CHAPTER SEVEN
The parchment was new and bright, the ink perfectly stroked in the lines of communication. But to Alicia de Gare, it was the ugliest, most horrendous missive she had ever laid eyes on.
Clad in a simple gown of gray wool, covering the heavy black boots she habitually wore, Alicia had been pondering the contents of the missive for the better part of the day. Alone in her husband’s solar, she could scarcely function beyond breathing and reading. Her shock, her terror of events both past and future, cleaved a painful path deep into her chest. She was so involved with her turmoil that she failed to hear a soft knock at the solar door.
Another rap sounded moments later, louder than the first. Alicia’s head came up from the worn table before her and she hastily wiped the tears from her cheeks, struggling to compose what was left of her shattered control. Only then did she ask the caller to enter.
A man dressed in aged, worn armor entered the room with measured hesitance. His face appeared older than his thirty-odd years, creased with concern and fatigue. He approached the leaning table, his non-descript brown eyes riveted to the short woman seated at the splintered edge.
“What did the missive say, my lady?”
Alicia focused on the knight, one of only two remaining to protect Winding Cross. As Sir Eldon Barkley’s father had served Alex and Glenn de Gare, so did his son. A tradition of service that continued even into the depths of poverty and ruin.
Sometimes Alicia wished she could dismiss the young man, allowing him his freedom to pursue a life of fortune and triumph. But in faith, she needed his services and was reluctant to part with his skills. And there were times when his services went beyond those of knightly talent and she took comfort in his delicate attentions in the bedchamber. Aye, she needed him.
“Where is Uriah?” she asked softly, referring to Winding Cross’ second knight.
Eldon moved to stand by the end of the battered desk, his vaguely-handsome face calm. “Outside seeing to repairs,” he answered. “He’ll be along shortly. What did the missive say?”
Alicia’s jaw ticked as she looked to the parchment on the table, biting back the sting of tears once again. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her rounded figure from the chair in a futile attempt to bolster her bravery.
“I knew when I married Alex that the Feud was the most important factor in his life,” her voice was low and sultry. “And I married him in spite of his preoccupation because I loved him. After a St. John arrow felled him those long years ago, I continued his battle because I was well aware of the importance it held within the scheme of the de Gare legacy.”
She paused by the end of the table, listening to the sounds of construction in the bailey beyond the covered lancet windows. She looked far older than her thirty-seven years, with cat-shaped eyes of deep blue, reminiscent features of her only child that were tight and drawn with fatigue and grief.
“I have endured starvation, poverty, hellish winters and endless sieges all in the name of the de Gare honor,” she whispered weakly, so very weary of her difficult existence. “I have survived far more than I should have all for the sake of this foolish war that has continued for seventy long, anguished years. I have been dealt more than my share of heartache, Eldon. But there has come a point where I refuse to suffer any longer.”
Eldon pensively lowered his big body to the edge of the scrubbed, worn desk. “What’s happened, Alicia?” he hissed. “What do the St. Johns have to say?”
She pondered his question, turning away from the stained oilcloth over the long windows to glance once more at the vellum on the table.
“I am curious,” she said. “How did they deliver this message? Certainly, they didn’t march to our doorstep in a gesture of grand announcement.”
Eldon shook his head. “Nothing so bold, no. A small party flying the Flag of Truce deposited it on the edge of the moat. Our bridge was raised and we were in no immediate danger; therefore, we allowed them to retreat unmolested.”
She nodded vaguely in understanding, rubbing at her tense shoulder with one hand. “You should have killed them all, Eldon,” she turned away once again, her worn boots pacing the cold floor. After a moment, she paused long enough to fix him in the eye. “They have Gaithlin.”
Eldon leapt from the table’s edge, his eyes wide and his body tense. “Impossible!” he gasped. “I delivered her to St. Esk myself and…!”
She shook her head, feeling her emotions surge. “Somehow they were able to discover that we had removed her from Winding Cross in anticipation of the Demon’s assault.” Tears were in her eyes again, a desperate anguish that threatened to destroy her. “They sacked the abbey and abducted my daughter. They have my Gaithlin.”
Eldon’s young face was a frightening shade of ashen and his mouth hung agape as he struggled to form a rational thought. “But….” Unable to continue, he plopped heavily to the table once again, listening to it crack and groan under his weight. His entire body was flooded with shock as he pondered the stunning news. “I took her there myself, Alicia. How could the St. Johns have discovered her whereabouts? How?”
