CHAPTER FOUR
Hands that were braced against Christian’s chest not a moment before were suddenly around his neck, twisting their way into his honey-blond mane. As his mouth utterly devoured the exquisite line of her jaw, he became cognizant of her gasps, her soft groans of pleasure and delight, and they only served to feed his furor.
For a man that was the perpetual idealism of calm and control, he was unaware when he tumbled over the brink of lust-induced insanity. All he knew was that he had waited for this moment since the very first he beheld the vision in the lake, and the physical pleasure he was receiving as a result of his lack of composure was the greatest ecstasy he had ever experienced.
Suddenly, there was no hatred, no St. Johns, no de Gares. There was only Christian and Gaithlin, a man and a woman, and he intended to handle the situation accordingly. He’d never wanted a woman so badly in his life.
Still holding her tightly against his armored chest, he viciously tore away his right gauntlet, then his left. Naked hands the size of a serving trencher entangled themselves in damp blond hair, holding her captive to his desire as his heated lips moved down her neck and across her collarbone. Delicately, smoothly, he slid her gown from her shoulders.
Gaithlin existed in mindless limbo as Christian’s searing mouth plundered her delicate skin, conveniently neglecting the fact that her most detested enemy appeared intent on ravishing her. Merciful Heavens, if this was what it meant to be plundered and ravaged, she would have been willing to submit to him long ago. If this was his punishment, she would live for the moment when her actions warranted his idea of a suitable reward.
She’d heard tale of the excitement of a man’s touch from the serving wenches at Winding Cross, the ribald stories the young women were free in repeating, and she had harbored a great curiosity of the mating aspects between a man and a woman. Knowing that it was a mysterious, intimate, intensely private encounter, but little beyond that.
Now, to actually sample the reality of her curious ponderings, she realized that the servants and soldiers had hardly paid proper homage to such action. To be kissed, caressed, touched, fondled…
Fondled?
She was suddenly aware of his hand on her breast, massaging her firm globe with the utmost tenderness. Blinking away the disorientation his lustful endeavor had induced, she gazed at the top of his honey-blond head as his mouth moved over the swell of her ripe breasts. As one hand teased her nipple through the wet wool, the other was intent on removing her from her garment.
Her gown was sliding down her arms with swift, gentle action and she was suddenly aware that his most euphoric attentions were quickly becoming far more threatening. It was obvious that he wanted more than she was willing to give and their previous conversation came back to her in all of its blinding force, slamming her with the interpretation of the underlying meaning.
What you see in my eyes has nothing to do with murder.
Now, she knew what she saw in his eyes. Merciful Heavens, she had been so foolish to challenge him, informing him that he had managed to strip her of all dignity and respect and that the only matter of personal import left to take was her very life. There had been another intimate possession, one she had neglected to remember through her anger and apprehension. A possession she valued most over all else.
She had been wrong. Terribly wrong. The innocence meant for her husband’s pleasure was in great danger of being forever lost and she knew, now, that it had been his intent all along.
It had never been his purpose to kill her. He intended to do far worse damage than mere death. And she was letting him.
The gown was suddenly peeled away from her damp breasts, revealing the rain-cold beauties to Christian’s lust-glazed eyes. They were as magnificent as he had remembered, the most exquisite mounds of flesh he had ever had the fortune to experience. Her nipples, as large as a small plum, wordlessly screamed for his attention and he heeded the call far more harshly than he should have. The moment his hot mouth clamped down on her swollen nipple, Gaithlin let out a scream.
Her body was stiff as he suckled her, wrapping his arms about her slender torso, entrapping her breasts against his hungry mouth. Her arms were enveloped within his iron embrace as well, and he was vaguely aware that her struggles had increased. But it only served to excite him, for he was positive she was responding freely to his demanded advance.
Lapping the sweetness of her distended nipple, he hungrily moved to the other breast when a distinct, heart-broken sob penetrated his desire. Even as his lips enclosed her nipple, another sob broke forth and he realized she wasn’t responding to him any longer. She was fighting him.
