Uriah rose from his chair, a hairy eyebrow cocked at his mistress. “Victory against the Demon?”
“Indeed,” Alicia refused to be discouraged by his pessimism. “We shall leave ten men here to protect the fortress and ride out with a full company of men and knights.”
“Jean has more men than we do. What if he sends one hundred troops to fortify the Demon?”
“As I said, the element of surprise will be ours. And, truthfully, our only objective will be to rescue Gaithlin and not to destroy troops that obviously out-number us.”
Uriah ground his teeth, seeing that there was no swaying Alicia’s intentions. “I still say it is a trap.”
“And I say we have no choice. We will take the lady’s advice.”
Uriah sighed heavily, scratching his scalp as he came to terms with the future course of Winding Cross’ potential welfare. “Very well, my lady,” he muttered. “Will you be riding with us?”
“Of course,” Alicia said briskly. “Where my men fight, so do I.”
“Fight where?” Eldon re-entered the solar, his brown eyes inquisitive.
Alicia turned to the knight, the lover she emotionally abused with her indecisiveness and paltry concerns. Gently, she smiled. “Come in, Eldon. We have laid a course of action.”
Eldon glanced at Uriah, noting from the man’s dour expression that he was not pleased with “their” course of action. Bracing inwardly, he managed to return Alicia’s encouraging smile.
“Very well, my lady. I am at your disposal.”
Less than five minutes later, Uriah wasn’t the only knight with a dour expression.
The road to Forrestoak was alive with birds and the brightness of approaching fall. As Maggie drank in the scenery, she felt a sense of satisfaction; she had completed her objective admirably and her heart was as light as a feather. Christian was as good as in her arms and the de Gare bitch would be returned to her proper cage, away from the Demon who had been forced to endure her company.
Of course, it occurred to her that Christian could suffer terribly in the battle that was sure to come as two opposing factions sought to separate the Demon from his captive. But she convinced herself that Jean St. John would do nothing to harm his errant son in anger and that the de Gares were merely concerned with retrieving their heiress, not exacting mortal revenge against the more-powerful Demon of Eden. Surely retrieving the woman would be enough without the sacrifice of St. John blood.
She had to believe that no trauma would come to her intended. In faith, she refused to believe that she had ignited a furious blaze from which there was no knowing the full extent of devastation. A blaze that was already spreading, devouring all it touched, consuming that which it met only to leave the victim emotionally destroyed as a brittle cinder is achieved. All that mattered was that Christian would return to his senses and to her bed, where he belonged.
Two hours out of Winding Cross, her sergeant estimated they would be approaching Howard lands within the hour. Maggie relaxed aboard her delicate white palfrey, thinking ahead to Kelvin’s reaction when she told him of her most brilliant, accomplished scheme to exact revenge upon both Christian and the de Gare bitch. Now that she had set the plan in motion, enmity would carry it through to the end. There was nothing left to do but observe the happenings from the safety of Forrestoak.
To her left, a cluster of quail suddenly bolted from the underbrush, startling the excitable chargers. Maggie’s palfrey executed a nervous side-step, quickly soothed by her feminine rider. Just as the delicate animal collected her jittery senses, the underbrush once again came alive with noise and chaos. This time, however, it was not the result of flighty birds.
Foaming destriers were upon them.
Jolted with astonishment, Maggie was nearly pitched off her small horse as shouts and echoes abound amongst the densely-foliaged trees. Seized with the urge of self-protection, she was prepared to gore her mare forward in a mad dash for safety when she suddenly recognized one of the chargers.
Jasper St. John blocked her path.
Gasping with relief and fright, Maggie gulped for air at the sight of Christian’s massive cousin. “Jasper!” she cried. “My Goodness, you scared the life from me! What are you doing so far north?”
Jasper didn’t reply for a moment. Steering his destrier towards the fragile, foaming palfrey, he easily blocked the animal’s escape. His reply, heavy with sarcasm and disgust, cloaked the air like a cloying stench.