“I do not know,” her voice was hoarse. “There are several possibilities, as you are aware. Spies, or paying our servants for information… there is no way to know. But one matter is for certain; Jean is in possession of her and, as his missive states, he intends to use her to his advantage.”
Eldon was silent, pondering the dim shadows of the room as his thoughts reeled in sickening progression. “When they kidnapped Glenn de Gare, they simply killed him. How do we know she is still alive?”
“Because she is,” Alicia snapped softly, wrapping her arms about her bountiful torso as if to keep from falling apart completely. “I refuse to believe that they would harm her at this early stage; a dead hostage would be of no use to their cause.”
Eldon dropped his head in a gesture of resignation, raking his fingers through his dirty brown hair. “Poor Gaithlin,” he murmured, nauseated by the thought of Alicia’s beautiful daughter in the hands of their most vile enemy. A woman of such magnificence that he shuddered to think of the abuse she had undoubtedly already suffered at the hands of her captors. Certainly, the St. John dogs would not allow such beauty to go untouched.
A tangible gloom settled about the room, thick and cloying. Alicia could scarcely move through the thick fog of melancholy, refusing to imagine the worst as Eldon was allowing himself to envision. She could not allow herself to visualize Gaithlin at the hands of Jean St. John, her daughter’s naturally reserved and fearless nature being put to the ultimate test of strength.
The torture of a young woman who had known her share of hardship. Isolated, poverty-bound, knowing little joy and more than her share of pain. Although Alex and Alicia had tried to nurture and educate their daughter as best they could, their preoccupation with the Feud had prevented them from bestowing more attention on their daughter than they were able to spare.
Little Gaithlin had been raised knowing the names of various weapons as well-bred young ladies should have been learning the arts of needlework or music. She could ride a horse as well as any man, or mend a kink in a coat of mail. But she could not sew a garment if her life depended on it and knew very little in the ways of delicate women.
An unfortunate, cruel twist of fate. Considering Gaithlin had blossomed into a beauty of exquisite proportions, the fact that she knew little of lady-like manners was a true travesty indeed. She could be sullen and moody, dry of humor and sharp of wit, and she had a distinct tendency to trip over her own feet when she should have been completely able to walk a straight line.
All of these odd, magnificent characteristics combined to create the de Gare heiress, a woman whose strength and inner courage had sustained the entire fortress through the hardest of times. When there was virtually nothing to eat, Gaithlin would make sure the old soldiers and her mother were fed before she would even consider consuming her own meager portion. When the dead of winter brought bottomless cold, she would scrape and struggle for anything remotely flammable. And when the strain of their scanty existence grew difficult to tolerate, her encouragement was solid.
As Alicia struggled with her grief and guilt, she found herself fervently praying for Gaithlin’s well-being. There was nothing more important than her daughter, as her failed attempt to protect the woman within the walls of St. Esk had proven. Surely there was nothing of more significance than Winding Cross’ heiress, the sole survivor of generations of de Gares, now in the hands of the enemy.
“Did they make any demands in the missive?” Eldon’s voice was weak upon the musty atmosphere of the solar.
“Nay,” Alicia replied quietly. “Not yet. They simply wished to announce their crowning achievement. But the demands will come and I can only speculate as to what they may contain.”
Eldon’s gaze found her once more. “Surrender?”
Alicia refused to look at him. “Mayhap,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to the tanned leather scroll, partially unraveled. “The missive was addressed to Alex. Jean still believes him to be alive, you know.”
“I know,” Eldon nodded faintly. “Do you suppose he will request Alex’s presence at the bargaining table?”
Alicia raised her eyebrows in an unknowing gesture. “I will be forced into a most unpleasant position if he does. How do you think Jean St. John will react upon learning that he has battled a woman for the past ten years? It should be enough to drive him insane with fury and I shudder to think how his mood will reflect upon Gaithlin.”
Eldon was reluctant to ponder that scenario as well. Rising from the table yet again, he attempted to move toward his mistress when the door to the solar abruptly opened, spilling forth the other knight sworn to Winding Cross’ legions.
Sir Uriah de Royans stomped across the worn stone, short and compact with all the grace of a rabid dog. Bearded and unkempt at forty-three years of age, his face was flushed with exertion.
“We have a visitor, my lady,” he said breathlessly. “A young woman who wishes to meet with you.”
Alicia’s brow furrowed delicately. “A young woman?” she repeated. “I am not expecting any guests this day. What is her business?”
Uriah looked between Eldon and Alicia, his aged face lined with disbelief and shock. “She says she bears news of Lady Gaithlin,” his voice was considerably softer. “I told her to go away, but she insists on meeting with Alex.”
