CHAPTER TWELVE
“Did you have to shave him?”
Christian had been listening to the same question for the past three hours. Since the moment dawn had crested and Gaithlin had screamed at the sight of the bald child inhabiting her hut. Plodding along on the charger toward the small village known as Cree, the hairless child that had once been Malcolm leapt and danced alongside the animal bearing his adopted companions as his newly-shorn scalp glistened in the weak morning light.
“Gae, we’ve discussed this,” he said patiently to the woman seated across his massive thighs. “His hair was a nest of vermin. At least he’s clean now.”
Unable to take her eyes off the happy young lad, Gaithlin shook her head with remorse. “Aye, clean and bald. He looks like the victim of torture. People will believe we have mistreated him.”
“We’ve treated him better in the past two days than most children are handled in their entire life,” Christian replied. “And I did you a favor by bathing him. Surely you can thank me for my consideration and cease bemoaning his naked scalp.”
“But his nude skull is blinding me. Merciful Heavens, he looks terrible.”
Christian pulled her closer against him, his face nestled in her hair. “You and I are aware of his appalling appearance, but he is not. Do not frighten him with your cynical observations.”
“My observations are not cynical. They are God’s honest truth.”
He snickered softly. “Have faith, my lady. His hair will grow back and you will be spared any further horrors.”
Gaithlin shook her head again, watching Malcolm as he jumped feet-first into a muddy puddle of stagnant water. Splashing about as any young boy would, he emerged onto the dry dust of the road and promptly came away with mud-shoes. Grinning gleefully at Gaithlin’s dismayed expression, he dashed down the road with unrestrained excitement of the prospects awaiting him in Cree.
Gaithlin continued to watch the lad with a sickened expression as Christian snickered again. “Do not be so distressed,” he murmured in her ear. “He is quite happy about the whole thing.”
Gaithlin observed the cavorting youth with a measured degree of doubt. “Mayhap so. But did you truly have to shave him?”
“Aye, I had to shave him.”
Sighing with resignation, Gaithlin tore her eyes away from the frolicking lad to drink in the wooded scenery around her. The trees were thick with moisture and smell of damp foliage infiltrated the canopy, a cloying yet not unpleasant scent. A heavy coverage of ground ivy crowded to the edge of the road, only to be completely halted by the pebbled dirt itself.
Gaithlin watched the scenery go by, pondering the happenings of her world since she had fallen into a drug-induced stupor yesterday morn – a nearly-completed shelter, a shaved boy, and a captor who seemed intent on treating her as if they had never shared an argument or harsh moment during the short course of their relationship. As if all was right in the world.
Indeed, all appeared to be more than pleasant in their private little realm as Christian had been eager to prove since the sun rose. Even though her pains were gone and her eighteen-hour sleep had proved to be wonderful and utterly restful, he had insisted on cooking the morning meal of soft wheat porridge and a bit of honey. Gaithlin had been provided the luxurious pleasure of a wonderful meal and a jailor who seemed intent on acting her manservant. And a completely, unmistakably bald child.
Christian had laughed at her reaction; so had Malcolm. But it wasn’t funny in the least. She could scarcely sit through the meal without staring at the boy in total awe; the only indication that her familiar Malcolm was seated before her was in the evidence of his fearsome appetite. Had she not been privy to his barbaric table manners, she would have thought him to be some sort of forest brownie. An elf, even. Certainly not her Malcolm.
As the meal progressed, her dismay deepened and she realized that she had to regain control of her growing shock lest she completely upset herself and the boy. To divert her horror away from the hairless lad, she willingly accepted Christian’s suggestion that she clean up and change her surcoat before venturing into the village. In fact, it was a splendid idea and she delved into the task with enthusiasm.
