Brides of the North

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  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?

  ‘She was the Beauty of my passion.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. XI, p. CLVI

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “The moment we receive word from Christian, I want you and Jasper to ride north and assess the situation. Is that clear?”

  Quinton St. John eyed his father. The man was drunker than he had ever been in his entire life, sweating and pale-lipped and irrational. But, because he was an obedient son, he nodded firmly.

  “Aye, Da. As you say.”

  Jean tried to set his chalice down on the table of his solar, but he missed. The cup clattered to the floor and Jean cursed softly, grasping the crystal decanter and drinking from the neck.

  “And if your brother has been foolish enough to allow himself to become entangled within the de Gare bitch’s lies, you will truss him up and return him to me for judgment. Do you understand?”

  Quinton stared at his father. The man’s intoxication only seemed to fuel his hatred towards the de Gares, a hatred that certainly did not require any additional support. But if, perchance, Christian acted foolishly towards his de Gare captive as Maggie had suggested, then Quinton had no doubt that their father’s hatred would be blind to the St. John bloodlines. A traitor knew no family ties. Even the Demon.

  In faith, he loved his brother dearly and could not comprehend the notion that Christian would willingly choose to disregard seventy years of family honor simply for the virtue of a captive woman. But his brother was a rogue of legendary proportions and Quinton would not be at all surprised if he had indeed bedded the wench, if only to strip her of her dignity and bring her to bear on the fact that she was a prisoner of the Demon of Eden.

  Aye, Christian was deeply loyal to the Feud. He had returned from the king’s service to help Jean and Quinton triumph over Alex de Gare once and for all, and to suggest that he might be softening his stance in the hypnotic presence of Alex’s daughter was pure foolishness. No woman could make him forget his directive, and especially not a de Gare.

  At least… he hoped not.

  Jean rose from his seat, clumsily dropping the crystal decanter in the process.
The commotion of breaking glass and loud curses broke Quinton from his train of thought and he struggled to respond to the question put forth to him by his drunken father.

  “I understand completely,” he replied quietly, praying that he would not be facing such a situation. Christian was a far better fighter than him and he did not relish the idea of meeting his angry brother in arms should he be required to enforce his father’s directive. “But if I bring Christian here, what of the woman?”

  “The bitch?” Jean snarled mockingly, looking about for another flask of wine. “Kill her. Then you will cut off her head and bring it to me for delivery to Alex de Gare.”

  Shocked, Quinton gazed uncertainly at his father. “You… you cannot be serious, da. To kill a wo….”

  “You will not dispute me!” Jean roared, jerking around to face his youngest son and nearly losing his balance in the process. Even as Quinton reached out to steady him, he angrily batted the younger man’s hands away. “She’s a de Gare, an animal, a beast! God help Christian if he has allowed the whore to sway him. God help him!”

  Quinton watched his father stumble about, listening to the curses and fury venting high to the rafter of the solar. Knowing that even though the man was dead drunk, his hatred and threats were very real. Although the alcohol magnified the mannerisms and lack of control, it did not add to the already substantial loathing. An inherent malice reserved only for those unfortunate enough to bear the de Gare name.

  And his threats towards Christian were very real as well. If the Demon had somehow softened his stance towards the enemy, Jean was correct when he pleaded for God’s assistance. God help them all should that be the case.

  “We should be receiving word from Galloway soon,” Quinton struggled to keep his manner calm. “The moment we receive direction, I shall ride north and have a look for myself.”

  Jean snorted, having located a pewter flask of harsh Scotch Whiskey. Taking a healthy swallow, he choked and sputtered as the fire liquid coursed down his throat. “God damn Christian if he has shown mercy towards the bitch. I shall kill him myself and take great pleasure in his pain.”

  Quinton didn’t reply for a moment, feeling more despondent with each passing word. “You realize that it’s entirely possible that Maggie has lied. You’re condemning Christian before you have seen verity of her tales.”

  Jean, his lids half-closed, sat at his desk a moment, whiskey flask in hand. His ice-blue eyes found his youngest son. “You’re entirely correct, of course. I don’t trust her as far as I can spit. But I know Christian when it comes to women, and if by some outlandish chance he has taken a fancy to this one, then….”

  His voice trailed off, his anger easing in lieu of a gripping depression. Taking another massive swallow of liquor, tears sprang to his eyes and coursed down his cheeks. Quinton absorbed the scene, quite caught up in his own anxieties. After an enteral span of silence, he put his hand on his father’s shoulder in a comforting gesture.

  “Not to worry,” he said hoarsely. “Christian has not defected to the enemy. I shall see to it.”

  Out in the phantom recesses of the dark hall, a shadowed figure huddled against the cold stone listening to the conversation between Jean and Quinton. Barely breathing, barely moving, the form nonetheless possessed the energy to smile. A bright and sinister smile. Eavesdropping always had possessed a great deal of advantage.

  Not that it had taken a great deal of intuition to suspect that the seed of doubt planted within the mind of Jean St. John had grown roots and a will of its own. Burgeoning into a disturbing vine of unbelievable destruction as the wispy tendrils of doubt took firmer and firmer hold within the fickle thoughts of a wearily aging man.

  Maggie knew this all too well; intensely clever, she had intended that the doubt should grow and spread. Quinton was feeling the doubt, as would Jasper soon enough. As would the rest of the St. John family. Doubt that would cause Christian to give up his whore and retreat to the bosom of his heritage in the desperate struggle to convince them that he was not a traitor.