His head came up, meeting deep blue orbs swimming with hot, frightened tears. Startled, his expression washed with genuine concern; this woman had suffered a brutal afternoon of pain and harsh encounters and physical abuse, and her bravery had been nothing short of astounding. He was suddenly very interested to know what had driven this tough woman to tears.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?”
She sobbed again, tears spilling down her cheeks and catching him with their splatter. Christian licked the errant tear from his lip as she struggled with her composure.
“Answer me,” he demanded gently. “What is wrong?”
Her head lolled to the side and she shut her eyes, avoiding his gaze, avoiding his presence. Avoiding him. “Please… don’t. I beg of you, sire. Please… don’t do this!”
His brow furrowed faintly. “Don’t do what? Don’t kiss you?”
She twisted within his grasp, struggling to break free, but he refused to release his hold. Frustrated and bordering on panic, her eyes blazed at him. “You said you that it was not your intention to kill me. So you intend to rob me of my innocence in punishment for having been born a de Gare? You intend to rob me of what is most precious to any maiden?”
He released her. Fighting off the sobs of shame and embarrassment, Gaithlin turned away from him and struggled to re-dress herself. Christian watched her with a good deal of confusion and a generous measure of personal shame.
“But you… you allowed me to kiss you, wench,” he pointed out. “You encouraged me to continue.”
“I was not given a choice!” she threw back at him, sniffling as she pulled the damp wool over her shoulders. “You were intent on ravishing me whether or not I encouraged you.”
He stared at her a moment before averting his gaze, raking his fingers through his wetted blond hair and feeling more humiliation than he could ever recall. He’d never known a woman to refuse his advances and was quite inept in dealing with the rejection. The advances of the Demon of Eden were never unwanted.
… were they?
But… it simply wasn’t true! A spark of anger flared within his chest and he turned to her once more, watching her tears ease and her composure return. He was willing to admit that he had lost control, but she had most definitely responded to his touch as if she had been made for his pleasure alone. Never had a woman felt so natural in his arms, so genuine, as if she had always been meant for him.
The longer he stared at her, the more confused and frustrated he became. Good Christ, he realized that above his arrogance and bafflement he was actually ashamed of himself. He’d never been ashamed of anything in his life and the words expressing sorrow for his actions did not come easily, especially to a de Gare.
“I apologize if I frightened you,” he said gruffly. “It was not my intent.”
Sniffling loudly, she squared her shoulders and faced him. “Pray, what was your intent? To degrade me, humiliate me, force your hated enemy to bow to your superior strength and will so you could return to Eden and boast of your conquest over the de Gare heiress? Is that what you intended, Demon?”
He sighed, annoyance joining his other emotions. “If my goal was to humiliate or degrade you, I would have done so by now,” the flicker of an armored gauntlet amongst the leaves caught his attention and he bent down, retrieving his hastily-discarded gloves. “And as for returning to Eden, I do not expect to return home for some time.”
Her gaze cooled, her eyes smoking with curiosity. She had asked him at the onset what he intended to do with her and he had rebuffed her request. Suddenly, she saw an opportunity to seek her answer.
“Why not?”
“Because I will be with you.”
“You are not taking me to Eden?”
“Nay.”
“Then where are we going?”
He glanced at her as he secured his left gauntlet. “Does it matter?”
She nodded, slowly, trying to keep her manner calm. She was not so naive that she did not notice he responded more easily to her when she was rational and collected. “It does. I should like to know where I am to spend the remainder of my life.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Who is to say you are going to spend the rest of your life a captive?”
She held his gaze a moment before looking away, wandering to a rotted stump amongst the overgrowth. The moment she planted her damp bottom upon the wood, she realized her fatigue was great and her shoulders sagged with resignation and sorrow.
“Henri St. John captured my grandfather twenty years ago and held him captive,” her voice was faint. “We never saw him again.”
Christian well remembered the capture of Glenn de Gare. Although he had been fostering at Ludlow at the time, being a lad of eleven, he would never forget the triumphant missive he received from his father announcing the capture of their greatest de Gare enemy. A man who had been sentenced to the vault of Eden and who had died in the nauseating hole less than a year later.
