CHAPTER THREE
Christian knew his way to Scotland only too well. His memory had always been an amazing source of talent; with one glance at a missive, he could recall the entire message to the letter. When instructions or names were relayed into his conscious, he could remember to the very last detail. He never forgot a name or a face, and he never required a second explanation or request. His memory was like a vise as it sank intelligent teeth into the smallest of facts, never to let go.
The road north of Carlisle was dusty and vacant, being slightly past the nooning hour. He had been riding well over two hours with his unconscious burden who, he suspected, had been lucid for quite some time. But she had elected to remain still, draped over the armored saddle in a most uncomfortable position, and Christian realized that he would find himself in possession of a wildcat the moment her head cleared completely and she saw her way to resist his control.
Bracing for that eventuality, he skirted the edge of the bustling city and headed through wooded Cumbrian territory en route to the Borders. He was on Howard land, a large and prestigious northern family alongside the Northumberland Percys and the Border Grays. The Percys had long been considered Kings of the North and the St. Johns had always been loyal supporters whilst their mortal enemy, the de Gares, had always managed to align themselves with the more prominent families of Southern England.
The outskirts of the Holy North Woods could be seen in the distance and Christian slowed his charger to a jaunty trot, purposely bouncing his captive to see if she would be prone to displaying any signs of life. He was well aware of her conscious state, for her breathing had increased within the past half-hour, and he was determined to release her from her state of silence so he could berate her for her defiance at the abbey.
The harder the horse bounced, the more frustrated he became with her lack of response. With thinly-veiled patience, he waited. But his tolerance would not last indefinitely; brushing against his abdomen were her hips, her wool-covered buttocks gracefully saluting the sky as she folded neatly over his saddle.
He eyed her buttocks, thinking that if she would not respond to the horse’s jostling trot, she would most definitely respond to the stinging palm of his hand. In fact, he was sure of it. And the action was not far in coming.
He bided his time.
*
In spite of the fact that the destrier’s gait was intent on cracking several ribs, Gaithlin was not about to reveal her lucidity. The very last she remembered, she had been engaged in mortal combat with several soldiers who had breached the sanctuary of the abbey.
She’d not been able to catch a glimpse of their colors as they bore down upon the front door of the convent, and truthfully had no idea who would be intent upon violating tiny St. Esk. For all she knew, they were marauding bandits or thieves come to confiscate what wealth they could from God’s holy house.
The possibility that they were seasoned St. John soldiers sent to sniff out the unmistakable aroma of a de Gare had never occurred to her; she assumed, at the abbey, she would be safe from those who would seek to harm her. But from the active noise transpiring on the moist lawn of the convent, there were those not even the sanctity of the church could repel.
Certainly, it was not out of the realm of possibility. In the northern wilds far away from the organization of London, quite a bit of sacrilege and lawlessness took place without an over amount of surprise or fanfare. It was simply the way of the chaotic northern territories and Gaithlin had grown used to the anarchy. In fact, she had been a part of it.
Whether or not England’s crown was, at the moment, relatively peaceful, she had never known a moment’s reprieve from warfare. Since she was old enough to recall, the St. Johns had been waging battle on her ancestral home and she had grown accustomed to the constant raids, the death, and the destruction.
Never sent away from her native fortress to foster for fear of falling into St. John hands, Gaithlin had lived an extremely sheltered life within the confines of Winding Cross. Her father had been terrified that his only child would somehow become fodder for his most hated enemy and had therefore sentenced his daughter to a life of utter friendlessness and isolation. With only her mother and a few servants for companionship, Gaithlin de Gare had lived a short life of unending, complete solitude all because of the St. Johns.
Eden was a large barony, far larger than Winding Cross and understandably more powerful. Yet the fortress of Winding Cross had been built for fortification and protection, explaining why the St. Johns had never been able to breach her walls. Year after year of raids and skirmishes and fighting had failed to determine a decisive winner; Eden may have been more powerful, but Winding Cross was laden with tenacious fighters unwilling to concede defeat.
