CHAPTER ELEVEN
“The moment we receive word from Christian, I want you and Jasper to ride north and assess the situation. Is that clear?”
Quinton St. John eyed his father. The man was drunker than he had ever been in his entire life, sweating and pale-lipped and irrational. But, because he was an obedient son, he nodded firmly.
“Aye, Da. As you say.”
Jean tried to set his chalice down on the table of his solar, but he missed. The cup clattered to the floor and Jean cursed softly, grasping the crystal decanter and drinking from the neck.
“And if your brother has been foolish enough to allow himself to become entangled within the de Gare bitch’s lies, you will truss him up and return him to me for judgment. Do you understand?”
Quinton stared at his father. The man’s intoxication only seemed to fuel his hatred towards the de Gares, a hatred that certainly did not require any additional support. But if, perchance, Christian acted foolishly towards his de Gare captive as Maggie had suggested, then Quinton had no doubt that their father’s hatred would be blind to the St. John bloodlines. A traitor knew no family ties. Even the Demon.
In faith, he loved his brother dearly and could not comprehend the notion that Christian would willingly choose to disregard seventy years of family honor simply for the virtue of a captive woman. But his brother was a rogue of legendary proportions and Quinton would not be at all surprised if he had indeed bedded the wench, if only to strip her of her dignity and bring her to bear on the fact that she was a prisoner of the Demon of Eden.
Aye, Christian was deeply loyal to the Feud. He had returned from the king’s service to help Jean and Quinton triumph over Alex de Gare once and for all, and to suggest that he might be softening his stance in the hypnotic presence of Alex’s daughter was pure foolishness. No woman could make him forget his directive, and especially not a de Gare.
At least… he hoped not.
Jean rose from his seat, clumsily dropping the crystal decanter in the process. The commotion of breaking glass and loud curses broke Quinton from his train of thought and he struggled to respond to the question put forth to him by his drunken father.
“I understand completely,” he replied quietly, praying that he would not be facing such a situation. Christian was a far better fighter than him and he did not relish the idea of meeting his angry brother in arms should he be required to enforce his father’s directive. “But if I bring Christian here, what of the woman?”
“The bitch?” Jean snarled mockingly, looking about for another flask of wine. “Kill her. Then you will cut off her head and bring it to me for delivery to Alex de Gare.”
Shocked, Quinton gazed uncertainly at his father. “You… you cannot be serious, da. To kill a wo….”
“You will not dispute me!” Jean roared, jerking around to face his youngest son and nearly losing his balance in the process. Even as Quinton reached out to steady him, he angrily batted the younger man’s hands away. “She’s a de Gare, an animal, a beast! God help Christian if he has allowed the whore to sway him. God help him!”
Quinton watched his father stumble about, listening to the curses and fury venting high to the rafter of the solar. Knowing that even though the man was dead drunk, his hatred and threats were very real. Although the alcohol magnified the mannerisms and lack of control, it did not add to the already substantial loathing. An inherent malice reserved only for those unfortunate enough to bear the de Gare name.
And his threats towards Christian were very real as well. If the Demon had somehow softened his stance towards the enemy, Jean was correct when he pleaded for God’s assistance. God help them all should that be the case.
“We should be receiving word from Galloway soon,” Quinton struggled to keep his manner calm. “The moment we receive direction, I shall ride north and have a look for myself.”
Jean snorted, having located a pewter flask of harsh Scotch Whiskey. Taking a healthy swallow, he choked and sputtered as the fire liquid coursed down his throat. “God damn Christian if he has shown mercy towards the bitch. I shall kill him myself and take great pleasure in his pain.”
Quinton didn’t reply for a moment, feeling more despondent with each passing word. “You realize that it’s entirely possible that Maggie has lied. You’re condemning Christian before you have seen verity of her tales.”
Jean, his lids half-closed, sat at his desk a moment, whiskey flask in hand. His ice-blue eyes found his youngest son. “You’re entirely correct, of course. I don’t trust her as far as I can spit. But I know Christian when it comes to women, and if by some outlandish chance he has taken a fancy to this one, then….”
His voice trailed off, his anger easing in lieu of a gripping depression. Taking another massive swallow of liquor, tears sprang to his eyes and coursed down his cheeks. Quinton absorbed the scene, quite caught up in his own anxieties. After an enteral span of silence, he put his hand on his father’s shoulder in a comforting gesture.
