CHAPTER TEN
Since the whistling wind seemed inclined to approach from the west, Christian patched the western wall first. Spattered with gray, clayish mud, he and Malcolm made steady work between repairing the wall and returning to the stream for more materials. In fact, they made an efficient pair and Malcolm seemed to be gradually overcoming his fear and jealousy of the English warlord.
Working side by side with the massive man, he endeavored to complete his task with excellence; he was eager to hear a word of praise from the knight. A gesture of male kindness he had never known, yet an instinctive need for the display all the same. When he stopped hating the man long enough, he realized he very much wanted to be like the Englishman; tall, strong and completely skilled in all he attempted.
Christian knew the boy’s longing all too well. His father had been short on praise, quick to condemn or correct. Watching Malcolm mimic his movements as he spread the clay, or observing the lad’s eager disposition as they trekked to the creek for more mud, only served to remind him of his own discontented childhood. Thrust from an unappreciative father into a fostering household of those unconcerned with his mental stability had been nothing of a shock. He had simply learned not to depend on praise or approval to satisfy his ego.
Instead, the lack of support had forced him to strive for an inner perfection impervious to praise or scorn of any kind. He was only concerned with his own standards, not those of others, including his father. When his reputation had been solidified at a very young age, he found himself well beyond the delight of his father’s pride. Jean was only concerned how the rest of England viewed him as the father of the Demon; his true concern had never been in his son’s achievements, only family honor.
Watching Malcolm work his little hands raw brought back the pain of the familiar young lad with a sickly mother and an insensitive father. And because he knew the pain so well, somehow he was determined that Malcolm not be subjected to the same anguish.
So he lavished praise on the boy for a job well done, casting Gaithlin a knowing wink now and again as she helped keep the mud wet. The more he praised, the harder Malcolm worked. Even when the sun set and Gaithlin lit two oil lamps so they could make sense of the darkness, Malcolm continued to work as if he had no intention of stopping.
The night progressed and an exhausted Gaithlin was reduced to sitting on an upended stump, wrapped in Christian’s cloak and yawning profusely as Malcolm and Christian continued their important work.
“If th’ rain comes, won’t it wash away th’ mud?” Malcolm wanted to know, smeared from head to toe with gray muck.
Christian finished patching a particularly large hole. “I do not expect it to rain tonight,” he said confidently. “Tomorrow, we shall begin digging up heaps of sod to cover the walls, and the sod shall protect the mud from the rain.”
Malcolm’s brow furrowed. “But how will th’ sod stick?”
Christian gazed down at the boy, an uncharacteristically gentle smile on his face. “We shall keep the mud damp, which shall cause the sod to stick. Eventually, the roots from the grassy sod shall dig into the mud and anchor it to the walls.”
Malcolm nodded seriously. “How d’ ye know this, Englishman?”
“Because it’s been done for centuries,” he replied, rinsing his hands in the smaller pot that Gaithlin had filled with clear water. “Don’t tell me that there aren’t any sod houses around here.”
Malcolm shrugged, running his hands slowly over the smooth mud. “There arna’ many houses in th’ Wood.”
On her perch, Gaithlin yawned again and interrupted their conversation. “It’s late, Christian. Malcolm needs to sleep.”
Christian cast her a glance, wiping his hands on his tunic to dry them. “What you mean to say is that you can hardly keep your eyes open any longer.”
She smiled sheepishly, sleepily, and his smiled broadened. Hands on his hips, he watched Malcolm swipe a last few strokes of mud before putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Enough for tonight, Malcolm. You have done a very fine job.”
Malcolm beamed, observing his work. “If we start early enou’ on the morrow, we shall finish by night.”
Christian nodded, scrutinizing the entire wall. “Indeed. However, Lady Gaithlin and I plan to go into Cree on the morrow which shall take up most of the morning. We shall finish the house when I return.”
Malcolm’s smile faded somewhat and he wiped his muddy hands on his tattered breeches. “I shall wait for ye.”
Rising from her stump, Gaithlin made her way over to the two muddy men. “But you’re coming with us to town, Malcolm.” She didn’t give a second thought to Christian’s massive arm beckoning her, and without hesitation she folded into his warm embrace. “I want to purchase some fabric to make Malcolm new clothes. Don’t you agree, Christian?”
His arm wound about her shoulders, Christian gazed down into her deep blue eyes. “Truthfully, I hadn’t thought on any other purchases beyond buying our supplies and a new pair of boots to replace your worn ones.”
Tucked against Christian’s torso, she smiled. “But Malcolm has completed a hard day’s work for you. Hard work that is worth a new pair of hose and a tunic, I should think.”
Christian continued to gaze at her, matching her smile. After a moment, he pecked her tenderly on the end of her pert nose. “Your wisdom and foresight awes me, my lady. Malcolm shall indeed have new clothing in payment for his services.”