Back and forth the struggle went until Gaithlin assumed that all young women were as sheltered and isolated as she was. Other than a stolen jaunt outside of the walls to swim or walk, experiencing a degree of freedom she considered a stolen ration of Heaven, her entire life had been spent within the moldering dark stones of her native fortress. She never realized her loneliness, however, for her sequestered continuance was the only means of existence she had ever known. Certainly, there was nothing else in life than one’s family and household, and the need to hate the St. Johns. She’d never known any other way.
Even now, she cursed the St. Johns as the mighty charger plodded over the dusty, rocky road. It was because of the St. Johns she had been forced to seek sanctuary at St. Esk; catching rumor that none other than the fabled Demon of Eden had returned from the Welsh border for the specific task of quelling the House of de Gare once and for all. Gaithlin’s mother had been forced into a desperate move.
The woman had been fighting in her husband’s stead for nearly ten years, a fact that even the St. Johns were not aware of, and she had battled against them long enough to realize that the return of Eden’s heir was not an asset to the well-being of Winding Cross. Suspecting that her husband’s beloved fortress might very well indeed meet its end at the hand of the mighty Demon, she had been dealt little choice in sending her daughter to the small convent of St. Esk in hopes of preserving her young life.
As her ribs cracked and her stomach lurched, Gaithlin cursed the St. Johns for her predicament. Had the rumors of their imminent attack not spooked her normally-collected mother, she would not have been forced into religious sequestration. And she would not, at this very moment, be a prisoner of those unscrupulous enough to sack an abbey.
The horse stumbled and recovered harshly, causing Gaithlin to grunt as her body was slammed brutally against the saddle. From hanging upside-down, her heart was already pounding in her ears and with the added violent motions, she wondered if the next step in her discomfort wouldn’t be to experience the embarrassment of vomiting up her breakfast.
“Do you think me for a fool, wench? I know you are alert.”
Gaithlin briefly considered ignoring her captor; however, from the tone of his voice she was able to deduce that he was already grossly irritated with her. Unwilling to provoke him further until she could discern her situation, she sighed with resignation.
“I do not know you. How would I know if you were foolish or not?”
Christian reined the destrier off the road, down an embankment into a cluster of trees. The warm September air infiltrated the canopy without the slightest hint of autumn as he dismounted, electrified with the anticipation of coming face to face with his captive. In faith, he’d not yet been able to catch a glimpse of her sure-to-be monstrous features for the simple fact that her long hair had obscured her from view.
But now, watching her struggle to right herself on the charger in preparation for dismounting, he could scarcely contain his curiosity and apprehension. Finally, he was to gaze upon the visage of Hell.
Gaithlin was aware that he was standing behind her, an enormously large man from the very size of the legs that she had become acquainted with. Up-righting herself on the saddle, she groaned softly as the world spun recklessly and her temples throbbed with ache, grasping hold of the saddle as best she could to keep herself from slithering to the ground. But her strength wasn’t enough against her discomfort, and with a yelp she plummeted off the destrier to the hard earth below.
Christian watched her fall without moving a muscle to lend aid. Wild masses of silken blond hair covered her from the top of her head to her buttocks as she wrestled with the unruly strands in an attempt to push them from her face. She was obviously shaken and ill, but he maintained his callous attitude as she struggled to compose herself.
“Lady Gaithlin de Gare,” his voice rumbled like thunder. “You are now my captive and the slightest show of resistance will be forcefully met. Do you comprehend me?”
Swallowing the bile in her throat from fear as much as from her aching head, Gaithlin ceased her attempts to rise to her feet. Seated on her bottom beside the massive legs of the great white destrier, she swept the remains of her disorderly mane aside.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He still couldn’t see her face; she was looking to the ground and his irritation suddenly spiked. “Look at me when I speak to you, wench. Your bestial de Gare manners will not be tolerated.”
Sharply, her head came up and Christian found himself gazing into huge, almond-shaped eyes of the most amazing blue. Deep, rich, captivating blue. The blue of the pond.
It took him a moment to realize the verity of what his disbelieving mind was attempting to convey. He heard his breath escape in a sharp, forceful blow; the longer he gazed into the enchanting eyes and utterly beautiful face, the more difficult it became for him to catch his breath.
