CHAPTER SIX
Gaithlin’s eyes beheld Kelvin for an eternal moment as the man fell to his buttocks on the wooded slats, his gaze wide with complete shock as her boot remained buried in his swollen crotch. The full effects of the pain had yet to sink in as Gaithlin lurched away from him, leapt to unsteady feet as her deep blue eyes blazed with terror and fury.
“I hope you die from your pain, you bastard,” she seethed, her body quaking with fright. “I hope you die and I hope your anguish lingers the entire heated journey to Hell’s depths.”
He opened his mouth to retort when the complete brunt of the agony descended upon him and the lips that had so recently assaulted Gaithlin were suddenly screaming their suffering with such ferocity that the very walls reverberated with the anguish. Hell’s depths might have been preferable to the anguish of the lady’s brutal betrayal.
Covert betrayal or not, Gaithlin had no desire to be near the screaming, invalid man as he proceeded to vomit his sup over the clean wooden boards. Shaken to the point of very nearly becoming incapacitated herself, she crawled over the bed in her hasty attempt to move away from him. Now that the deed was done, she was desperate to be free of his presence. She had to find Christian; she knew he would help her. The St. John would protect his de Gare captive.
Gasping with fright, she barely made it to the door when the wooden panel was suddenly being shoved open, slamming against the supporting wall and nearly smashing her in the process. The very next thing she was aware of was massive hands clamping down on her tender arms.
“Gaithlin!” It was Christian. “What in the hell…?”
Verging on tears, Gaithlin attempting to answer when Kelvin suddenly rattled off another piercing scream. Baffled and startled by the unearthly howling, Christian pulled Gaithlin into a protective embrace as his former friend writhed about on the floor. But he was not so preoccupied with his hysterical friend that he did not notice Gaithlin’s death-grip about his waist.
The entire house and hold was becoming aware of Kelvin’s screams and Christian could hear rapid footfalls approaching down the corridor. Stunned but not witless, he pulled Gaithlin into the room with him and shut the door, keeping one arm around his quivering captive as he lodged the iron bolt. Watching Kelvin vomit more bile and a portion of blood, he attempted to collect his swirling thoughts.
“What happened?” he demanded, struggling to keep his tone calm; she was already deeply shaken and he had no desire to upset her further.
Face buried in his tunic, she visibly wrestled with her fright. “He… he came to my room bearing dresses. And then he tried… he threw me to the floor and… oh, Christian, he thought I was your mistress and he demanded that I….”
Christian understood a great deal in her halting, panting explanation. But it still did not allude as to why Kelvin was squirming on the floor like a madman, expelling the contents of his innards. “What did you do to him, honey? Why is he vomiting blood?”
Her head came up, focusing on his ice-blue orbs, and he was physically impacted by the fear in her eyes. “I kicked him in his manhood as hard as I could.”
He stared at her a moment before allowing his gaze to drift to Kelvin. Having nothing left in his stomach, the man was currently experiencing a round of the dry heaves and Christian found he had absolutely no sympathy for the idiot foolish enough to tangle with Gaithlin de Gare. In fact, he repressed the powerful urge to do further damage on the lady’s behalf.
After a lengthy, disgusted moment, he returned his attention to the woman clutched against his chest. Drained both physically and emotionally, her head resting against his chest, she had turned away from the scene at hand and he shook her gently to regain her attention.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked, his rich voice oddly tight.
She shook her head, refocusing her attention on him. He was towering over her, enveloping her in a crushing embrace, and Gaithlin swore at that very moment she had never felt so safe or protected in her entire life, St. John or no.
“He did not hurt me,” she whispered, noticing the delicious curve of his lips and the marvelously smooth texture. “But I think I have killed him.”
He smiled faintly, a gesture she found to be utterly beautiful and comforting. “Nay, you did not kill him, but I am sure he wishes he were dead.”
She continued to stare into his eyes, nearly distracted from the crisis at hand as she studied his incredible face. “When he regains his senses, he will demand the right to punish me,” her low voice was a raspy whisper; she found his full lips to be diverting and she struggled to maintain her focus. “Mayhap it would be best if we leave. Now.”
He cocked an eyebrow, thinking heavily on kissing her again in spite of the moaning going on about them and the commotion in the hall beyond. “It’s pouring rain. Moreover, I doubt Kelvin will be demanding your head before the night is out. We can still enjoy a warm bed and leave at daybreak.”
Tearing her eyes from him, she focused reluctantly on the now-still, groaning figure crumpled on the floor. “I fear he’ll come for me regardless. He knows my name.”