Malcolm’s eyes were wide as he watched the two of them. “Wha’s wrong with me clothes?”
Christian and Gaithlin tore their eyes away from one another long enough to gaze at the scruffy young lad. From an orphan’s perspective, Malcolm believed his clothes to be perfectly livable and saw no need for “new” clothing. Christian cleared his throat softly and cast Gaithlin a long glance, silently inviting her to explain her intentions to the confused boy. With a slight wiggle of her eyebrows in response to his wordless summons, she knelt in front of the lad.
“Your clothes are well suited for a parentless child living in the wilds of Galloway,” she said evenly. “But as of this morn, you became an overlord to Sir Christian and I. And overlords wear finer clothing than mere peasants. Moreover, you accomplished a fine job today helping Sir Christian patch the shelter and we should like to repay you. Will you accept our payment?”
Malcolm blinked in thought, moving to pick his nose purely from habit. Gaithlin gently grasped his wrist, pulling the filthy appendage away from the equally filthy face as the boy pondered her words. “I… I kin do tha’,” he said after a moment, looking to Christian. “What do I git for me work tomorrow?”
Christian grunted as Gaithlin laughed softly, rising to her feet only to be captured once again by his massive embrace. “We shall discuss that when the time comes,” he replied. “For now, we must get a good night’s rest if we are to be ready for the town on the morrow.”
Malcolm nodded, racing around the edge of the shelter as Gaithlin and Christian collected the oil lamps. When they emerged from the west side of the shack into the clearing, the entire area spread before them was completely still and silent. Malcolm had utterly disappeared.
“Malcolm?” Gaithlin called softly.
Even Christian looked about for the boy, wondering where he could have vanished to so quickly. Ducking into their hut, he could see quite clearly that Malcolm was not inside. Setting the oil lamp onto the floor beside their bedding, he re-emerged from the small shelter.
Gaithlin was standing by a cluster of bushes, holding the lamp high as if to peer into the cloaking darkness. Christian went to her, gently grasping her arm.
“He is not inside, Gae,” he said softly. “He must have dashed home. Come along, now. You’re tired.”
“He does not have a home, Christian,” she said, her voice laced with concern. “I want him to sleep here, with us.”
He tugged at her, pulling her toward the shack. “Mayhap in time, honey. He is used to being alone and we mustn’t force him to accept our company.”
Reluctantly, she followed Christian to their little shack, casting a final glance over the dimly-lit landscape as he gently ushered her inside. Listening to the splintered door close behind them, she sighed heavily with sorrow. Christian eyed her as he moved to stoke the hearth, noting her slow movements as she shuffled towards their bed.
“He’ll be fine,” he said after a moment, stirring up the embers and hoping they wouldn’t catch the dry roof on fire. “You worry overly.”
She sighed again, settling her bottom on the woolen blanket covering the rushes. “He is just a little boy,” she said, her voice faint.
Christian moved from the hearth to his overladen saddle bags, kneeling down beside them as he began to rummage about. “He’s been living on his own for a long time, long enough to know how to keep himself safe and warm. In some ways, he’s not a young lad at all.”
She pondered his statement a moment, reluctant to admit that he made a certain amount of sense. Without another word, she toppled over onto her side amidst the musty wool and prickly boughs.
He smiled at her over his shoulder, knowing how concerned she was for the young boy. But he was convinced that he was correct about Malcolm; the lad had survived thus far without their help and it was obvious that he was heartily independent.
Moreover, Christian was else occupied with other concerns at the moment; he had business to attend to before he could retire at Gaithlin’s side and considering their conversation earlier in the day, he was constrained to concede the fact that he was reluctant to place himself so close to Gaithlin with the full knowledge that he had promised not to molest her until they were legally married. Even his control had its limitations, especially where it pertained to her.
Forcing his thoughts away from the torturous night that surely await him, he continued to dig about in his satchel. Eventually coming across the objects of his search, he drew them forth from the leather sack and lowered his bottom onto the floor, pulling the oil lamp closer.
Gaithlin, her eyes half-closed, watched him with as much curiosity as she could muster. “What are you doing?”
Christian carefully unwrapped what looked to be a book. Cut into squares, it was laced together with fine hide strips into a thick, sturdy pad and he drew back the cloth-bound wooden cover, exposing the vellum beneath. Near his thigh he had settled a quill and a wooden vial filled with dark liquid, both obviously well-used from the stains that plagued them.
“I am writing,” he said softly, carefully turning the pages until he found the place he had left off. “Go to sleep, honey. I shall be to bed shortly.”
Truthfully, Gaithlin was exhausted. But her curiosity was piqued by Christian’s material-bound album and she raised her head, attempting to gain a better look at his activities. Education, something she had never been exposed to in an organized sense, was a mysterious, fascinating thing and she was deeply impressed by Christian’s obvious schooling. It was almost enough to cause her to forget her fatigue.
“What are you writing?”
