CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rougham Castle
Scotland
“God’s Holy Blood. When’s th’ last ye contacted th’ St. John?”
“I have ne’er contacted them. They dunna want tae hae any to do wi’ the Douglas.”
“But Da knew Henri and Jean, din’ he?”
Across the table from his broad, dark-haired brother, Roger Douglas nodded slowly. “He knew ’em. But th’ St. John are an arrogant lot. They dunna like tae be reminded o’ their Scot ties even though we all share th’ same great-grandsire.”
Mac Douglas stamped his big feet on the worn stone floor. Snorting with sarcasm and disbelief, he turned away from his older brother. “So th’ young St. John pup demands we deliver ‘is message.”
Roger stared at the tightly-secured vellum placed before him, sealed twice with the St. John signet in a muddle of cheap tallow and fat. “He asked my permission to lodge wi’in Galloway for reasons he dinna elaborate upon. More importantly, th’ messenger said th’ missive was in urgent need of being delivered tae Eden and not tae be delayed.”
Mac snorted again, shaking his head with the irony of it all. “Beggin’ yer sanction one moment and making’ demands th’ next. The pup is givin’ ye orders, Rake.”
“He’s makin’ a request o’ his kin.”
Mac’s mirth fled as he eyed his fair-haired brother; exceedingly tall and intelligent, he had ruled the Clan Douglas for nearly five years. Unassuming and somewhat mild in character for a Scots, he was an extremely steady force behind an otherwise volatile clan and the respect gained from his family and allies alike was a powerful, preserving bond.
“Th’ St. Johns were allied to us long ago, when Uncle Nolan’s daughter married inta their midst. Ye be foolin’ yerself tae believe th’ St. Johns still hold true tae that alliance.” Eyeing the missive lying still upon the table, he turned away in disapproval. “I say burn it. Show th’ St. John ye canna be used at their convenience, when they alone decide th’ time is right to remember their Scot brethren.”
Roger sighed, raking his fingers through his bright blond hair as he continued to stare at the source of their argument. Mac was correct, of course; the St. John had ignored the Scot ties for decades, instead choosing to vent their attention and monies on a long-standing English war that had occupied the vast majority of their focus. Clearly, Roger remembered on several occasions when his father had made an attempt to strengthen the allied link with his English cousins. And, clearly, Roger remembered the distinct rejection.
The St. Johns were not to be bothered with the barbaric, less-cultured Scots. A rejection that stung true, even now.
Gazing at the yellowed parchment, it wasn’t the first time Roger realized he and his father thought a good deal alike. Angus Douglas had been mild-mannered for a Scot as well, eager to maintain peace and build family strengths. Staring at the missive before him, Roger was aware that he too would like nothing better than to re-establish ties with their distant English cousins.
Not for monetary purposes, to be sure. But simply for the fact that the St. Johns were family, and family was supposed to be united. Not ignored and abandoned like a simpleton relative.
Reaching out, Roger grasped the parchment in his large palm, observing the careful seal. Mac was probably right; he should burn it in a fit of anger. How dare the St. John ask for assistance when they had spent the past several decades ignoring their northern relatives. But as he inspected the missive, Roger realized that the future hope of re-establishing communication was lodged within the fold of his palm; mayhap if he were to comply with the request, the St. John would view it as a favor well done. Then, mayhap, there would be hope for future bonding.
“Send Robert tae me,” his voice was soft, knowing that his compliance to the St. John request was already the recipient of his brother’s strenuous objection. Yet before Mac could voice his opposition, Roger put up a stern hand. “Not a word, Macky. We must prove tae th’ St. John that we are still a gracious ally in spite o’ their rejection. Mayhap they’ll not be willin’ tae spurn us so readily if they realize our forgiveness o’ their English pride.”
Mac stared at his older brother for a lengthy moment, biting off his words of refusal and disagreement. Roger was laird, after all; mayhap it befitted his position to possess the grace that others did not. Mac, for one, was still in favor of burning the missive and sending the ashes back to the St. John pup. But out of respect for his brother, he would not voice his disparity.
“As ye say, Rake. Wha’s th’ lad’s name?” he finally asked, sounding particularly belligerent in spite of his obedient manner.
“Wha’ lad?”
“Th’ St. John pup.”
Roger sighed, setting the missive to the table once more. “Christian.”
Mac nodded, eyeing the offensive parchment one last time. “Th’ lad has a nickname, I am told. A fearsome warrior.”
With popping joints, Roger rose from his chair in a decidedly weary gesture. “Th’ Demon, he’s referred tae. And yer callin’ th’ man a lad when he’s older than ye.”
Mac shrugged. Every man was “lad” to him. “So we do th’ Demon a favor. Question bein’, will he do us one in return?”
“I am not askin’ for favors returned. I am simply obeyin’ his request tae forward his missive tae Eden.”
“But yer hopin’ for a favorable response from Jean St. John. A thanks, me thinks. An’ a regrowth of th’ alliance.”
Roger lifted his shoulders. “Only good can come out of passin’ th’ missive on tae Eden,” he said quietly. Casting a final glance at the parchment, his expression was particularly pensive. “Th’ St. Johns are’na the only Sassenach allies we hae. Long ago, we were linked tae the Northumberland House of Percy.”
Mac thought a moment. “The house Calandra Douglas married intae?”
Roger nodded. “After th’ laird got ’er wi’ child.”
Mac nodded in recollection. “Alan publicly disavowed her after that.”