With a pot of warm water and a cake of hard-milled soap, she started with a simple washing that progressed into a full-body lathering. Even her hair, dirty and stringy and unkempt, was the recipient of a harsh scrubbing. Rinsing and cleansing and drying, she had never felt so refreshed in her entire life, as if the past several days of dirt and turmoil and confusion had been washed away in a stream of dissolving suds and cooling water.
An obvious ambience Christian noted the moment he saw her emerge from the shelter clad in a beautiful gown of peach-colored wool. Her drying hair was slicked back on her head, reminiscent of the first time he had ever seen her, wet and nude and completely unhindered. A recollection as clear as if it had happened an hour ago and his heart thumped madly against his ribs, reminding him of the adoration he held so dearly for her.
Gazing at her smiling, scrubbed face as she dried her hair over Malcolm’s open flame, he was seized with a fervent desire to marry her this day, to make love to her until they were old and gray. He would make love to her on their bed, on the floor, in the water she so obviously loved. He would pound her with proof of his adoration and desire until she became at one with his thoughts and mind and dreams. Until their bodies were of one heart, one soul, one life.
But his amorous thoughts would have to wait for the moment. A hefty schedule of tasks filled the day and he would be sorely amiss not to focus his attention on their needs at hand. Aboard his charger loaded with everything he had brought of value so the possessions would not fall into the hands of the dog-people, he and Gaithlin and Malcolm had set out for Cree.
In spite of Gaithlin’s recurring horror at Malcolm’s appearance, it had been a lovely jaunt. The heady tinge of early autumn filled the air and the summer-green leaves were starting to show a hint of color. Smelling like the fresh essence of soap and water, Gaithlin leaned against Christian with customary familiarity, relishing the feel of his arm about her just as he was intent on savoring the presence of her supple body against his own. Up ahead, Malcolm danced and skipped the length of the thoroughfare, delighted in every way to be a part of the English knight’s world.
“When we return to England, Malcolm will come with us,” Gaithlin said softly, gazing fondly at the bald head.
Jolted from his train of thought, Christian’s brow furrowed as he pondered her wish. “I do not know if that would be particularly wise, Gae,” he said softly. “You and I are going to be facing a good deal of adversity. ’Twould not be fair to thrust Malcolm into the middle of it.”
She turned in the saddle, eyeing him in the soft illumination of the overhead canopy. He wore his armor this day, creating a more powerful atmosphere about him than was usual. However, the plates of tempered steel were superfluous in her opinion; the pure size and strength radiating forth from his mighty presence was far more threatening than the hazard of battle armor. The suit of protective metal was an enhancement to his aura, not a staple. The Demon of legend.
“Would you prefer to leave him in the wilds of Galloway, vulnerable and alone?” she cocked an eyebrow, returning her focus from his mighty appearance to the subject at hand. “Merciful Heavens, Christian, you have all but adopted the boy over the past two days. He has become your shadow and he adores you. I cannot imagine returning to England without him, Feud or no.”
He sighed, noting her brilliant blond hair and exquisite features under the shaded sunlight. Thinking her to be the most beautiful, sensuous and demanding creature he had ever laid eyes on.
“At least he would be safe here,” he muttered, knowing it to be a weak excuse even as it came forth from his lips. “I will have too many worries once we return home without the added burden of a child.”
Gaithlin opened her mouth to protest when Malcolm suddenly burst forth from the bramble, startling the charger and causing the animal to snort and snap. Gaithlin struggled to keep her balance as Christian calmed the startled beast.
“Th’ village is just ahead!” Malcolm announced excitedly, oblivious to the fact that he had jolted the mighty warhorse into fits of agitation. “Hurry!”
“We are trying,” Christian grunted as he tightened the reins, calming the animal with a soothing clucking noise.
“Come on, lady!” Malcolm held his hand up to her. “I’ll show ye the town!”
Thinking that it would be wise to remove herself from the excited horse, Gaithlin slipped from the saddle and nearly pitched herself to her knees in the process. Regaining her unsteady balance, she was barely recovered when Malcolm was rushing at her, grabbing her hand enthusiastically.