His rotted corpse was still chained to the walls of the lower level, a grisly trophy for the St. Johns to savor. In fact, his father still spoke to the cadaver now and again to announce St. John victories. But gazing at Gaithlin’s lowered head, Christian was unwilling to divulge the fate of her grandfather. As a loyal St. John, he should have been pleased to announce the fact; but as the heir to Eden, weary of a foolish ancestral war, he was reluctant to be a party to her pain.
“Surely you are not old enough to remember your grandfather,” he said quietly, hoping to divert the subject.
She shrugged, rubbing her arms for warmth as the rain in the canopy increased. “I was two years old when he was captured. I remember images of the man, his gentle voice, but naught else.”
Christian cocked an eyebrow. “You are twenty years and two? Good Christ, wench; how is it that you are so old and unmarried?”
Sharply, her head came up and he saw a flash of fury in the beautiful blue depths. “No one wants to marry a woman whose only dowry is a seventy-year-old Feud and a battered fortress.”
Abruptly, she averted her gaze, hoping he would allow the subject to rest. She didn’t like speaking on her married state, knowing she was far too old and too poor to be considered a viable marriage prospect. The seventy-year war with Eden had not only left the de Gares laced with hatred and bitterness, but it had left them poverty-bound as well. No one wanted a destitute heiress.
Depressed with her gloomy thoughts, she could feel his stare against her back. An inquisitive, piercing stare that annoyed and unnerved at the same time. Emotions on the surface as a result of their exchange, she found herself lingering on a particular issue that had seen well to vex her from the start. A degrading mention he continued to utilize, a term she considered offensive. Strange how above all her other concerns, one particular subject would come into focus.
Moving away from the topic of her dowry and marriage prospects, she shifted the subject to the center of her annoyance. “There is something else I would like to say.”
“Say it.”
“Do not call me wench. I do not like it.”
His eyebrows rose as if the thought had never occurred to him. “You do not like it?”
She slanted him a long gaze. “You asked me not to address you as a bastard, and I graciously complied. I will ask you not to call me wench.”
He stared at her a moment longer, wondering why her quietly uttered request sounded suspiciously like a demand. But she was correct; he had asked her not to refer to him in a derogatory manner and in spite of their heated exchange at the time, she had obeyed his command.
It began to occur to Christian that the de Gare woman responded in kind when handled rationally. Since she had been willing to comply with his request not to address him as a bastard, he was inclined to react in the same manner. He was, after all, a chivalrous knight bound by his brotherhood vows to respect and nurture the fairer sex. Even a de Gare.
“Very well,” his voice was quiet. “I will not address you by the term if you find it offensive.”
She gazed at him in the fading light, her shivers of chill having returned since Christian’s heated body was no longer providing her with his searing warmth. Even when she looked away, pale and cold now that the blazing lust between them was doused, he continued to stare at her and wondered why he was so utterly preoccupied with her.
He would have been content to stand and gaze at her all night, lost to his puzzling thoughts, but she quaked violently and began rubbing her arms again to stay warm and he was jolted from his thoughts by her misery.
“I shall build a fire,” he mumbled, glancing at the wet ground and knowing a fire would be unable to compete with the wet foliage. Several possibilities crossed his mind, but he found himself focusing on one particular thought; he was traversing Howard lands. Three miles to the north and west sat the mighty fortified manor of Kelvin Howard, a childhood friend. He’d not seen Kelvin in ten years but he knew for a fact that the man would gladly put him up for the night.
Christian’s gaze moved to Gaithlin again, shivering uncontrollably on the rotted stump and startled himself with the idea of gathering her against him purely for warmth. The very thought was foolish for two very logical reasons; she would probably accuse him of attempting to rape her again and, more than likely, he would be unable to control his lusty urges were she nestled against him. Therefore, her accusation would be true.
“I know of a manor not far from here where we could spend the night,” his rich, beautiful voice was low. “I will take you there on two conditions, my lady; that you swear you will not attempt to escape, nor will you inform anyone of your true relationship to me.”
