CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The village was larger than Quinton remembered, though in faith, he hardly remembered it at all. ’Twas Christian who possessed a magnificent memory, not the younger, duller brother. As he and Jasper and their company of fifty English soldiers moved onto the well-traveled avenue of the busy little berg of Cree, Quinton was immediately aware of the fearful, mistrusting gazes.
A fear that settled about the Englishmen in the guise of uncertain silence as the citizens of Cree scrutinized their uninvited guests. Glancing about the faces that were trained upon him in wordless suspicion, Quinton could literally read their apprehension and dismay.
“A friendly group,” he muttered to Jasper.
His cousin grunted in agreement. “Let’s not delay. Find a responsible party from the midst of this rabble and see if we cannot discover what they know of Christian’s location.”
Nodding vaguely in agreement, Quinton began to search the customers and merchants alike for an expression that appeared remotely intelligent and preferably unhostile. Progressing further into the town, he began to wonder if locating a hospitable Scots was entirely possible when his questing gaze came to rest on a fat merchant standing idly beside his large stand.
The Scotsman’s eyes were somewhat bright and curious upon the horde of English warriors and Quinton immediately reined his charger to a halt.
“You there,” he said authoritatively. “I am seeking information.”
The round merchant immediately drew straight, his eyes wide as he responded obediently to the demanding knight. “What… what information might tha’ be, m’laird?”
Jasper drew alongside his cousin, gazing impassively upon the pudgy peasant. “An Englishman, like ourselves,” his voice was low. “Have you seen such a man in this town?”
The merchant immediately nodded. “Aye, m’laird. He an’ his wife were here only a day ago.”
Quinton and Jasper stared at the merchant, the impact of the man’s innocent reply settling deep into the bosom of their souls. Quinton fought down a crippling surge of nausea as he focused on the Scots. Christ… were they indeed speaking of the same man? “What did this Englishman look like?”
“Very large. Largest man I have seen in these parts,” the merchant looked thoughtful. “An’ pale blue eyes. His wife was th’ most beautiful woman I have ever witnessed. Kind, too.”
Jasper cast Quinton a long, foreboding glance before turning away entirely, directing his charger back towards the company of English soldiers. Quinton, however, was far too shaken and sickened to drop the subject quite so easily. Dear God, he was hearing his very worst suspicions.
Struggling against his resistance of the situation, he drew in a deep, calming breath in an ineffectual attempt to calm his quaking nerves. Realizing, indeed, that they were referring to the same man but struggling in the same breath to disbelieve undeniable facts.
“Did the Englishman introduce this woman as his mate?” he asked. “Did he actually use the word wife?”
“Aye, m’laird,” the merchant replied confidently. “They bought a good deal of supplies before returnin’ home. Do ye know the man, then?”
Do ye know the man? Quinton felt the question like a blow to his gut. Christ, I used to know him. Now I am not so sure. I am not sure of anything anymore. “I know him,” he found himself nearly choking on his reply. “Can… can you tell me where they live?”
The merchant scratched his triple-chins. “They left down the southern road,” he gestured in the same direction from whence the English had come. “There are a few homesteads down th’ highway. I would suppose they live in one of ’em.”
Quinton nodded shortly, eager to be done with the conversation. The confirmation of his brother’s treachery substantiated by an impartial source, a simple merchant who had conducted business with an English knight and his beautiful lady wife. A peasant who had no vested interest in the mysterious English warrior other than he had sold him a measure of goods and services. A man who had no idea of the chaos he had corroborated.
God help them all.
“I thank you for your information,” Quinton’s voice was barely audible as his quivering hands tossed the man a coin for his troubles. “What is your name?”
“Lutey, m’laird,” the man replied, offering a timid smile in response to the offered payment. “ ’Twas m’pleasure.”
Quinton doubted the conversation would have been so pleasurable had the round merchant realized the critical nature of his innocent answers. Plagued with emotions and nerves and nausea, Quinton reined his steed to the waiting group of English soldiers. Loyal St. John soldiers.
“God’s Blood, Quinton,” Jasper hissed as the man came into range. “What are we…?”
Quinton held up a sharp, trembling hand to silence his witless cousin. “We must find him before we leap to any hasty conclusions,” he said, his voice strained. “The merchant could have been mistaken.”
Jasper shook his head, the action laced with sorrow and doubt. “What will it take for you to believe, Quinnie? You just heard your father’s suspicions confirmed by a neutral source.”