He dipped the long quill into the black ink, shaking off the excess. “Nothing that would concern you,” the air scratched with the strokes from his quill as he began to letter. After a moment, he realized Gaithlin was still watching him intently and he raised his eyes from the vellum, meeting with wide blue eyes.
He couldn’t help but smile at her blatant awe. “I shall only be a moment, truly. Go to sleep.”
She returned his smile, her respect for his talents obvious as she stared at his materials. “I did not know you could write. What do you write about?”
She was so genuinely curious that he lowered the quill in favor of gazing into her magnificent face. “Observations, mostly. I like to chronicle my day to day happenings, writing about events or feelings or politics. General items, really.”
“Are you writing about what has happened today?”
He snorted softly, with amusement. “I haven’t made an entry since I abducted you from St. Esk. To record what has happened since then would take weeks at best.”
With a bold wink, he resumed his quill and precisely scratched out several more letters. Gaithlin, however, was still propped up on one elbow, watching his movements closely. He was concentrating so directly on his words that he barely heard her sultry, sensual voice as it wafted upon the warm, musty air.
“You didn’t abduct me from St. Esk.”
He stopped mid-letter, her statement instantly sinking deep. Slowly, his ice-blue eyes came up to meet those of the deepest, most glorious blue.
“What?” he was barely audible.
Slowly, ever so easily, she lay back down to the dank wool and cold rushes. Her cat-like eyes glittered at him with a torrential tide of unleashed emotion. “You didn’t abduct me,” she repeated, softly. Gathering his cloak tightly about her shoulders, she turned onto her side, away from him. “I came willingly.”
He continued to stare at her, watching her torso heave gently as she attempted to find sleep. Quill still poised above the yellowed parchment, he couldn’t seem to refocus his eyes or his attention to the vellum in his lap. All he was capable of feeling, hearing or seeing at the moment was Gaithlin’s overwhelming presence.
The parchment was forgotten.
“How can you say that?” he whispered, uncertain if he were seeking a literal answer or not. “Since the moment I abducted you, you have known nothing but fear and cold and humiliation. I have shown you nothing but my supremacy in size and arrogance and pure might. And I have done nothing but force you to submit to my will.”
“You have shown me a good deal more,” her voice was barely audible as her wide eyes gazed at the darkened wall. “You have shown me a measure of life I never knew existed, Christian. And I thank you.”
His eyebrows rose slowly in astonishment. Laying the quill aside, he carefully set the diary to the dirt and crept on his knees towards the lanky, supine figure.
“Look at me, Gaithlin,” he said, placing his hand on her arm in a weak attempt to roll her onto her back. “Why would you thank me for showing you such brutality and hardship?”
The gentle tugging nonetheless accomplished his goal; Gaithlin rolled onto her back, gazing up at Christian in the dim firelight. A soft smile gently creased her ripe lips, drawing him deeper into her aura. As she had done so ably the very first time he had ever set eyes upon her, he found himself sucked into the vortex of the water nymph’s magic, unable to break free.
“This is not brutality and hardship,” her voice was a whisper. “It is freedom, Christian, like I have never experienced it.”
His expression was soft as he drank in her delectable features, seeing a depth to her character he hadn’t noticed before. A genuine appreciation of the simplest matters, willing to overlook the harshness in lieu of the positive. The emotion, the infant love he had so willingly given in to, filled him like the most potent narcotics and he found himself succumbing to her overwhelming spirit.
Suddenly, he was lying beside her, his massive thigh draped over her hips as his arms enclosed her torso. Their faces, inches apart, basked in expressions of awe and wonderment and discovery.
“Tell me what else you have experienced,” he whispered, wanting to hear her thoughts.
She smiled, touching his beautiful face. “Truthfully, I am not sure,” she replied huskily. “All I know is that I have been happier in the few days I have spent with you than I have ever been in my life.”
He smiled faintly, kissing her fingers as they drifted close to his lips. “Is that so? Even if I am the Demon of Eden?”
She returned his smile, a bit sheepishly. “You’re not so fearsome. I have beaten you once in a fight already.”
She giggled as he frowned. “You were given an unfair advantage. I did not expect to be blindsided in an abbey.”
“And I did not expect to be abducted within the protection of sanctuary.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You just finished telling me that I did not abduct you, that you were indeed a willing party.”
Her smile broadened as she snuggled up to him, closing her eyes against the reverent lips so sensually caressing her forehead. After a moment, her eyes opened, gazing into the dancing shadows of the room.
“I think I could be happy here forever, Christian,” she murmured.
His chin against her forehead, he kissed her again. “There is a good deal of peace and primitive charm,” he agreed. “But we shall have our own manse. Somewhere beautiful and serene.”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “Why would we have our own manse when you shall inherit Eden and I shall inherent Winding Cross? We only need one place to live.”