“But he ne’er forgot ‘her, bein’ his favorite daughter,” Roger pondered the distinct shame his family had once suffered, the darker alliance that bound them to the great Northumberland House of Gray. A link that had been forgotten almost the moment it had been forged. After a moment, he disregarded the distantly distressing train of thought in favor of more immediate concerns. “Out wi’ ye, little brother. Send Robert tae me.”
“I can take th’ missive tae Eden,” Mac said with resignation in his voice. “There’s nae need tae send young Robbie.”
“Robbie’s a better rider and a faster thinker than ye,” Roger insulted his brother, good-naturedly accomplished. “Move yer hide. Th’ Demon’s missive must be delivered.”
Insulted in addition to having his objections quelled, Mac quit the room in a mild fit. Roger listened to the fading bootfalls, wondering if his hopes would be fulfilled in the deliverance of Christian St. John’s imperative missive. Wondering if, finally, the House of St. John would give the Douglas their notice.
He didn’t know why he was so concerned with their approval. Mayhap because he had inherited the strong Douglas trait of family closeness; ties above all else, blood stronger than life itself. Mayhap he would succeed where his grandfather and father had failed. Maybe he would re-establish the St. John bond.
He had no idea, of course, that the information contained within the yellowed folds would be enough to send Jean St. John into a hatred-induced vortex that would threaten to devour the very fabric of stability shared by the North. Had Roger known the extent of his actions, he would have taken Mac’s advice to burn the parchment without a trace of remains.
*
Gaithlin awoke, cold and alone, to the snorting bray of the ox. Directly across from her pallet of rushes and illuminated by the gray light of morning, Malcolm slept quite soundly huddled in a ball upon the icy dirt floor. The bed she had prepared for him of excess fabric and fresh rushes the night before had been ignored in lieu of his natural sleeping arrangements.
She watched the bald little lad as he sniffled and shivered in his slumber, thinking he would have indeed been happier sleeping in accustomed surroundings as Christian had suggested. Yet, because she had demanded the lad sleep with them, he had obediently complied. Observing Malcolm as he wriggled and twitched upon the damp earth, she was forced to admit that, mayhap, she had been wrong. He didn’t seem any more content within the confines of their shelter than he did outside in the harsh elements.
Sighing with resignation, she decided to allow Malcolm to sleep wherever he desired and to the Devil with her petty, motherly demands. After all, she had always been prone to a good deal of fret and was chagrined to realize she had, mayhap, overreacted to the boy’s situation. Indeed, mayhap he was fine without her interference.
Since Christian had vacated their bed, there was no point in dozing away the last few darkened moments before the breaking sun signaled the commencement of a new day. Gaithlin rolled wearily into a sitting position, gazing at the vacated length of wool that Christian usually occupied. Her fingers lingered over the fabric a moment as she pondered their sleeping arrangements; over the past several days, she had come to relish his heat in the chill early morning, snuggling close to him and listening to his grunts of lustful frustration.
His agreement to refrain from claiming her “dowry” until they were properly wed was proving thus far to be an extreme test of his willpower; Gaithlin had been admirably proud of his restraint until she realized that her newly-learned passion within the arms of the Demon was a consuming force. Suddenly, she found herself greatly in need of her own self-employed willpower, a concept that baffled and thrilled her at the same time.
The more he touched and fondled, the more she wanted him to claim her in every sense of the word. Although purely virgin in the literal sense, she had a basic knowledge of coupling and mating rituals and was not entirely ignorant of what, exactly, her body was craving. Still, there was an aura of mystery and fear surrounding her uncontrollable needs and as of last eve, she found herself wondering if her demands to deliver the dowry on the day of their wedding to be an entirely wise decision. She realized that she wanted it as badly as he did.
Gaithlin had never been one to daydream of love or endless devotion. All that had existed in her dream world was the fervent hope that, someday, she would be rescued from her impoverished plight. There was no time for silly dreams of adoration that were unlikely to become reality within the realm of her destitute situation, and being an inherently reasonable woman, she was unwilling to torture herself with the impossibilities.
Until now. With every word from Christian’s mouth, she found herself relishing each distinct sound. With every glance from his piercing blue eyes, she found herself quaking with emotion and glee. And with every touch from his massively gentle hands, she found herself willing to surrender all that she was.
Love. An interesting concept; a fool’s dream of fleeting emotions. At least, that was how her father had described love. Her mother had mostly refused to answer the inquisitive questions of adoration from a young girl’s curious mind. In her younger days, Gaithlin had wondered why her mother was so evasive when it came to the discussion love and emotion, knowing how desperately her mother had loved her father. But as she grew older, she began to realize that Alicia’s refusal to deliberate sentiment was a protective mechanism; as if she had come to realize that love was a foolish emotion when it was not returned in kind.
Alex de Gare had never loved his wife. He had loved the Feud, the de Gare legacy, and all items pertaining thereto. When Alicia de Norville had married the strapping young Alex, she firmly believed she could convince the man that loving her was far more rewarding than the passion he held for his tumultuous heritage.
But she had been wrong, and Gaithlin had seen the result of that mistake. A woman immersed in constant pain, bestowing what little affection she could on her only child for fear that once again her love would prove to be a self-destructive force. Because of the inherent lack of affection, Gaithlin had learned to view love as an unreasonable farce until she met the Demon. Strange how her most hated enemy would show her the meaning of true adoration.
Aye… she knew she loved him. Even if she had never experienced the true meaning of love within her short lifetime, she knew without question that she was in love with him. Surely there was no other explanation for the wondrous, giddy emotions surging deep within her heart.