“I have a better question, m’lady,” he said. “What were you doing at Winding Cross?”
Maggie stared at the man. His visor was down, his question laced in a tone that was nothing short of terrifying. At that moment, she thought of many things; the fact that her actions had been discovered and the undeniable fact that she had been trapped within the duplicity of her own foolish scheme. She would have laughed at her moronic mistake had the impending consequences not been veined with lethal intentions.
Still, she was unwilling to succumb to the mounting panic. Gazing into Jasper’s menacing faceplate, she struggled to maintain an even expression.
“Surely you jest, Jasper,” she said with as much disapproval as she could muster. “Who told you such slanderous lies?”
Beneath his visor, Jasper smiled. He’d never liked the Lady Margaret du Bois, even on days when he was feeling particularly amiable. Lacking in intelligence though he might be, he was uncannily sharp when it came to the human character; coming to know Maggie over the past several years, hearing the rumors and seeing evidence of her infidelities that Christian had so blatantly disregarded, he had come to recognize a very petty, very vain woman. God, how he was going to enjoy this.
“No one told me, m’lady,” his voice was low. “I saw the evidence myself. You see, Uncle Jean doesn’t trust you. He never has. When you fabricated the story of Christian’s failing loyalties, Sir Jean suspected that the true treachery lay within your black little heart and he demanded I follow you when your party left Eden this morn. And I must say I was not surprised to realize where the trail led.”
Maggie knew her cheeks had drained of all color; the world began to sway dangerously and she gripped her gilded saddle for support. “ ’Tis not what you think, Jasper,” she said quietly, her clever mind working furiously to formulate an acceptable excuse for her actions. A lie to save her life. Jasper was dim-witted, was he not? Surely he would believe whatever story she could supply.
Please… you will believe me!
“The Lady… Lady de Gare is a distant friend of my mother’s and… oh, posh, I promised I would not tell, knowing how Sir Jean and Sir Alex are enemies. I traveled to Winding Cross to relay word of my mother’s illness to Lady de Gare, as my mother requested. It is a secret, Jasper, and you surely mustn’t tell. Christian doesn’t even know. I promise it will be the last time I visit Winding Cross.”
Jasper listened patiently to her lie, knowing it was a fabrication of the utmost attempt. Yet before she had finished uttering the last prevaricating strains, he was dismounting his snappish charger and moving for the petite woman with the silky brown hair. His orders, after all, were specific.
Grasping Maggie by the arm, he yanked her off the palfrey and hauled her off the road, into the moldering woods. Behind him, his legion of fifty men were already in the process of engaging Maggie’s escort of twenty. A match not long in the running, for there would be no witnesses left behind.
Screaming and gasping, Maggie realized his intentions and blind panic set in. Dear God…she was going to die.
Her lies had failed. If her mission to separate Christian from his captive was intended for heady success, she would never know the extent of her victory. In fact, she realized with sickening certainty that she was about to pay for her twisted sense of revenge with her very own mortality.
“Please, Jasper, have mercy!” she cried as he pulled her through a thicket and into a small clearing. “Surely you do not believe that I am allied with Alex de Gare?”
Ja
sper’s grip was so tight that she swore he had broken her arm. Pausing under the dusky sky, he gazed impassively at the small woman who would never live to see another sun set.
“It does not matter what I believe,” he said. “All that matters is that you were seen entering Winding Cross, retreating from the castle less than an hour later. By setting foot upon enemy soil, you signed your own death warrant regardless of your reasons for being there. Do you understand this?”
Pale and sweating, Maggie’s brown eyes were wide with terror and confusion. “You… you would kill me simply for daring to enter de Gare territory?”
“Uncle Jean was specific. All traitors are to be killed, no matter what the reason behind their betrayal.”
Swallowing hard, Maggie whimpered when Jasper unsheathed his broadsword in one clean move. “But… but what of Christian? He has endeared himself to his de Gare captive. Does that not make him a traitor too?”