“Come on!” he tugged at her as she gathered her voluminous skirt. “The musicians are playin’!”
“Musicians?” Gaithlin cocked her head. “I don’t hear anything.”
“I do,” Christian said, stroking the charger’s white neck as the horse visibly calmed. “Sounds like a lyre and flute.”
“Flute and lyre?” Gaithlin repeated as Malcolm yanked her down the road. Dragged behind the eager boy, she cocked a thoughtful ear and listened to the moist air intently. “Aye, I believe I hear them.”
Behind her, Christian had managed to calm his steed and the massive white beast danced a slow, excited trot as they progressed down the road. Seated like a Centaur, Christian rode the animal effortlessly as he watched the luscious sway of Gaithlin’s curvaceous backside.
Indeed, as much as he relished her presence seated across his thighs when they traveled, observing her before him as she strolled down the thoroughfare had distinct advantages as well. Clean and groomed and completely confident in her manner, surely there was no finer sight that the willowy, delectable vision of Lady Gaithlin de Gare.
A vision, however, he was forced to divert his attention from as they entered the outskirts of Cree. Remembering the village from his childhood with his customary clarity, he was not surprised to see that the berg had not changed overly in the past twenty-five years. Other than a few more buildings and an added conglomeration of huts and other livable structures, it appeared basically the same.
The atmosphere of the bustling town created a tangible air of excitement; there were people in every habitable area, moving about on their daily business as if the advancement of the very world depended upon their fortitude. Near the edge of the main thoroughfare next to the blacksmith’s shed, a band of musicians parlayed a lively collection of songs to any and all who would listen. Before them sat a beaten bowl of some metal to accept any generous offerings for their talents.
The abundance of round-faced, inherently scruffy villeins chatted and laughed as they conducted their affairs, abruptly pausing in awed silence as the massive knight astride the magnificent white charger entered their private little realm. Even though a very beautiful woman strolled beside him in the hand of a familiar local orphan, all eyes were drawn to the massive, undeniably frightening English warrior with the same prevalent thought.
Is there a reason for his presence?
Christian was aware of the stares and whispers over the squawk of chickens and the brays of burdened beasts. Clusters of children raced past him, screaming and laughing, their clamor cut short when they realized a full-fledged English warlord to be within their midst. As Christian progressed deeper into the bustling village, the rumors of his company spread throughout man and woman alike like a raging tide of untamed wildfire.
Even Gaithlin was aware of the wonderment and palpable fear of Christian’s appearance as Malcolm directed her onto the main business avenue. Glancing about at the startled faces, she was not surprised with their reaction; certainly, Christian had received the same reaction from her when first they met.
But as she observed the consternation and, in some cases, loathing, she found herself wanting to defend Christian against the ignorant villeins who only saw the superficial Angel of Death within their assembly, not the flesh-and-blood man beneath the fearsome facade. Clearly, the populace was uncertain over the appearance of an English warrior and she became increasingly anxious to ease their simple minds.
After all, there were literally hundreds of Scot peasants observing Christian as he traversed the roadway. Enough people to substantially harm him should their fear get the better of their common sense.
“Do you know most of these people?” she whispered to Malcolm, leaning close to his bald head.
Malcolm nodded, too young to sense the turmoil brewing. “I’ve lived here me whole life.”
Gaithlin looked about her, watching as one young mother gathered her three small children in a panic and rushed into the trees. “Who is the town leader?”
Malcolm thought a moment. “There’s no leader,” he replied, then pointed to a large listing stand filled with indigenous vegetables. “But tha’s Lutey. He’s th’ richest man in town.”
Gaithlin looked to the shabby merchant’s shelter, scrutinizing the fat, dwarf-like man behind the piles of vegetables. Thinking quickly on how to ease the situation, she delved into immediate action. “Malcolm, go to Lutey and tell him that he has a customer,” she swatted the lad lightly on the behind to kick-start his motivation. “Hurry, now. Tell him who we are.”