The cruelty of Fate was almost more than he could grasp and he found himself struggling against the perfect memories of her magnificent body, her graceful movements, the pure femininity of her presence as she had displayed her aura within the privacy of the isolated lake. Never had he met with such perfection. But the fact remained that she was a de Gare.
Life was a wicked thing, indeed.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Christian heard her voice, sultry and seductive regardless of her apprehension. Good Christ, even her voice was beautiful. Forcing himself to overcome his incredulity, he struggled to retain a measure of his authoritarian disposition without completely losing his composure.
“I have never met a de Gare before,” he finally said. It was the truth.
She blinked in puzzlement and he could literally see the thick lashes fan against her cheeks. “What do you know of the de Gares? And how do you know who I am?”
He stared at her; he’d been unable to keep from staring at her from the very moment he laid eyes upon her. Small cracks appeared in his hard facade, weakening him, causing him to shake with the internal struggle they encouraged. He didn’t want to weaken in the face of a hated de Gare; he had to maintain the superiority, to maintain the loathing. But the longer he gazed into her beauty, the deeper the cracks bled.
With his last ounce of resistance, he closed his eyes against her and turned away, attempting to focus on something other than her in order to restore his sanity. He’d been aware of her identity for less than five minutes; already, he knew he was destined for trouble. The moment he realized that an indefinite length of sequestration with her was actually an appealing thought was the moment he realized he was well along the path to his own destruction.
“I know a good deal about the de Gares,” he said, praying his voice did not give away his shock. “And you, wench, do indeed know who I am, of that I have no doubt.”
Although her head was still throbbing, the world had righted itself somewhat and Gaithlin labored to her feet. Straightening her heavy woolen gown, the color of lavender, she allowed her gaze to rove the massive knight; he was a good deal taller than she was, a remarkable feat considering she was quite tall for a woman.
His hair was the color of honey with streaks of gold laced throughout as it tumbled its way to his shoulders and she found it odd that his hair, for its length, should be kept so neatly groomed about his face as if he placed concern in his appearance. In fact, his hair was quite beautiful and she found herself gazing at it curiously as he focused his attention on their surroundings. Her eyes moved from his hair to his chiseled features, fine and straight and intelligent, and she could catch a glimpse of the remarkable color of his eyes. Eyes of pure ice.
Even if she didn’t know who he was, as he had imperiously announced, it was obvious that the knight before her was wise and seasoned. Her initial terror with her abduction had faded somewhat, leaving her drained and weary and deeply perplexed; whereas she should have maintained a rightful fear, she simply couldn’t muster the energy at the moment. He was far too beautiful to be frightening, and her puzzlement won over her apprehension for the moment.
“I have never seen you before,” she said after a lengthy pause. “Why would you assume that I know you?”
He continued to take in their surroundings for a moment. When he turned to her, she could read a palpable degree of dread in his expression and her bafflement grew.
“You’re a de Gare. You should know a St. John on sight.”
Her brows drew together and, as his statement settled, her eyes widened to bulbous proportions. Christian watched her closely as the color drained from her cheeks.
“You… you are a St. John?” She took a step backward, slamming against the charger, who responded by swinging his great head around to snap at her. Never one to back down from a fight, Gaithlin shoved her fist into the soft velvet of his nose. As the horse lurched away, sneezing and snorting, she put several feet of distance between herself and Christian.
Hatred and panic ran a desperate race in her mind as she stared back at the man who represented several lifetimes of intense hatred. She could scarcely believe that the St. Johns had managed to locate her in spite of her mother’s precautions and she silently cursed God for his favoritism of the enemy. God had welcomed her into the bosom of the convent only to deliver the unsuspecting refugee into the arms of the very nemesis she sought to escape.
Gaithlin was loathed to realize that tears were very near the surface, tears of frustration and fear and anger. But she would not display her emotions; in fact, it went far against her nature to display anything other than complete restraint and impassiveness. As her mother was reserved in nature, so was she.
“Who told you where I was?” she demanded.
“Does it matter? I have you and that is the only factor of import.”
Previous thoughts of his male beauty were forgotten as Gaithlin’s terror returned in one hearty blow, overshadowing the fury of coming face to face with a St. John. She continued to back away from Christian, positive he was determined to murder her. But her sense of self-preservation was strong as she struggled against her panic; strong enough to warrant refuting an enemy twice her size.