Breaking from her warm thoughts, Gaithlin rose from her chilled bed. Passing a concerned eye over her young border, she proceeded to wrap the shivering young lad in a thick woolen blanket, smiling gently when he subconsciously kicked the cover off. Making a second such attempt, she wrapped him tighter than before and was pleased when he was unable to dislodge the blanket entirely.
With Malcolm satisfactorily tended, Gaithlin mummified herself in the long length of Douglas Tartan Christian had purchased the day before. Deliciously savoring the warmth of the fine wool, she stepped forth into the misty Scot morn in search of her elusive Demon.
He was not difficult to locate. Christian was seated on an upturned log, his favorite chair, as Malcolm’s exterior fire smoked and crackled lazily at his feet. His diary was open in his lap and as Gaithlin approached, she noted his concentration as he carefully scribed each letter. Smiling softly, she was careful not to jostle him as she reached out to touch his silken hair.
“Good morning,” she murmured hoarsely.
His head came up from the book, an instant smile on his face. Grasping hold of her hand, he pulled her close and kissed her lips tenderly. “Good morning,” he responded. “Is Malcolm awake?”
She shook her head and he cautiously put the book aside, pulling her onto his lap. Wrapping his arms about her bundled body, he cast a long glance over the yards of Douglas fabric.
“You are to make a gown from this, not use it as a blanket,” he said.
“But it’s warm and wonderful,” she sighed, laying her head against his. “How long have you been awake?”
“Not long,” he replied, feeling her warmth against his chilled skin. “Just enough time for me to scribe a few thoughts and notations.”
“Like what?”
“Like our trip to town,” he glanced over his shoulder at the slumped figure tied to the tree several feet away. “And our visitors. I was surprised when his wife did not return last night in an attempt to free him.”
Gaithlin looked to the dog-man as well, huddled and cold and menacing against the pine. “Have you tried to talk to him?” she asked.
Christian shook his head. “I do not believe he understands spoken language. I have tried English, French, even Gaelic. He does not respond to any of it.”
She continued to observe their captive, shaking her head with genuine sorrow. “Merciful Heavens, Christian,” she sighed. “Is it possible that he is more animal than human? Is it possible he’s never known how to speak our language, but has spent his entire life barking like a beast?”
“It’s possible,” he eyed her as she rose from the warm huddle on his lap, her attention drawn to the captive. “What are you going to do?”
Pulling the woolen length more tightly about her shoulders, she shrugged uncertainly. “Speak to him. Feed him. Mayhap I can communicate with him.”
Christian rose stiffly, stretching in the early morning chill. “If anyone can communicate with him, you can. But take heed; his mood is foul.”
She heard Christian’s bootfalls behind her as she made her way toward the quivering captive. The dog-man’s eyes were wide and malevolent, and he snarled harshly as she drew near. Sensing his terror more than his obvious hostility, Gaithlin halted her advance and pondered the course of her actions for a moment. Then, as Christian watched curiously, she disappeared inside their shelter only to re-emerged moments later clutching a wedge of yellow cheese.
The dog-man continued to growl as she approached bearing food, thrashing in his ropes when she knelt before him. Deep-blue eyes riveted to those of murky, non-descriptive brown, Gaithlin smiled encouragingly.
“My name is Gaithlin,” she said softly, her sultry voice low and soothing. “Would you like to eat?” She indicated the cheese.
The man continued to rumble and snap for a few moments until she waved the cheese in front of his nose. Torn between the lure of food and his natural sense of defiance and anger, it was apparent that he could not decide which course of action to take.
His wild eyes darted between the blond woman and the food she held, uncertain and fearful, until the physical need for sustenance overwhelmed his apprehension. He sniffed the air hungrily as the cheese made another pass in front of his face.
“Don’t get too close, honey,” Christian warned softly.
“I have to if I am going to feed him,” she replied. “He cannot feed himself with his hands tied.”
Christian grunted in disapproval, observing closely as she broke off a large piece of cheese and held it up to the dog-man. Like a frightened animal, he sniffed and whimpered, still too frightened to allow himself to accept the morsel, yet feeling the stabs of a powerful hunger weaken his increasingly-lagging resistance. The more Gaithlin smiled and murmured encouraging words, the more feeble his defiance ran.
Like a stone wall gradually succumbing to the inevitably more powerful force, the dog-man’s fear and resistance dissolved stone by stone. Gaithlin was purposely flaunting the cheese, knowing that he would come to trust the hand that fed him. Like any living being, trust had to be earned and she fully intended to acquire his faith with her gentle manner and non-threatening actions. Then, she was positive, communication would follow.
Christian watched with baited breath as the first chunk of yellow cheese met with the dog-man’s filthy mouth. Gaithlin laughed softly as the man chewed vigorously, promptly breaking off another piece when he opened his mouth for more. With every piece of cheese, a stone in the canine-human’s wall smashed to pebbles; the more she fed him, the further relaxed he became. And the closer Gaithlin came to triumph.
Christian watched, hands on hips, as Gaithlin fed the captive the entire wedge of yellow cheese. It was almost like observing a mother bird feed her young; the gaping mouth, the weak whimpers, as bits of food were delivered. When the prisoner had completely devoured the hearty nourishment, Gaithlin retrieved a cup of water from the smaller iron pot and the man drank greedily.
Exceedingly calm for an individual who had been snapping and growling not a few minutes before, the dog-man’s expression on Gaithlin was almost curious as she knelt before him once again. Christian continued to watch, amazed with her achievement, as she attempted once more to communicate.