Christian grunted. “I fear my father shall live forever, so great is his dedication to the St. John cause. Moreover, I doubt your father will be entirely joyous for the Demon of Eden to inherit his keep. Most likely, he’ll burn it to the ground on his deathbed and laugh in my face for doing so.”
Gaithlin giggled, caught up in his sarcastic humor. Fatigue and tenderness comprised her thoughts at the moment and she simply wasn’t thinking when she formed her characteristically truthful reply. No matter how badly she wanted to preserve the de Gare mysteries, her foolish lips had other ideals.
“Impossible, Christian,” she snorted. “He has been dead for….”
With a jolting surge of horror, she caught herself before any more of the carefully-protected truth could come spilling from her lips. But the damage had been done; one word, blended into two, stirred into four… the gravity of her error was obvious.
Christian wasn’t a fool; he understood the gist of her sleepily-uttered statement before it had broken free of her giddy lips. He felt her stiffen; or mayhap, it was him who had tensed with shock. Whatever the case, he comprehended her words more deeply than he had ever understood anything in his life; an overwhelming astonishment that wrestled for his emotions and sanity. For a brief instant, he was torn between absolute disbelief and utter, mounting, all-consuming fury. His fury won over.
Before Gaithlin could draw another breath, Christian had her by both arms, his ice-blue eyes cutting her to shreds with their searing intensity. She could feel the agony as sharply as if he had driven a dagger into her very soul.
“He’s been what?”
Filled with terror, Gaithlin’s wide blue eyes met his blazing stare. Weakly, her head bobbed back and forth, struggling to control a situation that was rapidly reeling out of control. “I… he’s…”
“Dead?”
“I didn’t mean..!”
“Gaithlin, he’s dead?”
She cried out; his grip was so harsh on her upper arms that he had bruised her tender flesh. Instantly, he relaxed his grasp but continued to hold her tightly. Beyond a rational fear, Gaithlin’s eyes filled with tears and she instinctively turned away.
But he would have no part of her denial; roughly, he shook her, attempting to force her to meet his infuriated stare. “Answer me,” he snarled. “How long has he been dead?”
Bordering on panic and devastated by her own stupidity, a weak sob escaped her lips. Certainly, there was no use in denying what she had already confessed. He well understood the meaning of her stupidly uttered words and to refute their truth would only serve to perjure herself further.
Tears fell from her cheeks to the woolen blanket below. “Ten years.”
“Ten years!” Christian roared, leaping to his knees. “Good Christ, are you telling me that Alex de Gare has been dead for ten years?”
Released from Christian’s grip, Gaithlin rolled into a fetal position, sobbing pitifully. Christian stared at her, his expression laced with more disbelief and horror than he could scarcely begin to comprehend. White-lipped and white-knuckled, he struggled with every ounce of self-employed control to prevent himself from raging unchecked.
“Who have we been fighting, Gaithlin? Who has been behind Winding Cross’ defenses?” his voice was inherently low, quaking with emotion. “An uncle? A brother we were unaware of?”
Hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle her sobs, Gaithlin could only gasp with the struggle to bring forth a reply. Christian’s ashen face stared at her, unwilling to yield to his patience.
“Answer me,” he said. “Who have we been fighting all of these years if your father is dead?”
His demand was met with muffled sobs, piercing the still night air like the most powerful of daggers. Slicing, cutting, destroying all they touched. Christian’s heart was already smashed with the knowledge of secrets and humiliation or else the violent sobs would have destroyed that as well.
“Nay,” she finally gasped. “No brother. No man.”
“No man?” Christian was struggling against every emotion he had ever experienced, now muddled by the confusion of her statement. “What do you mean no man?”
She swallowed. There was nothing left for her to say. No excuse left to give. The secret was about to be released.
“My… my mother.”
Christian didn’t believe it was possible for him to feel any further astonishment; he was wrong. All of the amazement that saturated his soul with her honest reply settled deep, cleaving his torrential fury. He seemed to be incapable of feeling anything other than pure, simple, overwhelming shock.
His instinct was to quit the shelter, only to return when, and if, his calm was restored. But gazing at Gaithlin’s shaking body, he couldn’t seem to accomplish the necessary actions. She had confessed Winding Cross’ darkest secret, a slip though it might have been, and was understandably ashamed. Ashamed that she had been unable to contain the truth until she desired to use it against him.
A cold, calculating blanket of doom settled about Christian’s shoulders. It was an aching stench so powerful, so heady, that it nauseated him. Sickening him to the realization that Lady Gaithlin de Gare might not have been as naive as she appeared. A realization that, mayhap, she had been using him all along, playing to his sympathies so that he might forget his true directive in life – to quash the de Gares.
Good Christ, he had almost forgotten his motive. He wanted to forget his motive in lieu of a delicious future within his captive’s arms. She knew his wants.
God, he felt like a fool.
“Is there anything else you have neglected to tell me?” his voice was hoarse with emotion. “Tell me now, or God help me, you will not be pleased with my reaction should I discover it on my own.”
