Brides of the North

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Managing to elevate his massive weight from her torso, he found himself gazing into the most lovely, flushed face he had ever had the fortune to envision.

  “Good Christ, are you all right?” he rasped.

  Eyes closed, Gaithlin could scarcely breathe. Christian shifted his body weight from her completely, braced on his hands and knees as she lay beneath him.

  “Oh… God,” she moaned, coughing. “I… I cannot breathe!”

  His jaw ticked as he sat back on his haunches, jerkily removing his gauntlets. “Do you hurt? Show me where.”

  Her breathing was erratic and rapid. Christian’s movements slowed when he saw a single tear stream down her temple, dampening her hair. His urgent, sharp manner softened. It softened for a de Gare.

  “Tell me where you hurt, my lady. Are you injured?”

  She swallowed hard and the deep blue eyes opened, staring at the darkening sky above. With the utmost reluctance, her mesmerizing orbs came to rest on eyes of ice-blue. “I… I don’t believe I am injured. At least, I don’t feel any real pain.”

  He looked dubious, as if he did not believe her. Their eyes held steady for a brief, indescribable moment as Christian lowered his naked hand to her heaving torso. Fingers as gentle as the wings of a butterfly drifted over her ribs, probing with the utmost tenderness. Gaithlin found herself observing his actions with a level of surprise she had never before experienced.

  His eyes never left her face. “No sharp pains?”

  She could scarcely manage to shake her head. Where fear and agony had reined not moments before, suddenly there was a degree of emotion she was unable to interpret. An odd warmth seemed to radiate from his trencher-sized hands, a peculiar heat that was intent on wreaking havoc with her breathing far more than the agony his propelled body weight had managed to cause.

  “No,” she whispered. “No sharp pains.”

  He nodded vaguely, feeling her warmth beneath his fingers, remembering with brilliant clarity the vision of Gaithlin emerging from the waters of the pristine pond as Venus rising from the lake. He could still see the sunlight reflecting off her magnificent curves, the embrasure of the light as it caressed her sensuous flesh, and he recalled with complete precision his physical reaction as he had devoured the vision. How desperately he had wanted to experience her beauty for himself.

  His fingers drifted over her torso, unaware that his own breathing had increased. Palms met with the material of her gown, drifting from her waist to the under-swell of her beautiful breasts. Under the guise of probing her for injury, he allowed himself a stolen touch of her most enticing body as he had graphically fantasized since the very first time he saw her. He wished the barrier of her gown was not impeding his exploration.

  “No pain anywhere?” he asked huskily.

  Oddly, she was in pain, but not of the agonizing variety. A sharp tingling had invaded her limbs, mingling with the heat, and she found the peculiar prickle most unnerving. The searing ache seemed to flow directly from his hands, assaulting her like nothing she had ever imagined. She should have been frightened but instead, she found she was actually curious.

  “As I said, there is no pain,” she replied softly, her breathing steady. But his hands were still probing her, touching her, and she felt her cheeks flush with a confused heat. “Take your hands from me, Demon. I told you I was not injured.”

  His expression was unnaturally soft as his hands moved along the curve of her waist. But as realization dawned, the fact that he was touching her purely for his own pleasure and that she clearly wasn’t returning the sentiment, his chiseled features hardened and he abruptly removed his hands from her torso.

  “I simply wanted to see for myself that you were not injured,” he said, almost harshly. “Your weak attempt to flee has demonstrated to me that you possess the supreme de Gare trait of foolishness and stupidity.”

  Shaken, Gaithlin sat up, blinking her eyes rapidly as the world rocked. But she was not so muddled that she had not experienced the full impact of his insult. “You have mentioned two traits,” she mumbled, putting a hand to her head in an attempt to stop the swaying. “Furthermore, the same could be said for your bold assault on St. Esk.”