As the bald boy immediately dashed off, she moved to Christian with a certain degree of trepidation. “Malcolm says that man over there is the richest, most powerful merchant in town,” she pointed to the leaning structure of goods. “Mayhap we should buy our supplies from him.”
Beneath his raised visor, Christian frowned. “What does it matter if he is the richest man in town? I will purchase my goods from the merchant with the best price.”
Gaithlin cocked an eyebrow, feeling the tension surrounding her like a suffocating vise. “These people do not trust you, Christian. It is evident that they are startled and frightened by your presence, and unless you want to become the victim of a frenzied mob, I suggest you do your business dealings with the most powerful man in town so that the ignorant populace can observe your peaceful and prosperous intentions,” she put her hand on his gauntlet. “Moreover, I suspect that the merchant will be more than happy to spread rumors of your amicable manner when you show your generosity by purchasing his goods for a lavish price.”
His gaze was even as he listened to her sound, rational words. After a moment, he cocked an eyebrow as his gaze trailed to the large merchant’s stand where Malcolm was presently dancing about with anticipation. “Your reasoning, as always, is sensible,” he said softly. “Very well, then. We shall purchase our supplies through this merchant in order to guarantee me a nonviolent reputation.”
She smiled at his agreement and he cast her a bold wink, refusing to let go of her hand even as they made their way towards the large produce stall. Dismounting into a thick puddle of rancid mud, he ignored the slime coating his boots in lieu of making sure Gaithlin avoided the same muck. Tucking her hand into the fold of his elbow, he approached the quivering, rotund merchant.
“Good day to you,” he said in his rich, booming voice. “My name is Sir Christian St. John. I understand that you sell the finest produce in the entire village and would hope to be able to conduct my business with you.”
The merchant, sweaty and submissive to the point of over-reactive, bowed hastily in Christian’s direction. “M’laird,” he said, his burr thick with nerves. “Yer new ta Cree?”
“I am,” Christian nodded, removing his helm to prove that there was a human lodged inside the fearsome armor, not simply a war machine. “My wife and I are relatives of Clan Douglas.”
Lutey’s eyes widened, the rolls of fat that constituted his chin quivering. “Clan Douglas?” he pronounced the clan title as ‘Doog-liss’, his burr heavy. But the fact that Christian had mentioned the overlords of the territory seemed to bear substantial credence and a bit of color reappeared in the man’s cheeks. “Douglas, ye say? Ye dunna look tae be dark like th’ Douglas.”
“My father is fair,” Christian replied, eager to maintain a civil conversation. Gesturing to the goods piled about on the merchant’s booth, he moved towards the stacks. “We are in need of a great many things. Your stock appears to be very fine.”
It was all the encouragement the rotund shop-keeper required. Immediately, he began to declare the superiority of his goods, making certain that Christian understood that he was supplied by several hard-working and knowledgeable farmers. Gaithlin was already inspecting the vegetables and dried goods, her experienced eye roving the stock with talent. When Christian cast her an encouraging wink, silent permission to proceed with the selection of their supplies, she commenced her duties with relish.
Lutey and his two sons soon had their hands full with Gaithlin and her shopping skills. From turnips to carrots to summer crops of leeks and onions, she inspected each and every bit of produce before deciding it to be worthy of their table. Christian stood aside with Malcolm as Gaithlin and the merchants gently argued over the finer qualities of the fresh produce.
It was an exacting task and Christian was immensely pleased with her abilities to not only select high-quality goods, but to barter for the price in such a fashion that she did not appear aggressive or uninformed of the current rates. Yet he knew her skill was bred from a lack of money; when the times occurred that she had been able to purchase supplies for Winding Cross, she had to make sure she received the very best bargain for her limited monetary support.
