A surge of self-protectiveness and fury surged through her at his hard reply. “I refuse to be belittled and humiliated for the remainder of my life, Demon. Even if a disorderly peace is settled, your family will never accept me as your wife as you will never be accepted by the de Gares as my husband. Where will we live? At Eden where I will be in fear for my life every moment of the day? Or at Winding Cross where you can live in hatred and loathing for the remainder of your existence?”
His irritation gained speed at her harsh words. “What would lead you to believe that I would belittle you or humiliate you? Since the moment I took you from St. Esk, have I not treated you with….”
His words were cut off by a loud rustling from outside the shack. Before Gaithlin could react to the noise, Christian was already acquiring his sword and charging through the splintering door with strength potent enough to rip the panel from the worn moldings. Without thought for her own safety or the fact that she should possibly allow Christian to take care of the prowler alone, Gaithlin dashed after him.
By the time she quit the shack, Christian was plowing into the heavy undergrowth that surrounded their shelter, hacking and ripping through the thick growth. Gaithlin observed his movements anxiously, watching his shadow as he ripped his way amongst the bramble and bushes in search of the elusive threat.
He sounded like a trapped animal as he moved through the brush, grunting and growling and creating an enormous racket. Gaithlin watched with growing apprehension, wondering if she should retrieve one of his weapons and assist the cause. He seemed to be focused on something, for he was moving in a relatively small space purposefully and Gaithlin inched closer to the heavy growth, straining to catch a glimpse of his target.
Christian’s blade glinted with evil malevolence in the weak light as he wielded it effortlessly amongst the bushes, chopping and ripping intently. Gaithlin moved to the edge of the bramble, bending low in an attempt to locate the subject of Christian’s attention.
The very moment she gazed into the greenery, a pair of startled green eyes were staring back at her and she let out a whoop of surprise.
The eyes whooped back.
‘Is Discovery the process by which
Life continues,
or the process by which it begins?’
~ Chronicles of Christian St. John
Vl. V, p. CCXIII
CHAPTER EIGHT
A small body suddenly plowed into Gaithlin and she teetered dangerously, instinctively grasping hold of the little torso sprouted with skinny arms and spindly legs. Amazingly, the tiny figure was strong and she toppled onto her bottom, still clinging to the struggling, shrieking form as it attempted to wrest itself from her powerful grip.
But her efforts were eased when Christian marched through the brush like a great preying beast, upending plants and tearing apart substantial shrubbery in his wake. In the blink of an eye, he grasped the wrestling body from Gaithlin’s startled clutches and had to immediately loosen his grip when he realized his entire hand had encompassed a very small, very slender neck.
“Lemme go!”
Gaithlin put her hands up to avoid being kicked in the head by a pair of flailing legs. Regaining her footing, she found herself gazing at the wildly thrashing body of a young boy.
“Lemme go!” the child swung his little fists at Christian, completely disregarding the fact that the man who held him was easily five times his size and weight. “I din’ do anything!”
Astonished, Gaithlin tore her eyes away from the lad long enough to gaze at Christian’s impassive face. He gazed steadily at the squirming child, his eyes like blue ice.
“Why were you spying on us?” he demanded sternly.
Held by the neck and shoulder by one massive hand, the pain from the grip was rapidly coming to outweigh the child’s outrage and he visibly winced, his hand moving from his attempts to slug Christian to trying to peel the man’s fingers off of him.
“Ye’re hurtin’ me!” he roared.
Baffled but not senseless, Gaithlin moved toward the child and his massive captor. “Christian, put him down,” she ordered softly, grabbing hold of the lad when Christian immediately complied. With a firm grip, she forced the child to face her. “Who are you, boy? Why were you spying on us?”
Filthy, frightened and furious, angry green eyes met with those of deep blue. His freckled face was pitifully pale as he eyed the tall, blond lady. “This is my place!”
Gaithlin’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? No one has lived here for years.”
Frowning verily, he attempted to twist free of her confining grasp. “It’s mine! I take care o’ it!”
