CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I told you that your daughter was in the company of Christian St. John. Did you not believe me, my lady?”
Alicia knew Lady Maggie to be irritated with the apparent lack of faith in her information; furthermore, she could hardly blame the woman. Short of calling her a liar, she had not been discreet with her assessment of the lady’s covertly-delivered details and had even gone so far as to command Eldon to relay the painstaking factors of his trip to St. Esk. Seated in fuming silence, Maggie had listened impatiently to the knight’s deliberate accounting.
“ ’Twas not a matter of disbelief of acceptance, my lady,” Alicia answered calmly. “My husband merely thought it wise to confirm your information before we acted accordingly. And, as we discovered, you were entirely correct.”
Maggie’s gaze was cool on the ruddy, compact woman seated across from her. “I see,” she said calmly, realizing that to become angry with the de Gare lack of faith would only serve to hinder the achievement of her true motive. And her true motive, of course, was to convince Winding Cross’ army to ride northward to save their heiress.
Shifting on the splintering chair, she tried to hide her irritation, focusing instead on the message she was prepared to deliver. With twenty of Kelvin’s men waiting to escort her back to Forrestoak, she was concerned that lurking St. John spies would identify her borrowed escort and return the information to their liege. And a suspicious Jean St. John would not be a healthy ingredient to her vengeful stew. Daintily, she cleared her throat and focused on the older woman.
“Certainly I do not fault you for confirming my information, for it would be a natural path of progression,” she said quietly. “However, as I promised, I have located the whereabouts of your daughter through great hazard on my part. Jean St. John was unwilling to divulge the information and I fear I had to compromise both my integrity and my life in order to obtain your daughter’s location.”
Alicia’s gaze held steady, although she didn’t believe her slickly embellished story for a minute. She could hardly imagine that a woman as shrewd as Margaret du Bois would be placed unwillingly in a position that would compromise both her integrity and livelihood; somehow, she suspected the woman’s reputation and integrity to be jeopardized already.
“Then I would thank you for your determination and personal sacrifice,” she managed to say, still disturbed by the woman’s motives in the overall scheme of Gaithlin’s abduction. How could she benefit from all of this? “We are indebted to you.”
Maggie offered a thin, entirely feigned smile. “Not at all, my lady. As I stated before, my reward is in knowing that I have prevented yet another atrocity committed by the Demon of Eden,” she removed her heavily-scented kerchief from her silk purse, bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply as if the scent would fortify her spirit and courage.
Alicia could smell the expensive perfume from where she sat, feeding her irritation considerably. Had the woman not truly possessed valuable information regarding Gaithlin’s captivity, she would have taken great pleasure in personally removing her from Alex’s solar. “I understand completely. Would you tell me, then, where my daughter is?”
In her crumbling chair, Maggie’s smile turned genuine. “She is in Galloway,” she announced quietly, watching Alicia’s face turn a peculiar shade of yellow. “On Douglas lands, I believe. Jean is expecting a missive from Christian within the next few days that will definitively name the precise location with the intention of sending support into Scotland to fortify Christian’s holding. If I may suggest, my lady, your spies would do well to wait for the St. John posse to ride northward after receiving the Demon’s missive. They can lead you directly to your daughter.”
Alicia continued to stare at the woman. Incapable of answering for the moment, the softly uttered words of her informant rolled with thunderous propulsion through the weary depths of her astonished mind. Douglas lands. Why on earth had the Demon taken her to Douglas lands? Alicia had no knowledge that the St. Johns were allied with the Douglas; if anything, they seemed to spurn Scot alliances in favor of more powerful English ties. As most of the north disregarded the wild Scots, so did the St. Johns. And so had the de Gares.
An arrogant ignorance, truly. Alex had possessed little love for Alicia’s Scot bloodlines, as had his father. Alicia’s grandmother had been a Douglas, the lovely and tall Calandra Douglas. In fact, Alicia believed that Gaithlin inherited her height and clumsiness from her statuesque, beautiful grandmother. But a resemblance to the Scot was the only acknowledged link between the Clan Douglas and the House of de Gare.
Alicia well knew that all Scot ties had been severed nearly the moment her grandmother had married into the wealthy Percys. Then, bearing a daughter who married into another household further had diluted the link, a union that had resulted in Alicia’s birth. By the time Calandra’s granddaughter married into the House of de Gare, the Scot blood ties were all but dissolved, forgotten in the distant past.