Alicia and Eldon looked to each other, stricken with shock and a rising apprehension. Before Alicia could respond, Eldon was already moving for the solar door. As he brushed roughly past Uriah in his attempt to vacate the room, the older knight watched him leave with a mixture of confusion and irritation.
“Where is he going?” he demanded, turning to his mistress. “First the St. John missive, and now a mysterious woman demanding to speak with Alex de Gare. What in God’s Bloody Realm is going on?”
Alicia eyed the older man, a knight who had served her husband for over twenty years. Forcing herself to rein her mounting anxiety, she drew in a deep calming breath.
“You will mind your language in my presence.” She’d lost track of how many times she had relayed the very same warning. “Eldon will inform you of our dilemma when he is able. Frankly, I have not the strength at the moment.”
Uriah lowered his head like a scolded dog as he always did when met with Lady Alicia’s reprimands. “Forgive, my lady. I didn’t mean to offend.”
She didn’t reply; his excuse was always the same. Pacing the floor beside the aged and worn desk, Alicia struggled to maintain her composure as she waited for Eldon to return.
“Tell me, Uriah. Did this mysterious young woman have a name?”
He nodded, unlatching his battered breastplate where it met with his shoulder protection. The constant chaff had left a wound that hadn’t healed correctly in five years. “The Lady Margaret du Bois. I have never heard of her.”
Alicia shook her head. “Nor have I,” she said softly, morosely. “I wonder what news she brings of my Gaithlin?”
“Lies, I am sure,” Uriah growled. “Gaithlin is safe within the walls of St. Esk. If this woman demands money for her falsehoods, I shall slit her bloody gullet.”
Alicia raised an eyebrow at his barbaric threat, refraining from repeating her request that the knight curtail his harsh language. “Is she alone?”
Uriah shook his head. “Nay. She’s accompanied by an escort of at least twenty men.”
“No standards?”
“Not a stitch.”
Puzzled as well as deeply concerned, Alicia lowered herself slowly onto her husband’s worn chair. “I wonder who she is,” she murmured, more to herself than to the elder knight.
Uriah watched his mistress, noting her pallid demeanor and lethargic movements. Nothing at all like the warlord he had served for the better part of ten years, a brilliant tactician as her husband had been. A finer commander he had never attended in spite of the fact that his lord and master was a woman.
Certainly, a man could not want for a more devoted widow. The very day Alex de Gare had perished as a result of a St. John arrow, Alicia had donned a coat of outdated mail and had met the marauding invaders with a grief-fed fury. Through the years she had taken up Alex’s battle, carrying on the legacy and tradition of a de Gare and never once languishing from her duties.
But it was a life and legacy that seemed to be weakening with time. Even as Alicia pensively gazed into the distant space of the room, she was far more exhausted and aged than Uriah had ever known her to be. The latest St. John attack had left Winding Cross particularly devastated and the weary soldiers and peasants had been working day and night to repair the damaged bridge.
Uriah found himself pondering the state of the destroyed bridge as Alicia leaned wearily into the chair, sighing heavily with fatigue. “Do you think it possible that she is a ploy from Jean?”
Broken from his somber train of thought, the aged knight focused on his beaten mistress. “I do not know, my lady,” his voice was rough. “Certainly, we shall find out.”
Alicia’s gaze lingered on the man a moment before returning her gaze to the weakening hearth. “I suppose we shall, Uriah,” her tone was barely a whisper. A defeated, resigned whisper. “I suppose we shall.”
*
The shack was exactly where Christian remembered it to be. Although the woods had grown heavily over the years, obliterating the path he clearly recalled set deep into the southwestern portion of the territory, he was able nonetheless to pick his way through the bramble and foliage under the three-quarter moon in his quest to locate the elusive shelter.
The bright, cloudless night sky had afforded him a good deal of light in his search. Past the thick copse of Scot pines the locals called The Titans for their strength and age, he bisected two small brooks and used the third stream as a directional indicator before coming to the object of his focus – a small, dilapidated hut.
He well remembered the aged old woman who occupied the hut. She had been a senile member of the Douglas clan, unable to socialize or communicate with the rest of the family, and had sought refuge and isolation deep within the heart of the Galloway territory.
Christian’s mother had brought her two young sons to visit the woman only once, introducing the lady as an aunt. Other than his clear memories of that meeting, he had no further knowledge as to who the old woman was, but he easy recollected his fantasy with her Fortress of Solitude deep within the Galloway wilderness. From the very moment his father had demanded the de Gare wench be whisked into the shady wilds of Anne’s ancestral forest, Christian knew exactly where he would take her.