But it was a frustrating progression. The captive obviously did not understand spoken language, as Christian had suggested, and Gaithlin did her best through use of signs and gestures to convey her message; no more stealing, if food is desired simply ask, and no lurking in the thicket with the intention of spying.
By the time she was finished, she could tell by the reflection in the dog-man’s eyes that he had not understood a word of what she had been attempting to convey. Frustrated and disheartened, she rose to her feet and continued to gaze down upon the captive, wondering how on earth she ever could have thought to make him understand.
She should have listened to Christian from the first and saved herself the frustration and heartache. He had been correct regarding Malcolm’s sleeping arrangements, and he had further proved his superiority by passing the proper assessment regarding the dog-man’s intelligence. The prisoner was obviously beyond her help and several minutes of futility and confusion had made her fully cognizant of the fact.
Yet, the natural instinct of hope ingrained within her soul had insisted she try, the inherent fortitude of strength and determination that had been instilled to her over years of hopelessness had come to demand she expend the effort. It simply wasn’t in Gaithlin’s nature to surrender; if there was even the smallest measure of hope, she had to try.
When a thick warm arm went about her shoulders, she leaned gratefully against the accompanying torso. Christian gently kissed the top of her head. “You tried, honey. At least he is calm now.”
She shrugged, her head resting on his shoulder. “Release him, then. There is nothing left to accomplish if he cannot understand what I am saying.”
Christian kissed her again before releasing her, moving back to the shelter to retrieve his dagger. Left alone with the shivering, fed prisoner, Gaithlin shook her head sadly.
“Don’t you understand me?” she whispered. “I am trying to be your friend. I want us to live peaceably.”
The man continued to stare at her and she felt as if she were speaking to an animal; the wide-eyed, blank stare was enough to cause her to turn away in sorrowful defeat. The next time the fool and his wife returned to raid their encampment, she would be unable to protect them against Christian’s wrath. Clearly, there would be no other alternative. Still… she had tried.
Christian emerged from the shelter moments later with a sleepy-eyed lad in tow. Malcolm smiled brightly at Gaithlin, who managed a weak grin of her own as she brushed her hand affectionately over his stubbled head. Then, she put her arms about the boy’s shoulders as Christian moved for the dog-man, cutting his rigid bindings in one swift motion.
At first, the man didn’t move; his eyes were wide on both Gaithlin and Christian as he came to realize that he was no longer bound to the tree. Gaze darting frantically between the two blond-haired people, he straightened stiffly and sniffed the air a few times as if attempting to determine their motives purely by the scents they were excreting.
With a loud yelp that startled Gaithlin and Malcolm, he suddenly dashed behind the pine he had been adhered to, peeking out from behind as if to spy on his former captors. The three rational humans continued to observe him curiously as he rounded the tree a couple of times, clutching at the trunk and sniffing the bark strangely. Then, when Malcolm began to giggle as a result of the dog-man’s mystifying antics, the captive dashed off into the trees in a series of whoops and screams.
Even Gaithlin was grinning by the time the peculiar man cavorted off. “What on earth was that all about?”
Christian shook his head. “I could not begin to guess. But I would venture to say that he is happy to be free.”
As Gaithlin nodded, Malcolm suddenly broke from her grip and dashed towards the smoldering embers of “his” fire. “What’s ta eat? I’m hungry!”
“You are on the menu,” Christian said with mock-severity, fighting off a grin when Gaithlin swatted at him on her way back to the shelter. “I intend to make a Malcolm Stew.”
Once, the jesting declaration would have sent the young lad into fits of terror. But coming to know the warlord as he had over the past few days, Malcolm realized the man took great delight in taunting him. And he loved every minute of it.
“Ye haveta catch me first!” he declared.
Christian’s eyebrows rose at the challenge. “Is that so? We shall see how fast you can run, then.”
Malcolm whooped and giggled as Christian moved toward him. “I can run as fast as th’ wind!”
“A bold statement,” Christian countered with mock-outrage. “I would wager to guess that you cannot outrun my charger.”
Inside the shelter, Gaithlin cleaned herself up for the day ahead, listening to Malcolm’s delightful terror and Christian’s low threats. Donning Carolyn Howard’s gown of dual-colored linen, a persimmon bodice and skirt with a contrasting color of pale peach, she braided her hair into a single thick rope and secured the end with a measure of twine.
Emerging from the shack in anticipation of a pleasant day, she was not surprised to find that Christian and Malcolm’s game had ended in an intent huddle over the large iron pot. Secured to the tripod, the ingredients that Malcolm had combined at Christian’s direction were beginning to simmer over the open flame. Gaithlin leaned over the pot, eyeing the contents.
“What have you fine gentlemen made?”
“Porridge,” Malcolm said proudly.
Christian’s massive hand rested affectionately on the lad’s bald head. “And then we shall grind some of the wheat into flour for tomorrow’s bread.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Tomorrow? Why not today?”
He matched her raised brow. “Because we will not be here to enjoy it. Tomorrow, upon our return, ’twill be a fine meal of fresh bread to greet us.”
“I don’t understand. Why won’t we be here to enjoy our bread today?”
Christian’s hand left Malcolm’s head; suddenly, Gaithlin’s entire face was encompassed by two great palms and the familiar surge of delicious excitement fired through her slender body. Licking her lips, she waited with quivering anticipation for Christian’s delectable kiss and was mildly disappointed when he seemed content for the moment to stare deeply into her eyes.