A link she suddenly wished to be a steady, sustaining bond. Surely then, she would be able to regain her Gaithlin with the Clan Douglas on her side.
However… if the Demon of Eden was knowingly nestled within the Galloway territories, certainly it was not coincidence. The Douglas were a protective clan and an intruder to their territories would not be disregarded. If Christian St. John had been offered haven within the shielding confines of the Galloway expanse, then there was far more to the situation than met the eye. Mayhap the St. Johns were indeed allied with the Douglas.
Baffled and apprehensive, Alicia forced herself from her train of thought to focus on Maggie’s expectant face. The woman was anticipating a reply to her military suggestion and Alicia struggled to form the correct response.
“Clearly, that would be a wise course of action,” she said hoarsely, eager to dismiss the woman. “My… husband will take your advisement into counsel. If there is nothing else, my lady….”
Sensing the conversation was concluded and eager to be free of Winding Cross’ mossy and forbidden presence, Maggie rose from the ancient chair and scarcely hid her disdain as she brushed the splinters and dust from her expensive gown.
“Nay, my lady, there is nothing else,” she said, eyeing the round woman with the cat-like eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, the tone forthcoming from the red-painted mouth was considerably softer. “I hope you are successful in retrieving your daughter. I pray my assistance has not been in vain.”
As Eldon emerged like a phantom protector from the dank depths of the solar to escort the pampered woman to the door, Alicia fixed her with as heady a stare as she could manage. “As do I,” she replied quietly. “You have our undying gratitude, Lady Margaret. ’Tis my fervent hope that we are able to repay your kindness, someday.”
By releasing Christian from his captive, your repayment will be complete. Maggie’s mind churned with the obvious reply as she bowed her head graciously to her hostess. She had completed her mission; now it was time for inherent hatred and natural malice to take its course.
Her eagerness to be gone from Winding Cross gained intensity as she crossed the room with the large knight on her heels. By the time she hit the Norman-style archway that led in to the shabby foyer, she was nearly running.
Alicia heard the footfalls as they faded against the cold stone. Rooted to the spot, she continued to stare at the dim archway as if pondering the course the circumstance had unwittingly taken. The morbid realization that Gaithlin was in much deeper trouble that she had originally believed.
“She is a lying bitch,” Uriah’s voice was a low rumble from the shadowed alcove next to the hearth. “She is a spy sent from Jean. The entire story smells of a trap.”
Alicia broke from her train of thought, too caught up in her turmoil to caution the old knight to take care with his language. After a lengthy moment, she turned in the ancient warrior’s direction.
“She was correct in her information the first time,” she sighed with defeat, her eyes dull and distant. “I have no choice, Uriah. If I am to retrieve my daughter, then I must have faith in her information.”
Uriah snorted, raking dirty fingers through his equally dirty hair. “I still believe it to be a trap,” he suddenly paused, glancing to his weary, emotionally distraught lady. “Wasn’t your grandmother a Douglas?”
Alicia’s jaw visibly ticked as she once again struggled against the verity of the shocking revelation. “That was a long time ago,” she said hoarsely, squaring her shoulders as if determined to disregard her turmoil in favor of a decisive course of action. “You will assemble the men, Uriah. I intend to take the woman’s advice and set spies to monitor Jean’s movements. When his men move northward to support the Demon’s position, we shall follow. The element of surprise will be on our side, of course, and I anticipate victory even now.”
Uriah rose from his chair, a hairy eyebrow cocked at his mistress. “Victory against the Demon?”
“Indeed,” Alicia refused to be discouraged by his pessimism. “We shall leave ten men here to protect the fortress and ride out with a full company of men and knights.”
“Jean has more men than we do. What if he sends one hundred troops to fortify the Demon?”
“As I said, the element of surprise will be ours. And, truthfully, our only objective will be to rescue Gaithlin and not to destroy troops that obviously out-number us.”
Uriah ground his teeth, seeing that there was no swaying Alicia’s intentions. “I still say it is a trap.”
“And I say we have no choice. We will take the lady’s advice.”
Uriah sighed heavily, scratching his scalp as he came to terms with the future course of Winding Cross’ potential welfare. “Very well, my lady,” he muttered. “Will you be riding with us?”