Pale and tight-lipped, Quinton gathered his reins and deftly motioned his men in the opposite direction. “I will not believe until I hear the blessed truth come forth from Christian himself,” he replied staunchly, praying that all of the clues, the innuendos, and the innocent remarks had been incorrect. Surely the Demon was not a traitor to his own family, lured into betrayal by the feminine wiles of his worst enemy. Surely his father and the merchant had been wrong.
God… please don’t let it be true.
“We will find him,” Quinton’s teeth were clenched as he spoke, indicative of his volatile emotions. “We will find him and I will ask him myself. Until then, he is still the Demon of Eden and will be afforded due respect. Do you comprehend me, Jasper?”
Jasper nodded faintly. He, too, was reluctant to believe what all evidence was leading to explain. But, unlike Quinton, he was not willing to turn a blind eye to the indisputable facts. If the Demon of Eden had turned sympathetic to the de Gare cause, then as with any traitor, he would be handled accordingly. No matter how painful the necessary task.
*
“Intruders, Rake. Two entire armies o’ intruders.”
Roger stared at his younger brother as if the man had gone completely insane. “Intruders?” he repeated. “Who on earth would be violatin’ Douglas lands? We’re at peace wi’….”
“Not Scots. Sassenach invaders.”
Roger’s eyebrows rose in a gesture of distinct interest. “Sassenach? Mother of God, wha’ would they be doin’ here?”
Mac drew in a long, deep breath. “I recognized St. John standards. But I dinna recognize th’ second army, nearly two hours after the first.”
Roger’s brow furrowed with concern. “Bandits? Mayhap they mean tae ambush th’ St. John forces.”
Mac shook his head. “They dinna look tae be common bandits, though they were a might scruffy and worn about th’ armors and steeds. But they did appear tae be followin’ th’ St. John soldiers.”
Roger gazed at his brother a lengthy moment, trying to determine what was transpiring upon the rich earth of his beloved territory. He wasn’t entirely surprised with the incursion of the St. John soldiers considering the missive he had delivered to Eden a few days ago, but he was increasingly concerned with the mysterious second army in apparent pursuit. Clearly, it made no sense whatsoever and he rose from his chair, pacing the floor in pensive silence.
Mac observed his brother with lagging impatience, trying to determine the man’s thoughts and speculations. Roger was usually quite secretive with his plans and ideals, but Mac was certain they were pondering the very same options at this moment.
The English had invaded their turf.
“Macky,” Roger said after an endless span of deep thought. “We canna have th’ English fightin’ their wars on our soil. If th’ second army means tae do th’ St. John harm, then we canna allow it.”
“Agreed. Do we ride after them?”
Roger nodded faintly, scratching his stubbled cheek. “We do. But only tae determine th’ situation, not tae cast our army inta the middle of an English battle. If they plan tae do fightin’, we shall chase ’em homeward. They’ll not destroy my Galloway.”
Smelling the invigorating scent of an approaching battle, Mac couldn’t help the faint smile that touched his lips. Ever-ready for the feel of a sword and mace in his hand, he looked forward to the potential skirmish even if Roger was clear that their presence should be neutral, not combative. Once the first arrow was launched, it didn’t matter if their intentions were neutral or not.
“Shall I mount th’ men?” he asked his older brother.
Roger nodded, still partially absorbed in thought. “Mount ’em immediately. We must pursue the foolish Sassenach tae see what they are up tae.”
Turning on his heel, Mac vacated the solar with an aura of purpose. Roger glanced at his younger brother as the man faded from view, knowing his hot-headed soul was itching for a proper fight. But knowing, just the same, that a fight would be avoided at all costs. Unless, of course, it was in defense of his St. John relations.
Roger pondered the matter of defending the St. John army from their secretive pursuers, the more encouraged he became at the prospect of lending aid to his distant kin. Coupled with his willing deliverance of Christian St. John’s missive, the added support of armed assistance would further substantiate his willingness to reestablish clan ties with his English cousins. Mayhap then Jean St. John would realize the value of his remote Douglas kith, enough to willingly explore the possibilities. Enough to re-secure family ties after generations of separation.
Roger suddenly found himself agreeing with his brother. Mayhap there would be the added event of a skirmish – to aid the St. Johns against their adversaries.
A call to arms. Kin to kin.
*
Nothing had been touched. Christian could hardly believe his eyes as he wandered about their encampment, inspecting every sack of stored grain and every lug of the wagon’s wheels. Even the ox had been left tethered beside the stream in a patch of knee-high summer grass. Surrounding their sod-house lodged deep into the Wood, everything remained as it should.
As they had left it.
Gaithlin smiled smugly as Christian paced about, examining every miniscule inch of their cozy home. Not a thread moved, not a grain of wheat shifted. All was as it should be and Christian could scarcely comprehend that his wife had been correct in her assessment of the dog-people’s character.