“Not to worry,” he said hoarsely. “Christian has not defected to the enemy. I shall see to it.”
Out in the phantom recesses of the dark hall, a shadowed figure huddled against the cold stone listening to the conversation between Jean and Quinton. Barely breathing, barely moving, the form nonetheless possessed the energy to smile. A bright and sinister smile. Eavesdropping always had possessed a great deal of advantage.
Not that it had taken a great deal of intuition to suspect that the seed of doubt planted within the mind of Jean St. John had grown roots and a will of its own. Burgeoning into a disturbing vine of unbelievable destruction as the wispy tendrils of doubt took firmer and firmer hold within the fickle thoughts of a wearily aging man.
Maggie knew this all too well; intensely clever, she had intended that the doubt should grow and spread. Quinton was feeling the doubt, as would Jasper soon enough. As would the rest of the St. John family. Doubt that would cause Christian to give up his whore and retreat to the bosom of his heritage in the desperate struggle to convince them that he was not a traitor.
Her smile grew as Quinton marched past her, handsome and regal, though not nearly so elaborate as his brother’s beauty. Faded into the flickering shadows, Maggie watched the youngest St. John march down the hall and fade into the darkness, no doubt with a myriad of doubts plaguing his mind, doubts of the Demon’s loyalties.
Aye, her scheme was working admirably. She had succeeded in sowing great misgivings in Jean St. John’s sanity against his mighty son, and she had furthermore succeeded in discovering the location of her errant fiancé. A location she would be more than happy to relay to all interested parties. After all, she had made a pact with the de Gares; a pact she fully intended to fulfill.
Galloway….
*
The fog was like a thick blanket, heavy and cloaking and completely obliterating the landscape. Gaithlin had awoken to the hazy curtain at dawn, alone and cold within the confines of the small shelter.
Swathed in Christian’s cloak, he couldn’t recall falling asleep the night before. All she could recollect was a good deal of crying, of desolation and hopelessness like she had never experienced. Of knowing that the warm discovery she had been so willingly to succumb to had been abruptly cleaved due to her own foolish mistake. By admitting that Alicia de Gare had managed to hold off the brilliant Jean St. John and his legendary son had been enough to send Christian into seizures of fury.
Fury that had kept him away from her all night. A wise move to remove himself from her presence, she suspected; had he remained, she sincerely wondered if she would have seen the light of morn. A furious Demon was not a particularly healthy thing, especially for a de Gare.
Although she tried not to linger on what the day would bring, it was difficult as she forced herself to rise and wash her face, mechanically preparing for the morning meal. Lighting the hearth had proven difficult with her freezing hands, driving her to tears at one point. And when she put the small pot of lentil stew to warm over the flaming embers, a fairly persistent cramping in her groin and lower back told her that the misery of her day was to be made complete.
Of all time for her menses to be upon her. The tears of self-pity and apprehension continued as she warmed the stew, hoping that the smells would bring Christian out of his hiding place. She didn’t know why she was so eager to see him, to confront his anger once again, but she was desperate to gaze upon his magnificent face again and to apologize for withholding the truth.
The smells of smoke and stew did indeed bring forth a male, but not the one she was hoping for. Malcolm burst into the hut, dirty and wide-eyed and shivering, eager for his morning feast. Gaithlin tried not to let her melancholy mood show as she fed the boy, vaguely answering his questions as to Christian’s whereabouts. Instead, she focused on the orphaned lad in an attempt to discover where he himself had spent the night. She received as vague an answer from him as he had from her regarding Christian’s location.
Malcolm ate a hefty portion of stew but Gaithlin refrained from eating all together, preferring to save the remaining portion for Christian should he ever decide to return. But as the morning gained speed, it became apparent Christian was intent on staying away.
Gaithlin struggled against her deepening despair and mounting cramps as she went about her morning work, rummaging through Christian’s saddlebags and planning meals from the supplies he had brought. Somewhere in the midst of her forced-activities, she realized that Christian’s diary and writing implements were missing.
They had been on the floor when Christian had left the hut, of that she was certain. She recalled seeing them through her haze of tears. But they were most definitely missing and she became cognizant of the fact that Christian must have returned for them sometime during the night. One of the oil lamps was missing, too.