A talent for bargains that had developed from pure necessity. Even with Christian’s nearly unlimited wealth, Gaithlin carefully haggled the merchant to such a price that even Christian thought she was intent on robbing the man blind. In lieu of their earlier conversation when she had suggested he pay the man a generous sum for his wares in exchange for his support of the newest member of Cree’s community, Christian calmly entered the negotiations to interject his sensible opinion.
Ten minutes and several barrels of supplies later, Christian and Gaithlin had enough goods to last them for months. And Lutey was quite convinced he had procured enough money fit for a king.
Since Christian had no wagon to secure his goods, Lutey directed him to a livery at the edge of the village where he was able to purchase a satisfactory rig and a relatively healthy ox. With four barrels stuffed to the hilt with vegetables and sacks of grain, not to mention three wheels of creamy, tart cheese, he allowed a giddy Malcolm to steer the beast of burden down the thoroughfare as they went in search of a suitable cobbler for Gaithlin’s shoes.
Since the massive English knight had made him rich with his excessive purchases, Lutey bravely decided to accompany Christian as he became acquainted with the town; the fat merchant with the small hands waddled next to the armored warrior as the entire group moved down the avenue, pointing out various shops and objects of interest. There was even a small tavern, run-down and barely habitable, but loaded with rabble. It was loud and exciting.
Gaithlin found the entire concept of a gay tavern intriguing, as did Malcolm. But Christian assured them both that there were far better establishments elsewhere, promising to pay a visit to finer inns someday should time and situation allow. Although Lutey assured him that the tavern, bearing a hand-scratched sign with the name ‘Sword and Sheaf’ over the door, was in all actuality a fine hostel, Christian was not prepared to agree. It looked like a nest of filth and he went to great lengths to convince both Gaithlin and Malcolm that they would regret any visit to such a place.
Fortunately for Christian, Gaithlin’s attention was diverted by a merchant’s shop bearing great bolts of woolen materials and she immediately leapt into the midst of the goods. While Christian, Lutey and Malcolm stood by, she rapidly succeed in acquiring several portions of fabric highly suited for an active little boy. The price for the goods, however, was more than she was willing to pay and she nearly left the stall without her material and notions had Christian not assured her that he was undisturbed by spending such amounts of money. It was, after all, for a fine job done.
Reluctantly agreeing, Gaithlin paid for the goods with Christian’s money, acutely aware that she had spent more money this day than she had spent in her entire lifetime. The more she pondered her frivolous spending of Christian’s funds, the more depressed she became. In fact, ’twas not her money she was so free in dispensing; it was Christian’s hard-earned capital and she felt exceedingly guilty for her lack of control.
Christian, however, was coming to know her well enough to suspect she was disturbed with the passage of money from hand to hand, knowing she had survived thus far with very little in the way of monetary goods or procurement. Suspecting, incorrect though it was, that mayhap she was wishing some of the money to be spent on her, he sent Malcolm and Gaithlin and Lutey on their way towards the cobbler while he lingered at the dry-goods merchant, purchasing a measurement of expensive rose brocade that was not particularly good in quality but lovely in color, and another measurement of woolen tartan fabric bearing the Douglas colors of brown, dark blue, and green.
Bearing his burdens, he deposited them in the wagon without being noticed by his three distracted companions. Feeling rather pleased with his clever and sly intentions to present his captive with unexpected material treasures, he moved towards Gaithlin and the others only to discover that she was looking at a myriad of feminine products imported from France and points beyond. Displayed along a wide shelf in the very front of a particularly well-kept shop, she was enthralled with the delicate wares.
Certainly the material he had purchased could not compare to expensive perfumes and oils and pretty jewelry. Leaving an impatient Malcolm and an eager-to-be-of-service Lutey standing guard over their goods in the newly purchased wagon, he practically dragged Gaithlin inside the small, cluttered shop.