Christian stood behind Gaithlin, hands on his hips in a grim gesture. “You will answer her questions or I shall spit you over an open fire and have you for sup. What is your name and what are you doing here?”
Struggles fading, the young lad gazed at Christian with little doubt that he would carry out his threat. But the massive Englishman’s warning only served to fuel his stubborn defiance, and he displayed a pink little tongue at the huge man in response.
“I shall not tell ye anything, ye English hound! Go away from here!”
Christian’s jaw ticked. “Very well, you little maggot. Have it your way.” Reaching over Gaithlin’s shoulder, he grabbed the boy by the arm. “Have a taste of English justice.”
“No, Christian,” Gaithlin found herself defending the saucy young intruder from Christian’s mighty wrath. “I forbid you to harm him.”
He allowed her to tear the boy free of his grasp, his ice-blue eyes riveted to her beautiful face. “I wasn’t going to harm him, my lady. I was going to punish him.”
“For what?” Still holding the boy tightly, she managed to pull him behind her as if to act as a shield between the lad and his antagonist. “You are being very cruel and he is reacting accordingly.”
He raised his eyebrows in a gesture of disbelief. “I am being cruel? He was the one spying, not I.”
She pursed her lips in a frustrated gesture, glancing to the wide-eyed boy in her grasp. After a moment, she returned her attention to Christian, tall and strong and massive before her.
“Please allow me to deal with him, sire,” she said softly, her sensual voice sending chills racing through his big body. “I am sure I can obtain the answers we seek.”
He eyed her a moment, still feeling the lingering caress of her delicious voice. After a brief pause, he let out a resigned snort and turned away. “Good Christ, Gae, you could probably wheedle the Secret of Life from God himself if you approached him with your seductive voice.”
She watched him pace a few feet away, smiling with an odd satisfaction. When he found the appropriate spot from which to watch the proceedings, he raised his eyes to find her still staring at him, grinning. He sheepishly returned the gesture.
Still smiling, Gaithlin returned her attention to the wide-eyed yet somewhat calmer lad before her. But her pleasant gesture faded as she sensed his fear and defiance radiating forth from the little body like a black fog, and she pondered his demeanor a moment before commencing her interrogation.
As the sun rose in the morning sky, Gaithlin sank to her knees before the small boy, studying him intently as she cautiously loosened her hold. His blond hair was caked with dirt and filth and she could literally see the vermin crawling about his scalp. His entire body, thin and frail and grimy, was wracked with sores and malnutrition. But the bright green eyes that gazed at her were alert and intelligent.
“My name is Gaithlin,” she said softly, watching the slight breeze muss his already wildly-spikey hair. “What is your name?”
His brow furrowed and his lips pursed in a pout. “I am not gonna tell ye.”
She smiled gently. “Fair enough,” she caught a glimpse of Christian over her shoulder and cast him a brief glance before returning her attention to the small lad. “My… companion and I have traveled a very long way and we were unaware that this was your property. Certainly we did no
t mean to trespass. Would it be possible to pay you for its use?”
Immediately, the green eyes glimmered with the naked possibilities of her suggestion and his dour expression softened. Blinking thoughtfully, he cast Gaithlin a long, dubious glance. “What do ye have to pay me with?”
“What do you require?”
His brow furrowed again, this time in thought. Glancing sidelong, he noticed the sturdy charger and a myriad of possessions that Christian had stacked neatly against the wall of the shelter the evening before. Absently, his dirty finger dug into his nose and Gaithlin gently pulled the offending hand away from his face, smiling encouragingly when he looked to her in puzzlement and concentration.
“I want yer food,” he said after a moment, his manner far less harsh and bordering on urgent. “Do ye have food?”
Gaithlin nodded faintly, her heart aching with kindred sympathy for his plight. “Lots,” she said. “If we promise to feed you every day, will you allow us to stay here?”