Christian was silent a moment as her words sank deep, feeling a disturbing twinge of betrayal at her greater implication. “What do you mean?”
“I told him my name,” she whispered, attempting to pull free of Christian’s embrace. “He demanded I tell him and I did… immediately before I kicked him.”
When she pulled away from him, he somehow felt as if a portion of his body had been ripped free. Suddenly, he didn’t feel entirely whole any longer. But his sense of loss at the moment was weak compared to his rising fury with Gaithlin’s admission.
“You promised me that you would not reveal your identity, my lady,” he said.
She heard his tone and it was infinitely disturbing. Wide eyes, apologetic and as blue as the deepest waters, gazed at him. “And I had every intention of keeping my pledge, sire, truly. It was never my purpose to betray my word. But I was frightened and caught up in the heat of the moment and….” She shook her head, genuinely remorseful. “I am sorry, Christian. My promises are usually infinitely more substantial than my display has led you to believe.”
Hands on hips, he met her gaze steadily as he pondered her words. In truth, he understood her explanation completely; using Gaithlin’s panic against her, Kelvin had forced the truth from her and she had retaliated by driving her foot into his family treasure. But regardless of the fact that he found himself in complete agreement with her actions, he would not so readily allow her to believe that he would instantly forgive the breach of a strongly-held vow.
“Time will tell, my lady,” he said quietly, eyeing Kelvin when the man groaned again. Taking a deep breath as he returned to the immediate problem, he continued to ignore the weak pounding at the door and the soft demands for entry. “For tonight, I believe you shall sleep in my room. I would assume that Kelvin wishes to be left alone.”
Gaithlin’s gaze trailed to Kelvin once more, wondering if she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life running from a vengeful, impotent man. But she did not regret her actions nor the method utilized in the least; indeed, it had been necessary. Nodding faintly, she climbed over the bed with the intent of collecting Christian’s cloak on the opposite side. Having fallen off during the struggle, it lay upon the floor in a discarded heap.
Christian watched her as she crept over the large canopied bed, observing the gowns she mashed beneath her knees. As Gaithlin nearly tripped off the bed in her attempt to regain Christian’s cloak, he made his way to the mattress and scrutinized the garments displayed.
“Is this what he brought you?” when she nodded, he fingered the red gown. “Hmm. Quite lovely. And quite expensive.”
Clutching the cloak to her breast, she gazed at the gowns with such longing that Christian felt a tug to his heart. It occurred to him that if the de Gares were barely able to provide themselves with adequate sustenance, then the extravagance of fine clothes were completely out of the question. Without hesitation, he scooped up the five heavy garments and motioned for Gaithlin to make her way over the bed.
“Come along, my lady,” he held out his hand, steadying her as she walked over the mattress. “The hour grows late and we have a long journey on the morrow.”
“What are you doing with those gowns?” she asked, jumping from the bed to the floor beside him.
He continued to hold her hand. “What does it look like? I intend to accept Kelvin’s offering on your behalf. By accepting these dresses, we forgive him for his most aggressive actions towards you.”
She cocked a slow eyebrow. “We forgive him?”
The grip on her hand tightened, naked flesh against naked flesh. His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he moved to his crumpled bygone friend, pulling Gaithlin along with him and making sure she didn’t step in the vomit and blood as he bent low to look the man in the face.
Eyes closed, Kelvin was pale and breathing rapidly. Christian resisted the urge to laugh in his face for his brazen stupidity.
“Do you hear me, Kelvin?” he said. “I accept your apology for attacking my lady. And we shall hear no more about it.”
With a faint groan, Kelvin’s deep green eyes fluttered open, focusing on Christian. “You… you bastard,” he rasped, spittle forming on his lips. “Get out of my keep and take your bitch with you.”
All of the calm fled from Christian’s face. Gowns still clutched in one arm, he released Gaithlin’s hand and grasped Kelvin by the front of his stained tunic. Yet before he could inflict any more damage against him, Gaithlin grasped him firmly by the arm.
“No more, Christian,” she whispered, her gaze moving between the crippled man and her angry captor. “Let’s go. We shall leave tonight.”
For the second time since entering her bower, his given name rolled off her tongue like the finest, most delectable wine. His gaze lingered on Kelvin a moment longer before returning his gaze to the woman hovering beside him. Disheveled, weary and beaten, she was the most beautiful angel he had ever beheld and he knew, at that moment, that there was nothing on earth he wouldn’t do for her. Good Christ, he was falling deeper into trouble by the moment.