“Are you satisfied that my judgment was true?” she asked confidently as he examined their food stores in the small alcove off the main room.
Emerging from the room, bent severely at the waist due to his excessive height, Christian nodded in agreement. “Good Christ, I can hardly believe my eyes. Nothing is disturbed in the least.”
Moving from her arrogant stance resting against the doorjamb, Gaithlin put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him soundly. “As I told you. Mayhap there is hope for our neighbors, after all.”
“Or mayhap they understood the length of my blade far better that your logical reasoning,” he couldn’t resist jabbing at her cocky manner.
Gaithlin cast him a threatening gaze, yelping with delight as he swatted her backside. Moving out into the late afternoon sunlight caressing their familiar clearing with a fading warmth, Christian held his wife’s hand tightly as his eyes roved the area in thought.
“I suppose we should grind the grain for the bread I promised Malcolm,” he said, his mind moving from their untouched possessions to the chores that lay ahead. “Considering we were rightfully distracted yesterday morn, we never did get around to preparing the necessary flour.”
Deliriously happy and content, Gaithlin snuggled against her husband’s magnificent torso. “Nay, dearest, we made love instead. Far more satisfying.”
He grunted, a joyful grin tugging at his lips. “For you and I. But I doubt Malcolm shares our opinion.”
As if on cue, Malcolm came through the trees bearing the ox on a long rope. Speaking to the animal as if it was capable of understanding him, he led the beast to a sturdy tree and tied him tightly. Moving forth to his chores of watering and feeding the animal, Christian and Gaithlin watched him with a good deal of settling contentment.
“He’s a hard worker,” Christian observed with satisfaction. “He’ll be a great knight someday.”
Gaithlin smiled as she watched the young lad with the rapidly filling-in scalp. “My mother will love him. She’s always wanted a son.”
Christian sighed faintly as he watched the lad groom the ox for parasites, his thoughts turnings towards the deeply sinister implications that had plagued him since the day he had decided to marry Gaithlin de Gare. Now that he had finally wed his most hated enemy, the dissenting factors seemed to be gaining strength and weight with each passing moment. The more he held Gaithlin in his arms, the more intoxicating his adoring emotions became. And the more desperate his anxieties loomed.
The Feud. He had married her to end the hostilities, to forge a peaceful link. But the further time progressed, the more he wondered if his motives had been entirely reasonable. Good Christ, his father was so completely embroiled in his hatred for Alex de Gare that Christian was more apt to believe that he would be unwilling to accept such a peace overture than he would be agreeable to put all differences aside.
Christian knew, factually, that Jean’s inbred loathing of the de Gare name sustained him more than food or drink or inherent breathing ever could. Clearly, there was only one way to determine the course his future would take; he must return to Eden and inform his father of his actions and his intentions and stand his ground as Jean raged and cursed and ranted to the very heavens.
Yet even as he exposed himself to the wrath that he would surely endure, it was of the utmost importance to maintain Gaithlin’s safety until such a time as she could be carefully introduced to her new relatives. If such a time would ever come.
Aye, Christian knew he must return home as soon as possible, but he was terribly reluctant to give up the life of ease and peace that he had come to adore within the greenery of the Galloway territory. Life was safe here, a blissful utopia away from the true harshness the Feud had to offer. A protective hideaway from the realities he would be forced to endure eventually.
Good Christ, how he was reluctant to face those realities. How he would love to hide far away from the brutal truth for the rest of his life. But it was not in his nature to hide from the verity of the circumstance, no matter how easy it would be to slide into the depths of oblivion with his new wife and adopted son.
Truly content for the first time in his life, Christian began to realize with sickening certainty that there was no Paradise to be had on the face of the earth. There was never a true balance between contentment of the soul and contentment of physical realities. Everything in life that was desired or needed had to be struggled for.
“What are you thinking?” Gaithlin’s sultry voice was quiet, deliciously soft.
Breaking from his train of thought, he smiled into her beautiful face. “Nothing of import,” he lied. “Shall we grind the flour? We can use the old pestle and stone we found buried with the other debris on the day of our arrival.”
She nodded, allowing him to lead her across the compound towards their shelter while against the tree, Malcolm picked mites off the ox’s thick skin. “Surely the village has a mill,” she said as he entered their shack in search of the necessary equipment. “Why don’t we pay them to grind our grain into flour?”
He shrugged. “We could, of course,” he knelt before their collection of supplies and equipment. “I purchased whole grain instead of unsifted flour because the grain can be used a variety of ways. However, I suppose we could delegate a good portion of the grain to be ground into flour. Providing we can keep it free of pests and vermin.”