“You will not kill me without a fight, St. John bastard,” she hissed. “I shall resist you ’til the end!”
She had succeeded in moving well away from him and he casually sought to regain lost ground; should she decide to run from him, he would be at a distinct disadvantage in a hundred pounds of armor and mail. The pure weight resting on his massive boots dug small crevices into the damp English soil as he carefully advanced.
“I never said I was going to kill you.”
“Then why have you abducted me?” she continued to back away from him, her anxiety growing by the moment.
Christian could see that she was backing herself down a small incline; at the bottom lay a small stream, pristine and noisy. The sound of the water reminded him of the very first time he had ever witnessed Gaithlin de Gare, caressing the still waters of the pond as if fondling a lover, erotically skimming her body over the surface as if responding to its touch. Good Christ, how he wished he had been the water at that moment; truth was that he still wished it. As if the desires of his flesh were able to briefly surmount his inbred hatred of the woman and her family. But only briefly.
He’d never been particularly apt in dealing with resistance or insubordination, and his patience was especially limited when it came to a de Gare. His manner hardened as she continued to move away from him.
“I can guarantee that you will regret your attempt to flee,” he rumbled. “Cease this moment and I may show mercy.”
Eyes wide with defiance and face pale, Gaithlin shook her head. “Leave me alone, you vile bastard. I shall not be your captive, not ever!”
His jaw ticked. “I find your term for my parentage offensive, for it is untrue. You will address me as Sir Christian or ‘my lord’.”
Gaithlin came to a teetering halt and her eyes widened further, if such a thing was possible. He found himself wondering if she were going to burst a vein from the sheer expression on her face. “Christian St. John?” she repeated, awed. “The… the Demon of Eden?”
He came to a halt as well, at the top of the small hill as he gazed down upon her. An easterly wind began to kick up, ruffling her hair in a mass of delightful streamers, but he ignored the charming picture as he focused on the plethora of emotions surging between them.
He deliberately avoided answering her question. “Will you come peacefully or will I be forced to subdue you?”
Gaithlin swallowed hard. A feeble hand came up to pull the hair from her eyes as she stared at him, apprehensive and sickened and disoriented. She realized with ironic certainty that she would not have been so terrified if Lucifer himself were standing before her, demanding her soul.
The vision before her, looming on the crest above her head as the wicked winds whipped his glorious hair into a bizarre halo, was far worse than the threat of Hades. He was the pure embodiment of generations of St. John evil – the Demon of Eden in the flesh.
Gaithlin couldn’t help herself; the more she lingered on her captor, the more frightened she became. Foolishly, giddily frightened in spite of her normally-restrained nature as if the Dam of Reserve suddenly crumbled, spilling forth an uncontrollable tide of emotion that invaded every aspect of her common sense. A rushing surge of current so strong, she was unable to contain the deluge.
“You will not take me back to Eden, Demon,” her voice was tight, quivering, and she hated herself for sounding so utterly shaken. “I shall kill you first.”
Christian put his hands on his hips, eyeing her critically. “You nearly did. I did not appreciate being attacked with a candle sconce.”
“What did you expect? You violated an abbey and I was forced to defend myself.”
“You are a lady; you’re not supposed to defend yourself. God intended for the simple female sex to do as they are told without question or defiance.”
In spite of her terror, Gaithlin found herself willing to spare his statement a good deal of irritation. “I am not simple, Demon, and I will undoubtedly protect myself if necessary. And you are in no position to speak of God’s intentions when you are guilty of breaching the sanctity of an abbey.”
His jaw ticked as much from her bold words as from the return of his own guilt. “You will not speak to me of remorse, wench. Now, will you come to me or will I be forced to pursue you? Preferably the former, as I can guarantee my mood will not be favorable if I am compelled to capture you like an errant animal.”
Her answer was to turn on her heel and bolt across the stream like a frightened deer. Spitting a curse, Christian made haste to his charger and mounted the grazing animal with an effortless leap. Charging down the embankment and jumping the bubbling brook, his destrier closed in upon the fleeing captive within a matter of seconds.