“Of course,” Alicia said briskly. “Where my men fight, so do I.”
“Fight where?” Eldon re-entered the solar, his brown eyes inquisitive.
Alicia turned to the knight, the lover she emotionally abused with her indecisiveness and paltry concerns. Gently, she smiled. “Come in, Eldon. We have laid a course of action.”
Eldon glanced at Uriah, noting from the man’s dour expression that he was not pleased with “their” course of action. Bracing inwardly, he managed to return Alicia’s encouraging smile.
“Very well, my lady. I am at your disposal.”
Less than five minutes later, Uriah wasn’t the only knight with a dour expression.
*
The road to Forrestoak was alive with birds and the brightness of approaching fall. As Maggie drank in the scenery, she felt a sense of satisfaction; she had completed her objective admirably and her heart was as light as a feather. Christian was as good as in her arms and the de Gare bitch would be returned to her proper cage, away from the Demon who had been forced to endure her company.
Of course, it occurred to her that Christian could suffer terribly in the battle that was sure to come as two opposing factions sought to separate the Demon from his captive. But she convinced herself that Jean St. John would do nothing to harm his errant son in anger and that the de Gares were merely concerned with retrieving their heiress, not exacting mortal revenge against the more-powerful Demon of Eden. Surely retrieving the woman would be enough without the sacrifice of St. John blood.
She had to believe that no trauma would come to her intended. In faith, she refused to believe that she had ignited a furious blaze from which there was no knowing the full extent of devastation. A blaze that was already spreading, devouring all it touched, consuming that which it met only to leave the victim emotionally destroyed as a brittle cinder is achieved. All that mattered was that Christian would return to his senses and to her bed, where he belonged.
Two hours out of Winding Cross, her sergeant estimated they would be approaching Howard lands within the hour. Maggie relaxed aboard her delicate white palfrey, thinking ahead to Kelvin’s reaction when she told him of her most brilliant, accomplished scheme to exact revenge upon both Christian and the de Gare bitch. Now that she had set the plan in motion, enmity would carry it through to the end. There was nothing left to do but observe the happenings from the safety of Forrestoak.
To her left, a cluster of quail suddenly bolted from the underbrush, startling the excitable chargers. Maggie’s palfrey executed a nervous side-step, quickly soothed by her feminine rider. Just as the delicate animal collected her jittery senses, the underbrush once again came alive with noise and chaos. This time, however, it was not the result of flighty birds.
Foaming destriers were upon them.
Jolted with astonishment, Maggie was nearly pitched off her small horse as shouts and echoes abound amongst the densely-foliaged trees. Seized with the urge of self-protection, she was prepared to gore her mare forward in a mad dash for safety when she suddenly recognized one of the chargers.
Jasper St. John blocked her path.
Gasping with relief and fright, Maggie gulped for air at the sight of Christian’s massive cousin. “Jasper!” she cried. “My Goodness, you scared the life from me! What are you doing so far north?”
Jasper didn’t reply for a moment. Steering his destrier towards the fragile, foaming palfrey, he easily blocked the animal’s escape. His reply, heavy with sarcasm and disgust, cloaked the air like a cloying stench.
“I have a better question, m’lady,” he said. “What were you doing at Winding Cross?”
Maggie stared at the man. His visor was down, his question laced in a tone that was nothing short of terrifying. At that moment, she thought of many things; the fact that her actions had been discovered and the undeniable fact that she had been trapped within the duplicity of her own foolish scheme. She would have laughed at her moronic mistake had the impending consequences not been veined with lethal intentions.
Still, she was unwilling to succumb to the mounting panic. Gazing into Jasper’s menacing faceplate, she struggled to maintain an even expression.
“Surely you jest, Jasper,” she said with as much disapproval as she could muster. “Who told you such slanderous lies?”
Beneath his visor, Jasper smiled. He’d never liked the Lady Margaret du Bois, even on days when he was feeling particularly amiable. Lacking in intelligence though he might be, he was uncannily sharp when it came to the human character; coming to know Maggie over the past several years, hearing the rumors and seeing evidence of her infidelities that Christian had so blatantly disregarded, he had come to recognize a very petty, very vain woman. God, how he was going to enjoy this.