It was very late when they arrived. Exceedingly sleepy but alert nonetheless, Gaithlin eyed the overgrown shelter with no particular reaction, relatively resigned to the fact that they had reached their destination, such as it was. Christian dismounted his steed, leaving Gaithlin alone as he scrutinized the structure nearly covered with vines and bramble. The occupant long since dead, as he knew she would be, the forest had claimed the shack for its own.
A shack Christian was determined to take back. Wasting no time, he removed his upper body armor and hauberk before delving into the arsenal strapped to the right side of his saddle. Bringing forth a nasty-looking pole-axe, he began to hack away at the overgrowth obstructing the door.
Gaithlin watched him tear into the shrubbery a moment before calmly dismounting. Reasoning that if she was no longer making the effort to fight her St. John captor, she should be helping him make the best of their situation. Without hesitation, she moved for the array of weapons and unfastened a medium-sized war hammer. Like a short pick-axe with a heavy spike, she shunned Christian’s black cloak and moved beside him.
Christian caught a flash of steel in the moonlight and instinctively leapt away from the threat. The war hammer plowed into the bramble, tearing away a good portion of greenery as his wide eyes came to bear on Gaithlin’s curious expression.
“What is wrong?” she asked, genuinely confused with his skittish manner.
Exhaling sharply with relief and irritation, he cocked an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
Her brow furrowed with puzzlement and a measure of amusement. “I am helping you. Did you truly think I intended to plant this war hammer in your back?”
He scratched his head, dirty with sweat and grime. “No,” he said after a moment, feeling rather foolish. As much as he attempted to disregard the fact that she was a de Gare, his sub-conscious was apparently unwilling to relent. Irritation fed with a myriad of conflicting emotions, he gestured at the weapon in her hand. “Give me that. I shall clear this shack without your help.”
“Why? If I help you, ’twill make the work go faster.”
“Don’t argue with me,” he tried to pull the instrument from her grasp. “Give me the weapon and go stand by my horse.”
She yanked the war hammer away from him, stumbling back and nearly tripping over her feet. Irritated in her own right, she scowled at him. “I am perfectly capable of helping you clear this foliage.” As if to prove her point, she lifted the weapon again and swung it at the growth with a good deal of skill and strength. A heavy measure of leaves and branches crashed to the earth below.
Surprised, Christian stood motionless as she brought about two more powerful blows. Branches and vines went hurling to the earth with the force of her strength as she ripped, tore and chopped the growth away from the front door. Four chops later, she came to a panting, sweaty halt and turned to Christian, fully expecting another barrage of refusals and disapproval. Instead, he was smiling at her.
“Tell me, my lady,” he said in his rich, smooth voice. “Are you considered Alex de Gare’s premier soldier?”
Wiping the sweat from her pretty brow, a modest if not somewhat embarrassed smile creased her lips. “My mother won’t let me.”
Christian grunted. “Pity. Were you to fight, I suspect the St. Johns would be in a good deal of trouble.” Regaining his grip on the pole-axe, he cast her a long glance. “Keep going. We should have this bramble cleared in little time.”
Between the two of them, the entire shelter was cleared in a considerably short span and Gaithlin returned her weapon to his saddle, securing the ties with deft fingers. Christian joined her a moment later, binding his pole-axe against the leather.
“What is this place?” Gaithlin’s back was to him as she observed the lean-to in the moonlight.
Finished with the ties, he moved up behind her, hands on hips as he, too, studied the broken-down lodge. “Our home.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him; he was standing conspicuously close. Close enough that she could feel his heated breath on her face and the sensation fueled a faint tingling in her limbs. After a moment of experiencing his proximity, she forced herself to turn away in giddy confusion.
“How… charming,” she managed to utter.
He smiled faintly and moved around her, heading toward the structure. “Let’s see if we can eke out an acceptable corner to sleep in for the night. On the morrow, we shall endeavor to make the place livable.”
Considering the state of the exterior, the interior of the shelter was relatively uninhabited. The main room was uneven and coarse, while the tiny second room seemed to have been populated by a family of rodents at one time. There was a broken table and a worn chair, a cast iron kettle askew in the hearth and little else. Everything else of value or otherwise seemed to have vanished or disintegrated over years of neglect and harsh conditions.
Gaithlin surveyed the surroundings with little emotion, while Christian seemed rather disheartened by the entire overview. Moving to the hearth, he kicked at the large pot while Gaithlin inspected the smaller room, barely tall enough for her to stand.