His eyes widened with the miraculous concept. Eating every day! His rebellious nature rapidly dissolved in light of the concept of regular meals and he nodded eagerly to Gaithlin’s suggestion.
“I want bread and meat!” he said.
“And you shall have bread and meat,” her grin returned. “Now, will you tell me your name so that we may know the title of our overlord?”
“Malcolm,” he said without hesitation.
Gaithlin let go of the boy; it was obvious he wasn’t about to leave their presence with the thought of food to be had. Rising to her feet, she could feel Christian’s presence behind her as he quietly drew close.
“ ’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Laird Malcolm,” she said. “How many years have you seen?”
“I am not sure,” Malcolm said, eyeing the satchels against the wall. “Six or seven. Mayhap more.”
Gaithlin nodded in understanding. “Can you tell me why you were spying on us?”
Distracted from the possibility of food, he eyed both Gaithlin and Christian with a certain degree of remorse. Kicking at the dirt, he shrugged. “I heard yer voices,” he said softly. “Voices carry in the wood and I was curious.”
“Then you live nearby?”
Finished kicking at the dirt, he returned to eyeing the baggage. “I live all over,” he replied, turning to Gaithlin with a look of utter eagerness. “Can we eat now?”
As Gaithlin gazed down at the bristle-haired lad, a good deal became clear to her. All of the clues, pieced together through conversation and observation, brought about the situation with brutal clarity and she felt a tug to her heart at the plight of the plucky young lad. He was a survivor, like she was.
“Are your parents dead, Malcolm?” she asked gently.
He nodded without distress, his gaze moving from the food yet again and falling on Christian this time. His expression immediately turning baleful. “Are ye going to punish me still, hound?”
Christian, having been an observer to the entire exchange between Gaithlin and the boy, was also wise to the interpretation of the entire situation. As a result, he was far calmer than he had been moments before. Even in the face of Malcolm’s hateful insult.
“Let us establish our rules from the beginning,” he growled, a softness underlying his stern demeanor. “You will no longer insult me if you expect to eat my fare. Is this understood?”
Malcolm looked to Gaithlin, who nodded firmly. After a moment, the little boy kicked the ground and turned away. “I wunna call ye names, Englishman.”
“His name is Sir Christian,” Gaithlin informed him, her voice soft and her eyes twinkling as she looked to Christian. “You will address him properly, Laird Malcolm.”
The boy nodded again, scratching his louse-ridden tunic. Being addressed as a laird had a very pleasant sound to it, a respect and honor given that he had never before known. And noting the homage to come from a beautiful woman fed arrogance within his little heart that he never knew existed. But her brutish friend was another matter and they eyed each other like a pair of dominant cocks.
“Sir Christian…he is yer brother?” he asked her, his brow furrowing when Christian’s gesture darkened.
“I am her husband,” Christian replied before Gaithlin could respond.
Husband. Malcolm’s heart was strangely crushed with that knowledge. Even though the lady did not look entirely pleased with the declaration, she kept silent but refused to meet Sir Christian’s gaze, even when he deliberately looked to her. Instead, the lady was still focused on his dirty little face.
“Laird Malcolm, do you know where there is water about?” she asked, ignoring Christian’s searching gaze.
Malcolm nodded, pointing to the west. “There’s a brook down the hill.”
Gaithlin nodded firmly. “You will go and wash the filth from your hands before you partake of our morning meal.” When he looked incredibly puzzled, she simply pointed in the direction he had indicated. “Hurry, now. You do not want to be late and Sir Christian will not wait for a straggler.”
Still confused as to why he should wash the dirt from his hands, Malcolm nonetheless obeyed her order. Watching the tiny, slovenly body dash across the clearing, Gaithlin was surprised when a pair of warm, delicious lips suddenly planted themselves over her mouth. A moment of confused shock was replaced by painful bolts of awakening desire as she allowed herself the delightful luxury of Christian’s powerfully heated embrace.