Gaithlin watched him in the dimness of their hut, observing the muscles of his back flex beneath his thin tunic as her uncharacteristically dreamy thoughts drifted to the events of the previous day.
Their wedding night had been a peculiar quagmire of stolen kisses and desperate lust displayed in the midst of a common abbey room, certainly not an ideal situation for a newlywed couple. As Malcolm slept peacefully a few feet away, Gaithlin and Christian had lain awake most of the night, touching discreetly and struggling against their powerful passion.
Christian had even tried to recite passages of his own composition to her to further distract them from the ardor, but his literary talents had the opposite effect and only served to excite his wife further. Although he abruptly realized he had a powerful erotic tool in Gaithlin’s regard for his scholarly skill, it was with painful irony that he shut his mouth in favor of easing her passionate fire. Even when she begged for more, he refused to utter a sound and cursed himself for his damnable sense of self-control. Exceedingly misplaced on his wedding night, he mused bitterly.
Somewhere during the darkened hours, however, Gaithlin had eventually given up on her heated discomfort and drifted off into a fitful sleep. In spite of the three other occupants of the common room and Malcolm’s resting form nearby, she had nonetheless awoken before dawn to Christian’s mouth on her breast, stoking her dormant fires into instant blaze beneath the mounds of fur and woolens.
So much for her husband’s superior sense of self-control. Biting off her groans of pleasure, she had struggled to keep silent as his wicked mouth lapped her tender nipples while his thick fingers tenderly explored between her legs. Gaithlin had stifled her screams on the musty wool as he probed her with two fingers, stroking in and out of her glistening flesh as his teeth nibbled her tender breasts.
His eager attentions had proved to be too much for the eager new groom. He was far too overcome with his own insidious passion and regardless of their potential audience, was determined to make love to his new wife. Removing his experienced fingers, he had mounted her silently under the mounds of material, praying he would be able to control his vocal passions as he drove into her quivering flesh as discreetly as he could manage.
In faith, there was a distinct measure of excitement in making love to his wife in front of a host of sleeping travelers. Almost as if he was taunting the odds of discovery, enough to add an explicit measure of erotic thrill to their actions. Turning onto his side, he had pulled Gaithlin’s leg over his hip so that they were lying side-by-side as he continued his measured thrusts. Between the giggles of their wicked endeavor and the pants of their inherently lusty natures, both Christian and his new wife found their release within a matter of a few short moments. And Malcolm, as with the rest of the room, had slept through it.
Gazing at her husband’s rich honey-blond head as he rummaged through their possessions, Gaithlin could not help but smile at the thought of their marriage and subsequent wedding night. Of everything she ever imagined her union to be, it had thus far proven to be beyond the scope of her wildest dreams.
“We were terribly wicked last night,” she knelt beside him, her cheek on his shoulder and her fingers in his hair. “What do you suppose Lady Dervorgilla would have said to our tryst in the common room of her abbey?”
Christian snorted humorously as he located the mortar. “As if she has never done such a thing before,” he said patronizingly. “Surely she did not expect that I would wait to claim my wife until I had quit the walls of her pristine abbey.”
Gaithlin laughed softly, watching his silken hair as it poured through her fingers. He was so incredibly handsome. With a gentle sigh, she continued to play with his beautiful locks in the weak light. “Are you happy, Christian?”
He nodded as he came across the pestle. “Happier than I have ever been. And you?”
She sighed again, dreamily, as she continued to rake her fingers through his hair. “I have never known true happiness in my entire life. Now that I have come to know the feeling, I don’t ever want to be without it.”
He put the large flat stone and pestle to the floor, turning to pull his wife into his arms. Seated on his bottom, she straddled his lap with the greatest of pleasure and contentment.
“You won’t ever be without it,” he promised softly, watching her exquisite features as she toyed with his hair. “And I promise that you will never be without me.”
Fingering his silken locks, she met his ice-blue gaze. “But what of the Feud? You said that you planned to return immediately after our wedding to inform your father of your actions,” sighing pensively, she wound her arms possessively around his thick neck. “I am frightened, Christian. Frightened of what he might do to you in his anger.”
Thoughts and suspicions Christian had been wrestling with for days. But he could not allow her to see the true extent of his concern; for her own sake, she had to believe that the situation was not as bad as Christian believed it to be.
“You mustn’t worry,” he forced a smile. “My father will see reason. As will your mother.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “I have inherited my stubborn nature from my mother. Mayhap she won’t be reasonable after all.”