As the wind increased, whistling bitterly across the Cumbrian landscape, Christian bore down upon his prisoner and reached out a massive hand, capturing her wild banner of magnificent hair. Giving a hard tug, he meant to cast her off balance enough to send her to her knees and thereby create an easy recovery. He didn’t pause to realize that nothing about Gaithlin de Gare had thus far proven easy or predictable.
Gaithlin felt his hand in her hair, upswept with panic and a complete sense of self-defense. Knowing he meant to disable her, she sought to turn the tables on him; reaching up, she managed to grab hold of his arm with both hands. Simultaneously, she dug her heels into the soft earth and threw her body weight opposite Christian’s forward momentum. Off-balance and off-guard, Christian found himself falling from his destrier in a weighty mass of flesh and mail.
Gaithlin’s joy of success was dampened when she realized Christian’s dead-weight was heading directly for her. But the thrust from her own actions had sent her to the ground and there was no escape from the powerful knight who came crashing down upon her like the toppling of a mighty tree. Crushed and dazed, Gaithlin’s vision dimmed as her breath was slammed from her lungs by several hundred pounds of Demon.
Dazed in his own right, Christian could feel Gaithlin gasping beneath him and he was concerned that he had hurt her. Never mind that she had deliberately evaded him, attempting to escape his presence with a display of complete disobedience. All that mattered for the moment was that she was injured and he struggled to prop himself off her body.
Managing to elevate his massive weight from her torso, he found himself gazing into the most lovely, flushed face he had ever had the fortune to envision.
“Good Christ, are you all right?” he rasped.
Eyes closed, Gaithlin could scarcely breathe. Christian shifted his body weight from her completely, braced on his hands and knees as she lay beneath him.
“Oh… God,” she moaned, coughing. “I… I cannot breathe!”
His jaw ticked as he sat back on his haunches, jerkily removing his gauntlets. “Do you hurt? Show me where.”
Her breathing was erratic and rapid. Christian’s movements slowed when he saw a single tear stream down her temple, dampening her hair. His urgent, sharp manner softened. It softened for a de Gare.
“Tell me where you hurt, my lady. Are you injured?”
She swallowed hard and the deep blue eyes opened, staring at the darkening sky above. With the utmost reluctance, her mesmerizing orbs came to rest on eyes of ice-blue. “I… I don’t believe I am injured. At least, I don’t feel any real pain.”
He looked dubious, as if he did not believe her. Their eyes held steady for a brief, indescribable moment as Christian lowered his naked hand to her heaving torso. Fingers as gentle as the wings of a butterfly drifted over her ribs, probing with the utmost tenderness. Gaithlin found herself observing his actions with a level of surprise she had never before experienced.
His eyes never left her face. “No sharp pains?”
She could scarcely manage to shake her head. Where fear and agony had reined not moments before, suddenly there was a degree of emotion she was unable to interpret. An odd warmth seemed to radiate from his trencher-sized hands, a peculiar heat that was intent on wreaking havoc with her breathing far more than the agony his propelled body weight had managed to cause.
“No,” she whispered. “No sharp pains.”
He nodded vaguely, feeling her warmth beneath his fingers, remembering with brilliant clarity the vision of Gaithlin emerging from the waters of the pristine pond as Venus rising from the lake. He could still see the sunlight reflecting off her magnificent curves, the embrasure of the light as it caressed her sensuous flesh, and he recalled with complete precision his physical reaction as he had devoured the vision. How desperately he had wanted to experience her beauty for himself.
His fingers drifted over her torso, unaware that his own breathing had increased. Palms met with the material of her gown, drifting from her waist to the under-swell of her beautiful breasts. Under the guise of probing her for injury, he allowed himself a stolen touch of her most enticing body as he had graphically fantasized since the very first time he saw her. He wished the barrier of her gown was not impeding his exploration.
“No pain anywhere?” he asked huskily.
Oddly, she was in pain, but not of the agonizing variety. A sharp tingling had invaded her limbs, mingling with the heat, and she found the peculiar prickle most unnerving. The searing ache seemed to flow directly from his hands, assaulting her like nothing she had ever imagined. She should have been frightened but instead, she found she was actually curious.
“As I said, there is no pain,” she replied softly, her breathing steady. But his hands were still probing her, touching her, and she felt her cheeks flush with a confused heat. “Take your hands from me, Demon. I told you I was not injured.”