The large palm that had so recently clutched Kelvin returned to Gaithlin’s hand. To his surprise, she willingly clasped it tightly.
“I told you that I do not believe it wise to leave this night,” his voice was a raspy whisper. “It’s raining like mad and I refuse to be a party to the resulting illness that will surely claim your life.”
She frowned. “I have not been ill a day in my life, Demon. I am as hardy as you.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I believe I told you not to call me Demon.”
She burst into a radiant smile, laughing softly at his irritation, and he was immediately unbalanced by the display as if she knew what a devastating affect her smiles had against him.
“You did,” she snickered weakly. “But you are very humorous when you are angry.”
Both of his eyebrows rose. “Your sense of humor is misplaced. I am attempting to preserve your health and you are intent to annoy me?”
Her smile faded as she stared into the depths of his icy-blue eyes. So entirely pale that they were nearly white. “I apologize then,” she said softly, with gentle sincerity. “I suppose it is my own way of making light of your concerns. To prove to you that I am well aware of my own welfare.”
He drew in a long, deep breath, feeling her silken hand enclosed within his own. “I realize that,” he said softly. “But the moment I whisked you from St. Esk, you became my responsibility. And I do not take my duties lightly.”
It had gradually become easier for her to forget her captive state as time and situations progressed and being abruptly reminded of her crisis brought a certain measure of depression and gloom settling about her once again. Above all of the giddy emotions, baffling ideals and terrifying occurrences, one factor remained true; she was the prisoner of Christian St. John.
In the corner, Kelvin stirred again, jolting her from her train of thought as the man suddenly struggled to a semi-upright position as if rising from the dead. Noting the fact that his newly-found enemy was coming lucid, Christian hastened for the door with Gaithlin in tow. But not before Kelvin focused his venom on the both of them.
“If I see her again, Christian, I shall kill her,” he grunted, clutching his gut. “You’d better take your bitch far, far away.”
Christian unbolted the door, pausing a moment to match Kelvin’s hostile gaze. “Listen to me well, Kelvin Howard. I could have spilled your guts this night for having discovered your tryst with my former betrothed and I would have been entirely within my right to do so. But I spared you simply for the fact that Maggie is not worth the price of your life.” Gently, he pulled Gaithlin through the archway, ignoring the soldiers and servants hovering in the corridor beyond. “But hear me now and know that I speak the truth; you will never again threaten the lady you were so careless in attacking. Any incursion, violation or threat on her person, no matter how minor, shall be met with lethal force by the Demon of Eden. I will not repeat this warning.”
Pale and drawn, Kelvin knew full well the meaning of Christian’s utterance. But he was also well aware of the St. John – de Gare Feud; having grown up in Cumbria, the state of the two warring families was an established fact. It was a detail that had not escaped the confines of his pain-hazed mind as he had wallowed on the floor in complete misery.
He had heard her defiantly mentioned name the very moment she had driven her rock-hard boot into his lust swollen privates. It was a name he would never, ever forget.
“She’s a de Gare, Christian,” he hissed, fighting the urge to vomit yet again. “You would deprive me of the pleasure of seeking revenge against her simply because you would complete the task yourself.”
Gaithlin heard him. Eyes wide, she focused on Christian as his unwavering gaze continued to meet Kelvin’s agonized orbs. “What I do with the lady is my own business,” his voice was exceptionally low. “As I have not demanded answers as to what you and my former intended were doing isolated far from the convenient cover of Castle Howard, you will do me the courtesy of not questioning my motives or my intent.”
“You are going to kill her anyway,” Kelvin struggled to his knees. “At least allow me the right to punish the woman for possibly depriving me of an heir.”
Gaithlin jerked against his vise-like grip, but he did not release her. Nor did he look at her as his attention remained on his former friend. After a moment, his gaze moved to Gaithlin and her terrified struggles ceased; never had she witnessed a look of such tenderness, such warmth. Her almond-shaped eyes were wide with wonder as he graced her with an even, completely unexpected smile.
“Look at her, Kelvin,” his voice was faint. “Do you truly believe I would kill her?”
“You are a St. John, Christian,” Kelvin’s voice was faint. “You must kill her.”
Uncertain and struggling with the terror Kelvin’s words evoked, Gaithlin averted her eyes from Christian as the man’s smile faded. After a lengthy pause, he returned his attention to his former friend one last time. His expression was nothing short of loathsome.
“I shall send Maggie to you,” he said, his voice cold. “Mayhap she can heal what ails you.”