Sobbing abating, Gaithlin listened to the low rumble of his voice, never more terrified of anything in her life. Wiping at her face, she forced herself to calm; he had every right to be angry with her. Certainly, he had every right to feel the humiliation of the St. Johns as they discovered themselves to be matched against a woman.
Realizing there was nothing left for her to do but be completely honest about all else she had attempted to hide and pray the Demon’s mercy was a giving entity, she sat up on the rushes, turning to face him.
“I have no dowry,” she said, her sultry voice scratchy and faint. “Winding Cross has no money to speak of. We haven’t for years. The St. John blockades have managed to cut off the majority of our supply lines and we have hovered in the bowels of poverty since before I was born.” Taking a breath for courage and strength, she continued; she couldn’t bear to look at him. “All that is left of a once-powerful army are fifty men-at-arms and two knights; my mother took up arms ten years ago when my father was killed by a St. John arrow and has fought in his stead ever since.”
Christian watched her, feeling more confusion and grief than he ever imagined possible. A small army, led by a woman, had managed to hold off hordes of St. John soldiers for years. Had the situation not been so terribly shameful from a St. John standpoint, it would have been a most admirable feat. But it wasn’t so much the fact that a woman had routed Jean St. John and his mighty son; it was more the fact that Gaithlin had kept the information from him.
But in the same breath, he was fully cognizant that the Gaithlin de Gare he had come to know over the course of the past few days was a remarkably strong woman, full of bravery and wit and inner strength. Even in the face of her fear and humiliation, she had shown amazing fortitude. And she had always, always, been brutally honest in every sense of the word. Even when he did not want to know the truth.
Gazing into her beautiful, tense face, he could not honestly bring himself to believe that she had been keeping Alex’s death from him as some sort of secret weapon, a private joke she intended to enjoy alone. In faith, the disclosure of his death could only serve to weaken her cause and as he reflected on that thought, he came to realize that she had most likely withheld the information for that very reason.
She didn’t want the Demon to believe Winding Cross to be any weaker than it already was. Still, he had to know the truth. He had to hear it from her lips.
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” he asked hoarsely.
She shrugged weakly, staring at her hands. “I did not want you to know,” she whispered, bringing her gaze to meet his icy orbs. There were tears welling in the deep blue depths. “Why do you think I was so adamant that you not blackmail Winding Cross with my abduction? You would have discovered the truth of the matter, that there was no Alex de Gare to bargain with. With my father gone, what is left between Eden and complete victory? For the sake of my family’s honor, I had to maintain the illusion of de Gare strength for as long as I was able.”
He was still crouched on his haunches, watching her with rigid intensity. Good Christ, her reasoning was completely logical and he could hardly dispute her loyalties. Weak with an emotional turmoil such as he had never known, he sank to his buttocks, resting on the cold dirt floor. His expression, his entire demeanor, was laced with fatigue and confusion.
“When did you plan on telling me?” he finally asked. “I would have found out eventually.”
Cold and tired and utterly beaten, Gaithlin averted her gaze. “What does it matter? You know now that there is nothing left of Winding Cross. You are in possession of her heiress and soon your father will use me to blackmail my mother.” Weakly, she lay on her side again, away from him; Merciful Heavens, she could no longer bear to look at the man. “And I lied on another account, sire. My mother will indeed sacrifice Winding Cross to keep me safe. She will turn it all over willingly in the hopes that your father will spare my life. So, you see, Winding Cross was yours the moment you whisked me from St. Esk, whether or not you realized your feat.”
He stared at her, his face pallid in the weak light. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so defeated. He found he couldn’t reply to her statement, merely capable of dully gazing upon her horizontal form as she lay deathly still within the confines of their musty shelter. The discovered revelations and the ensuing emotional upheaval was almost too much for him to endure.
“I am sure you realize that there is no need to marry me any longer,” Gaithlin’s voice was a slurred whispered above the snapping embers. “I can bring nothing to this marriage, as you have already acquired Winding Cross. Pray be merciful in your judgment of my heritage and actions, Demon.”
He continued to gaze at her a moment longer. Gaithlin heard his joints pop as he rose from the floor, his soft boot falls as they crossed the room. The old door creaked open, then shut softly behind him.
Gaithlin lay there and wept.
*
Eden was certainly an appropriate name for the fortress labeled the Gem of Cumbria. Within the gray-stoned walls of the mighty fortress, there was music and laughter and food for all.
Certainly, the grand hall of Eden was greater than any house in the north. With two six-foot hearths filled to capacity with flaming embers, a collection of minstrels huddled in the open-beamed loft above, peppering the merry crowd of diners with their assortment of musical delights.
And none more merry nor more appreciative of the finery than Lady Margaret du Bois. Seated between Jean and Quinton, she was in the process of delightfully sucking the meat from a bone Quinton had offered her. Game fowl, her favorite, as her grunts of pleasure and giggles of contentment conveyed. Quinton was so aroused by her sucking noises that he had nearly soiled himself. Twice.