“I would be uncomfortable lighting a fire before I have had a chance to inspect the chimney,” he said, almost apologetically. “The night may become chilly before the sun crests.”
Emerging from the smaller room, Gaithlin merely shrugged to his statement. “I doubt it. Your body gives off more heat than a furnace.”
He eyed her, noting that she refused to meet his gaze. Even in the darkness, he would swear she was blushing. Amused as well as oddly aroused, he lowered his head in a firm attempt to make eye-contact. “Do I scald you, my lady? I was not aware of my scorching attributes.”
Fighting off a grin and a supreme blush, she turned for the door. “Merciful Heavens, you have forced me to sleep beside you for the past two nights for fear that I would escape if out of arm’s length. I could not help but be made cognizant of your heat.”
She breezed through the doorway, stumbling over a pile of branches as she made her way across the thick grass toward the destrier. Christian’s eyes never left her.
“That wasn’t why I forced you to sleep beside me,” he murmured.
She heard him.
*
Brilliant sunlight was streaming in through the splintered walls of the ancient shack, striking Christian directly in the eyes. Still partially asleep, he rolled to his back to be free of the blinding beam but was unable to locate suitable shade. Turning on his side once more, he was vaguely aware of a warm body loosely wrapped in his arms; pulling her against him firmly enough to cause her to groan, he buried his face in Gaithlin’s back.
“Stop squirming,” she mumbled.
He grunted in reply, tightening his grip. With a heavy, weary sigh, Gaithlin’s eyes fluttered open to the dazzlingly illuminated shelter.
“The sun has been up for hours,” she murmured, jostling his hands to rouse him. “We have work to do.”
After a lengthy silence, he grunted again and raised his head, blinking rapidly in the radiance. Honey-blond hair hung wildly in his face. “Good Christ,” he muttered. “It must be mid-morning.”
Head on the crook of her arm, Gaithlin nodded. “We went to bed very late last night.”
Scratching his scalp with his free hand, he glanced down at his captive. In spite of the fact that she had just awoken, she looked rested and peaceful. And completely, utterly beautiful. He couldn’t help but drink in her exquisite profile, feeling the familiar heat and confusion take flight.
“Did you sleep well?” his voice was an erotic purr in her ear.
Gaithlin could feel his breath on her cheek, a surge of liquid fire filling her veins. If the man wasn’t sending the Fear of God through her, he was filling her with a scorching fever she had never known to exist. Only with him did this inferno seem to ignite, burning her mindless and giddy at the same time.
Terrified to look at him, knowing how intimately close they were lodged, her body began to quiver with the emotions he seemed to stir within her. Merciful Heavens, how he thrilled her and frightened her at the same time.
“Well enough,” she managed to reply. “But you snore.”
He snorted. “How dare you accuse me of such wretched manners. I do nothing of the kind.”
She grinned, turning her face away from him and attempting to bury it in the material cloaking her arm. “You snore and you talk.”
His eyebrows rose in feigned outrage. “You will apologize for your slanderous lies at once. I will not tolerate these accusations one moment longer.”
She giggled into the fabric of her long-sleeved gown, yelping when he swatted her behind. The next he realized, a pointy elbow dug deep into his ribs and he grunted loudly, grunting yet again when she shoved against his chest in an attempt to rise. Quick as a flash, he grasped her by the arm and pulled her down against him, grinning as she struggled and growled in protest.
“Apologize, wench.”
“I will not. And don’t call me wench.”
Christian gazed at the rosy-cheeked hostage clutched against his chest. “Apologize for your defamation and I shall not call you wench.”
“But it is true. I shall not apologize for speaking the truth.”
He scowled. “You are a disagreeable female. I should punish you severely for your insults.”
She raised a saucy eyebrow at him, unable to disregard her giddy tingling any longer. From the moment she had awoken in his arms, the sensation had been pervasive, gaining in strength. Odd that her captivity with the Demon of Eden was becoming more and more attractive, isolated with a man who was both her enemy and her protector. A man who was able to evoke primitive, wicked emotions within her.
“You would punish me for the truth?” she sounded breathless.
Christian caught the tone, desire and lust such as he had never known coursing through his big body. Good Christ, this woman affected him like none other, her exquisite face and unexpected personality drilling deep into his soul. If there were any doubts that he had fallen in love with her lingering in the recesses of his mind, they had been dashed to reckless cinder. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he hadn’t been focused on Lady Gaithlin in every sense of the word. She was his captive, but he wanted much, much more.