The knowledge that he had returned sometime during the darkened hours filled her with a good deal of relief. But it also managed to supply her with a certain degree of anger, an irritation knowing he had entered their hut without bothering to speak to her. A foolishness in wishing he had roused her from a deep sleep simply to yell at her once again.
In spite of her inane thoughts, she knew he had not left her. Even if he was furious. The white destrier was still tethered to a soaring Scot pine and except for his diary and quill, all of Christian’s belongings remained. Standing at the open doorway of their hut as a cloying mist of fog blanketed the landscape with tangible gloom, Gaithlin wondered miserably where on earth he could have gone.
It was a longing Malcolm did not share. Determined to continue with his chore of patching up the hut with or without his English associate, he was already busy carrying the large pot to the stream for the first batch of clay-like mud. Gaithlin would have helped him had she not been rapidly succumbing to crippling cramps, eventually distracting her from her depression and confusion over Christian’s absence. By the time Malcolm returned from the stream dragging the first pot full of mud, Gaithlin was lying in a fetal position inside the hut and praying for an early death.
Malcolm wondered what was wrong with the beautiful woman, going so far as to ask her. She simply mumbled an evasive reply and told him to go about his chores. Obedient and eager, he gladly began progress on the southern portion of the hut.
Although the lad had no concept of time, he knew it had taken him a measure of duration to plaster nearly one-eighth of the southern wall. When he entered the hut to tell the lady of his return trip to the stream, he had been concerned to find her on her back with her knees raised, tears streaming from her closed eyes. When he had asked her what the matter was, she had ignored him completely, clutched her stomach, and rolled onto her side. Perplexed and wondering heavily on her mystery illness, he had proceeded to the stream.
He almost didn’t see Christian as he reached the banks of the simmering brook. Seated on a large bolder, the Demon’s face was the color of the fog; pale and colorless. A large book sat in his lap as he pondered the noisy water, not bothering to glance up when Malcolm lowered the pot onto the moist, mossy earth.
“Where ye been?” the lad asked. “Yer wife ha’ the meal waitin’.”
Christian continued to stare at the water as if entranced; he looked so completely phantom-like that he nearly blended in with the gray mist and boulders. A great hulking figure that had become part of the landscape, dense and unfeeling and unseeing, wallowing in a gross confusion borne of fatigue and guilt.
It was a state that threatened to consume him, crumbling his mind and spirit and soul. It was a few moments before he was able to emerge from the tumultuous depths long enough to speak.
“I have been nowhere,” he emitted a long, heavy sigh, looking up from the bubbling stream. His eyes were dark circles from the lack of sleep as he observed the young boy. “Are you patching the southern wall?”
Malcolm nodded, scooping up the mud and putting it in the pot. “I am doin’ a good job without ye.”
Christian watched the lad, distracted from his misery by the sight of the scrawny young child. Thinking how cold the mud was but noticing that it didn’t seem to bother Malcolm. Barefooted and hardly clothed, the boy seemed to ignore the chill morning temperature.
“Is my wife helping you?”
“Na,” Malcolm shook his head, shoveling more muck. “She’s sick.”
Christian’s brow rippled with concern. “Sick? What do you mean?”
Malcolm shrugged, picking a few pebbles out of the mud he had collected. “She’s layin’ on the floor, cryin’. I asked her what’s the matter, but she dinna tell me. She just holds her belly and cries.”
Christian rose from the rock, swamped with uncertainty and concern. He’d spent the entire night torn between wild fury and bleak confusion, cursing the adoration he bore the woman who was his inherent enemy. Knowing that every moment he spent with her was another nail in his coffin, a coffin his own father would most happily place him in when he became aware of his heir’s irrational emotions. He hated himself for feeling increasingly torn between his blossoming love for Gaithlin and the loyalty he was required to devote to his legacy.
It wasn’t a matter of simple betrayal any longer. He actually found himself sympathizing and supporting the de Gare stance. Poverty and determination they had shouldered due to the St. John incursion, unwilling to fold even though they were already beaten. A strength of people who had lingered in the bowels of devastation for years, but had managed the honor and courage to continually withstand the pressures of the Feud. Honor that had thrust a woman into a man’s role. He found himself admiring de Gare fortitude.
