a selection of self-deliberated anguish.’
~ Chronicles of Christian St. John
Vl. IV, p. CCII
CHAPTER FOUR
Hands that were braced against Christian’s chest not a moment before were suddenly around his neck, twisting their way into his honey-blond mane. As his mouth utterly devoured the exquisite line of her jaw, he became cognizant of her gasps, her soft groans of pleasure and delight, and they only served to feed his furor.
For a man that was the perpetual idealism of calm and control, he was unaware when he tumbled over the brink of lust-induced insanity. All he knew was that he had waited for this moment since the very first he beheld the vision in the lake, and the physical pleasure he was receiving as a result of his lack of composure was the greatest ecstasy he had ever experienced.
Suddenly, there was no hatred, no St. Johns, no de Gares. There was only Christian and Gaithlin, a man and a woman, and he intended to handle the situation accordingly. He’d never wanted a woman so badly in his life.
Still holding her tightly against his armored chest, he viciously tore away his right gauntlet, then his left. Naked hands the size of a serving trencher entangled themselves in damp blond hair, holding her captive to his desire as his heated lips moved down her neck and across her collarbone. Delicately, smoothly, he slid her gown from her shoulders.
Gaithlin existed in mindless limbo as Christian’s searing mouth plundered her delicate skin, conveniently neglecting the fact that her most detested enemy appeared intent on ravishing her. Merciful Heavens, if this was what it meant to be plundered and ravaged, she would have been willing to submit to him long ago. If this was his punishment, she would live for the moment when her actions warranted his idea of a suitable reward.
She’d heard tale of the excitement of a man’s touch from the serving wenches at Winding Cross, the ribald stories the young women were free in repeating, and she had harbored a great curiosity of the mating aspects between a man and a woman. Knowing that it was a mysterious, intimate, intensely private encounter, but little beyond that.
Now, to actually sample the reality of her curious ponderings, she realized that the servants and soldiers had hardly paid proper homage to such action. To be kissed, caressed, touched, fondled…
Fondled?
She was suddenly aware of his hand on her breast, massaging her firm globe with the utmost tenderness. Blinking away the disorientation his lustful endeavor had induced, she gazed at the top of his honey-blond head as his mouth moved over the swell of her ripe breasts. As one hand teased her nipple through the wet wool, the other was intent on removing her from her garment.
Her gown was sliding down her arms with swift, gentle action and she was suddenly aware that his most euphoric attentions were quickly becoming far more threatening. It was obvious that he wanted more than she was willing to give and their previous conversation came back to her in all of its blinding force, slamming her with the interpretation of the underlying meaning.
What you see in my eyes has nothing to do with murder.
Now, she knew what she saw in his eyes. Merciful Heavens, she had been so foolish to challenge him, informing him that he had managed to strip her of all dignity and respect and that the only matter of personal import left to take was her very life. There had been another intimate possession, one she had neglected to remember through her anger and apprehension. A possession she valued most over all else.
She had been wrong. Terribly wrong. The innocence meant for her husband’s pleasure was in great danger of being forever lost and she knew, now, that it had been his intent all along.
It had never been his purpose to kill her. He intended to do far worse damage than mere death. And she was letting him.
The gown was suddenly peeled away from her damp breasts, revealing the rain-cold beauties to Christian’s lust-glazed eyes. They were as magnificent as he had remembered, the most exquisite mounds of flesh he had ever had the fortune to experience. Her nipples, as large as a small plum, wordlessly screamed for his attention and he heeded the call far more harshly than he should have. The moment his hot mouth clamped down on her swollen nipple, Gaithlin let out a scream.
Her body was stiff as he suckled her, wrapping his arms about her slender torso, entrapping her breasts against his hungry mouth. Her arms were enveloped within his iron embrace as well, and he was vaguely aware that her struggles had increased. But it only served to excite him, for he was positive she was responding freely to his demanded advance.
Lapping the sweetness of her distended nipple, he hungrily moved to the other breast when a distinct, heart-broken sob penetrated his desire. Even as his lips enclosed her nipple, another sob broke forth and he realized she wasn’t responding to him any longer. She was fighting him.
His head came up, meeting deep blue orbs swimming with hot, frightened tears. Startled, his expression washed with genuine concern; this woman had suffered a brutal afternoon of pain and harsh encounters and physical abuse, and her bravery had been nothing short of astounding. He was suddenly very interested to know what had driven this tough woman to tears.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?”
She sobbed again, tears spilling down her cheeks and catching him with their splatter. Christian licked the errant tear from his lip as she struggled with her composure.
“Answer me,” he demanded gently. “What is wrong?”
Her head lolled to the side and she shut her eyes, avoiding his gaze, avoiding his presence. Avoiding him. “Please… don’t. I beg of you, sire. Please… don’t do this!”
His brow furrowed faintly. “Don’t do what? Don’t kiss you?”
She twisted within his grasp, struggling to break free, but he refused to release his hold. Frustrated and bordering on panic, her eyes blazed at him. “You said you that it was not your intention to kill me. So you intend to rob me of my innocence in punishment for having been born a de Gare? You intend to rob me of what is most precious to any maiden?”