In a haze of tension and confusion, Christian swept Gaithlin down the smoke-shrouded corridor, leaving Kelvin to the care of his servants and soldiers and cursing the events the day had brought upon him.
Praying he saw the de Gare bitch one last time before he died.
Praying for revenge.
*
It had been an exceptionally difficult night. Uncomfortable spending the remainder of the night within the walls of Forrestoak, Gaithlin convinced Christian that they would do better to seek shelter somewhere else. Reluctant but uncharacteristically compliant to his captive’s reasoning, Christian packed her gowns into a confiscated satchel and, wrapping her yet again in his black cloak, took her down to the stables to retrieve his steed.
Through the rain and the wind and the biting climate, they set north for the Borders. Physically drained, Christian was concerned that his weary state would impede his ability to protect them from the threats that abound on the open road, especially in the dead of the night. Recollecting that an old hunter’s shack was not far to the north of Forrestoak, set deep into the wooded clusters that populated Howard lands, he veered off the path a few miles up the road in search of the little refuge.
It was a tiny shelter he and Kelvin used to pretend to be their fortress in the early days of their youth, protecting it against the Scots and Roman invaders alike. Locating the haven had not been difficult, for it was exactly where he remembered; pulling an exhausted Gaithlin off his wet charger, he proceeded to hustle her into the dilapidated lean-to.
It was musty and moldering, but it was relatively dry. Using her newly-acquired satchel for a pillow, he forced Gaithlin to lie down on the damp earth, feeling a good measure of regret in the fact that he had nothing better to offer her by way of a bed or comfort. But she had drifted off to sleep almost immediately and he had spent a good portion of the night watching her rest in peaceful slumber and listening to the rain outside.
Just before dawn he built a small fire in the hearth out of twigs and dried leaves, for the temperature had dropped considerably over the course of the night. Watching Gaithlin shiver and twitch in her sleep, he carefully laid himself beside her purely for the added warmth and was not surprised when she burrowed herself tightly against him. When he awoke to clear skies and singing birds two hours later, it had been with Gaithlin in his arms.
The Galloway Forest was a massive expanse of trees and bramble and wildlife that occupied a good portion of Douglas lands. The River Cree carved a fine path through the enormous wilderness, giving life and beauty to the primitive surroundings.
As the smell of Scot pine and beechwood fell heavy on the damp early fall air, Christian was transported back to his early childhood. With crystal clarity, he could recollect the days when he and his Scot grandfather spent a good deal of time traipsing about the sacred lands in search of the perfect fishing spot or a small animal to kill. It was moist earth his mother had harbored a deep attachment for, being a Douglas, and introduced her young sons to the earth that had bred her people. Lands that Christian loved dearly.
Lands, however, that Gaithlin was unfamiliar with. The wind was cold as it whipped through the trees, sending chills skating down her slender spine as she clutched Christian’s cloak more closely about her. Around her waist, his massive arm squeezed her gently and she instinctively pressed closer to him, pondering her new surroundings.
Yet her new environment wasn’t the only matter of import she seemed destined to ponder. Two days of traveling with the Demon of Eden had brought about the most peculiar emotions and ideals she had ever managed to envisage. It was an uneventful trip for the most part, silent and calm, but given the circumstances, it was very odd.
Since the moment they had left Forrestoak, it was as if some invisible bond linked them together, binding them emotionally and sometimes physically as the lengths of endless road stretched before them on the horizon. Gaithlin tried not to linger on the kiss Christian had delivered the day he whisked her from St. Esk, the heat he provoked from his magnificent touch and tender lips. In fact, what she found most despondent other than her obvious reaction to the Demon was the resonate recollection of Kelvin Howard’s words, a bitterly hissed phrase in the midst of a man’s deepest anguish.
You’re a St. John, Christian. You must kill her.
Torn between the desperation of her captivity, the warmth lingering in the depths of Christian’s ice-blue eyes, and the vengeful mutterings of an injured man, the past four days had been spent in relative silence as she attempted to sort the muddled workings of her young mind. A mind she didn’t seem to recognize any longer and a hatred for the St. Johns that she couldn’t seem to remember.
A hatred Christian had all but forgotten as well. Four days with his delectable water nymph had brought him to the unalterable conclusion that he was indeed in love with the woman. Over the miles of eternal forested lands and the bleak hills of the border he had clutched her tightly against him, relishing the feel of her in his arms and trying desperately not to delve too deeply into the future of his plans.