“Because we will be traveling to an abbey, south of Castle Douglas along the Firth of Solway,” his rich voice was a sensuous growl. When Gaithlin’s eyebrows rose questioningly, he continued with a faint smile. “You see, my lady, I am no longer content to lie beside you at night, forbidden by your logic to devour my fill of your luscious body. Since you wish to wait for our marriage before you relinquish your innocence, I have decided that tonight will see this matter accomplished.”
A flicker of a smile danced across her rosy lips. “We will be married today?”
“Indeed. As I told you, ’twas always my intention to marry you immediately. The sooner we return to Eden as man and wife, the sooner we can settle the foolish boundaries of the Feud.”
Her smile broadened as her hands came up, joy such as she had never experienced filling her heart. The warmth, the delight, was beyond the expression of mere words; Merciful Heavens, how she was desperate to show him the emotions churning within her heart.
She thought herself a fool for having ever resisted his proposal. It was no longer merely the issue of joining two families that had known nothing but the devastation of war for the past seven decades; whether or not peace came as a result of their union was no longer a concern to her. What mattered was that she and Christian would be married, forever of one soul and heart and body. Forever to live as man and wife, no matter what the future contained.
She was so happy she could scarcely contain her emotions. There would be nothing else on the earth that would every cause her to experience more joy than she was sampling at this moment, and as Christian’s ice-blue eyes blazed against the flushed vision of her beautiful face, she wound her hands behind his thick neck.
“I want to be your wife, Christian,” she breathed, her eyes riveted to his sensual lips as they loomed closer and closer with each successive moment. “I want to be all to you.”
“You already are all to me,” his voice was husky, feeling her need and excitement as it mingled with his own. “Haven’t you realized that by now?”
She nodded unsteadily, feeling his deliciously searing breath on her face. Merciful Heavens, the nearer he beckoned, the hotter she became. What had started as a joyful demonstration of their mutual agreement had suddenly encroached into the familiar territory of lust and desire. A raging wildfire that neither one could manage to control.
His lips clamped down upon her tender mouth, whimpers of passion and pleasure filling the air. Tongues met with natural ease, tasting the recognizable essence captured within their individual qualities as they licked and plundered and ravished. Fingers tightly embedded within his honey-blond tresses, Gaithlin was rapidly losing what was left of her draining senses.
“Oh, Christian,” she gasped against his mouth. “I don’t want to wait until tonight. I want to know you now. I want to show you the joy of my heart.”
He suckled fiercely on her tongue, growling heavily in response to her plea. He was so overwhelmed with the taste and feel of her that he could barely form a coherent thought beyond lifting her from the ground and carrying her towards their shelter. If she wanted him now, then he would not dare dispute the boundaries of their earlier conversation; after all, they were to be married this day. What difference did it make if he took her before or after the ceremony?
He would take her this morn. He would take her tonight. For the rest of their lives, she would be the Demon’s wife and he would take her every day until the sun forever ceased to shine. Good Christ, how he had waited for this moment.
Kicking open the door of their shelter, he was barely cognizant when Gaithlin called breathlessly to Malcolm, diverting the lad’s attention with chores and instructions while the adults were left to their pleasure. Setting her to their pallet in a heat of passion, he wedged the ancient door closed before returning to Gaithlin with an expression she had seen many a time before. Only this time, it was far more potent.
His red-swollen mouth worked as if he was attempting to speak, somehow offering the summation of his emotions. But he couldn’t seem to form the correct thoughts regarding the most monumental event of his life and without further ado, he moved across the brittle rushes and pulled Gaithlin against his chest with more tenderness than he ever knew to exist.
Fastened to his wonderful lips, Gaithlin moaned softly as his hands moved to the stays of her gown, removing it from her supple body with deft experience. She was so consumed with the delight of his heated mouth that she was unaware when his hands left her, removing his tunic with such blind eagerness that he tore a seam. The boots and breeches immediately followed and before Gaithlin realized the extent of their naked state, she was on her back and completely covered by his massive body.
Christian thought he might ease her natural apprehension with a few well-chosen words at this point; in fact, he had been practicing such words for precisely this event. But as the actual moment happed upon him, he was so selfishly involved in the feel of their naked flesh that the only sound capable of coming forth from his throat was an animalistic rumble.
There was nothing that mumbled words could convey better than his tender touch was capable of expressing. His hands roved and caressed, probed and stroked, as Gaithlin writhed beneath him with her usual abandon, as if she had experienced his desire a thousand times before. Christian devoured every movement beneath him, savoring the motion, knowing that never in his life had he sampled anything so incredibly wondrous.
His mouth found her beautiful breasts, lapping and suckling the tender fruits with the greatest of pleasure. He could feel Gaithlin’s fingers in his hair, urging him onward, demanding his attention, and he was so consumed with his own erotic lust that his hands were literally shaking as he explored every inch of her mouth-watering flesh.
Gaithlin’s mind was focused on one thing; the only matter of concern was Christian’s gentle, powerful hands as they possessively kneaded her breasts and the anticipation of the erotic delights his mouth had yet to introduce. Unafraid of his lustful onslaught as a proper virgin should have been, it was not within her nature to fear; instead, she was inherently moved to the brink of expectation as his wicked attentions continued towards untapped depths.
Yet in spite of her eagerness to experience his passion, she bolted when his fingers gently probed the blond triangle of curls between her legs. Passion somewhat damped by apprehension, her eyes fluttered open to find Christian wedged between her open thighs, breathing heavily as he gazed lustily upon her most private core.
