stay at Abercorn until Colum returns from France with the money from King Louis. But once he’s back on Scottish soil, Colum will expect the second part of his reward for seeing to the transportation and sale of the English spy we caught, and he’s eager to wed Janet. Though, what he sees in that whey-faced wench I don’t know.

Fionna did know. Murdoch’s friend, Colum, was a hard-drinking bully. Fionna was convinced that Colum saw in Janet a potential victim, not a woman to cherish.

I should have known better than to believe your promises about Janet, she exclaimed bitterly. You never intended to honor your word to me. You have no decency left at all, and no sense of honor.

You have no right to talk about my honor, Murdoch yelled at her. I’ve heard enough from you.

Without warning he shoved hard on Fionna’s shoulder. Unbalanced by the sudden push she tumbled over the edge of the cliff. She heard a laugh above the sound of her own despairing cry. An instant later she realized the cliff wasn’t as high as she’d thought, for she smacked into the water so soon and so abruptly that the impact tore the breath from her lungs.

As she plunged through icy depths both protest and outrage were forgotten in favor of trying to survive. She was a fairly good swimmer, thanks to childhood summers spent trying to keep up with her older siblings. More than once she had beaten Gillemore in a race across the loch. But on those occasions her hands were not tied and whenever she had chosen to dive, she had done so with air in her lungs. Nor was the loch near the fortress of Dungalash ever as cold as the river, or the water so black and deep.

Terrified and disoriented, Fionna tried to gulp in enough air to shout her protest aloud. She breathed water, instead. The icy chill flowed into her lungs and her stomach, and for a moment she believed she was doomed.

Then her feet hit the solid river bottom and without thought she pushed off, kicking her way upward until she surfaced, gasping and choking. Telling herself to stay calm, she tried to float on her back. But floating was an almost impossible feat so long as her arms were immobilized. Worse, her woolen skirt was dragging her down, and waterborne storm debris slammed against her.

Without the moon she couldn’t see much, and she couldn’t hear a thing over the noise of the rushing water. She guessed her brothers had departed from the riverbank at once, to avoid being observed by anyone who might accuse them of murder. Or, perhaps, she was far beyond them by now, for she could tell she was drifting on the current, heading toward the firth, just as Murdoch had predicted.

No! She wouldn’t give up. She couldn’t allow Murdoch and Gillemore to hand Janet over to their brutal friend. Fear for her sister made Fionna kick hard against the flow of water. Her clothing hampered every attempt at movement, heavy wool twisting around her legs. She kept sinking and bobbing up again, so her face was too often under water, but outrage and fury and determination not to fall victim to the brothers who had lied to her drove her on. She had to survive for Janet’s sake, and reach her sister before Murdoch and Gillemore did, before Colum returned from France.

Her strength was failing, the cold seeping into her very bones. She felt a dangerous lassitude stealing over her. All the same, she continued her hopeless struggle. She had made a promise to her mother on that beloved lady’s deathbed, swearing to watch over her younger sister and protect her so long as she and Janet lived. Unlike her brothers, Fionna honored her promises. To rescue Janet, she would fight to the very end of her existence, to her last gasp of cold air.

She could no longer tell if she was making any headway against the current. It seemed to her she was just swirling around and around. A dark shape loomed over her and rough bark scraped across her face. She recognized a floating log. If only her hands were free she could grab onto it. Then she thought perhaps she could still use it. In frantic desperation she attempted to heave her torso out of the water and across the log, hoping to lie on top of it and kick her way to shore with the log to hold her up.

The log slowly rolled over. Fionna slid down and under it, into the dark cold of endless night.

Chapter 2

Quentin, what’s wrong? Cadwallon’s voice was low, barely above a whisper.

Quentin knew his companion did not approve of travel after nightfall, especially for men who were carrying important messages. Neither did Quentin approve, and all of them would be at Duncaron by now if his horse hadn’t cast a shoe. It was his favorite mount, a fractious beast that allowed no one but Quentin on its back. He’d had no choice about stopping at a local blacksmith’s shop for repairs, or about remaining with the horse.

If he’d known how long the smith would take to finish the business, he’d have ordered Cadwallon to ride with the men-at-arms when he sent them on ahead to inform the master of Duncaron to expect overnight guests. Braedon, the squire who made up the third member of their group, was less likely to see assassins behind every tree or under every bridge. But Braedon was not quite twenty-one, still inexperienced, and thus a bit rash. Whereas, the older, steadfastly dependable Cadwallon had proven to be a remarkable spy, who could ferret out information from places where no other man would care to dig. When King Henry learned of Cadwallon’s exploits in Scotland, the knight would be richly rewarded.