And Maggie knew of his excitement all too well; Quinton always had the same reaction to her, although he had refrained from forcing his attentions purely for the fact that she was pledged to his elder brother, whom he adored. Had she been anyone else’s betrothed, he would have bedded her repeatedly and taken great delight in it. As it was, watching her luscious red lips devour a tiny portion of fowl nearly drove him off the brink of lust-induced madness.
Jean pretended to ignore the sexual games going on between his younger son and his heir’s intended, weakly attempting to convince himself that Maggie was simply being true to her usual, over-affectionate character. Since the moment she had arrived this morn, unannounced and escorted by a company of Howard soldiers, Quinton had been completely blinded by her beauty and charm. He always had been. Jean wondered what the future held for two brothers both smitten with the same woman and tried not to dwell on the darker implications.
“Maggie darling,” he said finally, unwilling to allow the grunting and teasing to progress further lest Quinton be forced into irrational actions. “You have not yet mentioned the purpose of your visit. As I told you this morn, Christian is away on business for me and shan’t return for some time.”
Distracted from Quinton’s flushed face, Maggie’s expression was instantly serious. Wiping her fingers on a towel, she leaned close to Jean. Too close.
“And as I mentioned briefly, I am aware of Christian’s absence,” she said, her eyes suggestively roving the older man. “I believe I alluded to the fact that I was desperate to speak with you regarding your eldest son.”
Jean gazed down his nose at her, fighting the natural urge to put proper distance between them. She took great delight in her feminine skills, skills she used on her future father and brother-in-law with tremendous glee. Had she not come from such an unbelievably wealthy and prominent family, Jean would have thought her to be the precise essence of a soiled trollop. Certainly, he couldn’t think so poorly of Christian’s future wife. But, God, there were times….
“Would it be possible to retreat to your solar, my lord?” she asked prettily, batting her eyelashes. “What I say is most important and I do not wish to be interrupted.”
With every swish of the long-lashes, Jean felt as if he were being whipped by some unseen, force. Sometimes he didn’t know if he should laugh at her or run for his life; he wasn’t blinded by her as his sons were. To him, she was simply the means by which to link the St. Johns to greater power and wealth. But that didn’t omit the fact that he was human, and he didn’t want to be alone with her.
He drank from his pewter chalice, his eyes perusing the room even as Maggie gazed seductively at him. Down the table, Jasper St. John guffawed like a wild man as a host of young servant girls surrounded him, feeding his considerable ego and tactfully ignorant of his lacking smarts.
Jean watched his brother’s son a moment before swallowing his fine red wine, wondering if he would have been wiser to have wed the du Bois woman to his simpleton nephew. He would still have the fortune, but none of the direct linkage.
But whatever his regrets or lack of foresight where it pertained to Lady Maggie, he refused to ponder them now. Forcing himself to focus on the woman, he cast her a thin smile. “I believe we can speak quite adequately here,” he said. “No one will interrupt us, save Quinton, and I suspect he should like to hear what you have to say about his brother.”
Fully prepared to launch into her grand performance, Maggie graciously agreed to his reasoning and logic. Wresting to rekindle her courage, she drew in a deep, if not dainty, breath. She knew what she had to do. She had been waiting for this moment.
“As you say, my lord,” she said softly, glancing about the room filled with the stench of roasting meat and musty bodies as she collected her thoughts. “But I believe it only fair to warn you that you will not like what I have to say.”
“Is that so?” Jean was well into his third cup of wine. “Then I am amply fortified. Please continue.”
Making sure that Quinton was attentively hovering over her right shoulder, Maggie leaned inconspicuously towards Jean. “I saw Christian several days ago in the company of a woman,” she said softly. “A woman he claimed to be his captive.”
Jean’s tolerant expression vanished. No one save his sons and a few men-at-arms knew of Gaithlin de Gare’s capture, a delightful bit of blackmail he had been savoring for several days now. His greatest secret, lodged in the wilds of Scotland with his Demon Seed, never again to see the light of day as Jean played God with her family and future. A task he had taken particular sadistic glee in executing.
But his abduction of the de Gare wench had yet to become public knowledge; at least, he had been assured by his spies and officers that his secret was still intact. Until now; his eyes, blinding shards of Nordic blue, suddenly blazed at the woman beside him and for a brief moment, he could see the flicker of fear glimmering in her eyes. A glimmer that was far more satisfying than any sexual trick she could perform.
“How in the devil do you know this?” Jean’s voice was a growl. “Where did you see them?”
Maggie could feel Quinton’s body heat behind her; discreetly, she moved away from Jean and gently pressed herself into Quinton as if seeking protection from his father’s anger.
“Please, my lord, you must calm yourself,” she implored weakly. “There is far more to tell and you will send me into fits with your vicious temper.”