And he was unafraid to take what he wanted. Gazing into her eyes, he realized she wanted him to take what he so obviously desired. Even if she was unable to voice her silent commands, he was quite adept at reading her mind. He knew, without a doubt, that they reflected his own thoughts precisely.
There was no longer a Feud between them. St. John or de Gare didn’t seem to matter any longer; all that mattered was the fact that Christian was in love with his fair captive, and she too was coming to feel something for him. The Demon was no longer an object of fear and loathing, but a subject of curiosity and discovery.
Gaithlin felt his lips, soft and gentle and seeking, and she gave into him without a struggle. One moment she was crushed against his chest, half of her long body on the dirt of the floor; in the next, she was completely atop his magnificent torso, straddling him as she matched his fevered kisses blow for blow. Her inquisitive desire coupled with her natural fearlessness caused her not to passively succumb to his attentions, but rather to parallel his actions. Touch for exquisite touch, and kiss for magnificent kiss.
Christian’s fingers were in her hair, feeling the tresses covering them like a silken web of glory. Her mouth, delicious and curious and eager, met his passion with head-on force and there was nothing on earth strong enough to rein his lust as she mimicked his suckling actions. Biting softly into her lower lip, he plunged his tongue into her mouth when she gasped softly in surprise.
Gaithlin was hardly aware when he rolled her onto her back, his massive body crushing her against the rushes that had constituted their bed. Her legs still straddling his hips, she could feel a hard lump pressing against her thigh. Having never experienced a male arousal before, she did not understand the significance; the only matter of consequence at the moment was the sensation of his bold tongue stroking the pink interior of her mouth.
She groaned in disappointment and ecstasy as he left her lips, moving down her neck to the swell of her beautiful breasts. Clad in one of the woolen garments confiscated from Kelvin Howard, a clinging garment with a plunging neckline that was far too short for her height, the soft fabric gave way to Christian’s probing lips as he branded her with the proof of his desire. This time, when the neck of the gown fell away to his eager fingers, she did not resist.
In fact, he seemed to incite a boldness in her that she was unaware of. Naïve or no, a pure virgin in every sense of the word, she instinctively knew what she wanted from a man. The pleasure, the ecstasy, and the maddening desire that threatened to devour her very soul… she needed it.
“More, Christian,” she clutched his head, bucking and heaving beneath him as he moved to pull the remainder of her gown away from her glorious breasts. “Give me more. I must have… ohhhhh!”
Excited beyond his wildest imaginings, both hands encircled her creamy globes as his heated lips came to bear on a tender nipple. Where Gaithlin had screamed in fright with the last such attempt, this time she moaned with rapture. The harder Christian suckled her, the more desperately she clutched him against her breast.
Still straddling him, her supple thighs held him tightly to her as her back arched up from the floor. Her arms completely encircled his head as her face buried itself in the top of his hair, gripping him so tightly that she swore to be suffocating him within the mounds of her delightfully tender breasts.
A most pleasurable form of death. Fully engulfed in the heated folds of Gaithlin’s incredibly responsive body, Christian had never experienced such delight. With all of the women he had experienced, the seasoned to the foolishly naive, never before had he known such complete fulfillment.
Even though he had yet to physically penetrate her, it didn’t seem to matter; if he never bedded her in the literal sense, she would still be the most satisfying woman he had ever embraced within his arms.
But he fully intended to bed her, to demonstrate his emotions. Her skirts were up in no time, revealing the legs he remembered so lustfully well. Long and slender with the texture of pure satin, he ran his calloused hands from her knees to her buttocks, groaning with the pleasure of the sensuous touch. Beneath him, however, Gaithlin suddenly stiffened and he raised his head from her delightful breasts, breathless.
“What is wrong, Gae?” he slurred her name, too caught up in his desire to pronounce more than one syllable.
Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed with passion and uncertainty. She opened her mouth to speak but no words would come forth, only a good deal of gasping. Licking her lips, she made a second attempt.
“You… you said you were not… are you going to..?”
The question hung between them and he stared at her a moment, his breathing calming but his hands never leaving her rounded buttocks. “You do not want this?”
Her eyes were riveted to him, opened and virginal and honest to a fault. He could read her desire, matching his own and then some. But he could also read a very distinct, very tangible fear.
Slowly, very slowly, he removed his hand from her delightfully supple bottom and discreetly pulled her skirts down. For a man who had lost his virginity at eleven years of age, bedding more women than most men could ever hope for within their entire lifetime, he could hardly understand why he was so unwilling to take what he wanted from a woman who had incited more lust and madness in him than anything he had ever encountered.