Quentin stared at an odd shape lying to one side of the far end of the bridge over Liddel Water. He was sure the shape had just moved, as if it was struggling out of the river and onto the bank. Upon noticing the movement he had slowed his horse, which was the action that elicited Cadwallon’s concerned question. Quentin couldn’t make out what the shape was, couldn’t decide if it was human or animal. All he could see was an alteration in density at the edge of the water where the rain-swollen current swirled and eddied.

With vision grown accustomed to the dim light provided by starshine and the thin crescent moon that was just barely risen over the nearest mountain, Quentin surveyed the bridge he was crossing. It was a narrow, rustic construction, its pilings made of entire tree trunks. The surface was paved with worn wooden planks that clattered under the weight of the horses’ hooves. If anyone was lying in wait to accost them as they left the bridge, he and his companions had already announced their presence.

The dark shape he’d noticed lay half in the water and half on grasses that glittered faintly silver with frost. Because of the sharp contrast between frost and the object, he could see the outline of the form with surprising clarity. Whatever it was, it did not move again.

The skin at the back of Quentin’s neck began to prickle. The men following him must have sensed their leader’s growing suspicion, for Quentin heard behind him the quiet whisper of Cadwallon’s sword being withdrawn from its sheath, and he was aware of Braedon’s sudden, tense stillness.

As Quentin rode off the bridge he swerved to the left and headed down the sloping riverbank. He dismounted before he reached the shape. Alert for a trick, he used one foot to roll it over.

All the saints protect us! Cadwallon exclaimed, and added an oath so coarse it nearly curled Quentin’s straight black hair. Just what we don’t need! You’ve found a corpse!

With his broadsword still in hand, Cadwallon leapt to the ground, leaving Braedon to catch his horse’s reins and hold them as well as those of Quentin’s horse.

Intent on the waterlogged body, Quentin bent down to brush long strands of wet hair back from a pale face, his fingers stroking across smooth, cold skin. He sucked in a harsh breath before glancing up at the other two men.

Well? Cadwallon asked, sounding a bit impatient and keeping his sword poised to strike.

Not a corpse, Quentin said, his hand pressing on a slender throat. I can feel the blood coursing through her neck.

Her? Cadwallon exclaimed. A woman? Someone caught in the flood and then cast up by the river?

So it seems. Braedon, toss me the blanket that’s fastened behind my saddle. Cadwallon, you’d best stand guard, in case this is a trap.

It’s about time you thought of a possible attack, Cadwallon grumbled. He immediately turned his back to Quentin, so he’d face any impending threat from road or forest.

Braedon was off his horse, too, and reaching to hand the blanket to Quentin. He saw the bound wrists at the same time Quentin did.

It looks to me, said Braedon, as if someone wanted the wench dead.

What? Cadwallon jerked around to see.

Quentin did not respond to the question. Upon hearing a gasping sound he bent a little closer to attend to what the woman was trying to say.

Help. Please, help me.

The woman spoke in Norman French, and she barely choked out the plea before she began to cough up copious amounts of river water.

I will help you, Quentin promised. He knelt, supporting her head and shoulders until the spasms subsided. Without uttering another word the woman lapsed back into her previous, unconscious state.

Oh, heaven befriend us! Cadwallon said with an exasperated sigh. Haven’t we encountered enough trouble on this mission? First the long delays in Edinburgh, then the cursed rain slowed us. We were expected in Carlisle two days ago. What are we to do with a half-drowned female?

Since you have a blade in hand, Quentin answered, you may cut the thong at her wrists. I intend to strip her of these wet clothes and wrap her in my blanket. Next, we are going to roll up her garments and take them with us. We are going to disguise this spot so no one can guess that anything odd has happened here. The log that’s washed up next to her can be dragged along the ground to obliterate our footprints and the impression of her body. Finally, we are going to ride as fast as possible to Duncaron, before this poor lady contracts a chill that will mean her death.

Lady? Cadwallon repeated.

You heard her speak, Quentin said. No Scottish commoner would use a foreign language under such dire circumstances. This must be a noblewoman.

Someone wanted her dead, Braedon said again. Who? Why?

Those are reasonable questions, Quentin responded as he grasped the unknown woman’s gown and pulled it upward, preparing to remove it. But all questions will have to wait until she wakens. Meanwhile, we must see to her care.

At Duncaron? Cadwallon scoffed. No ladies live there. If any women enter those gates, they are not the sort who keep gentle company. Nor will the Scots who man the place be glad to see us with a woman when they have none. They’ll most likely murder us in our beds in order to get to her.

Not if they value their lives, Quentin reminded him with cool certainty. Don’t forget, we bear sealed messages from King Alexander to King Henry. As royal emissaries, our lives are sacrosanct. So is the life of anyone who travels with us.

Do you imagine for even a moment that a band of wild Scots will pay attention to their king’s seal? Cadwallon exclaimed.