“Christian…,” she licked her dry lips, struggling to form a complete sentence capable of relaying her natural concern.
He tore his eyes away from her delightfully pulsating blossom, meeting her cat-shaped eyes. “Trust me, honey,” he rasped, running his hands the length of her torso until he came to her breasts. Fondling gently, he relished in her sighs of pleasure. “You must trust me. I have dreamed of this longer than you can know and I promise I shall be entirely gentle with you.”
She shuddered violently when his fingers pinched her taut nipples and her eyes closed once more, her apprehension fading in lieu of the erotic anticipation. “How… how long?”
Satisfied that she had relaxed once more, his hands left her breasts and moved to grasp her buttocks. “A long, long time. Months.”
“Months?” her voice was barely a whisper. “We have only known each other a few days.”
He cocked an eyebrow, smiling at the crystal-clear recollection of his nude water nymph on that searing August day. “I have dreamed of you every day since the first I saw you, wet and nude and uninhibited.”
In spite of her lust-induced haze, Gaithlin managed to grasp the confusing gist of his words. “I… I wasn’t nude when you first saw me, Christian. True, I was wet, but… oh!”
Her back arched up from the rushes as his tenderly probing fingers found her swollen bud of passion. He laughed softly as her legs quaked involuntarily to his gently erotic touch. “Aye, honey, you were nude.” He bent low, depositing a line of sweet kisses just above the border of kinky curls. “You were swimming in a lake. And I watched you through the shield of the forest, dreaming of the moment when I would be free to touch you as I am now.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, her eyes opened once more and she raised her head, gazing at him with suspicion and lust-hazed confusion. “You… you saw me swimming in a lake? When?”
He grinned, kissing her groin once more as his fingers raked her dark-blond mat. “Well over a month ago. A lake in the disputed territories that you frequented regularly.”
She stared at him, the flush of passion abruptly transforming into a mottle of embarrassment and anger. Suddenly, she propped herself up on her elbows and attempted to slide away from him, struggling to close her thighs. Gripping her legs tightly, Christian was not surprised with her outraged reaction; in fact, he had expected it.
“You will tell me why you were spying on me, Christian St. John!” she demanded. “And why did you not tell me this before?”
He held onto her knees tightly, wrestling with her strong legs as she struggled to pull free. “Truthfully, because I never saw the need to tell you. It didn’t seem to be a staunchly pressing matter.” When she drove her heel into his rock-hard thigh, he grunted with mounting irritation. “Gae, I didn’t even know who you were at the time. Quinton found you weeks before while on patrol and….”
“Quinton?” she shrieked. “Who is this Quinton? Kelvin mentioned him as well!”
“My brother,” Christian grunted again when she inadvertently kneed him in the ribs. “My younger, more foolish brother who was as enchanted by your magnificent beauty as I was.”
She succeeded in yanking one leg free and twisted to her side. Christian released his hold on her remaining leg and threw himself forward, trapping her between his massive body and the wool of their pallet. Gazing at the profile of her flushed, furious, beautiful face, he couldn’t help but chuckle softly at her indignity. In spite of her justifiable anger, he refused to allow her violent mood to spoil his own pleasure; dipping his head, he began to rain gentle kisses upon her neck and shoulder.
“Don’t do that,” she insisted hotly, squirming beneath him in an attempt to dislodge his massive weight. “You will not be forgiven so easily for this… this embarrassment. Tell me; why did you not think it a staunchly pressing matter to mention that you had spied on me?”
“I didn’t spy. I observed your water ballet with the greatest delight and respect,” he grinned maliciously as his lips delicately brushed her silken neck. “ ’Twas Quinton who spied.”
She grunted angry, terribly distracted from her fury by his tender kisses. “So your brother saw me naked as well? Merciful Heavens, I have never been so mortified in my entire life! How can you not see the severity of this terrible situation?”
He cocked an amused eyebrow, his lips dancing over the crest of her shoulder. “Because the situation is not at all severe. You were swimming in a lake within compromised lands and my brother happened across you while on patrol. Being a normal, lusty male, he was naturally enchanted by your presence and chose not to announce himself lest you become frightened or, coming to know you as I have, most likely violent. You could have very well injured my little brother in your anger.”
She didn’t reply as she pondered his reasonable explanation, her jaw ticking in frustration and humiliation. He continued to grin at her, his mouth moving to her earlobe. Christian knew her anger was abating when he saw her eyes flutter closed as he suckled the tender morsel of flesh.
“Don’t be angry, Gae,” he murmured. “There is no need. I knew from the moment I first saw you frolicking about in the pond that I would have you.”
Miffed but rapidly succumbing to his attentions, she found she could no longer maintain her shame. If Christian was not slighted by his brother’s knowledge of his future wife’s deliciously naked body, then she reasoned her insult was hardly worth the effort.
Truthfully, there wasn’t any point in maintaining the furious shame. What did it matter that Quinton St. John had seen her naked; being a normal male, as Christian had so eloquently described him, surely he had seen a naked woman before. Clearly, she wasn’t a sight out of the norm. Furthermore, what did it matter that Christian had also seen her nude and exposed, her flesh displayed for all to see? He was seeing her naked now.
When his tongue began to stroke the curve of her dainty ear, her humiliation and fury evaporated like a puff of smoke. Grinning with the thrill of his erotic touch, she forgot all else in favor of his magnificent attentions.
“And how did you know that?” she asked softly, turning onto her back and gazing into his beautiful face. “You said yourself that you did not know who I was.”