He made a face. “Good Christ, if she is anything like you, then I have no doubt that I shall have to beat her into submission.” When Gaithlin laughed softly in agreement, he kissed her beautiful teeth impulsively. “Not to worry, honey. I shall return you to Winding Cross before making my trek back to Eden to tell my father what I have done. You will be safe within the walls of your own keep while I force my father to come to reason.”
Her smile faded as she gazed wistfully into his magnificent face. “But what if he doesn’t come to reason, Christian. What then?”
His smile faded as well. “Then we shall flee to a safe haven. Some place where the St. Johns and the de Gares can never harm us again.”
As the uncertain future became a bit clearer, Gaithlin seemed to relax somewhat. It was obvious that she trusted him implicitly and for that, he was deeply grateful. He needed the support of her trust.
“As you say,” she said, pulling his face into the crook of her neck. Although her body conveyed nothing but calm, resigned trust, the expression illuminated by the weak light was distinctly apprehensive. Even if Christian was convinced that there was naught to worry over, she couldn’t seem to help her deep-rooted apprehension. “Mayhap we shall return to Scotland to live. I love it here.”
He squeezed her tightly, smelling her delicious skin and savoring the feel of her exquisite body against him. Straddled over his thighs and groin, it was inevitable that her position should wreak a measure of distracting eroticism into his preoccupied mind and he growled softly, running a huge hand down her torso as his concerns and anxieties faded for the moment. Grazing the side of her breast with his tender touch, he moved down her waist and began to fumble with her skirts.
She melted against his touch, succumbing to him instantly. He managed to maneuver his way amongst the yards of fabric and drag his palm up her long, silken thigh in search of his true goal. Focusing on the wet heat beckoning his eager fingers, Christian sank his teeth deep into his wife’s neck when she groaned softly in response to his probing touch.
“Merciful Heavens, Christian,” she moaned weakly as his fingers stroked her mindless. “Will it always be like this? Will each touch always be as magnificent as the first?”
Lips on her neck, he thrust two fingers deep into her honeyed sheath. “Always, my sweetest Gae. It will become better with time.”
Her hips moved against him with her usual aggression, unhindered and unimpeded within the embrace of her husband’s loving touch. Moaning deep with her sultry, seductive tonality, she threaded desperate fingers through his long hair. “Speak to me, Christian,” she breathed. “Let me hear more of your delicious words.”
He could scarcely breathe much less recite something he had written. Knowing how much his intellectual words inflamed her, however, he struggled to recall some of his more potent works to further enhance her lusty pleasure. God only knew, she was already enhancing his.
“ ‘The Fruits of Seduction are best savored raw.
As with the first savory bite of the ripened morsel,
the sensual juices of provocation
contain a plethora of ill-restraint.
The more tasted, the greater the Need.’ ”
Gaithlin groaned loudly as he finished, the last several words muffled against the tender flesh of her shoulder. Grinding her hips against his thrusting hand, she yanked brutally on his silken hair with the unending stress of her desire. “More, Christian. Tell me more.”
He grunted in response to her frenzied reaction, removing his fingers and pushing her onto her back. Raising her skirts, he drove into her quivering flesh with unbridled force. With every thrust, every beat of his heart, he drew her more deeply into his soul than ever before. Needing her more desperately than he ever thought possible. Good Christ, how she possessed him!
“Greater is the passion known…,” he rasped, thrusting so hard that her entire body shook violently with his strength, “by any standard of being.” Withdrawing slowly, he thrust again, hard enough to rattle her teeth. “To reap the rewards of the Passion sewn…,” Withdrawing again, he thrust himself to the hilt. “Is beyond the limits of Seeing.”
Gaithlin screamed again as a violent tide of euphoric convulsions washed over her body, rippling through her sheath and sending Christian over the edge of the erotic void. He shouted softly as he spilled himself deep, her delightful name wafting on his satisfied cry. Panting and spent and entirely content, he collapsed atop her incredible body to bask in the musky warmth of their powerful love.
“Good Christ, Gae,” he gasped. “Do my words truly affect you so?”
Weak and satisfied, Gaithlin clutched him tightly to her breast. “Aye, my dearest Demon, they do and I can hardly explain why. ’Twas an amazing discovery we happened upon last night in the midst of the abbey’s common room.”
He cocked an eyebrow, gazing into the dimness of their shack. “Had I known they would inspire you so, I would have plied you with a bevy of elegant prose the very day we met. Mayhap we could have avoided all of the battles and harsh occurrences.”
She pursed her lips dubiously. “I doubt we would have calmed if St. Peter himself had descended from Heaven to read us strains from the Psalms.”