His expression was unnaturally soft as his hands moved along the curve of her waist. But as realization dawned, the fact that he was touching her purely for his own pleasure and that she clearly wasn’t returning the sentiment, his chiseled features hardened and he abruptly removed his hands from her torso.
“I simply wanted to see for myself that you were not injured,” he said, almost harshly. “Your weak attempt to flee has demonstrated to me that you possess the supreme de Gare trait of foolishness and stupidity.”
Shaken, Gaithlin sat up, blinking her eyes rapidly as the world rocked. But she was not so muddled that she had not experienced the full impact of his insult. “You have mentioned two traits,” she mumbled, putting a hand to her head in an attempt to stop the swaying. “Furthermore, the same could be said for your bold assault on St. Esk.”
Christian had little patience for her reminder of his blasphemous deed. As she struggled to her knees, he yanked on his gauntlets with a good deal of annoyance. Just as she managed to get one foot beneath her in preparation for standing, he finished securing his gloves and grasped her roughly by the arm.
Gaithlin gasped with the harsh and swift movement, her deep blue eyes coming to focus upon those of ice-blue. Gazing into the depths, her apprehension and defiance made a bold return; but in the same breath, the odd heat that had filled her as his hands roved her tender torso made an unexpected reappearance. The longer she gazed into his eyes, the stronger the warmth became.
“So… so you intend to kill me now?” she swallowed hard, listening to the breathlessness of her sultry voice.
Christian met her gaze steadily, although his outward facade made a cover for the fiercely raging lust that threatened to devour his control. Good Christ, man, she’s a de Gare! Seventy years of St. John hate refused to allow him to consider his own desires over the duty demanded. But, God help him, he was becoming more weakened and confused by the moment. If she were anything other than a de Gare….
“I never said I intended to kill you,” his breathless voice matched her own.
Gaithlin swallowed hard as she listened to his husky reply, realizing that her apprehension was fading somewhat. “Then what do you intend to do with me if your intention is not that of murder?” she asked.
“What I intend to do with you is none of your concern,” he replied, pulling her towards his charger. “You are my prisoner to do with as I please.”
Head throbbing and chest sore, her oddly warm thoughts of the man vanished as Gaithlin stumbled after him. Tripping over an exposed clod of earth, she tumbled to her knees and succeeded in dislodging Christian’s grip. With a grunt of irritation, he bent to help her stand when she suddenly regained her feet, ramming the top of her head into his chin.
She yelped. He groaned. Hand to his jaw, he grasped Gaithlin’s arm once more. “Good Christ, wench,” he grumbled. “You are a plethora of pain for me.”
She didn’t struggle against his vise-like grip as he tugged her toward the grazing steed. Free hand on the top of her head, she rubbed the violated area. “I am not to blame for this mishap. Had you not handled me so brutally, I would not have fallen.”
He glared at her. “Had you not shown a glimpse of your magnificent intelligence by attempting to evade me, I would not have been forced to brutally handle you.”
She matched his glare, removing her hand from her aching head. “Had you not violated St. Esk at the onset, none of this would have happened.”
His glare faded into an expression of complete impassiveness. But his eyes, orbs of blue ice, were as biting as hungry wolves in winter. “I will not hear you refer to the breached abbey again,” his voice was deeper than a growl and by far more threatening. After a moment, his eyebrow twitched purely for sinister effect. “Let us place the blame where it lies. ’Twas your misfortune to have been born a de Gare in the first place.”
They stared at each other for a moment. All of the learned hatred, the mutual disgust at the sight and presence of a long-cultivated enemy came to bear in spite of the natural attraction between them. For the moment, the loathing was stronger than the interest and Gaithlin felt the bitterness to her soul. The previous warm feelings, the confusion at his touch, were forgotten as she turned away in repugnance.
“Damnable St. John bastard.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Christian heard her, his own sense of family hatred filling him. It wasn’t the physical company of the woman before him as much as it was the name she bore. It was the generations of de Gares she represented, spawning a hatred that had aged like a powerful wine.