“No one told me, m’lady,” his voice was low. “I saw the evidence myself. You see, Uncle Jean doesn’t trust you. He never has. When you fabricated the story of Christian’s failing loyalties, Sir Jean suspected that the true treachery lay within your black little heart and he demanded I follow you when your party left Eden this morn. And I must say I was not surprised to realize where the trail led.”
Maggie knew her cheeks had drained of all color; the world began to sway dangerously and she gripped her gilded saddle for support. “ ’Tis not what you think, Jasper,” she said quietly, her clever mind working furiously to formulate an acceptable excuse for her actions. A lie to save her life. Jasper was dim-witted, was he not? Surely he would believe whatever story she could supply.
Please… you will believe me!
“The Lady… Lady de Gare is a distant friend of my mother’s and… oh, posh, I promised I would not tell, knowing how Sir Jean and Sir Alex are enemies. I traveled to Winding Cross to relay word of my mother’s illness to Lady de Gare, as my mother requested. It is a secret, Jasper, and you surely mustn’t tell. Christian doesn’t even know. I promise it will be the last time I visit Winding Cross.”
Jasper listened patiently to her lie, knowing it was a fabrication of the utmost attempt. Yet before she had finished uttering the last prevaricating strains, he was dismounting his snappish charger and moving for the petite woman with the silky brown hair. His orders, after all, were specific.
Grasping Maggie by the arm, he yanked her off the palfrey and hauled her off the road, into the moldering woods. Behind him, his legion of fifty men were already in the process of engaging Maggie’s escort of twenty. A match not long in the running, for there would be no witnesses left behind.
Screaming and gasping, Maggie realized his intentions and blind panic set in. Dear God…she was going to die.
Her lies had failed. If her mission to separate Christian from his captive was intended for heady success, she would never know the extent of her victory. In fact, she realized with sickening certainty that she was about to pay for her twisted sense of revenge with her very own mortality.
“Please, Jasper, have mercy!” she cried as he pulled her through a thicket and into a small clearing. “Surely you do not believe that I am allied with Alex de Gare?”
Jasper’s grip was so tight that she swore he had broken her arm. Pausing under the dusky sky, he gazed impassively at the small woman who would never live to see another sun set.
“It does not matter what I believe,” he said. “All that matters is that you were seen entering Winding Cross, retreating from the castle less than an hour later. By setting foot upon enemy soil, you signed your own death warrant regardless of your reasons for being there. Do you understand this?”
Pale and sweating, Maggie’s brown eyes were wide with terror and confusion. “You… you would kill me simply for daring to enter de Gare territory?”
“Uncle Jean was specific. All traitors are to be killed, no matter what the reason behind their betrayal.”
Swallowing hard, Maggie whimpered when Jasper unsheathed his broadsword in one clean move. “But… but what of Christian? He has endeared himself to his de Gare captive. Does that not make him a traitor too?”
Veiled by the menacing visor, she didn’t see Jasper’s expression falter, confusion and pain rippling across his features. “That is for Uncle Jean to decide if, in fact, your lies bear some merit.” The broadsword gleamed in the weak light of the setting sun and Maggie tugged against Jasper’s mighty grip, struggling wildly to break away. “As for you, the treachery and lies and humiliation end here. Your body and the bodies of your escort will be discovered and it will appear as if you have been robbed and killed by bandits. This, madam, is the sentence for your betrayal.”
“I never betrayed the House of St. John!” Maggie cried. “Kelvin Howard will vouch for my loyalties and intentions!”
“If Kelvin Howard is involved in your lies, then his days are surely numbered as well.”
Jasper tightened his grip and Maggie shrieked, knowing his blade was imminent. Seized with panic, her knees gave way. “Where is Quinton? He will believe me!”
“Quinton is back at Eden with no knowledge of his father’s directives to me.” Jasper’s voice was quiet. “Being a foolishly smitten lad, Uncle Jean did not fully advise him of the treachery he suspected. Only I am immune to your sluttish charms and am capable of carrying out your execution for crimes against the House of St. John.”
“Prithee mercy, Jasper!” Maggie sobbed, her composure vanished. “I am innocent!”
Jasper raised the blade, listening to Maggie’s shrieks and grunts of terror. “Beg mercy from God, madam,” his voice was hoarse, laced with emotion and a fervent desire to be done with his task. “Only He can purge thy soul of sin. Only He has interest in your supplication for grace. I care not, m’lady, for your transgressions against the House of St. John are transgressions against me.”