He smiled faintly in agreement, listening to her heart thump loudly against her chest. After a moment, he raised his head to meet her beautiful gaze. “As I recall, several days ago I orated a poem I wrote specifically for you, yet you hardly reacted in such an erotic manner.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “And, if you recall, I was hardly in a position to react at all. Not only was I in pain, but I believe you were attempting to poison me.”
He chucked softly. “A tiny measure of opiate can hardly be considered poison, you silly woman. Besides, it helped, did it not?”
She shrugged in agreement and he kissed her sweetly, withdrawing his semi-aroused member from her snug sheath. Groaning with disappointment, Gaithlin wrapped her long legs about him in a valiant attempt to keep him from escaping.
“Where are you going?” she demanded, her voice sultry and pleading. “Stay here and recite some more of your works.”
He didn’t struggle overly against her embrace; in fact, a calloused palm was taking great delight in stroking her silken thigh as he spoke. “Honey, as much as I would love to bombard you with my writings day and night until you beg reprieve, we have work to do. There will be plenty of time for recitation this eve.”
Her lower lip jutted out. “But Malcolm will be here. We shall wake him.”
He cocked an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips. “What’s this you say? That you believe Malcolm will encumber your passion? My, my, how selfish. You think only of yourself.”
He laughed deeply when she swatted his arm, releasing him from her leggy embrace. Incensed and embarrassed as she heard her own distinct words echoed within his rich baritone, she pulled her skirts down and bound clumsily to her feet in a fit of good-natured humiliation. Yet before she could move away entirely, he moved to stand and captured her within the vise of his iron embrace.
“You selfish wench,” he kissed her playfully, nibbling on her jaw as he continued to taunt her. “You naughty, naughty girl. You would have me abed day and night, reciting prose for your pleasure without thought to my own wants and needs. How terribly cruel. How…!”
A shout suddenly pierced the air outside the shelter, bringing an immediate response from Christian. Throwing open the ancient door, he was greatly concerned to find Malcolm bounding toward him.
“I found somethin’!” the lad shouted. “Come ’n see!”
“What did you find?” Christian demanded.
Malcolm didn’t reply; instead, he grasped Christian’s hand and tugged furiously. “Come on!”
Glancing over his shoulder at an equally puzzled Gaithlin, Christian’s initial anxiety faded as he allowed Malcolm to lead him across the clearing towards a particularly thick scrub of bramble. Releasing the massive knight, the lad pointing enthusiastically into the bush. With another long and perhaps reluctant glance at his wife, Christian peered into the branches.
Two wide pairs of eyes gazed back at him through the shrubbery. Christian would have been startled had the eyes not been a fair distance from him, one set particularly familiar. Upon closer scrutiny, he could see that a small area within the brush had been gouged out; a cluster of unrefined rushes covered the ground upon which the wide-eyed bodies crouched, and a host of scattered implements littered the area.
After several long moments of observation and thought, Christian turned to his wife with a furrowed brow. “Come and look at this, honey. Tell me what you think.”
Somewhat hesitantly, Gaithlin moved forward and peered into the bushes. After the initial shock of finding two sets of eyes gazing back at her, she gasped softly in understanding and, Christian thought, delight.
“They’ve built a nest,” she said softly, straining to catch a better look amongst the leaves. “I never thought they would, at least not this close to our shelter.”
Christian cocked an eyebrow. “Then I was correct in deducing that your dog-people have decided to move into our area.”
Gaithlin nodded, pulling back from the bushes. “I told you they would come to trust us.”
“I don’t care if they trust us or not. I am not comfortable with them living in such close proximity to our possessions.”
“Why is that? Haven’t they proven themselves trustworthy by leaving our camp untouched while we were away?”
He let out an irritated sigh, puffing out his cheeks. Turning away, he simply shook his head. “Why would they suddenly decide to move closer to us? If they have lived alone all of these years, then why..?”
“Because I lured them,” Gaithlin said without a hint of guilt. When Christian fixed his disbelieving gaze on her, she nodded firmly. “Before we left for Sweetheart Abbey, I set out a hearty portion of food. Partially to distract them from our other goods and partially to reaffirm the trust I attempted to establish the day you caught the dog-man. I was trying to show our good intentions.”
He stared at her a long moment before scratching his head in an almost bewildered gesture. The more he thought on her inherently naive actions, the more frustrated he became. “Why would you do this? First Malcolm, and now the dog-people. When will this stop, Gae? When you have given our food and possessions away to every needy person in the territory? What about us, then? Will you continue to give away everything until there is nothing left, even for us?”