Above their heads, the collecting clouds could no longer contain themselves. A soaking rain descended on man and beast alike, washing the countryside with a violent downpour. But even the rain wasn’t strong enough to cleanse the palpable hatred between the two inhabitants of the field below.
*
Gaithlin was positive the rain had been conjured from the bowels of Hell by her Demon captor. Her lavender woolen gown had quickly become soaked through the driving sheets of rain and to make matters worse, the Demon had tied her hands together as they traveled through the brutal weather. Pressed against his armored back, her arms about his waist, she could feel the rope chafing her tender wrists.
The top of her head against his back, she found herself staring at her parted thighs, embracing the Demon’s huge legs as she rode astride behind him, positioned like a man. He hadn’t permitted her the more dignified position seated in across his lap; instead, he had forced her into a most degrading stance. Legs wide open, her pubic bone against his buttocks. Were she not so completely miserable as a result of the weather, she would have been exceedingly furious at his lack of consideration but in truth, she expected no less from the Demon of Eden.
Soaked to the skin, frozen and ash-white, she licked her lips every so often as beads of rain coursed over her lowered face. Head bowed behind Christian’s massive frame, she was afforded a slight amount of protection from the stinging rain, but not enough. Not enough to offset her misery and anguish at the direction her future had seemingly taken.
As Gaithlin wallowed silently in discomfort, Christian was making a valiant attempt to pretend that the raging storm about them was of no concern. Shielded in his armor, he was amply protected against the elements and was quite content to continue on his journey. But every so often, the pair of bound hands about his waist would twitch and he would glance in their direction, noting the utterly colorless pallor like the hands of a corpse.
A pair of ashen hands that were attached to a thoroughly chilled body. As he felt himself relenting in the face of his barbaric cruelty, he would remind himself of his prisoner’s identity and his resolve would make a bold return. It was an odd mental struggle that went on mile after mile, and when the sun began to set and Gaithlin’s soaked body set into violent quaking seizures, he could no longer ignore the obvious. He had to find shelter.
A shelter that consisted of a thick cluster of Scot pine. Even though the rain was dripping from the leaves to the ground below, they were somewhat protected from the driving elements and he reined his charger to a halt amongst the damp, moldering leaves.
The sound of the rain was soft and lulling as Christian moved to untie Gaithlin’s hands. He was fully aware of her dead weight against his back and he wondered if she had fallen asleep. Her hands were limp and icy as he fumbled with the rope, finally removing one of his gauntlets for improved dexterity. Heavy and boneless, Gaithlin lay against his huge body as the bindings fell away.
But it was a grand performance for the benefit of the Demon. As soon as the rope fell away, she bolted to life, shoving Christian so hard that he was in danger of losing his seating. Leaping from the charger, Gaithlin landed on her knees in the muddy, musty pile of compost just as Christian lost the battle against his balance and crashed to the ground.
Rolling to his knees, Christian was surprised to see that Gaithlin continued to kneel on the ground, her deep blue eyes blazing at him. Her beautiful hair was drenched, the woolen gown clinging indecently to her magnificent body as her furious gaze beheld him. The sight of her wet figure was almost enough of a deterrent to cause him to forget his surprise and irritation. But not quite.
“You will pay for that, wench,” he growled, putting his feet beneath his body to regain his stance. His helm met with the ground as he marched towards his prey.
“With what?” she snapped, her wet hair whipping about her shoulders. “My health? My freedom? My dignity? Pray, what else can you take that you have not already stolen, Demon?”
His fury gained measure and substance. Christian had a tendency for volatile emotions, hence the basis for his reputation and nickname. Volatile emotions that he usually funneled into his sword, but gazing at the wet woman before him, he wasn’t the least bit willing to strike her down in a fit of fury. Usual outlet thwarted, he found himself irrationally considering more damaging means. Beautiful or not, the woman was driving him to the brink of fury-induced madness.
“There is much more to be taken, you foolish chit. Surely you do not intend to provoke my wrath with your senseless actions and insipid words?”
Gaithlin rose, slowly, and Christian found himself faced with an unhindered view of her delectable body. Completely wet and coated with a dusting of molding leaves, she was still the most magnificent woman he had ever seen.