Good Christ, he was in deeper trouble than he could begin to comprehend.
So he had stayed out all night to compose his thoughts and ideals, returning to their hut well after midnight to collect his diary. Gaithlin had been asleep, a catch in her breathing every so often the only indication of her emotional state. He had paused several moments to watch her sleep, wishing he could lie beside her and gather her in his arms. But there were things he had to reconcile before he could return to her.
By the dim light of the oil lamp he had scratched out three pages of text, his thoughts and emotions and feelings as he could begin to describe them. After he had finished the three pages of wild, undaunted confusion, he had scribed a message to his father containing his whereabouts, the information on the Douglas link, and asking for progress on the de Gare blackmail.
Knowing they would be going to town come the morn, he planned to hire a boy to take the missive to Castle Douglas to request that the message be forwarded to Eden. He had no doubt that his Scot relatives, and Gaithlin’s cousins for that matter, would hurry the parchment to England, eager to be of service to their English cousin.
He furthermore had no doubt that a reply would be equally rapid in return. As gloating as his father was sure to be over the successful capture of Gaithlin de Gare, he would be eager to inform his son of his grand progress.
A progress it was increasingly difficult to accept. Every time he gazed at Gaithlin, he felt his resolve weaken another notch and after pondering the quandary of Lady de Gare, fighting admirably in her husband’s stead for nearly ten years, his St. John loyalties were faltering even further.
He knew Gaithlin believed that he was angry with her for having divulged a secret particularly humiliating to the St. John cause, and in truth he had been angry for a time as a St. John loyalist should have been. But as the night passed and he had come to grips with the stunning revelation, he realized he was more angry at himself for feeling a good deal of understanding towards Lady de Gare’s plight. How easily he could picture Gaithlin doing the very same thing, as the Demon’s wife.
There was a silent strength to the de Gares that he was only now coming to understand. A commendable quality he very much appreciated. It was a quality the St. Johns seemed to lack.
Wracked with confusion and guilt, he had spent the past few hours wondering how to apologize to Gaithlin for his anger. Certainly, he wanted to explain his reaction, but he was terrified that one confession might lead to another. And he had no intention of telling her what was in his heart; frankly, he was too terrified to fully explore his feelings himself.
So he forced the consuming thoughts away, struggling to disregard his turmoil and confusion as he focused on Malcolm’s assessment of Gaithlin’s health; he was far too exhausted from a night of mulling over his bafflement to lend the energy to his emotions any longer.
Book in hand, he leapt across the stream without effort as Malcolm continued to dig in the mud. The little boy looked up from his work as the massive man moved past him.
“Where’re ye goin’?” he asked.
Christian paused a moment, eyeing the boy and noting that at closer proximity, the lad was indeed shaking with chill. In fact, his little lips were blue and he could only imagine that the child must be losing feeling in his hands and feet from contact with the icy ground. In spite of his urgent concern for Gaithlin, he managed to spare a small measure of interest to the lad’s well-being.
“I am going to see my wife,” he said, his voice low. He scrutinizing the child a moment longer. “Do you know how to build a fire?”
Malcolm nodded. “A flint and stone.”
Christian glanced about, noting the wet foliage and knowing the lad would be unable to find any dry material for burning. Motioning for Malcolm to follow, he moved towards the shelter. “I have a pile of dry wood inside the hut. I shall give you some to build a fire with, a fire we can use outside the shelter.”
Lugging the pot half-filled with mud, Malcolm struggled behind Christian until the large man assumed the burden easily. “What fer?” Malcolm asked.
“Washing, eating, warmth. Many things,” Christian found himself diverted from their conversation as they burst into the clearing and the shabby hut came into view. “Find an appropriate spot and I shall bring you the wood after I have seen to my wife.”
“But what of th’ mud?” Malcolm wanted to know. “Dunna ye want me to patch th’ wall?”
“Certainly,” Christian’s eagerness was gaining speed as they approached the shelter, more anxious to see Gaithlin with each passing step. “You can build a fire and patch the wall, can you not?”
Malcolm nodded fervently, moving with Christian to the edge of the southern wall as the English knight set the pot of mud to the ground. Gesturing for the boy to get to work, he forgot about the lad the very moment he moved to the shelter door. Pausing briefly, mayhap to gain a measure of courage and strength to face his greatest, most magnificent weakness, he pushed the door open.