He released her. Fighting off the sobs of shame and embarrassment, Gaithlin turned away from him and struggled to re-dress herself. Christian watched her with a good deal of confusion and a generous measure of personal shame.
“But you… you allowed me to kiss you, wench,” he pointed out. “You encouraged me to continue.”
“I was not given a choice!” she threw back at him, sniffling as she pulled the damp wool over her shoulders. “You were intent on ravishing me whether or not I encouraged you.”
He stared at her a moment before averting his gaze, raking his fingers through his wetted blond hair and feeling more humiliation than he could ever recall. He’d never known a woman to refuse his advances and was quite inept in dealing with the rejection. The advances of the Demon of Eden were never unwanted.
… were they?
But… it simply wasn’t true! A spark of anger flared within his chest and he turned to her once more, watching her tears ease and her composure return. He was willing to admit that he had lost control, but she had most definitely responded to his touch as if she had been made for his pleasure alone. Never had a woman felt so natural in his arms, so genuine, as if she had always been meant for him.
The longer he stared at her, the more confused and frustrated he became. Good Christ, he realized that above his arrogance and bafflement he was actually ashamed of himself. He’d never been ashamed of anything in his life and the words expressing sorrow for his actions did not come easily, especially to a de Gare.
“I apologize if I frightened you,” he said gruffly. “It was not my intent.”
Sniffling loudly, she squared her shoulders and faced him. “Pray, what was your intent? To degrade me, humiliate me, force your hated enemy to bow to your superior strength and will so you could return to Eden and boast of your conquest over the de Gare heiress? Is that what you intended, Demon?”
He sighed, annoyance joining his other emotions. “If my goal was to humiliate or degrade you, I wou
ld have done so by now,” the flicker of an armored gauntlet amongst the leaves caught his attention and he bent down, retrieving his hastily-discarded gloves. “And as for returning to Eden, I do not expect to return home for some time.”
Her gaze cooled, her eyes smoking with curiosity. She had asked him at the onset what he intended to do with her and he had rebuffed her request. Suddenly, she saw an opportunity to seek her answer.
“Why not?”
“Because I will be with you.”
“You are not taking me to Eden?”
“Nay.”
“Then where are we going?”
He glanced at her as he secured his left gauntlet. “Does it matter?”
She nodded, slowly, trying to keep her manner calm. She was not so naive that she did not notice he responded more easily to her when she was rational and collected. “It does. I should like to know where I am to spend the remainder of my life.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Who is to say you are going to spend the rest of your life a captive?”
She held his gaze a moment before looking away, wandering to a rotted stump amongst the overgrowth. The moment she planted her damp bottom upon the wood, she realized her fatigue was great and her shoulders sagged with resignation and sorrow.
“Henri St. John captured my grandfather twenty years ago and held him captive,” her voice was faint. “We never saw him again.”
Christian well remembered the capture of Glenn de Gare. Although he had been fostering at Ludlow at the time, being a lad of eleven, he would never forget the triumphant missive he received from his father announcing the capture of their greatest de Gare enemy. A man who had been sentenced to the vault of Eden and who had died in the nauseating hole less than a year later.
His rotted corpse was still chained to the walls of the lower level, a grisly trophy for the St. Johns to savor. In fact, his father still spoke to the cadaver now and again to announce St. John victories. But gazing at Gaithlin’s lowered head, Christian was unwilling to divulge the fate of her grandfather. As a loyal St. John, he should have been pleased to announce the fact; but as the heir to Eden, weary of a foolish ancestral war, he was reluctant to be a party to her pain.
“Surely you are not old enough to remember your grandfather,” he said quietly, hoping to divert the subject.
She shrugged, rubbing her arms for warmth as the rain in the canopy increased. “I was two years old when he was captured. I remember images of the man, his gentle voice, but naught else.”
Christian cocked an eyebrow. “You are twenty years and two? Good Christ, wench; how is it that you are so old and unmarried?”
Sharply, her head came up and he saw a flash of fury in the beautiful blue depths. “No one wants to marry a woman whose only dowry is a seventy-year-old Feud and a battered fortress.”
Abruptly, she averted her gaze, hoping he would allow the subject to rest. She didn’t like speaking on her married state, knowing she was far too old and too poor to be considered a viable marriage prospect. The seventy-year war with Eden had not only left the de Gares laced with hatred and bitterness, but it had left them poverty-bound as well. No one wanted a destitute heiress.
Depressed with her gloomy thoughts, she could feel his stare against her back. An inquisitive, piercing stare that annoyed and unnerved at the same time. Emotions on the surface as a result of their exchange, she found herself lingering on a particular issue that had seen well to vex her from the start. A degrading mention he continued to utilize, a term she considered offensive. Strange how above all her other concerns, one particular subject would come into focus.
Moving away from the topic of her dowry and marriage prospects, she shifted the subject to the center of her annoyance. “There is something else I would like to say.”
“Say it.”
“Do not call me wench. I do not like it.”
His eyebrows rose as if the thought had never occurred to him. “You do not like it?”
She slanted him a long gaze. “You asked me not to address you as a bastard, and I graciously complied. I will ask you not to call me wench.”