A future his father had already established. A future that included using Gaithlin to bring Winding Cross to ruin, treating her with the respect warranted of a captive. Good Christ, he wasn’t entirely sure he could allow his father to use Gaithlin in the manner intended and as his charger pounded out the miles towards their destination, his resistance and confusion gained strength.
In truth, he didn’t know what he was going to do about the situation. To maintain his plans, to continue into Galloway and establish a base seemed the most logical course of action at the moment. To keep Gaithlin away from the war and the hatred and the vengeance of those who would seek to harm her was the most reasonable conclusion he could seek for the time being. Until he could decide how to handle his most treacherous emotions, he would stay the chosen course.
“Are you really going to kill me?”
Limp against his chest, he had assumed Gaithlin to be dozing. But her softly uttered question set against the backdrop of her sultry voice broke him out of his thoughts and he shifted in the saddle, his gaze staring intently at the thoroughfare ahead.
“Nay.”
“Kelvin said you had to.”
“Kelvin is an idiot.”
She didn’t reply for a moment. Then, she sat forward and turned in the saddle, gazing into his stubbled face. Visor raised, he met her puzzled stare evenly. After a moment of observing his piercing orbs, she sighed heavily.
“Then where are you taking me?”
“Far away, my lady,” he replied quietly. “Far away from the Feud.”
“Why?”
He cocked an eyebrow. Of course she was curious for her future and he was no longer entirely resistant to the idea of informing her of his directive. After four days of eating and sleeping with her, he was eager to speak with her, to know her better. But his naturally reserved nature and confusion of loyalties had prevented him from doing so. But as he gazed into her eyes, he realized that he was no longer confused.
“Because you are going to end the Feud,” he replied frankly, watching her expression wash with confusion. It was enough to cause a smile across his tired face. “You do not believe me?”
She shook her head vaguely. “I did not say that. But how am I going to stop the Feud?”
His smile faded. “By forcing Winding Cross to lay down her arms,” he answered softly. “With Gaithlin de Gare a captive of the St. Johns, your father will have no choice but to surrender. Therefore, you will end a foolish skirmish that has lasted seventy years without a drop of blood being shed in additional resistance.”
Gaithlin stared at him a moment as no immediate reaction was forthcoming; then, her eyes widened and the color drained from her cheeks.
“You… you intend to blackmail Winding Cross with my capture?” her voice was a throaty echo. “The St. Johns attempted to blackmail my family with the capture of Glenn St. John nearly twenty years ago and the de Gares refused to fold. They will never surrender, Demon. Especially not for me.”
Christian was well aware of the facts surrounding Glenn de Gare but refused to be deterred. “You’re the heiress. And you are Alex’s daughter. Certainly you are of more sentimental worth to your family than an aged old man.”
Gaithlin continued to stare at him, dumbfounded and unbalanced. How could she tell him that her father had died years ago, leaving a poverty-stricken keep that could barely sustain itself? Other than the family pride, there was barely anything left to surrender and Gaithlin refused to be the instrument through which generations of de Gares were submitted for defeat and shame.
The St. Johns believed Winding Cross to be as strong as she ever was, intact and lead by the powerful Alex de Gare. In truth, the remains of the once-mighty family had dwindled to a middle-aged mother, her isolated daughter, and less than fifty defenders and servants. There was nothing left to surrender except their dignity.
And she refused to give it up. Her expression suddenly took on a look of acute desperation and Christian was somewhat prepared for the fist that came flying at his unprotected face.
“I shall not allow this!” Gaithlin shrieked, struggling against him as Christian fought to control both her and his excited charger. “Let me go, you St. John bastard! Let me go or I shall kill you, I swear it!”
Had his horse not leapt in agitation, Christian would have been quite able to control his rebelling captive. But the horse danced nervously on his rear legs as Gaithlin shrieked and struggled, pitching both master and hostage to the damp earth.
Christian heard her grunt as she hit the ground, but his irritation outweighed his concern. Four days of nearly-pleasant coexistence had suddenly reverted to the very hour he had whisked her from St. Esk and once again, he found himself in possession of a bitter, terrified captive. But he refused to rehash old territory; there had already been a good deal of happenstance between them and he was unwilling for her to ignore the fact.
Cursing himself for being stupid enough to inform her of her truer purpose in the St. John – de Gare Feud, he pinned her luscious body against the pebble-strewn road and roughly captured her hands beneath his massive gauntlets.
“Enough!” he roared, feeling her start beneath him. Her violent motions lessened as his icy orbs met with deep blue. “You will cease this resistance or I shall bind you hand and foot. Do you comprehend me?”