True to Malcolm’s word, Gaithlin was laying on her side amongst the dried rushes of their bed, facing away from him. As Christian’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he set his diary quietly to the ground next to his saddle bags, his attention riveted to Gaithlin’s reclining form. Even with the slight noise he had made entering the hut, she hadn’t moved and he wondered if she was asleep. Not wanting to wake her, he moved to peer at her face and was startled when she shifted listlessly upon the wool.
“Malcolm?” she said weakly. “Do you need something?”
“It’s me, Gae,” he said softly.
Jolted, Gaithlin rolled onto her back, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. She looked pale and worn and Christian’s heart tugged painfully in his chest at the sight of her; obviously, she had spent a rough night of emotional upheaval and he was unwilling to add to her turmoil. Her anguish, the tension between them, had been entirely his doing with his raging and harsh words, and he silently resolved to make immediate amends.
The time for turbulence had passed into the dawn of a new morning. Clearly, it didn’t matter any longer. Nothing did.
But Gaithlin wasn’t feeling his sense of resolution. Her gaze was wide on him, a palpable longing evident in her eyes. “You… you’re back,” she stammered, unsure of how to react to him. Should she express gladness? Reserve? An undeniable loathing to match his own?
Christian could read her uncertainty and he smiled faintly, grasping her hand. Bringing it to his lips, his kissed the palm softly. “I was foolish to have left in the first place,” he said quietly, more concerned with her obvious health that last eve’s argument. “Malcolm says you are feeling ill. What’s wrong?”
Surprised and off-guard by his declaration of truce, the focus shifted to Gaithlin’s condition and she was immediately embarrassed with his question. Certainly, she could not tell him her true ailment and she instinctively averted her gaze. “My… my stomach hurts.” It was the truth for the most part.
His brow furrowed and he touched her forehead, her cheeks. “You are not feverish,” he said. “But you are very pale. Where does it hurt?”
Her cheeks flushed as he watched, desperately attempting to avoid his concerned gaze. “My stomach,” she repeated, feeling another surge of the cramps. Closing her eyes, she grunted softly as the pain pulsed and then died. “I shall… I shall be fine, truly.”
Christian watched her expression, hearing her soft grunt of pain, and his distress mounted. “Gae, if you’re ill, then you must tell me. We shall seek a physic and….”
She cut him off sharply, her humiliation increasing by the second. It became apparent he would not be content to absorb a simple explanation. “Please, Christian… I shall be fine.”
“But you’re obviously in pain,” he pointed out, growing increasingly agitated at her evasiveness. “I demand you allow me to seek a physic.”
“Nay,” she reached out, grasping his hand. Reluctantly meeting his darkened expression, she smiled weakly. “A physic is not necessary, I assure you.”
He frowned, completely convinced that she was hiding a serious affliction from him. “Tell me what the matter is or I shall retrieve a physic this instant.”
Gaithlin sighed; clearly, she was uncomfortable discussing her menses with anyone, much less her captor. In fact, the entire idea horrified her. But her rational sense agreed that he was a mature male and certainly had knowledge of the workings of the female body. If she were to confess, she doubted he would be overly surprised or offended. Even if she herself would be certain to die from embarrassment. Was nothing sacred within the Demon’s presence?
“All women suffer with stomach pains from time to time,” she said finally, her voice soft. Even as she spoke, her cheeks flushed brightly. “Unfortunately, I seem to have more pain than others and there is nothing to do but allow it to pass.”
“Pains? What pains? From whence do they happen?”
Gaithlin rolled her eyes in exasperation and extreme mortification. Merciful Heavens, did she have to give him a demonstration to make him understand? “Stomach pains, Christian,” she fixed him in the eye firmly, resolutely. “Womanly stomach pains.”
He stared at her a moment, his brow still furrowed. Then, as realization dawned, his expression relaxed into one of understanding and remorse. It was obvious that she had delivered an answer he was unprepared for and he struggled not to appear too dismayed with the result his bullying tactics had brought him.
“Oh… Gae,” he swallowed, looking nearly as embarrassed as she was. “I am sorry. I didn’t… I thought you were truly ill ’else I would not have….”