The rectangular enclosure smelled of flowers; heady, rich, and consuming as Christian all but shoved Gaithlin before him, gently demanding that she look about. Twice, she attempted to escape the stall, but he would simply laugh low in his throat and divert her attention with a pretty piece of finery.
Embarrassed and reluctant to spend any more of his money, especially on herself, she struggled against her interest and delight as Christian pointed out several lovely items she would be more than willing to accept. But ever so reluctant to express an interest in, knowing his money would be serving to flatter her silly whims. Whims she had never had the opportunity to indulge until now.
“Truly, Christian, I do not think…,” she protested weakly when he thrust a lovely pewter comb under her nose.
“I do not want you to think,” he interrupted firmly but gently, holding up the comb’s companion, a matching polished mirror. “I want you to select whatever your lovely little heart desires. Buy everything in the shop if you wish.”
Her cheeks flushed with frustration and longing, she gingerly accepted the mirror from him, hesitantly gazing down onto the shiny surface. An exceptionally beautiful woman gazed back, her cat-shaped eyes of deep blue wide and expressive. Having only seen her reflection occasionally in pools of still water or other reflective, distortive substances, she was enthralled by the relatively clear picture of her face.
Christian saw her brow furrow in awe, watching with reined delight as she ran her long fingers over the surface as if to confirm the stunning image. Completely riveted to the magnificent reflection of her features, she was startled when a massive hand suddenly invaded the tranquility of the silver scene.
Christian stroked her cheek, grinning when she raised her wonder-filled eyes. “You have never witnessed your own beauty, have you?” he asked softly.
She shook her head, returning her astonished focus to the mirror. “Not like this,” she murmured. “I’ve seen my reflection in water, and when I was young my mother had a hand mirror made of Venetian glass. But I broke it.”
Still smiling, Christian gestured to the hovering shopkeeper and his plump wife. “We’ll purchase this set,” he indicated both the mirror and the comb. As Gaithlin’s startled expression met with his twinkling eyes, he merely cast her a knowing wink. “You must see your beauty every day, as I do. Moreover, I may wish to look at myself now and again.”
She wanted to protest; Merciful Heavens, she could not justify this extravagant expense in any fashion other than to express her sincere delight in coming to see her features for the very first time. The color of her eyes, the pert rise of her nose, the gentle curve of her cheeks… characteristics she had never truly come to know.
Aye, she wanted to protest the luxury of a mirror and comb. But gazing into Christian’s smiling face, she could not seem to form the words. Selfish! she scolded herself harshly, a mental scolding and nothing more. She wasn’t about to refuse his gift. Certainly she was selfish and petty, allowing him to spend his money on her vanity.
But a measure of her self-control gained strength, a bitingly sensible portion of her personality and she looked away from the mirror, setting it down on the table beside her. The sensible portion of her personality that realized the excessive cost of the small mirror and comb would be able to feed them for two months.
Certainly, if she starved to death there would be nothing to look at in the glistening pewter depths of the exquisite mirror.
“We cannot purchase these things,” she said softly, turning away. “We must find the cobbler, Christian. Lutey says that….”
Smile faded, Christian grasped her wrist with one hand and collected the mirror and comb with the other. “We can purchase these things and we will.” Gripping her tightly, he handed the pewter set to the balding merchant before returning his attention his mildly-struggling captive. “What else would you like? I demand you select something.”
She attempted to yank her wrist free of his iron-grip, but the effort was futile. Sighing heavily, she averted her eyes from his intense gaze. “The mirror and comb are enough,” she said softly, though she was unable to avoid the vision of perfume vials from the corner of her eye. “Please do not….”
“Do not what?” he demanded, more gently. Pulling her against him, he captured her tenderly in his iron embrace. “Do not spend my money on you? Do not purchase finery for the woman I am to marry? I want to do this and you cannot stop me.”