Muddled and frustrated to the point of unnatural calm, he stared at Gaithlin’s lovely knees for a moment before lowering the skirt of her gown completely. When his eyes met her wide blue orbs, he simply shook his head like a weakling idiot.
“If I forced myself upon you, then I… apologize,” he could scarcely choke out the words, knowing she had wanted his attentions as badly as he wanted to give them.
But he was also seasoned enough to realize that she was unaware of her natural urges, only cognizant of the fact that they frightened her to the point where she was unwilling to give in to their power. Be patient, he told himself with reined calm. Be patient and teach her what it is to succumb to one’s desires.
Without another word of remorse or repentance, he moved to push himself off her and was startled when a soft white hand suddenly grasped his arm. Pure ice met with deep, serious blue.
“Why do you do this to me?” her voice was a whisper.
Frozen in a half-crouched position, Christian’s brow furrowed faintly. “Do what? Touch you?” With a hint of embarrassment, he shrugged. “Because I cannot seem to keep my hands from you.”
Gaithlin sat up, slowly, as Christian sank to his haunches. Straightening the neckline of her gown, she seemed particularly pensive as her lovely brow furrowed deeply. “Why?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Because you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Why else?”
Their faces were inches from one another as the soft early morn brightened through the slats of the dilapidated shed. Illuminated by the tender golden glow, they continued to stare at one another as if nothing else on earth existed.
After an eternal pause of silence and wonder, Gaithlin finally shook her head with confusion. “Merciful Heavens, Christian, you’re a St. John. Kelvin was correct when he said you had to kill me; you should be driving your sword into my heart rather than trying to steal it.”
He swallowed the gasp of surprise that came to his throat, settling back on his buttocks on the rushes of their bed. Was he indeed close to stealing her heart? Was it possible that she was beginning to experience the same emotions that were plaguing him? Her knees brushed against his shin as he seated himself before her, their expressions curious, puzzled, and completely open.
“I told you before that I am weary of this war,” his voice was husky with emotion, filling the silent pause between them. “What I do, I do because I am a loyal St. John and nothing more. My personal feelings have nothing to do with my allegiance to my family’s honor. De Gare or no, I would drive my sword into my own heart before I would take your life.”
She met his gaze a moment, puzzled and embraced by the emotions radiating forth from the Demon of Eden. “Why?”
A faint smile tickled his lips, laughing at her naked honesty and curiosity. The first time I saw you, swimming naked in the lake. “I don’t know. I should, in fact, be asking you that question,” his eyes raked her hair, her delicious features, with confusion. “Why do you affect me as you do, Lady Gaithlin de Gare? Have you cast a spell over my soul that would cause me to forget all that I am, everything that I stand for? I have spent five days with you and the only reality I am aware of any more is the fact that I cannot ever remember being more enchanted by a woman.”
Gaithlin’s cheeks mottled a pretty shade of pink and she lowered her gaze uncertainly. “I have done nothing but fight you and harass you at every turn. If you are charmed by a shrew of a woman, then you are a peculiar man.”
His grin broke through. “You are a prisoner, Gae. I should hardly have expected you to remain completely compliant.”
Her eyes came up again, rapidly, to meet with his twinkling orbs and he could read her puzzlement. “Why do you call me Gae?”
Carelessly, Christian shrugged. “Because I am too lazy to enunciate your entire name. Does this offend you?”
Did a delightful nickname offend her? Of course not. Coming from a family caught up within the boundaries of poverty and war left little time for affection or compassion, and hearing a selective term come from Christian’s mouth meant for her alone somehow filled her with silly, magical warmth. Almost as if he… cared.
“Nay,” her sultry voice was soft. “It does not.”
“Good. Even if it did, I would continue to call you by that name until the day of my death.”
She smiled faintly, brushing away a stray lock of silken blond hair. “You intend to know me until you die?”
His smile faded. Reaching out, he suddenly grasped her behind the neck and pulled her to him with a surge of unmistakable possession. Gaithlin gasped with the swiftness of his action, bringing her hands up to prevent being slammed against his broad, broad chest. Fingers that had been raised protectively not a moment before suddenly turned soft, lingering, heated the very moment they met with his thin tunic.
Gazing into Gaithlin’s eyes, Christian’s expression screamed with intensity. An intensity that permeated her flesh, seeping deep into her soul and branding her with the unspoken emotions she too had been experiencing. Being a mature adult with a lifetime of seasoning had helped Christian rein the sensations perplexing him into madness, yet Gaithlin had no such practice. Fear and delight, confusion and hatred, they all combined into a wild vortex that seemed to control every facet of her existence.