“Mayhap I didn’t know factually, but I had a reasonable suspicion.”
Her arms wound themselves around his thick neck and she matched his knowing grin, devouring the delicious lines of his angular features. “You suspected that I was a de Gare?”
His massive arms embraced her lanky, slender body, feeling the silken texture of her skin against his flesh. “It was logical.”
She rubbed her nose against his affectionately, her smile broadening. “Then if you suspected my heritage, why did you not kill me immediately?”
He continued to gaze at her, wedging his thick legs between her thighs to ease his body weight off her torso. Rubbing his nose against hers as she had done to him, more gently on his second brush, his mouth hovered tauntingly above her fully ripe lips. “Because if I had, I would have never known the pleasure of loving you.”
His lips descended upon her mouth before she could reply, suckling the breath and life and blood from her very bones. Gaithlin, her mind still swimming with the impact of his softly uttered confession, moaned low in her throat as she responded wildly to his passion. The further he kissed and stroked and caressed, the hotter she became.
I would have never known the pleasure of loving you.
Christian could not believe he had admitted the emotions of his heart. But he had confessed nonetheless, and he was not at all astonished to discover that he did not regret his words. In fact, he found himself wondering why he had not admitted it before this moment. Caught up in the heated strains of a most emotional circumstance, it had been the natural thing to do.
As natural as making love to her. As his emotional demands matched the physical needs of his voracious body, he gripped Gaithlin behind her long thighs and pulled her knees up, winding her supple legs about his hips. Breaking away from her delicious mouth, he gazed down at his heavy manhood as it pressed gently against her tender core, watching with the greatest of excitement as their bodies prepared to join.
Pleasure and excitement for the both of them. Gaithlin’s fingers were anchored deeply into his hair, feeling the newness of his throbbing member as it sought her sensitive center. Christian’s head blocked her view of the erotic spectacle about to occur, but through her panting and maddening desire she could feel his fingers as they alternately stroked her delicate folds and guided his manhood nearer to its target.
Once brought to bear, he seemed to slip into her virginal passage with amazing ease. They both groaned with pleasure and surprise as he barely anchored himself an inch, but it was an inch nonetheless. A very effortless inch, as she was literally dripping with excitement and moisture from his expert attentions.
Christian could hardly contain himself, but restrain he did; a painfully difficult employment of his years of training in the art of self-control. Feeling the tiny muscles contract around the ruby-red tip of his phallus was the greatest torture he had ever known and he growled low in his throat, straining fervently against the natural urge to drive into her. The pain, the pressure, the unbelievable ecstasy was more than he could have possibly comprehended.
It was an overwhelmingly supreme effort to move slowly, withdrawing himself and then pressing into her again, gaining headway in minute quantities. He would have been doing quite well with his controlled efforts had Gaithlin not writhed and panted beneath him, fracturing his concentration and threatening to cast him off the edge into the erotic abyss.
But he maintained his composure, groaning softly with every new millimeter gained, feeling her incredibly tight sheath drag at him, calling to him with the silent shout of desire, and he considered it a monumental achievement that he had yet to fully answer the call. With every miniscule progression gained, he felt as if he was being reborn.
He was well aware of the fact that his entire body was quaking with anticipation and powerfully reined hunger. But his restrained held firm as he inched into her and he was in the process of congratulating himself for his control when the unexpected happened – in a blinding flash, he suddenly found himself seated to the very hilt.
Gaithlin yelped quietly with the force and swiftness of the action and Christian’s eyes flew open wide, his astonished expression coming to bear on Gaithlin’s taut face. He froze, poised above her, as she struggled to catch her breath. Her clawed hands, gripping his rock-hard buttocks, dug crescent-shaped wounds into the flesh.
It took him a moment to realize she had impaled herself upon his rod of iron. He had been aware of her long, slender body wrapping itself about him tightly, her hands to his buttocks, but he hadn’t imagined that she had possessed another purpose in mind other than to simply brace herself for the inevitable stab of pain as her maiden’s barrier was breached. He would have laughed at her boldness had he not been shocked with the concept that she had thrust her pelvis forward in an attempt to capture the entire length of his throbbing maleness.
“What… what did you do?” he demanded, scarcely able to speak.
She licked her lips, squirming uncomfortably beneath him. “I was tired of waiting,” she whispered, her deep blue eyes meeting him with a certain degree of guilt. “I am sorry, Christian. But… but you were torturing me with your prolonged pace and I was eager to be done with the pain I knew was yet to come.”
His brow furrowed faintly. “So you thought to hurry me along?”
She shrugged, wrapping her legs more tightly about his hips. “The anticipation of my maiden’s agony was unbearable,” she said softly. “Are you angry?”
He shook his head, chuckling weakly. “Nay, my lady, I am not,” kissing her nose, he shifted his weight and braced his powerful arms on either side of her slender body. “In fact, your bravery is amazing. Imagine when I boast that my wife took her own virginity with the aid of my manhood. Certainly, there is something strange to that declaration.”
She giggled, the stabbing sting radiating from her groin lessening by the moment. “It will be our secret.”
He matched her grin. “Indeed. I would be embarrassed to admit that you did my job for me.”
She twisted again, still smiling as she attempted to find a measure of comfort within the fading pain. “You did all of the work, my dearest Demon. I will avow the fact ’til I meet my grave.”