Bright, red blood, brighter than life and redder than death, spilled from Maggie’s chest as his broadsword plunged deep.
Jasper had never seen it flow with greater ease.
*
Gaithlin realized she was actually glad to return to the cozy little shack lodged deep in the Wood, a home that she and Christian had shared for five days. Strolling through the light bramble with Malcolm in hand, Christian was several feet away from her, leading his great white charger by the reins.
It was early afternoon as they returned from their morning trip into the village. They had their supplies and goods, and Gaithlin was saddled with enough frivolous luxuries to last her the rest of her life; perfumes, oils, and other feminine pleasures Christian had been insistent she own. And the boots that he had been so intent on purchasing for her would be ready on the morrow, so promised the skilled cobbler with one good arm. Gaithlin wondered how in the world the man was able to excel in his craft with only one useful hand, but Malcolm had assured her that he was a master with leathers and soles.
The ox and wagon transporting their goods followed them down the road as Malcolm held on to the rope that attached to the animal’s nose ring. The entire trip home had been filled with warm glances and bold winks, saucy smiles, and flirtatious gestures. The entire world of courting was completely new to Gaithlin and she found quite early on that she enjoyed the game immensely.
Outside of Christian’s influence, her only experienced with adult diversions had been the perverse sport Kelvin Howard had been intent to force upon her. She had been frightened and anxious within the unwanted company of her would-be accoster, but she found the gentle flirting Christian so easily employed a true joy to behold. The two men were a world apart in manners and techniques and Gaithlin was upswept in Christian’s charming, roguish distractions; in faith, there was no comparison between the two.
He possessed charms that she responded to readily, though she was new and unsure in the deliciously spirited world. The mood was light and delightful, the air somehow purer and the birds somehow sweeter. As Malcolm trudged beside her in a pair of boots Christian had managed to purchase off another peasant boy about his own size, the happy young lad kept up a running conversation that went entirely ignored by the smitten adults.
Gaithlin would have been content to walk for the rest of her life, absorbing Christian’s grins and winks and silent kissing gestures. Unfortunately, however, they were drawing close to their lodgings and she was loathed to realize that their engaging little game was coming to a close for the time being.
Just as she reluctantly resigned herself to the end of the enticing exchange, Christian suddenly seemed particularly distracted by the approach of their encampment. Barely visible through the line of trees, she was startled when he came to an abrupt halt.
“Good Christ,” he hissed, releasing the charger and unsheathing his sword from the carved scabbard strapped against the magnificent saddle. Broadsword glistening in the weak light, his ice-blue eyes blazed at the familiar clearing looming through the trees.
“What’s wrong?” Gaithlin demanded, suddenly frightened. “What do you..?”
He hushed her sternly, huddling behind a bank of thick brush. His icy orbs glittered intently in the weak light and Gaithlin moved up beside him curiously, only to be grasped firmly and pulled to her knees.
“Christian..?” she began, but he clapped a gauntleted hand over her mouth.
“Hush,” he whispered harshly. Removing his hand, he gestured through the leaves and branches into the heart of their encampment. “Look. I would hazard to guess that your dog people have returned. Malcolm?”
The lad was between them, his green eyes wide on his bald head. In the distance, two slovenly forms were busy inflicting severe damage on the sod house as they sifted the area for anything of value. “Aye, tha’s them,” suddenly, he shot to his feet in outrage. “They’re tearin’ apart our work!”
Both Gaithlin and Christian shushed him loudly, pulling him down to his knees once again. As Gaithlin put her arm about his skinny shoulders in a comforting gesture, Christian darted back to his charger and deftly removed his double-catapult Welsh crossbow from its secures. Entrusting Malcolm a broadsword that weighed more than the lad himself, he efficiently loaded the wicked-looking weapon.
“Are you going to shoot them?” Gaithlin whispered, wide-eyed with concern.
One eye on the clearing and the other on securing two long-headed arrows, Christian fastened the last projectile and moved towards the edge of the foliage.
“Nay,” he said softly. “But I intend to make it so that they never bother us again.”
Gaithlin and Malcolm watched, eyes bulging with apprehension, as Christian skirted the edge of the clearing, guiding his armored-body through the bramble and shadows. Keeping himself hidden, he managed with surprising ease to make his way towards the center of activity.