So cold that her lips were blue, Gaithlin met his serious gaze. The thought of spending the night in a soft bed, warm and dry, was infinitely appealing, but the natural urge to resist a St. John was a powerful force to be reckoned with. Deep within her heart, she saw her situation for what it was; she was his captive. There was no escape. But the foolish, less rational portion of her personality was not so easily subdued. How could she give in to a St. John with so weak a struggle?
“My lady?” he asked. “Do you comprehend me?”
She did. Too well. Averting her gaze, she nodded feebly. “Aye,” she whispered. “I understand.”
“Do I have your word of honor?”
She cocked an eyebrow, meeting his inquisitive gaze. “Would you believe a de Gare?”
“I will the first time. If you break your word, I shall never trust you again.”
Fair enough. A violent seizure of chill embraced her and she hugged herself fiercely, waiting for the quaking to stop. Christian watched her as impassively as he could, again fighting off the strong urge to warm her chilled body. He turned and marched across the wet compost towards his charger. As the horse tore up a bush of plump green leaves, he dug into his saddlebags. Drawing forth a heavy black cloak of wool and fleece, he returned to his shivering captive.
“Here.”
He swung the massive cloak about her shoulders, wrapping her in the yards of fabric as well as a mother swaddling a babe. Too cold and too tired to protest, Gaithlin allowed herself to be buffeted back and forth by the power of his gruff concerns.
When she was wrapped as tightly as a newborn infant, he pulled her to her feet and silently returned the mummy-like form to the feeding destrier. Without a word, he lifted her effortlessly onto the saddle and retrieved his helm before mounting. This time, he sat behind her.
Gaithlin grunted when he shifted in the saddle, pulling her across his hard thighs. But she was far more comfortable than she had been all day; wrapped in his deliciously warm cloak, her blood was warming and her shivers fading. Christian pulled her against his chest with one arm and positioned his helm with the other, gathering his reins when his head protection was secured. As he prepared to spur his charger on, her soft voice stopped him.
“Aren’t you going to tie my hands?” her voice was muffled within the folds of his cloak.
He glanced at her, noting the faint gleam in her eye. “Should I?”
To his surprise, she actually grinned and he was enchanted; as beautiful as her mouth was in repose, her smile changed her face dramatically. Christian found himself staring at her mouth as his horse trampled its way out of the underbrush.
“You have wrapped me so tightly that I do not believe tying my hands to be necessary,” she said.
He grunted, his only response as his charger regained his footing on the muddy road. The rain was pounding harder than before as the clouds above darkened with impending nightfall. Within the hour they would be at Kelvin Howard’s manor and Christian found himself looking forward to the evening ahead. Good food, wine, warmth… he ignored the fact that he was looking forward to an evening attempting to become acquainted with his mortal enemy.
They hadn’t traveled a quarter mile when Christian felt his mummified captive go limp against him. Casting her a lingering glance, her peaceful, pale face slumbered wearily beneath the hood of his cloak and he shifted her gently to better cradle her against his chest. With a lengthy sigh, one of contentment and pensive reflection for the future, Christian would have been content to hold the black-shrouded figure for the rest of his natural life.
It was a peculiar satisfaction that seemed to infect them both. As the wind howled and the rain came down in buckets, the Lady Gaithlin de Gare had never slept so peacefully in her entire life.
Shielded in the arms of the enemy.
*
Forrestoak Manor was a massive fortified structure encompassing enough square footage to have made an adequate castle. Made of stone that had developed a deep green color for the moss that grew upon its surface, it was nestled deep within the heart of the surrounding trees.
Christian recollected coming here on a few occasions as a child while the place was still being built, listening to Lord Howard boast at the greatness of the structure intended for his only son. While Jean had been mildly impressed by his ally’s fortune and expansion, inspecting the fortress at Lord Howard’s insistence, Christian and Kelvin had run amuck in the surrounding woods, chasing down rabbits and fox.
Christian smiled as he remembered those days. He and Kelvin had always been particularly companionable, even as youths, fostering for opposing households. They had met occasionally at tournaments, stealing away from their duties to peruse the activities and pilfer apples. Aye, he liked Kelvin and was looking forward to seeing the man once again. Ten years was a very long time to remain distant.