They will have no choice, said Quentin. If nothing else will convince them to honor the rules of hospitality, the men-at-arms I sent ahead will. Food, wine, and hot water await us at Duncaron, and a private room for me, where this lady can rest the night through, with a guard outside her door if necessary, to keep her safe.

And what’ll you do if she’s still unconscious tomorrow morning? asked Cadwallon. How do you propose to keep her safe then? We cannot linger in Scotland any longer. We are overdue. Royce will be worried.

I know it. Quentin had the woman undressed down to her shift. He removed it while Braedon pulled off her sodden shoes and added them to the pile of wet clothing. Together they rolled her into the blanket, working quickly, treating her as if she were a boy who had spent too long in ice-cold water, completely ignoring the gentle swell of the lady’s breasts, the neat curve of waist and hips, and the shadow of hair where her thighs met.

So Quentin told himself, until he was in the saddle again and Braedon lifted the still form up to him. The unknown woman’s head lolled on his shoulder in an odd travesty of an affectionate embrace. Her hair was beginning to dry and a curling strand blew against his cheek. With an impatient gesture Quentin tucked the hair under a fold of the blanket before he pulled his horse around sharply, heading up the rise to find the road again.

The woman in his arms did not stir. She lay as if dead, yet almost immediately Quentin began to be uncomfortably aware of her slender waist tucked into the crook of his elbow and of a pair of nicely rounded hips pressing against his thigh. Sternly chiding himself for his physical reaction to an unresponsive female who could well be dead before the sun rose again, he kicked his horse’s sides hard and set off for Duncaron, leaving his companions to hide all trace of the mysterious lady’s presence on the riverbank before they followed him.

* * * * *

Duncaron was a wooden fortress, little more than a tower with a palisade fence around it, and it offered few amenities. Such outposts were common along the border, though they were no longer as heavily manned as they had been during more warlike times. Alexander I, king of the Scots, was on good terms with Henry I of England, who was both his brother-in-law and his father-in-law, Henry having wed Alexander’s sister, and Alexander’s wife being one of Henry’s many illegitimate children. Since Henry was preoccupied with unrest in the lands he held on the continent, England and Scotland were at peace. Temporarily at peace; what the future would bring for the borderlands between the two countries no man dared guess. Not even Quentin would have stated an opinion, and he knew more about the intentions of the Scottish king than most other Norman-English noblemen.

As he rode through the narrow gate of Duncaron, Quentin wasn’t thinking about either country, or about his just-concluded diplomatic mission to Edinburgh. He searched the faces of the men who hurried to greet him until he found the person he wanted to see.

My lord, said Giles, the captain of Quentin’s men-at-arms, I’m relieved to see you safe. All’s ready for your arrival. You will be as comfortable as Duncaron can make you. What’s that you’re carrying?

Here; you take it. After sending a look toward Giles to warn him not to make any comment, Quentin covered the woman’s face with the blanket, then lowered her into his man’s arms. Giles was well trained. While Quentin dismounted he stood silently holding the bundled-up form as if it were an unwieldy package and not a human being.

I’ll take it now. Quentin reached for the woman. With a show of carelessness for the benefit of the watching Scots, he slung the bundle over his shoulder before he spoke again to Giles. Have another squire see to the horses; I want Braedon to come with me. Cadwallon, speak to the master of Duncaron on my behalf. I trust your judgment on what to tell him. Giles, lead me to my bedchamber.

Aye, my lord.

Knowing not to question his master’s orders while they were among Scotsmen whom Quentin had little cause to trust, Giles headed for the entrance of the tower. When a burly man in a stained leather jacket would have stopped them, Cadwallon, rightly assuming he was the master of Duncaron, drew him aside and began to speak to him in a low voice. Braedon followed Quentin so closely he almost trod on his heels.

The one and only guest chamber, set high in the tower, was sparsely furnished with a bed hung round with plain woolen curtains, and with a table on which burned a wick in a crude pottery oil lamp. The walls were rough wood planks.

Shutters were closed over a single window. An empty wooden tub sat between two braziers in which charcoal burned, providing minimal heat.

A quick glance at the bed told Quentin it was reasonably clean. He laid his bundle down on it and pulled back the concealing flap of the blanket.

She’s not contagious, is she? Giles asked, stepping closer to peer at the exposed face. If we bring illness in here, we won’t leave Duncaron alive. We are seriously outnumbered, my lord.

She’s not sick, only chilled near to death.

Someone tossed her in the river, Braedon added. We couldn’t leave her to die. Assuming his duties as squire, he began to inquire of Giles about the arrangements made for Quentin’s comfort, until Quentin interrupted.

Let no one enter this room except the two of you and Cadwallon, Quentin ordered. Say nothing of the woman’s presence, not even to our own men. Where is the hot water for my bath? I’ll want a warming pan for the bed, too.