The dog people were oblivious to the impending threat, busy ripping asunder the entire structure of the shack in their quest for valuables. Twice, the man paused in his search to sniff the air and Christian froze, waiting until the wind shifted before advancing once more. Closer and closer he edged, prepared to frighten the life from the scruffy dog-like humans.
When he was nearly upon them, Gaithlin and Malcolm held their breath as Christian leveled the crossbow, aiming for the dog-man who was intently shredding the sod covering from the northern wall. The bow held as steady as stone and Gaithlin continued to observe the scene, not at all sure that Christian was determined not to harm the less-fortunate male. Although he had stated that he had no intention to murder, he could have very well changed his mind as he made his way towards the destructive, sub-human people.
Anxiety rising, Gaithlin knew she could not stand by while the Demon carried out a seemingly mortal threat. Mayhap the dog-people would be reasonable if only she was able to speak with them; after all, she and Christian had not made the attempt to converse with the somewhat-canine natives of the Wood. And she could not allow Christian to kill the pair without making an effort at some type of communication.
Rising swiftly to her feet, she grasped a startled Malcolm by the hand and thrust herself forward through the underbrush. As calmly and as pleasantly as she could manage, she smiled brightly and waved her hand in greeting.
“Salutations!” she called evenly. “I…!”
The dog-people swung on her, startled into a soaring crest of giddy fear. Barking furiously, they looked as if they had been scared out of their minds; they tripped and scrambled and bashed into each other in their haste to leave. Gaithlin tried to calm them with words of supplication and reason, but they clearly ignored her pleas. As the harried woman took flight into the thick bramble, the male attempted to follow suit but was quickly thwarted by a massive, armored body.
Christian emerged from the thicket, crossbow in one hand and the captive dog-man in the other. As his prisoner howled and thrashed, he cast the man a most curious glance before turning his attention to Gaithlin.
Crossing the length of the clearing, she was practically running with Malcolm in tow. Her lovely face was etched with concern.
“Do not hurt him!” she commanded softly. “Christian, you are breaking his arm!”
“I am doing nothing of the kind,” Christian said calmly, cocking a blond eyebrow at her. “Why, may I ask, did you reveal yourself before I had a chance to act?”
“Because I was afraid you were going to kill them,” she said frankly, watching the man twist and yelp with a distinct sense of dismay. “Now that you have captured him, what do you plan to do?”
The man was terribly skinny and disheveled, a pathetic little mouse in Christian’s mighty trap. Gnashing his teeth, it was apparent he was attempting to bite the English warrior and Christian held the man at arm’s length as he watched him foam and twitch.
“What would you suggest I do?” he asked.
Gaithlin looked to him, surprised he would ask her opinion. The omnipotent Demon did not require suggestions or council, and certainly not from a woman. A de Gare. Flattered, not to mention strangely empowered by his regard for her convictions, she thought carefully as she eyed the thrashing human.
“Tie him up until he calms,” she said. “Then, mayhap we will be able to reason with him.”
He nodded faintly, thoughtfully. “That is logical. Were I to release him now, he would flee in terror, yet his seemingly natural instincts to steal and pillage would be undaunted in the least. Although properly frightened, he would indeed return and I refuse to rebuild my shelter only to find it torn down again sometime in the future,” he began to move across the clearing with his thrashing captive in hand as Gaithlin and Malcolm followed closely. “I must make him understand that I will not tolerate his incursions and if I have to tie him to a tree and pound my message deep into his dim-witted skull, then so be it.”
Tying the dog-man to the tree, however, proved to be a chore of enormous proportions. Even though the man was skinny and frail-looking, he was sly and wily and on more than one occasion nearly escaped Christian’s grasp. After the second such near-attempt, Christian’s patience waned and he decided it would be best if he held the man in place while Gaithlin secured the bindings.
Working as an efficient team, Christian used brute strength to hold the man against a youthful Scot pine while Gaithlin firmly tied the prisoner to the trunk. Malcolm hovered beside Gaithlin, informing her where to place the rope and exactly how tightly to secure the ties as Christian spent his time avoiding flying spit and thrashing feet.
As the sun sank low in the deepening colors of the pristine Scot sky, Gaithlin finished securing the male to the sturdy young tree. Able to release his hold, Christian studied her handiwork with a critical eye.