  Christian had little patience for her reminder of his blasphemous deed. As she struggled to her knees, he yanked on his gauntlets with a good deal of annoyance. Just as she managed to get one foot beneath her in preparation for standing, he finished securing his gloves and grasped her roughly by the arm.

  Gaithlin gasped with the harsh and swift movement, her deep blue eyes coming to focus upon those of ice-blue. Gazing into the depths, her apprehension and defiance made a bold return; but in the same breath, the odd heat that had filled her as his hands roved her tender torso made an unexpected reappearance. The longer she gazed into his eyes, the stronger the warmth became.

  “So… so you intend to kill me now?” she swallowed hard, listening to the breathlessness of her sultry voice.

  Christian met her gaze steadily, although his outward facade made a cover for the fiercely raging lust that threatened to devour his control. Good Christ, man, she’s a de Gare! Seventy years of St. John hate refused to allow him to consider his own desires over the duty demanded. But, God help him, he was becoming more weakened and confused by the moment. If she were anything other than a de Gare….

  “I never said I intended to kill you,” his breathless voice matched her own.

  Gaithlin swallowed hard as she listened to his husky reply, realizing that her apprehension was fading somewhat. “Then what do you intend to do with me if your intention is not that of murder?” she asked.

  “What I intend to do with you is none of your concern,” he replied, pulling her towards his charger. “You are my prisoner to do with as I please.”

  Head throbbing and chest sore, her oddly warm thoughts of the man vanished as Gaithlin stumbled after him. Tripping over an exposed clod of earth, she tumbled to her knees and succeeded in dislodging Christian’s grip. With a grunt of irritation, he bent to help her stand when she suddenly regained her feet, ramming the top of her head into his chin.

  She yelped. He groaned. Hand to his jaw, he grasped Gaithlin’s arm once more. “Good Christ, wench,” he grumbled. “You are a plethora of pain for me.”

  She didn’t struggle against his vise-like grip as he tugged her toward the grazing steed. Free hand on the top of her head, she rubbed the violated area. “I am not to blame for this mishap. Had you not handled me so brutally, I would not have fallen.”

  He glared at her. “Had you not shown a glimpse of your magnificent intelligence by attempting to evade me, I would not have been forced to brutally handle you.”

  She matched his glare, removing her hand from her aching head. “Had you not violated St. Esk at the onset, none of this would have happened.”

  His glare faded into an expression of complete impassiveness. But his eyes, orbs of blue ice, were as biting as hungry wolves in winter. “I will not hear you refer to the breached abbey again,” his voice was deeper than a growl and by far more threatening. After a moment, his eyebrow twitched purely for sinister effect. “Let us place the blame where it lies. ’Twas your misfortune to have been born a de Gare in the first place.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. All of the learned hatred, the mutual disgust at the sight and presence of a long-cultivated enemy came to bear in spite of the natural attraction between them. For the moment, the loathing was stronger than the interest and Gaithlin felt the bitterness to her soul. The previous warm feelings, the confusion at his touch, were forgotten as she turned away in repugnance.

  “Damnable St. John bastard.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  Christian heard her, his own sense of family hatred filling him. It wasn’t the physical company of the woman before him as much as it was the name she bore. It was the generations of de Gares she represented, spawning a hatred that had aged like a powerful wine.

  Above their heads, the collecting clou
ds could no longer contain themselves. A soaking rain descended on man and beast alike, washing the countryside with a violent downpour. But even the rain wasn’t strong enough to cleanse the palpable hatred between the two inhabitants of the field below.

  Gaithlin was positive the rain had been conjured from the bowels of Hell by her Demon captor. Her lavender woolen gown had quickly become soaked through the driving sheets of rain and to make matters worse, the Demon had tied her hands together as they traveled through the brutal weather. Pressed against his armored back, her arms about his waist, she could feel the rope chafing her tender wrists.