“I intend to have you with me until I die,” he muttered.
Gaithlin could only stare at him. He wasn’t making any sense; or mayhap it was her own confused mind misinterpreting his words, hearing what he had spoken but understanding very little of what he had implied.
“What does that mean?”
He cocked an eyebrow, his eyes lingering on her ripe lips. “What does it sound like? I intend to have you forever. I intend to marry you.”
Gaithlin felt as if she had been slapped. Gasping, she jerked herself free from Christian’s arms, shoving at him and swinging her big fists until he had no choice but to release her or risk a physical conflict. Only when she stumbled to several feet away did she dare face him.
“You what?” she hissed.
He remained quite calm, still seated on the rushes. “You are my second cousin and I intend to marry you to end the hostilities between Eden and Winding Cross once and for all.”
Mouth agape with astonishment, she could only stare at him. “Are you mad? My mother will never allow such a thing!”
He rose to his full height, tall and proud and strong. “I am unconcerned with your mother’s reaction. ’Tis your father who controls Winding Cross and the de Gare armies. If I marry his daughter, he can no longer in good conscience continue the Feud. Nor can my father, for that matter.”
Gaithlin’s head was wagging back and forth as she listened to his rational reasoning. “Never, Christian. This can never happen.”
“It can and it will,” he said, moving for his boots leaning against the pile of armor near the wall. “ ’Tis a most logical solution to an illogical situation.”
She took a deep breath to clear her reeling thoughts, watching him as he donned his shoes. “ ’Tis a death sentence for us both,” her voice was shaking. “Your father will kill me, and my mo… father will have your head. As it is, you have earned his wrath by abducting me and to marry me will surely provoke him into madness.”
He pulled on his second boot and his foot hit the floor with a resounding thud. Hands on hips, he faced his captive. “Don’t you realize what we have happened upon? You and I are related, Gaithlin. And to my father, blood ties are more important than anything. Even hatred. Our marriage will merely strengthen that bond.”
She was unnaturally pale. Marriage had been her only hope of possibly escaping the Feud, however she could, and to imagine herself married to the very source of the conflict was unthinkable. Married to the Demon who sparked such passion, a man who would probably treat her like a captive and a whore for the remainder of their lives.
“What about Lady Maggie?” her voice was faint yet firm.
He looked away. “I do not intend to honor the marriage contract. After I have told my father what happened, he will undoubtedly agree.”
She watched him move for the crumbling door. “I do not want to marry you.”
He paused, a flicker of emotion rippling in the ice-blue depths of his expressive eyes. Gaithlin swore she saw a flash of pain that was just as quickly vanished. “The subject is not open for discussion. You will do as I say.”
A surge of self-protectiveness and fury surged through her at his hard reply. “I refuse to be belittled and humiliated for the remainder of my life, Demon. Even if a disorderly peace is settled, your family will never accept me as your wife as you will never be accepted by the de Gares as my husband. Where will we live? At Eden where I will be in fear for my life every moment of the day? Or at Winding Cross where you can live in hatred and loathing for the remainder of your existence?”
His irritation gained speed at her harsh words. “What would lead you to believe that I would belittle you or humiliate you? Since the moment I took you from St. Esk, have I not treated you with….”
His words were cut off by a loud rustling from outside the shack. Before Gaithlin could react to the noise, Christian was already acquiring his sword and charging through the splintering door with strength potent enough to rip the panel from the worn moldings. Without thought for her own safety or the fact that she should possibly allow Christian to take care of the prowler alone, Gaithlin dashed after him.
By the time she quit the shack, Christian was plowing into the heavy undergrowth that surrounded their shelter, hacking and ripping through the thick growth. Gaithlin observed his movements anxiously, watching his shadow as he ripped his way amongst the bramble and bushes in search of the elusive threat.
He sounded like a trapped animal as he moved through the brush, grunting and growling and creating an enormous racket. Gaithlin watched with growing apprehension, wondering if she should retrieve one of his weapons and assist the cause. He seemed to be focused on something, for he was moving in a relatively small space purposefully and Gaithlin inched closer to the heavy growth, straining to catch a glimpse of his target.
Christian’s blade glinted with evil malevolence in the weak light as he wielded it effortlessly amongst the bushes, chopping and ripping intently. Gaithlin moved to the edge of the bramble, bending low in an attempt to locate the subject of Christian’s attention.
The very moment she gazed into the greenery, a pair of startled green eyes were staring back at her and she let out a whoop of surprise.
The eyes whooped back.