  Her smile grew as Quinton marched past her, handsome and regal, though not nearly so elaborate as his brother’s beauty. Faded into the flickering shadows, Maggie watched the youngest St. John march down the hall and fade into the darkness, no doubt with a myriad of doubts plaguing his mind, doubts of the Demon’s loyalties.

  Aye, her scheme was working admirably. She had succeeded in sowing great misgivings in Jean St. John’s sanity against his mighty son, and she had furthermore succeeded in discovering the location of her errant fiancé. A location she would be more than happy to relay to all interested parties. After all, she had made a pact with the de Gares; a pact she fully intended to fulfill.

  Galloway….

  The fog was like a thick blanket, heavy and cloaking and completely obliterating the landscape. Gaithlin had awoken to the hazy curtain at dawn, alone and cold within the confines of the small shelter.

  Swathed in Christian’s cloak, he couldn’t recall falling asleep the night before. All she could recollect was a good deal of crying, of desolation and hopelessness like she had never experienced. Of knowing that the warm discovery she had been so willingly to succumb to had been abruptly cleaved due to her own foolish mistake. By admitting that Alicia de Gare had managed to hold off the brilliant Jean St. John and his legendary son had been enough to send Christian into seizures of fury.

  Fury that had kept him away from her all night. A wise move to remove himself from her presence, she suspected; had he remained, she sincerely wondered if she would have seen the light of morn. A furious Demon was not a particularly healthy thing, especially for a de Gare.

  Although she tried not to linger on what the day would bring, it was difficult as she forced herself to rise and wash her face, mechanically preparing for the morning meal. Lighting the hearth had proven difficult with her freezing hands, driving her to tears at one point. And when she put the small pot of lentil stew to warm over the flaming embers, a fairly persistent cramping in her groin and lower back told her that the misery of her day was to be made complete.

  Of all time for her menses to be upon her. The tears of self-pity and apprehension continued as she warmed the stew, hoping that the smells would bring Christian out of his hiding place. She didn’t know why she was so eager to see him, to confront his anger once again, but she was desperate to gaze upon his magnificent face again and to apologize for withholding the truth.

  The smells of smoke and stew did indeed bring forth a male, but not the one she was hoping for. Malcolm burst into the hut, dirty and wide-eyed and shivering, eager for his morning feast. Gaithlin tried not to let her melancholy mood show as she fed the boy, vaguely answering his questions as to Christian’s whereabouts. Instead, she focused on the orphaned lad in an attempt to discover where he himself had spent the night. She received as vague an answer from him as he had from her regarding Christian’s location.

  Malcolm ate a hefty portion of stew but Gaithlin refrained from eating all together, preferring to save the remaining portion for Christian should he ever decide to return. But as the morning gained speed, it became apparent Christian was intent on staying away.

  Gaithlin struggled against her deepening despair and mounting cramps as she went about her morning work, rummaging through Christian’s saddlebags and planning meals from the supplies he had brought. Somewhere in the midst of her forced-activities, she realized that Christian’s diary and writing implements were missing.

  They had been on the floor when Christian had left the hut, of that she was certain. She recalled seeing them through her haze of tears. But they were most definitely missing and she became cognizant of the fact that Christian must have returned for them sometime during the night. One of the oil lamps was missing, too.

  The knowledge that he had returned sometime during the darkened hours filled her with a good deal of relief. But it also managed to supply her with a certain degree of anger, an irritation knowing he had entered their hut
without bothering to speak to her. A foolishness in wishing he had roused her from a deep sleep simply to yell at her once again.

  In spite of her inane thoughts, she knew he had not left her. Even if he was furious. The white destrier was still tethered to a soaring Scot pine and except for his diary and quill, all of Christian’s belongings remained. Standing at the open doorway of their hut as a cloying mist of fog blanketed the landscape with tangible gloom, Gaithlin wondered miserably where on earth he could have gone.

  It was a longing Malcolm did not share. Determined to continue with his chore of patching up the hut with or without his English associate, he was already busy carrying the large pot to the stream for the first batch of clay-like mud. Gaithlin would have helped him had she not been rapidly succumbing to crippling cramps, eventually distracting her from her depression and confusion over Christian’s absence. By the time Malcolm returned from the stream dragging the first pot full of mud, Gaithlin was lying in a fetal position inside the hut and praying for an early death.

  Malcolm wondered what was wrong with the beautiful woman, going so far as to ask her. She simply mumbled an evasive reply and told him to go about his chores. Obedient and eager, he gladly began progress on the southern portion of the hut.

  Although the lad had no concept of time, he knew it had taken him a measure of duration to plaster nearly one-eighth of the southern wall. When he entered the hut to tell the lady of his return trip to the stream, he had been concerned to find her on her back with her knees raised, tears streaming from her closed eyes. When he had asked her what the matter was, she had ignored him completely, clutched her stomach, and rolled onto her side. Perplexed and wondering heavily on her mystery illness, he had proceeded to the stream.

  He almost didn’t see Christian as he reached the banks of the simmering brook. Seated on a large bolder, the Demon’s face was the color of the fog; pale and colorless. A large book sat in his lap as he pondered the noisy water, not bothering to glance up when Malcolm lowered the pot onto the moist, mossy earth.