He stared at her a moment longer, wondering why her quietly uttered request sounded suspiciously like a demand. But she was correct; he had asked her not to refer to him in a derogatory manner and in spite of their heated exchange at the time, she had obeyed his command.
It began to occur to Christian that the de Gare woman responded in kind when handled rationally. Since she had been willing to comply with his request not to address him as a bastard, he was inclined to react in the same manner. He was, after all, a chivalrous knight bound by his brotherhood vows to respect and nurture the fairer sex. Even a de Gare.
“Very well,” his voice was quiet. “I will not address you by the term if you find it offensive.”
She gazed at him in the fading light, her shivers of chill having returned since Christian’s heated body was no longer providing her with his searing warmth. Even when she looked away, pale and cold now that the blazing lust between them was doused, he continued to stare at her and wondered why he was so utterly preoccupied with her.
He would have been content to stand and gaze at her all night, lost to his puzzling thoughts, but she quaked violently and began rubbing her arms again to stay warm and he was jolted from his thoughts by her misery.
“I shall build a fire,” he mumbled, glancing at the wet ground and knowing a fire would be unable to compete with the wet foliage. Several possibilities crossed his mind, but he found himself focusing on one particular thought; he was traversing Howard lands. Three miles to the north and west sat the mighty fortified manor of Kelvin Howard, a childhood friend. He’d not seen Kelvin in ten years but he knew for a fact that the man would gladly put him up for the night.
Christian’s gaze moved to Gaithlin again, shivering uncontrollably on the rotted stump and startled himself with the idea of gathering her against him purely for warmth. The very thought was foolish for two very logical reasons; she would probably accuse him of attempting to rape her again and, more than likely, he would be unable to control his lusty urges were she nestled against him. Therefore, her accusation would be true.
“I know of a manor not far from here where we could spend the night,” his rich, beautiful voice was low. “I will take you there on two conditions, my lady; that you swear you will not attempt to escape, nor will you inform anyone of your true relationship to me.”
So cold that her lips were blue, Gaithlin met his serious gaze. The thought of spending the night in a soft bed, warm and dry, was infinitely appealing, but the natural urge to resist a St. John was a powerful force to be reckoned with. Deep within her heart, she saw her situation for what it was; she was his captive. There was no escape. But the foolish, less rational portion of her personality was not so easily subdued. How could she give in to a St. John with so weak a struggle?
“My lady?” he asked. “Do you comprehend me?”
She did. Too well. Averting her gaze, she nodded feebly. “Aye,” she whispered. “I understand.”
“Do I have your word of honor?”
She cocked an eyebrow, meeting his inquisitive gaze. “Would you believe a de Gare?”
“I will the first time. If you break your word, I shall never trust you again.”
Fair enough. A violent seizure of chill embraced her and she hugged herself fiercely, waiting for the quaking to stop. Christian watched her as impassively as he could, again fighting off the strong urge to warm her chilled body. He turned and marched across the wet compost towards his charger. As the horse tore up a bush of plump green leaves, he dug into his saddlebags. Drawing forth a heavy black cloak of wool and fleece, he returned to his shivering captive.
“Here.”
He swung the massive cloak about her shoulders, wrapping her in the yards of fabric as well as a mother swaddling a babe. Too cold and too tired to protest, Gaithlin allowed herself to be buffeted back and forth by the power of his gruff concerns.
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When she was wrapped as tightly as a newborn infant, he pulled her to her feet and silently returned the mummy-like form to the feeding destrier. Without a word, he lifted her effortlessly onto the saddle and retrieved his helm before mounting. This time, he sat behind her.
Gaithlin grunted when he shifted in the saddle, pulling her across his hard thighs. But she was far more comfortable than she had been all day; wrapped in his deliciously warm cloak, her blood was warming and her shivers fading. Christian pulled her against his chest with one arm and positioned his helm with the other, gathering his reins when his head protection was secured. As he prepared to spur his charger on, her soft voice stopped him.
“Aren’t you going to tie my hands?” her voice was muffled within the folds of his cloak.
He glanced at her, noting the faint gleam in her eye. “Should I?”
To his surprise, she actually grinned and he was enchanted; as beautiful as her mouth was in repose, her smile changed her face dramatically. Christian found himself staring at her mouth as his horse trampled its way out of the underbrush.
“You have wrapped me so tightly that I do not believe tying my hands to be necessary,” she said.
He grunted, his only response as his charger regained his footing on the muddy road. The rain was pounding harder than before as the clouds above darkened with impending nightfall. Within the hour they would be at Kelvin Howard’s manor and Christian found himself looking forward to the evening ahead. Good food, wine, warmth… he ignored the fact that he was looking forward to an evening attempting to become acquainted with his mortal enemy.
They hadn’t traveled a quarter mile when Christian felt his mummified captive go limp against him. Casting her a lingering glance, her peaceful, pale face slumbered wearily beneath the hood of his cloak and he shifted her gently to better cradle her against his chest. With a lengthy sigh, one of contentment and pensive reflection for the future, Christian would have been content to hold the black-shrouded figure for the rest of his natural life.
Brides of the North Page 75