Temples throbbing, Jean saw though his haze of hatred clearly enough to know the verity of Maggie’s words. Forcing down his abhorrence when it came to the mere mention of the de Gare name, he took another swallow of wine with snappish patience.
“Speak, then.”
Maggie eyed the man, knowing well his enmity of the de Gares and not particularly surprised with his reaction. In fact, his instability when it came to his most hated foe would make her mission to exact revenge upon Christian that much easier. Already, she could taste the chaos she was about to create.
“Your son and his captive paused at Forrestoak Manor in the Howard Territories for a night of feasting and merriment,” she went on quietly, quickly. “Lady Carolyn and I happened to be at Forrestoak visiting Lady Carolyn’s brother, Kelvin, when Christian and the de Gare woman arrived. Truthfully, my lord, I will not mince words when I say that I was shocked to discover my intended with another woman, even if he did declare her to be his prisoner. And I was even more shocked with the manner in which they responded to one another. Certainly not how a captive should react to her captor.”
Stunned, Jean simply stared at her, unsure how to respond. Unsure if he wanted to know exactly what she meant. Confusion swept him, a momentary lapse that deadened his tongue. But when he waded through the befuddlement, he found he was better able to control his loathing towards the House of de Gare in lieu of discovering why Marble-Head Maggie found Christian’s behavior to be so reprehensible.
“And how did they respond to one another?” he asked.
Maggie made sure to meet his eye, delaying her answer as she settled more firmly against Quinton. A delicate white hand interlaced itself within the hearty folds of Quinton’s large palm, purely for effect. As if she were groping for the strength to confess.
“Like lovers.”
It wasn’t the answer Jean was expecting. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. After a moment’s deliberation, his brow furrowed and the color drained from his face. Maggie thought he, quite literally, might become ill.
“What… what do you mean?” he rasped.
Maggie felt the advantage swing heavily in her favor. Embellishing the part of the jilted betrothed, she dabbed daintily at her eye. “Exactly that, my lord. Christian fed her like a child, held her hand, smiled gently at her and even kissed her,” she took a deep breath. “And… and they shared a chamber. Dare that is all I tell you, my lord.”
Jean’s jaw swung open in disbelief. He was scarcely aware when he rose from his chair, knocking over the chalice of wine that had rested near the edge of the table. His ice-blue eyes were riveted to Maggie as if they were somehow physically attached, digging into her tender flesh with claws of demanding anguish.
“You will tell me everything,” he nearly shouted, oblivious to the audience he was attracting.
“Father!” Quinton hissed, acutely aware of their listeners. “Lower your voice, please. You will simply frighten Maggie with your raging.”
Jean heard his youngest son’s plea, but it did little to quell his mounting outrage. Cold shock washed over him as he pondered the possibilities Maggie was suggesting. Certainly, Christian would not have treated an enemy as a lover. And especially not a de Gare. His eldest son was exceedingly clever, and if he had shown an ounce of mercy towards the wench, then he must have possessed good reason.
With that thought, Jean forced himself to calm. Taking a deep breath, he haltingly regained his seat and bellowed for more wine.
“You must be mistaken, Maggie,” he said as evenly as he could muster, struggling to maintain his composure.
Wide-eyed, Maggie watched Jean’s wooden movements as he consumed yet another chalice of wine. The man had always been quick of temper and not particularly rational at times, but she had been fortunate enough through the years to never have become personally acquainted with his wrath. To realize that she might not have been entirely wise in her scheme or methods was not a factor she would entertain at the moment; she had a task to complete. Knowing how desperately Jean St. John hated the House of de Gare would work to her advantage. And she would carry out the performance no matter how ugly the situation became.
“Christian brought the girl to Kelvin’s manse during a terrible storm,” she said quietly, eyeing the smoldering father. “Certainly, I do not know why the de Gare woman was with him and I have little interest other than protecting the strength of my marriage contract to your son. Kelvin will swear to the allegations that Christian and his prisoner were most affectionate with one another.”
“Christian would never show affection towards a de Gare,” Quinton scoffed, finding the entire idea ludicrous. “Your jealousy has blinded you, Maggie. The lady is Christian’s captive, certainly not what you are suggesting. It’s pure foolishness!”
“I know what I saw, Quinton,” Maggie said, incensed. “I know fondness when it is thrust into my face. In fact, Christian was more than willing to flaunt his whore….”
“Enough, Maggie,” Jean put up a sharp hand, his face pallid with the level of emotion he was experiencing. “I shall hear no more of this slander. The Demon of Eden is loyal to the death and to even consider that he would show a measure of tenderness towards a de Gare is purely imaginative. Clearly you were mistaken.”
Rebuked and mildly insulted, Maggie stared at her primly folded hands. “There is one way to find out,” she said, her soft voice unmistakably biting. “Seek him out and discover for yourself. I believe he told me he was taking the girl to Scotland; certainly, you would know his location if he were acting on your orders to abduct her, my lord.”