The massive double gate loomed ahead and Christian could see the sentries on the narrow walls. As he announced himself to the shouted query, Gaithlin was startled awake by his booming voice.
“Where are we?” she bolted upright, smacking her head against the side of his helm.
Although he hadn’t been injured in the least by her reflexive action, he instinctively winced on her behalf and attempted to remove the hood of the cloak to see if she drew blood. But Gaithlin would have no part of his mothering; batting his hands away, she rubbed the violated spot.
“I asked where we are, Demon.”
He eyed her, his concern for her injury fading. “Do not call me Demon. I do not like it.”
She heard her own words and ceased to massage the growing lump on her head. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she cocked a saucy eyebrow. Since childhood, she had awoken from sleep to a disagreeable mood and today, unfortunately, was to be no exception.
“Then what would you have me call you?” she asked.
He matched her raised-eyebrow expression, noting her cross disposition with a degree of disapproval. But as he gazed at her, a shout on the wall came back to him and the giant gates began to swing open. Christian tore his eyes away from her, focusing on the gate.
“My Dearest,” he rumbled. “For tonight, you shall call me My Dearest.”
Gaithlin’s mouth opened in outrage. “My Dearest? I think not, De…!”
He clapped a massive hand over her mouth, spurring his charger through the gates. Although his expression was intentionally tender, his tone was deadly. “You are my lover and will address me as My Dearest in front of my close ally. If you choose not to assume the charade, I will turn about this instant and you can spend the remainder of your night tied to a tree.”
Eyes wide, Gaithlin had no doubt that his threat was sincere. Even as her natural urge advised complete defiance, an inner sense somehow managed to suggest that she might come to like such a thing. That addressing the Demon of Eden by a term of endearment wasn’t as completely horrible as she would have liked to believe.
A peculiar inner struggle commenced at his subtle command. She didn’t want to call him My Dearest, or Sweetling, or any other expression of affection. At least, the defiant de Gare within her soul was staunchly resistant to such an idea. But the isolated, naive young lady was not entirely unwilling.
“My Dearest?” she repeated, mumbling through his gloved fingers. When he removed his hand and fixed her with a heady, no-nonsense glare, she sighed in resignation. “My Dearest.”
The corner of his lip twitched with a smile. “That was not so hard, was it? ’Twill become easier with time.”
“I don’t intend to call you My Dearest for the rest of my life.”
“If I demand it, you will.”
His manner wasn’t quite so severe and Gaithlin was surprised to realize it bordered on amusement. “Is that so?” she felt her own sense of humor take hold. “And what do you intend to call me if I must address you by a sickening term of sentiment?”
He raised an eyebrow as they rode into the well-kept bailey of Forrestoak. He deliberately avoided her piercing gaze as his eyes perused their surroundings. “I have yet to decide. Certainly something nauseating.”
She pursed her lips wryly and turned away, curious of their environment. “I dare not ask again,” she mumbled, clutching his black cloak about her weary body.
Several soldiers rushed to greet them. Between the bedraggled lady wrapped in the oversized cloak and the auspicious presence of the Demon of Eden, there was a good deal of respectful chatter and attention. Christian dismounted into a nest of excited soldiers, pulling Gaithlin off with him. Arm about her shoulders tightly, he ignored the common rabble of fighting men and made his way toward the green-tinged manor.
Gaithlin felt his arm around her, torn between relishing the new experience and wanting to pull away from him. He’s a St. John, no matter how willing you are to forget the fact! She was only too well aware of the message her nagging conscience was intent on constantly informing her. She didn’t need to be reminded that she hated him.
It would have been simple to allow herself to slip into the realm of depressing thought as she once again pondered her predicament, but stumbling over Christian’s lengthy robe distracted her from impending doom. In fact, she tripped twice on their trek across the bailey. The third time she stumbled, Christian came to an irritated halt.
“Is something the matter?” he demanded.
She shook her head weakly. “You’re cloak is too long,” she replied, then added with malicious sweetness: “My Dearest.”
He raised an eyebrow at her mocking tone. “Grace certainly isn’t one of your strong points, is it? You stumble more than any woman I have ever had the misfortune to witness.”