Veiled by the menacing visor, she didn’t see Jasper’s expression falter, confusion and pain rippling across his features. “That is for Uncle Jean to decide if, in fact, your lies bear some merit.” The broadsword gleamed in the weak light of the setting sun and Maggie tugged against Jasper’s mighty grip, struggling wildly to break away. “As for you, the treachery and lies and humiliation end here. Your body and the bodies of your escort will be discovered and it will appear as if you have been robbed and killed by bandits. This, madam, is the sentence for your betrayal.”
“I never betrayed the House of St. John!” Maggie cried. “Kelvin Howard will vouch for my loyalties and intentions!”
“If Kelvin Howard is involved in your lies, then his days are surely numbered as well.”
Jasper tightened his grip and Maggie shrieked, knowing his blade was imminent. Seized with panic, her knees gave way. “Where is Quinton? He will believe me!”
“Quinton is back at Eden with no knowledge of his father’s directives to me.” Jasper’s voice was quiet. “Being a foolishly smitten lad, Uncle Jean did not fully advise him of the treachery he suspected. Only I am immune to your sluttish charms and am capable of carrying out your execution for crimes against the House of St. John.”
“Prithee mercy, Jasper!” Maggie sobbed, her composure vanished. “I am innocent!”
Jasper raised the blade, listening to Maggie’s shrieks and grunts of terror. “Beg mercy from God, madam,” his voice was hoarse, laced with emotion and a fervent desire to be done with his task. “Only He can purge thy soul of sin. Only He has interest in your supplication for grace. I care not, m’lady, for your transgressions against the House of St. John are transgressions against me.”
Bright, red blood, brighter than life and redder than death, spilled from Maggie’s chest as his broadsword plunged deep.
Jasper had never seen it flow with greater ease.
Gaithlin realized she was actually glad to return to the cozy little shack lodged deep in the Wood, a home that she and Christian had shared for five days. Strolling through the light bramble with Malcolm in hand, Christian was several feet away from her, leading his great white charger by the reins.
It was early afternoon as they returned from their morning trip into the village. They had their supplies and goods, and Gaithlin was saddled with enough frivolous luxuries to last her the rest of her life; perfumes, oils, and other feminine pleasures Christian had been insistent she own. And the boots that he had been so intent on purchasing for her would be ready on the morrow, so promised the skilled cobbler with one good arm. Gaithlin wondered how in the world the man was able to excel in his craft with only one useful hand, but Malcolm had assured her that he was a master with leathers and soles.
The ox and wagon transporting their goods followed them down the road as Malcolm held on to the rope that attached to the animal’s nose ring. The entire trip home had been filled with warm glances and bold winks, saucy smiles, and flirtatious gestures. The entire world of courting was completely new to Gaithlin and she found quite early on that she enjoyed the game immensely.
Outside of Christian’s influence, her only experienced with adult diversions had been the perverse sport Kelvin Howard had been intent to force upon her. She had been frightened and anxious within the unwanted company of her would-be accoster, but she found the gentle flirting Christian so easily employed a true joy to behold. The two men were a world apart in manners and techniques and Gaithlin was upswept in Christian’s charming, roguish distractions; in faith, there was no comparison between the two.
He possessed charms that she responded to readily, though she was new and unsure in the deliciously spirited world. The mood was light and delightful, the air somehow purer and the birds somehow sweeter. As Malcolm trudged beside her in a pair of boots Christian had managed to purchase off another peasant boy about his own size, the happy young lad kept up a running conversation that went entirely ignored by the smitten adults.
Gaithlin would have been content to walk for the rest of her life, absorbing Christian’s grins and winks and silent kissing gestures. Unfortunately, however, they were drawing close to their lodgings and she was loathed to realize that their engaging little game was coming to a close for the time being.