A gentle kiss that harbored all the elements of a devilishly carnal lust. Her arms wound themselves about his neck as his massive arms crushed her against him, relishing the feel and taste and smell of his musk. Hungrily, his tongue pried her lips open and delved into her honeyed essence, licking her until she was mindless. Then he pulled away, watching her dazed expression.
“What was that for?” she rasped.
“Do I need a reason?” he asked huskily. “I am your husband.”
Her blinking became more rapid and her limp body suddenly stiffened as his words sank in. “You are not my husband. And it wasn’t fair to lie to Laird Malcolm.”
He continued to grin. “A minor technicality. As soon as I find a proper priest, the situation will be remedied.”
Gaithlin sighed heavily. “I told you that I do not want to marry you, Christian. I meant it.”
Although his smile didn’t waver, a distinctly moody haze shrouded his ice-blue orbs. “As did I. Stop arguing with me.”
She pursed her lips in irritation and he attempted to kiss her again, laughing deeply when she slugged his shoulder in her quest to be free of him. Releasing her, his gaze lingered warmly on her frustrated expression as he turned for the supplies nestled against the wall of the crumbling shelter.
His thoughts were warm as he unbound the satchels holding their eating supplies, continuing to ponder the eagerness of her passionate response. It had been so natural to take her in his arms and kiss the breath from her that he vowed at that moment he would do it with every opportunity. Mayhap with time and enough kissing, she would begin to respond to his notions of marriage as well. Mayhap when she realized the pleasure and contentment that await them both, she would relent her stubborn stance. Certainly he could prove to her that being married to the Demon was not such a horrible fate.
Christian was so deeply pondering the impending future that he hardly noticed when leather-booted feet came to stand beside him. Glancing up from his task when he realized their presence, he found himself staring into her beautiful face.
“Why did you truly kiss me, Christian?” her voice was a whisper. Demanding answers that might possibly help her understand her own befuddled questions.
He gazed at her a moment, his thoughts of their future fading for the moment. After a temperate pause, he shook his head.
“Because you showed uncanny wisdom and understanding with Malcolm,” he said softly. “And because I wanted to.”
She digested his honest reply, gazing at him steadily until he turned away and resumed digging ab
out in his packs. As he drew forth bags of lentils and dried pork, Gaithlin reached down and pulled the sacks gently from his grip. When his eyes came up to her, wide with curiosity, she merely smiled.
“You will permit me to cook your meal,” she said softly.
He cocked a slow eyebrow. “And what does a finely-bred young lady know of cooking?”
Her smile faded. “The same as you. ’Tis a necessity to be able to feed oneself, is it not?”
Based on his earlier observations of her eating habits and knowing that she had known her share of hardship and starvation, he refrained from mentioning another word regarding her cooking abilities. God only knew how little there had been to cook at Winding Cross. As he watched her gather the parcels of supplies and disappear into the shack, he swore at that very moment that she would never again know such brutal tribulation. He would make sure of it.
“Are you going to check on the condition of the chimney?” she called from the shelter, breaking him from his thoughts.
“Aye,” he called back to her, rising to stand and brushing off his hands as he eyed the mud-based stack rising from the edge of the lean-to. “Do not light a fire until I have seen to it.”
“Hurry, then,” she called back, sounding suspiciously like a seasoned, imperious wife. “I am hungry and I doubt Laird Malcolm will be able to wait very long.”
He grunted, nodding in a patronizing fashion and realizing with increasing resignation that he was already acquiring the obedient mannerisms of a bullied husband and liking it. “Aye, honey love, I am moving.”
Not strangely, he couldn’t recall ever in his life when he had been so eager to please.
Alicia couldn’t recall ever seeing a finer dressed lady. In a magnificent cloak of burgundy brocade with a brown mink lining, the Lady Margaret du Bois sat stiffly against the back of the worn chair that was hardly suitable for a lady of her wealth and station. But she remained perched on the seat nonetheless, her lovely face intently focused on her hostess. In fact, from the moment she had been escorted into the room by Eldon, she had seemed exceptionally eager to commence the purpose of her visit.
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