He was correct; grace had never been one of her strong points, being long-legged and rather tall for a woman, and she averted her gaze with embarrassment. Christian felt himself softening somewhat at her humiliation and a faint smile tugged at his lips.
“But I suppose your beauty makes up for the finer qualities you lack,” he added, but the expression on Gaithlin’s face stopped him cold. His brows drew together curiously. “Why do you look at me like that?”
There was a bit of color in her cheeks; ’twas the first time he noticed. “You jest with me.”
His scowl increased. “When did I do this?”
She smiled, bright and beautiful. “You said I possessed beauty,” she said. “How can you say that when I stand before you wet and dirty and completely disheveled?”
He drew in a deep breath, off-guard with the beauty of her smile. “My lady, there is no beauty in all of England that can compare to you.” He’d used the same coaxing words before, on several women in order to gain his way. But the identical phrase spoken to Gaithlin was God’s living truth. Unnerved and unbalanced by his compliments to her, he cleared his throat and pulled her towards the manse. “Come along. They should have already commenced with the evening meal and we risk being thrown the bones if we delay any longer.”
The door loomed high and heavy before them; before they reached the stoop, several household servants in the Howard colors of gray and yellow emerged from the manse, intent on serving their newest arrivals. Gaithlin eyed the haughty house servants, far removed from the simply serving wenches and old men they employed at Winding Cross. Certainly, the servants of Forrestoak were clad in finer garments than she even owned.
But the sight of the well-dressed serfs was not enough to deter her from the subject at hand and she continued to linger on their conversation a moment, even as the fanciful employees rushed forward in their haste.
“Have you decided what you are going to call me?” her voice was soft as she observed the approaching horde.
He, too, was scrutinizing the cluster of servants. “You will answer to whatever comes forth from my lips,” he told her.
Before them, the great manse of Forrestoak loomed and they were sucked forth into the warm, welcoming bosom.
The interior of the great fortified manse was very warm, the heat of the blaze in the foyer hitting Christian and Gaithlin in the face like a slap. As Christian removed his helm, Gaithlin lowered her hood, observing her surroundings with wide-eyes; surely the halls of Heaven weren’t any less grand.
A massive tapestry hung resplendent against one wall, an intricately designed rug that depicted a scene from the Crusades. Ignoring the hovering servants, Gaithlin wandered in the direction of the magnificent piece, studying the mail-clad knights in crimson tunics as their ladies fair bid them a fond farewell. Helm and gauntlets removed, Christian moved to stand behind her, appraising the work he’d seen before.
“King Richard the Lion Heart is in the middle,” he pointed to the center of the artwork. The men depicted were the very heart of the St. John – de Gare Feud, he couldn’t help but notice. “See? His brother John and advisor William Marshall watch the king’s departure from the Tower.”
Gaithlin nodded, intently studying the scene. “And that must be Berengaria,” she gestured to the delicate lady with the towering wimple. “She was lovely.”
Christian’s gaze moved from the tapestry to Gaithlin’s mussed hair, dry and tousled from their ride. He caught himself before he could compliment her beauty again, but his superior control could not prevent him from putting his hand to her disheveled hair in an ineffectual attempt to smooth it. Untidy and weary, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Gaithlin felt his hand; startled, she instinctively put her hand to her head and their fingers touched, inadvertently intertwining, and Christian removed his hand from her hair only to find her slender appendage entangled in his massive fingers. Deep blue, almond-shaped eyes met with Nordic jewels of pure ice.
“Your hair was out of place,” he felt like a fool even suggesting his consideration in her appearance. Yet the experience of her silken hand within the fold of his palm was almost worth the chagrin.
But she jerked her hand from his grip before he could further relish the feel, her cheeks flushing a faint pink as she ran her fingers through her tangled mess. “I do believe that everything on my person is out of place at the moment.”
Sounds of the gallery wafted on the warm, fragrant air and Gaithlin turned her attention in the direction of the grand room. She could catch a glimpse of a page now and again, young boys running about to serve the knights and master. As a fat wolfhound wandered from the rounded Norman archway, she suddenly found herself extremely apprehensive to attend a formal meal in her unkempt state.