She smiled, finding an ease to her humiliation in his chagrin. “I realize that,” she said, turning on her side once more to avoid his flustered expression. “I shall be fine. I simply need to rest.”
He nodded instantly, feeling like a fool for having pressed her into a very personal confession. But as he gazed at her shapely backside, he also felt a distinct urge to help her through her pain. Female afflictions were mysterious and awesome, striking wonder and fear into the hearts of all men. The secretive matters of feminine reproduction were to be respected and honored, and Christian’s attitude was of no exception.
Moreover, it was an extremely natural affliction that would guarantee him an heir and he somehow felt a part of her malady. The matters of the previous evening, the rage and tears and shock, were forgotten as he focused on Gaithlin’s delicate state.
“Can I do anything?” he asked, a gentle hand touching her shoulder.
Gaithlin shook her head, wishing he would leave her alone with her pain, but also finding a great deal of comfort in his concern and company. “Nothing, Christian. Why don’t you help Malcolm with the wall?”
He frowned, looking to his saddle bags and wondering if there was something amongst the herbs and medicaments he brought that could ease her ache. “I have brought a poppy mixture for pain. Would that help?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Poppy elixirs are expensive and we never had the money to spare.”
Immediately, he moved to his satchels and began to rummage about with a sense of purpose. Removing several items from the larger of the bags, he fumbled about in the bottom until he came across a leather pouch. Removing the brown purse, he rose on his long legs and collected a wooden cup.
Opening the splintered door, he called for Malcolm and the filthy child immediately appeared, covered with a fresh coating of grayish mud. Sending the lad to the brook to fill the cup, he waited impatiently for the child’s return.
Panting and flushed in the misty morn, Malcolm had spilled nearly half of the contents from the cup with his eager actions and hurried pace by the time he returned to Christian. Casting the boy a wink of gratitude, Christian ducked into the hut once more and shut the door. Sprinkling a bit of powder into the cup, he offered it to Gaithlin.
Gaithlin’s embarrassment was faded, replaced by a genuine humor in Christian’s nearly fearful manner. As if she was going to erupt at any moment. Accepting the cup and downing the contents, she lay back down upon the musty wool in the fervent hope that the expensive poppy potion would do some good. In faith, she was exhausted and weary from the constant crampy ache and eager to be done with it.
Even if her pain had made Christian forget his anger. For that, she was almost thankful for the cursed throbbing. Moreover, distracting her from her current physical state was the fact that he had professed his foolishness for having left their shelter last night and she was deeply perplexed by the assumption of guilt. He had been rightfully angry with the divulgence of Alex de Gare’s death and had been justified in his reaction. Gaithlin had never faulted him his fury.
But his odd statement of personal assumption gnawed at her and as the poppy potion flushed her veins with a warm lethargy, she struggled to keep her eyes open.
“Why did you say what you did?” she asked, losing the battle against the powerful opiate.
Seated next to her on the rushes, he reached out to stroke her hair. “What is that?”
“That you were foolish to have left in the first place,” she repeated, her voice faint. “What did you mean?”
His hand stopped stroking, coming to rest on the top of her head. “That should be obvious,” he resumed stroking. “I should not have left with such anger and confusion between us. I should have remained and rationally confronted your information.”
She sighed, her ache lessening somewhat as the drug went to work. “You were right to become angry,” she whispered. “I was determined not to inform you of my father’s passing and my mother’s quest to bear arms. Had my foolish tongue not slipped, you still would not know the truth.”
He understood her reasoning too well. “I know,” he said softly, watching the colors of her hair glimmer in the weak light. “You were simply protecting your family, Gae. I would have done the same.”
Her eyes came open, unfocused from the potency of the medicine. “What now, Christian? You must tell your father.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, his hand moving from her hair to her arm. “How do you feel?” he asked, obviously changing the subject.
She sighed wearily, her eyes closing. “Eased and exceedingly tired,” she said softly. “You did not answer my question.”
He caressed her arm, rubbing gently at her shoulder. “Is there anything else I can do to ease your pain?”
Mind fogged with the potion, Gaithlin had difficulty holding a thought and it was an easy matter to divert her attention. “My mother used to rub my lower back,” she said after a moment, thinking on the painful curse both she and her mother had shared. After a moment, she remembered that he had again failed to answer her question and struggled to maintain her lucidity as she demanded a reply. “When are you going to tell your father of my father’s death?”