These tough Scots will think you’re a Sassenach weakling, Giles said with a cheeky grin.

I don’t care what they think. If you must tell them something, say I’m suffering from an old battle wound that has flared up in the rain and cold. Just bring me what I need. I’d appreciate some food and hot, mulled wine, too, if you can find it.

Here in Duncaron it’ll be ale and not wine, Giles said, but I’ll thrust a hot poker in it to heat it. And I’ll check with Cadwallon, to be sure our stories match. I’ll also set one of our own men-at-arms outside the door, so you can be private.

When he was alone Quentin threw off his heavy traveling cloak and pushed back his chainmail coif. Braedon could help him disarm later. His immediate concern was the woman. She lay wrapped from head to foot in the grey wool blanket, only her face and a bit of hair showing. Quentin lifted the oil lamp and held it close to her, studying her features.

He judged her to be about eighteen or twenty years old, and she was not especially pretty. Her jaw was too firm and her nose too sharply chiseled to match the current ideal of soft, feminine beauty. The faint blue tinge of her lips and the purple shadows under her eyes proved she’d been in the river much too long. Quentin could detect no sign of serious injury. Except for the red scratch along her left cheek and the thong marks on either wrist, no blemish marred the perfection of her smooth, waxy-pale skin.

The hair he’d first thought was black was actually a dark shade of brown with glimmers of red where the light shone on it. When it was completely dry it would probably be the same color as her delicately sweeping eyebrows. Quentin touched a lock of her hair and it curled around his finger as if all of her waning life force lay in those few strands, and as if they were clinging to him.

If the woman were to waken, would she cling to him as her hair was doing? Would she ask again for his help, imploring him to protect her from further harm? And if she did, could he in honor refuse her? His primary duty lay in England, yet, having found and rescued her, he had made the lady his responsibility and he could not in good conscience abandon her.

What color are your eyes? he whispered.

Despising himself for giving way to the weakness of fantasy, he pulled back his hand, though he imagined he could still feel the silken texture of her hair sliding softly across his skin and making his fingertips tingle.

Foolishness, he muttered, speaking to her again while knowing she couldn’t hear him. You are of interest to me only because you were obviously intended to die in the river. If I can discover why a gentlewoman was so violently mistreated, I may learn some detail to add to the information the others and I have already gathered during this mission.

A rap on the door announced Braedon and Giles, each toting two large buckets of steaming water. After dumping the water he carried into the tub, Giles went for food and more charcoal, and Braedon assisted Quentin in removing his chainmail.

If you intend to soak her in the hot water, Braedon said, it’s going to take both of us. Dead weight as she is, she’s too big for one man to handle.

She certainly isn’t a dainty creature, is she? Quentin responded, his sharp gaze measuring the slender, unmoving length on the bed. Toss a few more pieces of charcoal on the braziers and let’s do what we can for her. I’d like to use the water, myself, before it’s completely cold.

Again, as they had done by the riverside, they handled her with impersonal dispatch, pretending not to see her womanly attributes. Braedon managed her feet and legs, and Quentin took her shoulders and tried to keep her long hair out of the water while they bent her at hips and knees to make her fit into the small tub. It wasn’t easy. Quentin guessed if the woman were awake and standing she’d be barely half a head shorter than his own great height.

When the water had cooled to lukewarm and her skin was beginning to look less like lifeless marble and more like natural flesh, they took her out. Braedon held her upright with a hand at each of her armpits while Quentin dried her with the clean linen towel he pulled from his saddlebag. Then they tucked her into the warmed bed.

Do you think she’ll live? Braedon asked. As he spoke he flapped the chest of his tunic in a futile attempt to dry the soaked wool.

I hope so, Quentin said. I don’t like unsolved mysteries. See if you can locate a bucket of hot water for yourself, and put on a fresh tunic before you catch a chill. I can’t afford to have you sick. I’ll send the guard at the door to find you if I need you.

Once the squire was gone Quentin wasted no time before he divested himself of his own damp undershirt and hose. He then climbed into the rapidly cooling water. It wasn’t the hot, relaxing bath he had been looking forward to while riding through the rain and chill of an autumn night in Scotland, but he’d endured far worse conditions while on campaign with King Henry.

An hour later, wearing clean hose and tunic, having eaten the bread and cheese that Giles brought and after downing a cup of hot ale, Quentin perched on the side of the bed. Telling himself he needed to check on her condition, he touched the woman’s cheek. Her flesh was decidedly warmer than it had been earlier and her lips were no longer their previous worrisome shade of blue. Now they were a rosy tint that reminded him of the inside of a seashell he’d picked up once on a beach in Brittany.

Quentin lightly traced the