Although she shouldn’t have given her image a second thought in lieu of the fact that it would be St. John allies she would be sharing a meal with, the same innocent girl who was so desperately confused over Christian’s presence was equally excited and eager to eat her first meal outside of the walls of Winding Cross. With the exception of the meager feasts St. Esk had to offer, she spent her entire life supping from the worn oak table in the thinly furnished gallery of her ancestral home.
Listening to the gentle music and soft laughter emitting from the smoke-hazed room, she found herself wanting to know how the wealthy and affluent lived.
Christian was unaware of her dilemma as he motioned to a well-dressed steward with a bowl-shaped haircut. After a few muttered phrases to the little man, in which he mentioned words to the effect that his company was to be a surprise to Kelvin, he cast a lingering glance at Gaithlin. She tore her eyes away from the gallery entrance long enough to meet his gaze, her expression steady. After a lengthy moment of staring into the deep blue depths, Christian pursed his lips.
“I suppose I should offer you my arm so that we may enter the gallery as a companionable pair,” he said with a hint of disgust. But the aversion in his tone was forced; as if he was required by the nature of their relationship to offer a customary show of distaste.
Even Gaithlin sensed that he was not entirely repulsed by the thought of her company on his arm. Odd, she thought, that she too was not entirely repulsed by the idea of accepting his escort. But she would play the Disgust Game as well, so he would not note the fact that she was more comfortable with his suggestion than she should have been.
“Since when have a St. John and a de Gare been companionable?”
Christian’s intense eyes gazed at her a moment before meeting the tapestry behind her. “Since before the days of that man,” he tilted his head in King Richard’s direction. “Once, the two families were quite companionable.”
She turned to glance at the intricate needlework, large enough to cover two beds with ease. Pondering the king and his Crusaders for a moment, she shrugged and turned away. “One would have been led to believe that we began the Feud the day Lucifer split from the Heavenly Horde.”
Christian’s gaze lingered on her a moment, the familiar feelings of waste and foolishness coming to bear as he pondered the state of their families’ relations. More than ever, he believed the Feud to be a senseless attempt to maintain the family honor. Two families sentenced to live and die by a grossly distended argument that had lurched out of control until the true sense of righteousness had been lost.
The noise level in the gallery increased, breaking Christian from his thoughts as a pair of dogs appeared in the doorway, fighting over a large bone. Without another word on the Feud that had been a part of their mutual existence since before their birth, he extended his arm to Gaithlin and she placed her slender hand on his forearm.
As he led her toward the warm, hazy room, he caught her rapid movements as she attempted to make herself more presentable from the corner of his eye. They were frantic actions from a woman who had spent the entire afternoon being battered or abused, one way or the other.
“Stop your fretting,” he growled. “Your worries are for naught.”
Smoothing at her hair, Gaithlin’s wide eyes met with the soaring gallery as they emerged through the doorway. “I look like a street urchin.”
He cocked an eyebrow, casting her an intolerant glance as the heat and cooking smells from the grand hall assaulted them both. “You are acceptable enough,” placing his free hand over hers in a most companionable gesture, she suddenly found herself pulled tight against his torso. “Remember to address me as My Dearest. Do you comprehend?”
She sighed with frustration. “I am not daft, Dem… I mean, My Dearest. You have already informed me of the role I am to play and I shall not disappoint you.”
His eyes on the large table at the far end of the cavernous hall, he raised a threatening eyebrow purely for Gaithlin’s benefit. “You’d better not.”
Gaithlin would have scowled at him had the sharp smell of burnt meat and dog feces not embraced her like a glove. Wrinkling her nose at the pungent aroma, she allowed Christian to lead her through the smoke and pages and various inhabitants of the hall in their advance to the head table.
She was so consumed with the atmosphere and sights about her that she failed to notice the change of expression on Christian’s face. From expectation to suspicion to disbelief, the very next thing she was aware of was her escort coming to a complete halt and his entire body went rigid with rage and astonishment.
For certain, surprise did not seem to encompass the depths of his reaction. The dishonor of his pride was evident in naked proportions.