Just as she reluctantly resigned herself to the end of the enticing exchange, Christian suddenly seemed particularly distracted by the approach of their encampment. Barely visible through the line of trees, she was startled when he came to an abrupt halt.
“Good Christ,” he hissed, releasing the charger and unsheathing his sword from the carved scabbard strapped against the magnificent saddle. Broadsword glistening in the weak light, his ice-blue eyes blazed at the familiar clearing looming through the trees.
“What’s wrong?” Gaithlin demanded, suddenly frightened. “What do you..?”
He hushed her sternly, huddling behind a bank of thick brush. His icy orbs glittered intently in the weak light and Gaithlin moved up beside him curiously, only to be grasped firmly and pulled to her knees.
“Christian..?” she began, but he clapped a gauntleted hand over her mouth.
“Hush,” he whispered harshly. Removing his hand, he gestured through the leaves and branches into the heart of their encampment. “Look. I would hazard to guess that your dog people have returned. Malcolm?”
The lad was between them, his green eyes wide on his bald head. In the distance, two slovenly forms were busy inflicting severe damage on the sod house as they sifted the area for anything of value. “Aye, tha’s them,” suddenly, he shot to his feet in outrage. “They’re tearin’ apart our work!”
Both Gaithlin and Christian shushed him loudly, pulling him down to his knees once again. As Gaithlin put her arm about his skinny shoulders in a comforting gesture, Christian darted back to his charger and deftly removed his double-catapult Welsh crossbow from its secures. Entrusting Malcolm a broadsword that weighed more than the lad himself, he efficiently loaded the wicked-looking weapon.
“Are you going to shoot them?” Gaithlin whispered, wide-eyed with concern.
One eye on the clearing and the other on securing two long-headed arrows, Christian fastened the last projectile and moved towards the edge of the foliage.
“Nay,” he said softly. “But I intend to make it so that they never bother us again.”
Gaithlin and Malcolm watched, eyes bulging with apprehension, as Christian skirted the edge of the clearing, guiding his armored-body through the bramble and shadows. Keeping himself hidden, he managed with surprising ease to make his way towards the center of activity.
The dog people were oblivious to the impending threat, busy ripping asunder the entire structure of the shack in their quest for valuables. Twice, the man paused in his search to sniff the air and Christian froze, waiting until the wind shifted before advancing once more. Closer and closer he edged, prepared to frighten the life from the scruffy dog-like humans.
When he was nearly upon them, Gaithlin and Malcolm held their breath as Christian leveled the crossbow, aiming for the d
og-man who was intently shredding the sod covering from the northern wall. The bow held as steady as stone and Gaithlin continued to observe the scene, not at all sure that Christian was determined not to harm the less-fortunate male. Although he had stated that he had no intention to murder, he could have very well changed his mind as he made his way towards the destructive, sub-human people.
Anxiety rising, Gaithlin knew she could not stand by while the Demon carried out a seemingly mortal threat. Mayhap the dog-people would be reasonable if only she was able to speak with them; after all, she and Christian had not made the attempt to converse with the somewhat-canine natives of the Wood. And she could not allow Christian to kill the pair without making an effort at some type of communication.
Rising swiftly to her feet, she grasped a startled Malcolm by the hand and thrust herself forward through the underbrush. As calmly and as pleasantly as she could manage, she smiled brightly and waved her hand in greeting.
“Salutations!” she called evenly. “I…!”
The dog-people swung on her, startled into a soaring crest of giddy fear. Barking furiously, they looked as if they had been scared out of their minds; they tripped and scrambled and bashed into each other in their haste to leave. Gaithlin tried to calm them with words of supplication and reason, but they clearly ignored her pleas. As the harried woman took flight into the thick bramble, the male attempted to follow suit but was quickly thwarted by a massive, armored body.
Christian emerged from the thicket, crossbow in one hand and the captive dog-man in the other. As his prisoner howled and thrashed, he cast the man a most curious glance before turning his attention to Gaithlin.
Brides of the North Page 95