Her cheeks mottled red with anger and resentment. Averting her gaze, she attempted to march past him but he reached out, grasping her arm in a vise-like grip. Furious, she broke his grasp, slugging her big fist at him when he attempting to regain his hold.
“Leave me alone,” she spat. “You simply don’t understand. You have always had everything you have ever needed, Christian. You have no idea what it’s like to be hungry and cold and terrified.”
His irritation was dashed by rush of genuine remorse, knowing the circumstances that had bred her natural giving instincts. Poverty, desolation… they had been her constant companion for twenty-two years and he knew as he lived and breathed that the House of St. John was responsible for all of her heartache.
She was right; he had always been provided with all he had ever needed. He could only imagine her experiences with impoverishment and by taking care of those around her in need, she was simply doing what she had been forced by necessity to accomplish her entire life.
“I am sorry, honey,” he whispered, grasping her arms as she struggled. “I am sorry I was harsh. Do not be angry… you’re entirely correct, of course. I do not know what it is like to be hungry or fearful or cold and I apologize for my ignorant statement.”
Her wrestling lessened with his calm words, his gentle expression. But she was still angry. “I lured the dog-people here because I want to provide them with food, and mayhap someday even teach them to communicate. They’re human, Christian, like us. No one should be forced to live an as animal.”
He sighed, feeling like a fool for having been so insensitive to her caring beliefs. Pulling her into a crushing embrace, he was relieved when she collapsed against him.
“Of course, honey love. Whatever you say. I shall never again question your generosity or kindness.”
Enclosed within Christian’s massive embrace, Gaithlin drew strength and comfort and solace from his powerful presence. In faith, she shouldn’t have become angry with him for being more fortunate than she; but given the circumstances and his callous words, she simply couldn’t help herself. If they were going to create a workable marriage, then he would have to understand everything about her. Even the less-than-pleasing things instinctive to a woman who had known little of the pleasantries of life.
“See that you don’t,” she removed her face from his tunic, glaring weakly at him. “Even if you are more learned, I know best.”
He nodded solemnly. “Aye, you do.”
Managing a weak smile as Malcolm, tired of the interplay between the knight and his lady, suddenly demanded to be fed, Gaithlin wound her arms about her husband’s narrow waist and led him towards the sod shelter lodged deep into the Galloway Forest.
Sup that night was a wonderful meal of roast rabbit, courtesy of Christian and Malcolm, and a fine stew of some of the vegetables they had purchased in town the day before. Seated before the campfire as it blazed deep into the Scots night, Gaithlin leaned contentedly against her husband as he finished the last of his greasy rabbit. On the opposite side of the fire, Malcolm had nearly eaten a whole rabbit himself and continued to chip away at the vegetable stew.
Comfortable and weary, Gaithlin observed the contest between Christian and Malcolm as they set out to determine who could consume the most food. Although Christian had a substantial lead on the boy, Malcolm was nonetheless holding his own. Giggling between bites as Christian snorted like a pig, the young lad continued to eat as if he had two hollow legs in which to store his fare.
Out in the darkness beyond the range of the campfire, the dog-man and his wife crouched several feet from the booming fire, eating the bits of bread and meat Malcolm had brought them. Gaithlin eyed them occasionally, wondering if they were so primitive that they feared the roaring fire and were therefore committed to remain in the cold darkness. Christian sensed her concern for her newest charity acquisitions, patting her leg when she appeared particularly pensive.
“They’ll warm up to you, honey,” he told her as she lingered on the two humanoid forms longer than usual. “Don’t worry so. As long as you continue to feed them, they’ll gradually come to trust you more and more. Actually, I doubt at this point we shall ever be rid of them.”
She shrugged, snuggling against him under the remarkably brilliant sky. “I hope so. It would be nice to be able to teach them to cultivate their own food. Mayhap they could even work for us someday and help us to grow crops.”
He didn’t voice his doubts or reservations in the matter, instead, returning his focus to Malcolm as the lad struggled to swallow a particularly large bite. “You’re slowing down, Malcolm. I have already eaten ten times as much as you.”
Malcolm’s eyes widened at the challenge. “Ye have not! Besides, I am still eatin’!”
Gaithlin smiled faintly, shaking her head. “Christian, he cannot eat any more. He’s going to vomit.”
Christian grinned broadly, pulling Gaithlin into his powerful, playful embrace. “Ha! Then I am the victor, and to the victor goes the spoils!” With that, he growled like a bear and nibbled Gaithlin’s ticklish neck until she squealed.
Malcolm choked down the bite, frowning at the interaction between Christian and Gaithlin. “Tha’s not fair! I canna have her, anyway. Even if I win!”