Gazing into his ice-blue eyes, she felt her cheeks flush with the familiar heat and realized she wasn’t entirely intent on escaping the shop any longer. Her slender hands were warm against his cold armor as she relaxed in his enclosure. “But why?” she whispered. “For what it cost for the mirror and comb, we could purchase nearly two barrels of wheat. You are spending your money foolishly and I refuse to allow you to…”
He tapped her gently but sternly under the chin, his icy orbs soft. “It is my money and I’ll spend it how I please.” Studying her delicious features, a mailed gauntlet gently stroked her cheek. “You do not have to worry about wealth or starvation or commodities any longer. I promise you will never again want for anything, Gae. I swear it.”
Staring into the depths of his marvelously pale eyes, she believed every word spoken. The Demon had vowed to protect and support her, and she had no qualms in the acceptance of his words. Still, the concept of wealth was difficult to digest and she found herself looking away from him, her reluctant gaze raking over the frivolously taunting displays of ware.
“Select several things,” he encouraged her again, noting that he had succeeded in casting a measure of doubt against her stubborn refusal. “I’ve a bit of business to attend to and upon my return I wish to see your arms full of silly, feminine, impractical items. Do you comprehend me?”
She tore her gaze away from a pewter broach inlaid with a large semi-precious piece of quartz. “Business? Where are you going?”
He kissed her on the forehead, intent on distracting her from his true objective. “Nowhere that would interest you.” Releasing her, he moved his mass between the tables and toward the door. “Select whatever you wish, Gae. As much as you wish.”
She watched him maneuver sideways to exit the door; he was far too large to move through it conventionally. Successfully diverted from his “business”, she pondered his instructions with restrained excitement. As if she was still having difficultly believing his command. “Anything?”
“Anything,” he repeated firmly. “In fact, I shall send Malcolm in to assist you.”
Her slightly-stunned expression returned to the tables of goods. “Can I select something for Malcolm?”
Christian cocked an eyebrow, motioning to the lad impatiently lingering outside by the ox. “Like what? Perfumes or cosmetics?” As Malcolm dashed into the shop, bumping into Christian’s bulk in the process, he jabbed a finger at Gaithlin. “I forbid you to shower the lad with feminine goods. If he is to return home with us, then it will be as a proper young man and not a glorified dandy.”
Looking up from a vial of pink-colored perfume, she smiled radiantly. “He will return as a proper young lad, I promise. As befitting your adoptive son.”
A smile tugging at his lips, Christian quit the shop. Entirely pleased that his dirt-poor captive appeared willing to succumb to the frivolous, useless items women seemed to cherish, he was better able to focus on a portion of important business he was eager to conduct. With Gaithlin properly diverted, he sought out the fat, dwarf-like man who had appointed himself the English knight’s shadow.
“Lutey,” he said, marching up on the man. “I am in need of advisement and services. Can you help me?”
The far merchant, his jowls quivering anxiously, bobbed his head in agreement. “If I can, m’laird. What d’ye wish?”
“I need a messenger to carry a missive to Castle Douglas,” Christian’s voice was low. “I need a well-spoken man who can relay my instructions to Laird Roger Douglas. Do you know of such a man?”
Lutey nodded eagerly. “M’son is capable. Ye met him earlier, at th’ stalls.”
“I met two young men. To which do you refer?”
“Peter, m’eldest lad. He’s a smart one.”
Glancing casually over his shoulder, Christian peered into the open shelter window to make sure that Gaithlin and Malcolm were still grossly involved in their quest. Returning his attention to the rotund merchant, he nodded shortly. “Send the lad to me. I shall pay him well for his troubles.” When the merchant turned away obediently, Christian suddenly halted his departure. “And there is one more matter. Is there a church nearby?”
Lutey thought a moment. “There’s an abbey in New Galloway, though it’s inhabited by reclusive nuns. Do ye need tae beg forgiveness, m’laird?”
Christian’s expression was impassive, though he did not appreciate the probing question. “No priest?”