“You… cannot… do this!” she grunted, disregarding his threat with her continued struggles. “I shall… not allow you to… destroy my family!”
He stared at her. Lowering his body completely, she groaned when his excessive body weight smashed her into the dirt and nullified the majority of her struggles. Head and arms trapped within the vise of his massive arms, she was unable to avert her eyes from his piercing gaze.
“Listen to me well,” his voice rumbled like the distant thunder. “I am weary of the Feud. I have lost uncles, cousins and two grandfathers to a foolish argument that has lasted for the better part of seventy years. I am tired of hating, of fighting, of living under a constant state of alert within the confines of my father’s barony. My children will know the meaning of peace and freedom as my brother and I never knew, and I intend to bring about that peace any way I can.”
Chest heaving with emotion and strain, Gaithlin stared into his serious eyes. “Then surrender your own forces. Why must it be the de Gares?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “To the victor goes the spoils. I have captured you; therefore, it is only logical for the de Gares to surrender. How foolish would it be for me to mastermind your apprehension only to relinquish you as a bizarre peace offering?”
Her struggles had ceased entirely, her glorious hair spread over the dirt like an abstract halo. From the depths of fury to the pinnacles of lust in a swift, blinding moment, Christian was suddenly seized with the desire to kiss her as she struggled to form a reply.
“ ’Twould be a show of good faith, I should think, to return me home,” she answered breathlessly, flattened by his weight. “To prove that your peaceful intentions are sincere.”
His usually impassive expression washed with skepticism. “You know as well as I that any St. John peace overture would be met by an arrow to the chest. If my father and I are to achieve harmony, then we must take it.”
“Then you do not seek true peace,” she hissed. “You only wish to demand victory, whatever the price.”
A flash of anger coursed through him. “You have no right to act so sanctimonious. Your father would do the same if the opportunity were present.”
Her pretty jaw ticked with emotion as the rage between them built once again. “You will never have your peace, Demon. Not like this.”
Unwilling to argue the point, he abruptly shifted his weight from her and rose to his feet. With one swift jerk, he pulled her to stand as his hand kept a vise-like grip on her tender arm.
“How I achieve my ends is none of your concern,” he growled, pulling her toward his horse. “I will ask you only once; will you ride peacefully until we reach our destination or will I be forced to bind you?”
She would not lie to him. St. John or not, her naive emotions and swirling puzzlement had been brutally dashed by his arrogant intentions towards achieving peace and she was dangerously close to tears. Bitterness strengthened her bold forthrightness as she gazed into his eyes, cursing him with every breath she took. Damn him!
He had protected her one minute, battled with her the next. There wasn’t one element to Christian St. John that was predictable and she hated him for it. She hated herself for not loathing him as deeply as she should have.
“Bind me,” her sensual voice was a whisper. “It is necessary if you do not want me to fight you every step of the way.”
He met her gaze, knowing her sincerity. With another flash of fury, stronger than the one before, he maintained a grip on her arm as his mailed hand fumbled through his saddlebags for a length of rope. Locating the knotted cord, he roughly wound the bindings about her tender wrists, tying them more tightly than he should have purely out of anger and frustration.
His emotional level soared to untapped heights as he fastened the knot with unusual harshness, noting that he had tied her so securely that her hands were already devoid of blood. His fury knew no limits and he was fully aware of his irrational state, but his anger was completely void of conscience. He was glad to see her suffer.
If the de Gare wench wanted him to bind her, then bind her he would and take great pleasure in it. In fact, he would tell her of his sadistic glee so she would realize the fruitlessness of her actions. He would draw strength from her terror and defeat, lusting after the power her emotions could provide his failing St. John loyalties.
Rope secured, he grunted with satisfaction at his fiendish handiwork. But the moment he glanced up to verbally lash her for her stupidity, his brutal words died in his throat.
She was crying.
“Good Christ,” he muttered. Fury vanished with unnatural speed, he immediately moved to jerk her bindings free. But they were secured far too snuggly and he fumbled furiously with them as a mournful sob escaped Gaithlin’s throat. The harder she cried, the more panicked his movements became. The very moment the rope fell away to the damp road beneath their feet, she collapsed hysterically into his massive arms. Christian held her tightly enough to squeeze the breath from her.
“Forgive me, Gaithlin, forgive me,” he murmured into her hair. “I did not mean to injure you, truly.”
Her sobs were heavy and unrestrained, as if her heart was breaking. Christian attempted to pull her tighter, feeling like a sadistic beast for brutalizing her so. Good Christ, his emotions were so out of control he hardly recognized himself any more.