  The top of her head against his back, she found herself staring at her parted thighs, embracing the Demon’s huge legs as she rode astride behind him, positioned like a man. He hadn’t permitted her the more dignified position seated in across his lap; instead, he had forced her into a most degrading stance. Legs wide open, her pubic bone against his buttocks. Were she not so completely miserable as a result of the weather, she would have been exceedingly furious at his lack of consideration but in truth, she expected no less from the Demon of Eden.

  Soaked to the skin, frozen and ash-white, she licked her lips every so often as beads of rain coursed over her lowered face. Head bowed behind Christian’s massive frame, she was afforded a slight amount of protection from the stinging rain, but not enough. Not enough to offset her misery and anguish at the direction her future had seemingly taken.

  As Gaithlin wallowed silently in discomfort, Christian was making a valiant attempt to pretend that the raging storm about them was of no concern. Shielded in his armor, he was amply protected against the elements and was quite content to continue on his journey. But every so often, the pair of bound hands about his waist would twitch and he would glance in their direction, noting the utterly colorless pallor like the hands of a corpse.

  A pair of ashen hands that were attached to a thoroughly chilled body. As he felt himself relenting in the face of his barbaric cruelty, he would remind himself of his prisoner’s identity and his resolve would make a bold return. It was an odd mental struggle that went on mile after mile, and when the sun began to set and Gaithlin’s soaked body set into violent quaking seizures, he could no longer ignore the obvious. He had to find shelter.

  A shelter that consisted of a thick cluster of Scot pine. Even though the rain was dripping from the leaves to the ground below, they were somewhat protected from the driving elements and he reined his charger to a halt amongst the damp, moldering leaves.

  The sound of the rain was soft and lulling as Christian moved to untie Gaithlin’s hands. He was fully aware of her dead weight against his back and he wondered if she had fallen asleep. Her hands were limp and icy as he fumbled with the rope, finally removing one of his gauntlets for improved dexterity. Heavy and boneless, Gaithlin lay against his huge body as the bindings fell away.

  But it was a grand performance for the benefit of the Demon. As soon as the rope fell away, she bolted to life, shoving Christian so hard that he was in danger of losing his seating. Leaping from the charger, Gaithlin landed on her knees in the muddy, musty pile of compost just as Christian lost the battle against his balance and crashed to the ground.

  Rolling to his knees, Christian was surprised to see that Gaithlin continued to kneel on the ground, her deep blue eyes blazing at him. Her beautiful hair was drenched, the woolen gown clinging indecently to her magnificent body as her furious gaze beheld him. The sight of her wet figure was almost enough of a deterrent to cause him to forget his surprise and irritation. But not quite.

  “You will pay for that, wench,” he growled, putting his feet beneath his body to regain his stance. His helm met with the ground as he marched towards his prey.

  “With what?” she snapped, her wet hair whipping about her shoulders. “My health? My freedom? My dignity? Pray, what else can you take that you have not already stolen, Demon?”

  His fury gained measure and substance. Christian had a tendency for volatile emotions, hence the basis for his reputation and nickname. Volatile emotions that he usually funneled into his sword, but gazing at the wet woman before him, he wasn’t the least bit willing to strike her down in a fit of fury. Usual outlet thwarted, he found himself irrationally considering more damaging means. Beautiful or not, the woman was driving him to the brink of fury-induced madness.

  “There is much more to be taken, you foolish chit. Surely you do not intend to provoke my wrath with your senseless actions and insipid words?”

  Gaithlin rose, slowly, and Christian found himself faced with an unhindered view of her delectable body. Completely wet and coated with a dusting of molding leaves, she was still the most magnificent woman he had ever seen.

  “The only item of import left to take is my life,” she was shaking with chill and fury. “You said you weren’t going to kill me, but you obviously lied. I can see it in your eyes.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I never lie. And what you see in my eyes has nothing to do with murder.”

  Her breathing increased at his rumbled statement; he could see her beautiful, firm breasts heaving against the damp wool. After a moment, she coughed softly, as if her breath had caught in her throat, and her head slowly wagged back and forth.