He gazed deeply into her eyes, watching her face as he slowly withdrew from her deliciously snug sheath. Their smiling expressions faded as he thrust into her again, very slowly, seating himself to the hilt with tender force. Beneath him, Gaithlin shuddered with ecstasy and Christian watched, entranced and overwhelmed, as her large nipples hardened in response to his physical demands.
It was as he had always imagined it be, greater than he could have ever imagined it to be. As with the very first time he had seen her, fantasizing the sensations of her supple legs wrapped around his body in passion, her incredibly responsive body reacting to his unspoken desires, the excitement was almost more than he could withstand. His thrusts increased, feeling her body pull at him, the friction building greater than any he had ever known.
As the scorching heat between them mounted to giddy heights, Gaithlin found herself completely upswept in the newness that was erotic ecstasy. Knowing now what it meant to couple with a man and wondering in the same breath if every experience would be as wondrous as the first.
Truthfully, beyond the pain of losing her innocence, she hadn’t known what more to expect, which was why with every thrust, every withdrawal, she was pulled deeper and deeper into a world where Christian was lord and master over her world. Where every breath she took depended upon his skill as a lover and where every beat of her heart was reliant upon his amazing physical prowess.
As the sun rose upon the deep green countryside, Christian took his captive to heights never before mastered. For Christian and Gaithlin, there was only one world worth existing in – theirs. When the pinnacle of their passion was finally unleashed, Gaithlin’s screams of surprised and euphoria echoed off the mighty Scot pines, intermingled with the unearthly growls of the Demon’s pleasure.
As Malcolm lingered fearfully outside of the shelter door, wondering if the lady and her English knight had somehow managed to harm each other in the midst of their vocal struggle, he was wise enough to realize that entering the shack would not be the correct decision. Whatever transpired, he would wait until the warlord was calm before interjecting his defense of the lady. Even though he had come to adore Christian, the man was still inherently frightening.
Unaware of Malcolm’s dilemma outside the hut, Gaithlin struggled to recover her composure as she nestled within the powerful embrasure of Christian’s arms. Cradled against his magnificent, sweaty chest, her mind was a maelstrom of warm, giddy thoughts.
“Christian?” she murmured.
His face was buried in the side of her head, dozing lightly from his most wondrous experience. Truthfully, if the physical act itself had somehow managed to kill him, he wouldn’t have cared in the least. As it was, he found himself perpetually amazed by the raw sweetness of it and he almost felt as if he, too, had been a virginal innocent before embarking on the most amazing erotic voyage of his life.
“Hmm?” he mumbled, exhausted and spent.
“Did you mean what you said earlier?”
Removing his face from her hair, he shifted so that she was lying beside him, crushed against his mighty chest. “What’s that, honey?”
“That you consider it a pleasure to love me,” she repeated softly, running gentle fingers over the bleached matting of fuzz covering his chest.
“Good Christ, yes.”
She gazed up at his half-lidded expression, her deep blue eyes wide with wonder and warmth. “Did you mean in the physical sense or the emotional sense?”
“Both.”
She continued to gaze at him, her slender fingers moving from his chest to his face. Touching the man who had shown her the true meaning of life. “Are you saying that you love me, Christian? As a man loves a woman?”
He met her gaze, knowing that he had already admitted as much in the last tender moments before he claimed her as his own. “As a man loves a woman,” he murmured. “As a husband loves a wife.”
She smiled faintly, running her fingertips over his lips, watching as he tenderly kissed them. “I love you, too.”
The corner of his lips twitched, the only outward indication of the soaring joy threatening the very fibers of his composure. I love you, too. Good Christ, was it possibly the truth? Was it possible that she was experiencing the same unrestrained adoration he had been wallowing in for the better part of a week?
He wanted to believe her. He was afraid to believe her. Christian’s hands began to shake as he stroked the length of her delicate shoulder. “You say that because I have declared my love for you?”
“Nay. I say it because it is the truth. I cannot remember when I have not loved you.”
His gaze was steady, the flicker of unfathomed emotion burning deeply within the ice-blue eyes. “I remember,” his voice was raspy with the power of his sentiment, weak with the growing realization that his most overwhelming feelings were freely returned. Of course he believed her; he could see the undeniable sincerity in her eyes. “The day I whisked you from St. Esk. You tried to kill me.”
She laughed softly, bringing her lips close for a gentle kiss. “You scared me to death, you and your horde of St. John soldiers. Had I possessed the strength and the means, I truly would have killed all of you.”
He kissed her again. “There, you see? You have not always loved me.”
She lifted her eyebrows as if to admit his correct assessment, a long finger toying with his shoulder-length hair. “Are you going to write of this day in your chronicles?”
He sighed contentedly, pulling her even more tightly against him. “What has happened today will take volumes of books to describe. I do not even know where to begin.”
“I shall help you,” she said eagerly. “I shall tell you what to write.”
He smiled, kissing her forehead as she snuggled against him. “I would be grateful, madam. For I haven’t a clue as to how to narrate that which I am feeling within my soul.”
Gaithlin was still a moment. “Nor do I.”
“Then how are you to help me?”
“Make love to me again. Mayhap our feelings will become clearer the second time.”
He was shocked and amazed that a woman who had just surrendered her virginity was demanding so soon afterward to feel the tides of passion again. Yet, as he had come to discover over the past several days, there was not one characteristic regarding Gaithlin de Gare that was either predictable or feeble. She was an icon of strength and beauty and intelligence, and he considered himself incredibly fortunate to be witness to her nature.
Their feelings, however, did not become clearer the second time. If anything, they addled further. Still, they vowed to continue trying.