He shifted behind her, stretching his big body out on the rushes. Propping himself up on one elbow, she could feel his strong, gentle hand massaging the small of her back with infinite care. “Then if your mother stroked your back, I shall do the same.”
His expert massage threatened to put her to sleep immediately, but she struggled with the last shards of consciousness to obtain her answer. “Answer me, Christian. I demand it.”
“You do?” he raised his eyebrows in gentle disapproval, rubbing her delicious torso tenderly. “I do not know if I appreciate your imperial demands. But, considering your diminished mental state, I will forgive you. As for my father, he will know when I decide to tell him and not a moment sooner.”
She shrugged faintly, groaning softly with the delight of his attentions. He smiled, studying her relaxed features in the dimness. Her beautiful face, calm and peaceful as the poppy elixir worked its magic, reminded him of a prose he had composed during the night, a verse that somehow helped him express his emotions. When she sighed again in contentment, he lay down beside her completely and continued to massage her cramping back.
“I wrote something for you last night,” he said softly, his alert eyes staring into the dimness of the shelter.
“You did?” she was barely audible. “What?”
“A bit of prose,” he said softly. “You may read it when you are feeling better.”
She didn’t reply. But then she rolled onto her back, her beautiful face gazing up at him in the soft illumination. Her half-lidded eyes were struggling against the force of the opiate concoction.
“I cannot read, Christian,” she said, unashamed.
He wasn’t surprised; very few ladies could read. Touching her cheek, he smiled faintly. “Then I shall teach you.”
“But that will take time,” she slurred, her eyes blinking slowly. “Please read your prose to me. I want to hear it now.”
Nodding faintly, he pulled her into his arms, continuing his massage as she snuggled against him. The night of fury and turmoil was forgotten by the both of them as they relaxed into a most natural state, enfolded within the company of each other’s arms.
As Gaithlin struggled against the force of the elixir, Christian thought on the ponderings and poetry he had scribed the night before, effortlessly isolating the gentle verse he had written specifically for Gaithlin.
“ ‘Beauty bewareth comes the passion
of rough tides and blissful dreams.
To ever haunt the beauty of the passion;
into the night, she surely hides.’ ”
His prosaic passage was met with silence and he thought she had fallen asleep. With a faint smile, he kissed her delicious hair and felt his own fatigue clutching at him, the result of a sleepless and turbulent night. No longer willing to wage battle with his exhaustion, he closed his eyes against the comfort of their bed.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “What does it mean?”
He scarcely heard the muttered question. His eyes remained closed as he answered. “It means that you are the beauty of my passion. And it means that you and I will not have a perfect life together.”
“And you fear that I may run?” Her head suddenly came up, her sleepy eyes focusing on him in the darkness. “I would never run from your passion, Christian. I have never run from anything in my life.”
His hand came up, tenderly touching her cheek. “You have not a cowardly bone in your body. But you may want to escape the turmoil in spite of your bravery. ’Twould be a natural instinct.”
She shook her head, a slender finger tracing the squareness of his jaw. “An instinct I would reject. I have spent a mere seven days with you and already I cannot imagine being separated from you, as if we belong together.”
“We do,” he said without hesitation, his heart soaring to hear his own thoughts echoed in her sultry voice. He’d always known she reflected his own feelings to a certain extent, but he was unsure that her own sensations ran as deeply as his did. He’d known he loved her since the first he had ever seen her; mayhap, in time, she would come to love him as well. Hearing her tender words and experiencing her gentle actions, he was greatly encouraged.
Gaithlin smiled, her thumbs stroking his stubbled cheek as she studied his features intently. “Strange that we do. We are supposed to hate each other.”
“I could never hate you.”
“Nor could I.
He drank in her beautiful face even as she continued to scrutinize him, almost thoughtfully in spite of her drug-hazed mind. After a moment, he cupped her gently behind the neck and pulled her to his lips for a tender kiss. Good Christ, there was so much he wanted to tell her. So much he was still unable to voice. Mayhap in time….
“Sleep now,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We shall go to town on the morrow.”
Too tired to protest or question his reasoning, she snuggled into the curve of his mighty torso, never more content in her entire life. Even as she contemplated the magic of his delicious company, another fleeting thought came to mind as the sleep of Morpheus attempted once more to claim her.