Jean’s ice-blue gaze found her lowered head, wondering why he had ever agreed to a marriage contract between Margaret du Bois and his eldest son at the first. Even those years back, she had been a liar and a whore. For the first time in his life he pondered the weight of her wealth against the hollowness of her soul. Until now, the coinage had always overwhelmed her shortcomings. He wasn’t entirely certain that was still the truth.
“How do you know he was acting on my orders?” he asked.
Maggie smiled faintly, preparing to prove her in-depth knowledge of the situation. By using Alicia de Gare’s mention of Jean’s threatening missive, she would easily prove her information and thereby add more support to her claims against Christian.
“You ordered Christian to capture Gaithlin de Gare in order that you might use her against Alex,” she purred. “Your son has told me as much.”
Jean met her gaze, feeling some confusion. It wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility that Christian would have told her of his plans; in spite of her cheating nature, she was nonetheless devoted to him and he would have considered her trustworthy. But even as Christian’s disclosure seemed logical enough, he also found himself wondering if there wasn’t a shred of truth to Maggie’s hostile accusations. Had Christian shown more than mere humanity towards the de Gare wench? More importantly, if that was the case, then why?
As Jean gazed into her brown eyes, he was ashamed at his lack of complete faith in his eldest son. Maggie had always been sly and treacherous and she could very well be lying out of pure jealousy or a twisted sense of revenge. Considering Christian happened across her at Kelvin Howard’s manse where she professed to have been on a visitation, it was more than likely she was engaged in any number of covert activities with Kelvin himself and Christian had witnessed her treachery first-hand. Mayhap she was angry with her intended for having come across her in one of her many trysts.
Whatever the case, Jean simply couldn’t shake the unnerving doubts that seemed to plague his common sense. He knew for a fact that his son was as deeply devoted to the St. John legacy as he himself was; yet, Christian had also expressed a measure of scorn at the continuance of a seventy-year-old Feud. Was it possible that, somehow, the de Gare wench had managed to soften his reproving stance even further? Dear God… was it possible that somehow she had managed to quell the Demon’s drive?
He felt a distinct need to know. Mayhap he would send Quinton to resume Christian’s position as the wench’s captor, thereby recalling Christian to Eden and dousing his doubts. But with that same thought, he realized Quinton was even weaker-willed that Christian.
Observing the manner in which his youngest son gawked and fussed over Maggie, mayhap it wasn’t entirely wise to consider sending his feeble-willed second son if the de Gare wench was as persuasive as Maggie seemed to indicate. Good Lord, if the woman could wreak havoc over Christian’s loyalties, there was no telling what she could do to Quinton. Suddenly, nothing seemed wise or certain any longer.
Riddled with doubt and misgivings, Jean forced himself to refocus on Maggie. “Since so few know of my plans for surmounting the de Gares once and for all, I shall blame you if my scheme becomes popular rumor,” his voice was steady and hazardous. “And as for Christian and Alex’s daughter, I appreciate your concern, but I am sure it is a baseless anxiety. You know Christian well enough to know he would cut out his own heart before he would trust a de Gare.”
Maggie eyed him a moment before nodding submissively. “As you say, my lord,” she said softly, licking her lips daintily as she pretended to struggle for the courage to form her question. “But… as Christian’s intended, would you do me the courtesy of telling me where he has gone? In case I should like to contact him?”
“Any contact can be made through me,” Jean said shortly, demanding more wine. “I shall be happy to relay your messages of well-being during this most trying time.”
Slightly off-balance, Maggie again nodded graciously. The conversation had not progressed entirely as planned and she was not certain as to how to turn the situation to her advantage. She had not discovered Christian’s whereabouts as she had promised Lady de Gare and she had also seemingly been unsuccessful in rallying Jean’s wrath against his son. If Christian was to be successfully separated from his captive, then Jean and Alex would have to unite as a force of two outraged fathers with the common goal to be dividing their children.
It never occurred to her that she was attempting to unite the deadliest of enemies for a common cause. The only matter of import was that her efforts were for her cause.
“Then I would thank you for your attention, my lord,” she said finally, feeling fatigued and irritated and eager to be alone to rethink her scheme. “With your permission, I will retire for the eve. It has been a trying day.”
Jean nodded faintly, turning his attention away as she excused herself. Sinking further and further into the depths of anxiety, he seemed to lack the attention or the focus to ponder any matter other than that of his eldest son. Even as the party went on about him and the dancing continued into the night, he remained rooted to his seat as if incapable of functioning as gracious host.
He shouldn’t have believed Maggie. She’d never given him any reason in the past to regard her ramblings and he had no idea why he should decide the time was ripe to give her prevaricating blather a measure of credence. What she was suggesting was ludicrous at best. But, God help him, he simply couldn’t shake the feeling.
What if she were right?