“Let me see your wrists, honey,” he whispered. “Let me see what I have done.”
She shook her head, sobbing deeply. “I… I hate you, Christian. I hate you terribly.”
Harsh, utterly insincere words. He fought off a smile as he rocked her gently under the fading Scot sun. “I hate you, too.”
Removing her face from his neck, she laid her cheek against the cold steel of his shoulder, still sobbing. “You… you cannot do this to my family,” she whispered. “I would rather you kill me.”
His smile faded as he stroked her hair, her back. “I told you that I was not going to kill you. Not ever.”
She suddenly pulled away from him, her slender hands gripping his arms in a desperate gesture. “Please do not force my family to surrender. I beg of you, sire; do not do this.”
He was sucked into the vortex of her panic, seized by the sincerity of her hopelessness. Gazing into her pleading blue eyes, he felt himself losing ground by the second.
“I…” he stammered, swallowing hard in an ineffectual attempt to reclaim his slipping composure. “Gaithlin, there is nothing I can do. My father is….”
“Please!” She suddenly fell to her knees, holding both of his hands against her face. “Christian, I swear I shall do anything you ask. Anything at all. Just do not force my family to surrender Winding Cross.”
He was in danger of completely losing what was left of his control. He weakly attempted to pull her to her feet, but she refused to move. Instead, she continued to hold his hands tightly against her cheeks and sob as if her heart was being destroyed by her worst nightmare.
Destroyed by a St. John.
He simply couldn’t deal rationally with her hysteria. Before he realized his actions, he was on his knees in front of her, pulling her into a crushing embrace.
“Stop this,” he rasped, feeling her wet cheeks against his face. “Stop crying, Gaithlin. I cannot….”
“Please, Christian,” she moaned, her tapered fingers intertwined in his beautiful blond hair. “Please do not do this. You cannot imagine the suffering and agony you will cause.”
Good Christ, he had to come to grips with his surging emotions. There was no telling what would happen were he to allow them to rage unchecked any longer; already, he had entered a realm where he had never before traveled, a world of such desperation and anguish that he would have willingly given his own life simply to stop her tears.
Taking a deep breath, he grasped her head and forced her to look at him; which, in fact, was not an entirely wise move. The very moment he gazed into her terrified blue eyes, he felt his control slip yet another notch.
“Listen to me,” he whispered huskily. “Whatever happens between the St. Johns and the de Gares is out of my hands. My father is Eden’s baron and I am merely his son, subject to his commands and directives as are the rest of his vassals. By taking you from St. Esk, I have completed my orders and the remainder of my father’s scheme is beyond my control.”
She shook her head, tears spattering on his wrists. “You do not understand. I shall do anything to prevent the compromise of Winding Cross.” She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushed with emotion. “I shall…I shall give you my servitude, my body, my dignity. Anything to prevent my family from having to choose between my life and their honor.”
He stared at her, the impact of her words carving a blistering path deep into his soul. “You are truly afraid that they will be willing to sacrifice you in order to maintain the Feud?”
She wasn’t. Her mother would never allow the life of her only child to be sacrificed for the worthlessness of a battered fortress and an ancient skirmish. But she couldn’t allow Christian to see the truth of it. She had to preserve the illusion of de Gare strength.
“Nothing is more important than family integrity,” she said after a moment, her tears lessening.
He raised an eyebrow. “Even the life of the heiress? That does not make any sense.”
“Would your father sacrifice Eden for you?”
His gaze held even for an eternity, ice-blue orbs against the deepest of blue. After a moment, he stroked the remaining moisture from her face with the most delicate of touches.
“You and I are players in a grand theater, my lady. It is a performance that commenced seventy years ago and has yet to play itself out.” He sighed heavily, his expression softening into an emotional mien. “I am weary of this drama. When the sake of family honor becomes more important than the lives of family members themselves, it is time to re-examine the very reasons for our existence.”
Calming, Gaithlin listened intently to his speech. He touched her hair as he spoke, the gentle man revealed within the guise of a Demon. When he finished, she shook her head faintly in response.
“What are the St. Johns and de Gares without their Feud, Christian? It is as much a part of our heritage as the Angles and the Normans. It has become what we are.”
He digested her words, the mood between them amazingly calm after the desperate madness that had consumed them not seconds before. After a thoughtful pause, he rose to his feet and gently pulled her with him. Still holding her hands, he shrugged vaguely.
“I do not want to be a part of it. I do not want it to be a part of me,” his gaze raked over her as he spoke. “But I have no choice in the matter. And neither do you.”