“What about Malcolm?” she yawned.
“He’s a job to do,” he replied. “He’ll be busy most of the day.”
Forgetting the wood he had promised the lad, Christian drifted off to sleep without thought to the missive he had intended to send his father this day, or the supplies they were in need of purchasing. All that mattered was that all was right between he and Gaithlin again, a comfort and warmth between them that he could not begin to describe in words. All he knew was that he needed the satisfaction as badly as he needed to eat and breathe. He needed the comfort.
He needed her.
*
Gaithlin slept the rest of the day and on into the evening. Christian had awoken after several hours of restful sleep, listening to the soft sounds of Malcolm as the lad continued to patch the walls. Gaithlin was dead weight against him, breathing heavily in her drug-induced sleep and after watching her peaceful expression longer than he could recall, Christian tenderly disengaged himself from her heated body.
Tucking his cloak about her tightly, he kissed her gently on the forehead, listening to her sighs of contentment. With a smile on his lips, he quit the shelter with several splintered logs in his arms, intent on aiding the neglected young lad.
The fog had lifted, leaving the day bright and clear. Malcolm had finished the southern wall and was busily working on the eastern barrier when Christian emerged from the shack. With a few words between them, Malcolm showed him the best spot to lodge a hefty bonfire and proceeded to light the bundle of dried wood as Christian stood over him and supervised.
It took several tries and Malcolm was rapidly succumbing to acute embarrassment, but Christian aided him to make it appear as if the boy’s efforts had culminated after all. Admiring the English warlord more by the minute, Malcolm had been eager to assist Christian in setting up a tripod over the open flame. Made of three long pieces of damp wood, Christian secured the implement for holding pots with a long strip of hide.
With the campfire prepared, the two men proceeded to finish coating the shack with the clay-like mud. Once Christian delved into the task, the project was completed quickly and using the pick-axe from his arsenal of war implements, he and Malcolm began to dig up several long sections of sod to complete the walls of the house.
It was hard, dirty work that progressed into the night. By the time they covered two walls and the roof with the damp, heavy sod, they were both famished and fatigued. Christian had ducked into the hut with the intention of confiscating the remainder of the lentil soup and wedges of cheese he had brought with him, noting with humor that all of their racket throughout the day had failed to rouse Gaithlin. Gathering his supplies, he quit the shack silently.
She slept through their meal and through the noise from the subsequent bath Christian had forced Malcolm to endure. Boiling water in the smaller pot he had secured to the exterior tripod, he stripped the reluctant boy naked and proceeded to scrub him within an inch of his dirty little life. In faith, the lad was several levels beyond the acceptable boundaries of common filth and Christian took to wearing his heavy leather gloves for protection as he went about scraping the lad with a horse-hair brush and lye soap.
Through the moaning and grumbling and protests of a lad being skinned alive by the brutal washings of a diligent knight, Gaithlin would have been proud in the manner with which Christian had dealt with Malcolm. Firmly but rationally, he finished scouring the lad and wrapped him in a length of wool from his saddlebags, boiling his ragged clothes to remove the dirt and vermin from them. As Malcolm sat by the fire and chewed noisily on a piece of tart cheese, Christian then set about determining what could be done about the boy’s hair.
The blond tresses were literally crawling with pests. Quickly deciding there was nothing he could do and refusing to risk infecting himself with the futile attempt of removing the insects, he simply withdrew his long-edge shaving razor and proceeded to shave the boy bald. Then, with another dousing of lye soap and hot water, he was rather pleased with his sanitary measures.
Malcolm didn’t seem overly concerned with his fleshy head or raw-scrubbed body; in fact, he seemed particularly happy with the attention from the massive warlord. He knew that proper knights were clean and shaved and he appeared to take that into account as Christian burned the dirty strands of blond hair.
In fact, he couldn’t ever recall feeling so satisfied in his entire young life. Rapidly, he was coming to be a part of this peculiar little world in the middle of the Wood, coming to belong to the lady and her knight.
Bald, fed and content, Malcolm had fallen asleep beside the fire in the midst of his most delightful thoughts.
Cup of ale in hand, Christian sat by the crackling blaze into the still depths of the night, thinking that he, too, found a good deal of contentment and belonging in the wilds of Galloway.