“The only item of import left to take is my life,” she was shaking with chill and fury. “You said you weren’t going to kill me, but you obviously lied. I can see it in your eyes.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I never lie. And what you see in my eyes has nothing to do with murder.”
Her breathing increased at his rumbled statement; he could see her beautiful, firm breasts heaving against the damp wool. After a moment, she coughed softly, as if her breath had caught in her throat, and her head slowly wagged back and forth.
“ ’Tis your insanity I see, then. The St. John madness that infects your entire family like a raging disease,” she gestured feebly at him, as if finally coming to grips with the situation. “Look at you; you’re the Demon of Eden, the fiercest knight known to these parts. You have made a name for yourself killing and fighting and waging blood-lust sport. And you have made a sport of hating the House of de Gare.”
He eyed her, his fury cooling in spite of the fact that her heated words were true. “It is the way of things.” He almost looked around to see if his father was standing nearby; the words out of his mouth were sounding more and more like Jean St. John every day.
Gaithlin’s face took on an expression of pain and regret, of defeat and resolve. “You sound like my parents,” she whispered, her gaze trailing down his massive body to the arsenal of weapons decorating his waist. With a resigned shrug, she gestured to his ammunition. “Well, give me a weapon then. I suppose we should battle to the death as all of our ancestors have done. As we shall do.”
He cocked an eyebrow, nearly amused by her unmistakably droll comment. “I told you I was not going to kill you.”
She returned the facial expression. “But I may kill you. Will you not defend yourself?”
“I already have.”
She maintained her countenance, bordering on arrogance. “And you have so far proven to be an unworthy adversary. I push you and you fall, I bump you and you grunt with pain. For a man with a formidable reputation, Demon, you certainly are a weakling.”
He was on her in two strides, his angry dark face an inch from her own. Gaithlin suddenly found herself clutched in the mightiest embrace she had ever experienced; gasping with surprise and a certain measure of apprehension, she braced her hands against his chest as if to push him away. He was as immovable as a mountain.
“I am indeed a formidable adversary, wench, but I will not prove my point against a weaker, smaller de Gare. I told you that you would regret your actions, and I meant it.”
Lips quivering with shock and fright, Gaithlin met his ice-blue orbs steadily. The heat that had ignited earlier that day when he had so gently probed her for injury suddenly rekindled with searing intensity. She’d never been this close to a man; any man, and certainly not a St. John.
Yet family hatred didn’t seem to matter overly at the moment. Gaithlin was only aware of the fact that she was gazing into the face of the most beautiful man she had ever seen, his musky maleness filling her nostrils, assaulting her ingenuous emotions. The odd warmth erupted into a roaring blaze and her entire body began to shake, rippling like the waves of the sea in rapid succession.
“I… I am not afraid of you,” she breathed, gasping softly when his grip tightened. “Do what you will, Demon. I shall never beg for mercy.”
Christian heard her quietly-uttered defiance, feeling the familiar anger it roused. But the fury was quelled by desire of unbelievable proportions. With Gaithlin’s luscious body within his embrace, nothing else existed in the world.
Gaithlin never saw him move. One moment, his ice-blue orbs were blazing threateningly, and in the next moment his mouth was on her neck as a wildcat devours its prey. Burning lips against her tender, damp skin, scorching her with a passion she had never imagined to exist. His teeth bit into her flesh, enough to cause pain but not enough to break the skin. It was enrapturing. Dear God, he was a St. John, her family’s most hated nemesis! An evil Demon capable of nothing less than horror and pain and… complete, unrestrained pleasure. The Demon was consuming her and she would let him.
Christian could scarcely believe the rashness of his actions. It was as if something had given way, collapsing his control until only his desire was capable of coming forth. But as his tongue sampled the rain-sweet flesh of her neck, he was aware that she was far more delicious than anything he had ever sampled. And he knew, doubtlessly, that he had to have more of the newly-discovered delicacy. He had to take more.
He was barely aware of Gaithlin’s stunned gasp, her body as it stiffened within the crushing enclosure of his arms. He ignored her squirms of panic, her cries of fear, fully engulfed in the ravishment of her neck. So involved was he in the tender white morsels of her earlobes that he was unaware when her terrified struggles turned into an overwhelming reaction to his raging desire.