Brides of the North

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  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 b
een 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 awa
y.

  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?”