She knew that. And she was well resigned to the fact. “What will happen if my family rejects your father’s attempt at blackmail? What will become of me then?”
He eyed her a moment before turning for his steed, grazing steadily by the side of the road. “We shall cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said quietly, grasping the animal’s reins. “For now, we are almost to our destination and I should like to arrive before nightfall.”
Exhausted by her emotional upheaval, Gaithlin allowed him to seat her aboard his steed. Mounting behind her, he pulled her against him in a manner he was coming quite accustomed to, finding a good deal of comfort and orientation in the familiarity they were beginning to share.
Gaithlin settled back against him as he spurred his charger down the byway, content in his arms in spite of the wild ride of sentiment that had constituted her temperament minutes before. Gazing into Christian’s beautiful eyes, listening to his words, she was convinced that he was a reluctant partner in his father’s grand scheme to achieve peace.
Naïve though she might be, she was intuitive enough to realize that the Demon of Eden was not a living, breathing machine of war and hatred. Over the past four days, she had been witness to glimpses of an emotional depth within in his brilliant eyes that she could scarcely hope to comprehend; silent suggestions of the true man beneath the reputation. Even if her mother rejected Jean St. John’s attempt at blackmail, she knew Christian would not allow his family’s vengeance to harm her. The Demon would protect her.
Snuggled contentedly in Christian’s arms, she observed the landscape surrounding them, the gently rolling hills shaded with hues of wild heather. The memories of panic and humiliation faded into the recesses of her mind as she drew in the tranquil scenery.
“Where are we?”
He heard her softly uttered question, knowing there was no longer any reason to keep her in mystery as to her destination.
“Scotland, my lady.”
“Scotland?” she repeated, perking up somewhat and glancing about with more of an interest. “My great-grandmother was Scots. From the Clan Douglas. Are we anywhere near their lands?”
Christian felt a bolt of shock surge through him as the possibilities raged inside his head. Her great-grandmother was a Douglas. Good Christ, was it actually possible that she was related to him somehow? Although the Clan Douglas was a vast conglomeration of families and allies, they were all interrelated and intertwined to varying degrees.
Although acutely interested in determining the proximity of their relationship, he refrained from mentioning his excitement at the moment. If the St. Johns and the de Gares were linked through unknown Scot ties, then his father would have to be made aware of the fact. And with Jean’s powerful sense of family loyalties and bloodlines, it was not entirely inconceivable that he would reconsider his blackmail towards the de Gares upon discovering that his beloved wife had somehow linked him with his deadliest enemy.
The further he pondered the quandary, the more excited he became. Unknowingly, Gaithlin may have very well delivered the vehicle through which the seventy year old Feud would be quelled. Unknowingly, her innocent remark may have brought about the beginning of the end.
He was so consumed with his ideas that he hardly noticed when Gaithlin shifted in the saddle before him, turning to see why he had not answered. His eyes were distant, even when they abruptly focused on her.
She smiled weakly. “Are we near Douglas lands?”
Vaguely, he nodded. “We approach.” Gazing into her exquisite eyes, he couldn’t help himself from repeating her innocent statement, exhaling a nearly-demanding statement. “Your great-grandmother was a Douglas relative?”
She nodded. “My mother’s grandmother was the daughter of Angus Alan Douglas, laird of Clan Douglas. She married John Percy, a family relation to the Northumberland Percys, and settled in North Yorkshire.”
Christian stared at her. He simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His vow of silence on the matter from moments before was dashed in a second. “My mother is also descended from Clan Douglas,” his voice was raspy with awe and surprise. “Her grandfather was the son of Angus Alan Douglas, laird of Clan Douglas.”
Gaithlin realized the blood ties perhaps even faster than he had. Her eyes widened. “Your mother is a Douglas relation?” she repeated in wonder. “But… if your great-grandfather and my great-grandmother were….”
“Brother and sister, so it would seem.”
“Then that makes us….”
“Related. Second cousins, in fact.”
They continued to stare at each other in stunned silence. Gaithlin was first to rediscover her lagging tongue.
“The St. Johns and the de Gares are linked, Christian,” she whispered with incredulity. “We have been linked for years and never knew it.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. In the brief span of time that had been encompassed with the shock of discovery, he found himself pondering a most impacting ideal. Suddenly, he knew how to end the Feud. As Gaithlin de Gare lived and breathed before him, he was more aware of the possible cessation of seventy years of bloodshed than he had ever been in his entire thirty-three years. Good Christ, he knew how to end it all.
“We know it now, don’t we?”