“A fine knot, my lady,” he said with genuine approval. “Our captive will be unable to break free for months to come. Good Christ, I shall be lucky if I can cut the man free myself.”
Gaithlin smiled modestly, glancing at the beaming young boy by her side. “Malcolm helped,” she said quietly, moving her shy gaze from Christian’s admiring stare to the wagon and ox bordering the clearing. “Now, we should really store our supplies before night falls. Malcolm, come and assist me.”
The eager lad moved immediately to comply with her orders, dashing across the clearing in tattered but clean clothing and boots that were a bit too large for his feet. Gaithlin took a step to follow when a massive gauntlet suddenly reached out, snatching her arm with fierce tenderness.
She knew what was coming before she felt the warmth of his delicious lips, having been the recipient of his spontaneous kisses many a time. With a smile and full cooperation, she pressed herself against his armored chest and delightfully accepted his searing kiss.
Gaithlin was rapidly becoming upswept in his heat when Malcolm shouted something from the wagon, distracting both of her and Christian from their mounting passion. Breathing heavily and with grunts of disappointment, they somehow managed to disengage their lips as their vision sought the small, animated figure at the edge of the trees.
“What did he say?” Gaithlin swallowed, attempting to regain her crumbling control.
“Does it matter?” Christian’s lips moved along her cheek, his breath hot and forceful in her ear.
It would be so easy to give in to his desire. Gaithlin closed her eyes as shivers of erotica cavorted down her spine, turning her knees to water. But Malcolm shouted again and she caught the gist of the message, breaking her from her most delicious, desired experience.
“He needs help with the ox,” she whispered, avoiding Christian’s lips when they attempted to capture her mouth. “Not now, Christian. We must help Malcolm.”
With a heavy sigh writ of remorse and resignation, Christian removed his lips from Gaithlin’s jaw and released her arm. Her cheeks mottled with blush, she held his gaze for a long, entirely passion-filled moment.
“Later, you say?” he repeated, his voice hoarse with lust. “Is that a promise?”
Ever so coyly, she smiled and lowered her gaze. Adult games were coming far easier to her these days, in practice with Christian’s delightfully experienced presence. Beyond the passion and the blinding lust that seemed to be able to dictate her very actions as a result of his physical onslaught, there was far more of an emotional foreplay that they were coming deeply to know.
A slender finger flirtatiously traced the square line of his granite jaw, her flushed face glowing with the warmth they so obvious shared. Her faintly-curved lips broadened with offering.
“Not a promise, sire. An invitation.”
His eyebrows rose faintly, a delicious smile playing on his lips. “An invitation?” he took her in his arms once more, ignoring Malcolm’s shouts of frustration. “My lady, I would respond to that invitation immediately. I am your willing servant, any time or anywhere. Any way, for that matter.”
One hand around his neck and the other toying with his shoulder-length hair, Gaithlin averted her eyes coquettishly. “Our shelter will be sufficient. After Malcolm sleeps.”
A gentle frown creased his brow. “Malcolm is to sleep with us? I believe I mentioned it would be wise not to force our company and customs upon him. Mayhap he doesn’t wish to sleep with us. Mayhap he is perfectly content in the Wood.”
She met his frown. “What you mean to say is that we will not be free to do as we please with Malcolm bedded a few feet away,” she shook her head at him, a knowing smile on her lips. “How selfish, Christian. You think only of yourself.”
With feigned upset, Christian released her from his embrace and scowled. “As is my right. ’Tis my shelter and my goods, and I shall act however I please. If I want to sleep alone with the woman I intend to marry, then so be it.”
“Malcolm can sleep in the alcove.” Still grinning, Gaithlin turned away from him. “The small room is perfect for him.”
Hands on hips, Christian’s scowl turned genuine. “Did you not hear a word I said? If I want to sleep in my shack, alone with you, then that is the way of things.”
Moving across the clearing, Gaithlin glanced over her shoulder with a tolerant, entirely superior expression. “I heard you.”
He watched her as she winked at him, a gesture reminiscent of himself, and continued to make her way toward the stymied young lad as he struggled with the stubborn ox.
Without the benefit of further argument and supplication, Christian realized with resignation that the shack was indeed large enough for the three of them. Gaithlin had made her wishes known, and the Demon, naturally, would comply.