  “ ’Tis your insanity I see, then. The St. John madness that infects your entire family like a raging disease,” she gestured feebly at him, as if finally coming to grips with the situation. “Look at you; you’re the Demon of Eden, the fiercest knight known to these parts. You have made a name for yourself killing and fighting and waging blood-lust sport. And you have made a sport of hating the House of de Gare.”

  He eyed her, his fury cooling in spite of the fact that her heated words were true. “It is the way of things.” He almost looked around to see if his father was standing nearby; the words out of his mouth were sounding more and more like Jean St. John every day.

  Gaithlin’s face took on an expression of pain and regret, of defeat and resolve. “You sound like my parents,” she whispered, her gaze trailing down his massive body to the arsenal of weapons decorating his waist. With a resigned shrug, she gestured to his ammunition. “Well, give me a weapon then. I suppose we should battle to the death as all of our ancestors have done. As we shall do.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, nearly amused by her unmistakably droll comment. “I told you I was not going to kill you.”

  She returned the facial expression. “But I may kill you. Will you not defend yourself?”

  “I already have.”

  She maintained her countenance, bordering on arrogance. “And you have so far proven to be an unworthy adversary. I push you and you fall, I bump you and you grunt with pain. For a man with a formidable reputation, Demon, you certainly are a weakling.”

  He was on her in two strides, his angry dark face an inch from her own. Gaithlin suddenly found herself clutched in the mightiest embrace she had ever experienced; gasping with surprise and a certain measure of apprehension, she braced her hands against his chest as if to push him away. He was as immovable as a mountain.

  “I am indeed a formidable adversary, wench, but I will not prove my point against a weaker, smaller de Gare. I told you that you would regret your actions, and I meant it.”

  Lips quivering with shock and fright, Gaithlin met his ice-blue orbs steadily. The heat that had ignited earlier that day when he had so gently probed her for injury suddenly rekindled with searing intensity. She’d never been this close to a man; any man, and certainly not a St. John.

  Yet family hatred didn’t seem to matter overly at the moment. Gaithlin was only aware of the fact that she was gazing into the face of the most beautiful man she had ever seen, his musky maleness filling her nostrils, assaulting her ingenuous emotions. The odd warmth erupted into a roaring blaze and her entire body began to shake, rippling like the waves of the sea in rapid succession.

  “I… I am not afraid of you,” she breathed, gasping softly when his grip tightened. “Do what you will, Demon
. I shall never beg for mercy.”

  Christian heard her quietly-uttered defiance, feeling the familiar anger it roused. But the fury was quelled by desire of unbelievable proportions. With Gaithlin’s luscious body within his embrace, nothing else existed in the world.

  Gaithlin never saw him move. One moment, his ice-blue orbs were blazing threateningly, and in the next moment his mouth was on her neck as a wildcat devours its prey. Burning lips against her tender, damp skin, scorching her with a passion she had never imagined to exist. His teeth bit into her flesh, enough to cause pain but not enough to break the skin. It was enrapturing. Dear God, he was a St. John, her family’s most hated nemesis! An evil Demon capable of nothing less than horror and pain and… complete, unrestrained pleasure. The Demon was consuming her and she would let him.

  Christian could scarcely believe the rashness of his actions. It was as if something had given way, collapsing his control until only his desire was capable of coming forth. But as his tongue sampled the rain-sweet flesh of her neck, he was aware that she was far more delicious than anything he had ever sampled. And he knew, doubtlessly, that he had to have more of the newly-discovered delicacy. He had to take more.

  He was barely aware of Gaithlin’s stunned gasp, her body as it stiffened within the crushing enclosure of his arms. He ignored her squirms of panic, her cries of fear, fully engulfed in the ravishment of her neck. So involved was he in the tender white morsels of her earlobes that he was unaware when her terrified struggles turned into an overwhelming reaction to his raging desire.

  ‘Treacherous are the Crossroads;

  by which direction you seek

  May not be the course intended.

  Either path will bring about