“Of course you cannot have her,” Christian said, ignoring Gaithlin’s weak giggles and pleas for release. “She’s mine. But should you ever win a contest between us, then you are free to choose your own spoils. Whatever it may be.”
Malcolm’s eyes widened. “Anythin’?”
“Anything.”
The lad thought heavy on the possibilities, a gleeful smile coming to his lips. “Then I shall win th’ next contest. An’ I can pick me prize.”
Christian returned the boy’s smile as Gaithlin pulled herself from his embrace, rising to stand on weary legs. “I must fetch the water for cleaning the dishes,” she said softly, scooping up the smaller iron pot they used for their water needs. “I shall be a moment.”
“Malcolm can do that,” Christian said, gesturing to the boy. “Give him the pot, Gae. Let him get the water.”
She shook her head, moving away from the heat and warmth of the bonfire. “I need to walk, Christian. I am absolutely exhausted and I need to finish my supper chores before I can retire. Truthfully, I shall just be a minute to the stream.”
Christian sighed reluctantly but allowed her to continue, winking boldly when she blew him a tender kiss. Watching her light-blue figure as it faded into the darkness, his warrior instincts were suddenly highly attuned to the noise and atmosphere of the area. Protecting his wife even as she wandered towards the nearby brook to gather her water.
The night was calm and still as Christian’s piqued ears deciphered every sound and snap; in fact, he felt himself growing rather complacent in his sentry duties until the dog-people suddenly let out a startling series of whoops. Rising from the pile of bones that had constituted their meal, they abruptly made mad haste towards the hovel of their nest.
With rising concern, Christian watched the two dark figures dance across the clearing, sniffing the air like a pair of crazed animals. Although the dog-man had exhibited such antics once before for apparently no reason, Christian was nonetheless uneased by their skittish behavior. More skittish than normal.
Rising to his feet, Christian could no longer see his wife; she had disappeared into the trees that shielded the bubbling brook from view. The moon above was bright, casting a faint silver glow about the landscape as he peered into the darkness in an ineffectual attempt to catch a reassuring glance of her rapid return. Seeing no such movement, he couldn’t help but call out to her as the dog-people continued to whine and bay.
“Gae?”
After an eternal moment, her faint reply came wafting back on the chill night air. “I am coming!”
Mildly satisfied, he maintained his watchful position as Malcolm succumbed to an exhausted sleep in front of the crackling blaze. Attempting to disregard the continued yelps of his newest neighbors, he waited impatiently for his wife to return from the brook.
The water was noisy, barely lit through the cover of dense canopy above. Gaithlin had recently answered her husband’s call, guessing his apprehensive cry had something to do with the dog-people’s sudden barking fit. Mayhap Christian had upset them and required her calming influence, she mused dryly. Or mayhap they had attacked him while his back was turned and tied him to a tree, just as he had done to the male.
Giggling at the thought of Christian tied to a Scot pine at the mercy of two canine-like humans, she dipped the iron pot deep into the brook. Taking care not to stir up any silt, she waited patiently as the pristine water filled her little pot to the very brim. Around her, the night was still and calm and her thoughts began to wander to the ensuing eve within the enclosure of Christian’s wonderful embrace.
Absolutely, she would insist he recite more prose. He was magnificent with his literate talents and she could hardly describe the arousal it brought upon her. Only knowing that his rich, deep voice enveloping each word of passion and delight brought waves of desire she had never before experienced. A world she wanted deeply to know, more and more with each passing moment. A world where she and Christian would come to discover more about each other than any man had ever known a woman. A world where she was happier than she had ever been.
Pot filled, she rose from the creek, still lingering on her warm, delicious thoughts as she turned for the camp. Still pondering her own giddy fortune and the myriad of foolish thoughts that accompanied it, she was surprised to come face to face with a broad, armored chest directly in her path.
The pot fell to the ground as Gaithlin let out a gasp of shock and terror. Staring back at her were a pair of unfamiliar brown eyes; they, too, were wide with obvious surprise.
“Christ,” the knight rasped. “It is you!”
Mouth hanging agape in surprise, Gaithlin was incapable of responding to his peculiar utterance. But as quickly as the knight’s astonishment appeared, it was vanished, and a great mailed glove reached out to grasp her cruelly by the arm. All around her, the trees suddenly came alive with soldiers and men in armor.
Gaithlin rapidly moved beyond shock to complete, utter panic. Opening her mouth to scream, she was cut short by a sharp, forceful pain to the back of her head and before another coherent thought could form, the entire world about her went to black.