The rounded merchant shook his head. “Nay. Th’ priests are at Sweetheart Abbey, near Glencaple on the Firth o’ Solway.”
Christian thought a moment, clearly recollecting his Scot geography. “To the south of Castle Douglas?”
“Aye, m’laird,” Lutey nodded.
Satisfied with the information, Christian waved the man on his way. Lutey quickly shuffled off, nearly slipping on a soft section of urine-soaked mud as he made haste to complete the Englishman’s bidding.
Christian leaned against his newly-purchased rig, watching the man lumber away and feeling deeply satisfied with the information and arrangements attainted. Tomorrow, Gaithlin would become his wife at the appropriately named Sweetheart Abbey, and his message would reach Castle Douglas without delay. Once the missive fell into the hands of Roger Douglas, it was a virtual guarantee that Jean St. John would be reading his son’s revelations by the following day.
The missive containing the true extent of St. John-de Gare blood relations. But Christian would wait to relay the entire truth of the deeply intertwined relationship until the moment he met with his father personally. Some factors, imperative as they might be, were better left told in person.
As the day approached noon, he waited for the merchant’s eldest son to heed the call of duty, and found himself pondering his father’s reaction to his missive. Clearly, the factor of mutual Douglas relations and the subsequent marriage of the Demon to Winding Cross’ heiress would cast a distinctly fresh light on the Feud that had been plaguing the two families for decades.
As Christian had determined over the course of the past few days, the de Gares were far stronger in character than the shallow St. Johns. But, truly, he wondered just how deep the vein of shallow traits ran. Having never confronted his father on a matter of such predominant importance, he had no way of knowing the verity of St. John pettiness. But he was loathe in realizing that he would not be at all surprised should his father choose to disregard the blood ties altogether in lieu of his own agenda – victory at any price.
Hearing Gaithlin’s faint laughter, he turned to peer over his shoulder at the merchant’s shop; Malcolm had placed some sort of filigree diadem on her brow and she was having an amusing time prancing about in parody of a royal relation. Still leaning casually against the rig, he smiled at her gaiety and returned his attention to the distant avenue, continuing to wait for the produce merchant’s son.
He liked to hear her laugh. God only knew, she had been dealt very little in this life to find amusement with. And given the approaching circumstances, there could be very little in the future to rejoice over, either.
His smile faded, thinking on the chaos and battles that lay ahead, abhorring the fact that he would be pulling Gaithlin into the depths of the vortex like a weighty anchor. But he knew that there was no other course if they were to achieve what they both so obviously desired – each other.
He didn’t even know if Gaithlin realized she needed him; certainly, she had thanked him for showing her a measure of freedom that she had never known to exist and she had furthermore proclaimed her contentment within his company. And he had been positive that he had read a mirror of his own emotions within the depths of her deep blue eyes on more than one occasion; occasions that were coming more and more frequently until they seemed to run headlong into each other. No more division of sentiment. No more division of blood and hatred and legacy.
A large Scot with a crown of wild red hair rounded the corner of a distant structure and headed directly toward him. Struggling to pull himself from his train of thought, Christian recognized the elder son of the produce merchant. As the man advanced in anticipation of the message he would carry, Christian was unsuccessful in completely clearing his thoughts and found himself wondering if he would be forced to choose between Gaithlin and his St. John inheritance at some point in the future. He wondered if his enraged father would force him to give up the only woman he had ever remotely cared for in lieu of being granted his substantial endowment.
Whether or not Gaithlin would be his wife, it was not out of the realm of possibility that his father would force him to make a choice. But it was not a difficult one.
Listening to Gaithlin’s throaty laughter once again, Christian realized there was nothing on this earth worth relinquishing the woman he had seen on that distant summer day, swimming in the shimmering lake with all of the grace and beauty of a mythical mermaid. A woman who had unknowingly endeared herself to his soul and had branded herself upon his heart.
As of that warm August day, his choice had been made for him.
There was no turning back.