Brides of the North

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Sighing delicately, she sheathed Alex’s heavy sword against her thigh and squared her shoulders in a futile attempt to bolster her sagging courage. God, how she wished there was another way to go about Gaithlin’s rescue; facing Christian, Jasper and Quinton St. John in battle was certainly not the most attractive prospect. But there was no other alternative; she’d known that from the first. The only chance for the successful reclamation of the de Gare heiress was to meet her abductors with full force and pray that Gaithlin would be easily extracted while her captors were occupied in battle.

  It was Alicia’s only hope. One that was weakening by the moment as she pondered the prospects of facing Jean St. John’s most powerful knights within the confines of Galloway. But she maintained the firm opinion that there was no other alternative and she struggled to support a confident, determined attitude under her lover’s intense stare.

  Forcing a weak smile purely for Eldon’s benefit, she met his scrutinizing gaze with a brave expression. “Then the order is given, Sir Eldon. We follow Eden’s party into Galloway to rescue my daughter.”

  In spite of her courageous facade, Eldon could feel her apprehension, mingling with his own. Not only would their rescue incursion be forced to deal with the mighty Demon of Eden, but with his powerful brother and cousin as well. It was an element they had not fully anticipated, although the possibilities had always been present. But neither Alicia nor Eldon honestly expected that Jean would send his two most powerful knights into the wilds of Galloway to support the Demon’s position.

  “It’s a trap,” Uriah stood at the entrance to the solar, his aged face grim. “I told you that woman is setting us up for destruction. She and Jean are working together in this, of that I am sure.”

  Alicia gazed at the older warrior, his words splintering her frail wall of bravery. “Be that as it may, we have no other choice. Gaithlin is in trouble and she needs our assistance.”

  Uriah’s ancient eyes glared at Alicia for a long moment, his expression bordering on sedition. He simply couldn’t believe that his mistress was willing to descend into the Fires of Hell when a trap had been so obviously laid. Even if the bait was Winding Cross’ very own heiress, there were other ways to go about retrieving their native daughter.

  “Have you even considered any other alternatives?” his voice was pleading and condescending at the same time. “Or are you so completely convinced that Lady Margaret is truthful that you would simply accept her word without hesitation?”

  By Alicia’s side, Eldon’s brown orbs glittered dangerously at the man who had trained him since childhood. “You will not use that tone with her, Uriah,” he growled. “Lady Alicia is doing as she sees best and it is not your duty to question her decision.”

  “Someone needs to question her!” Uriah snapped brusquely. “She’s leading us all to our deaths!”

  “Then you are free to remain behind if you feel so strongly,” Alicia replied evenly before Eldon could throttle the man. Grasping her younger lover by the arm in a quieting gesture, her gaze remained focused on her husband’s loyal knight. “Uriah, if I felt there were any other alternatives, then I would have gladly considered them all. But there is no other choice. We must follow Eden’s troops into the wilds of Scotland if we are to locate my daughter. And if we die in the process, then I suppose it is the Will of God. We must trust Him to protect us in our most vulnerable hour.”

  Mottle-cheeked underneath his scratchy beard, Uriah glared at Eldon and Alicia for a long moment before turning away in an attempt to control his anger and fear. Alicia’s calm reasoning and superior intellect always provided a relaxing effect upon his naturally agitated demeanor; the further he pondered her words, the more resigned he became. Whether or not he agreed with her willing trust in a strange woman bearing the promise of assistance, it was not his place to question his seasoned mistress. As always, he was sworn to obey.

  Emitting a heavy sigh, he slapped his helm onto his bushy head and deftly secured the stays as he turned towards his lady. “The men are ready, m’lady,” he said quietly. Reconciled to his fate. “We await your presence.”

  Alicia smiled faintly, grasping her own helm from Eldon’s extended hand. “Thank you, Uriah,” she replied softly. “We will delay no further. Gaithlin is waiting.”

  Uriah was the last man out of the solar. Wondering if it would be his final glimpse of the beloved, moss-covered room.

  Sweetheart Abbey was founded in 1273 by Lady Dervorgilla after her husband, John Balliol, was killed by Robert the Bruce in the battle for the Scot throne. Gazing at the red-walled abbey, Christian remembered his mother’s recitation of the sad and poignant story of a lady so entirely devoted to her husband’s memory that she would dedicate an abbey to his honor.

  In faith, he had not considered marrying in the Dumfries abbey simply because he was hopeful to find a cloister or monastery closer to their Galloway encampment. Although it had taken over six hours for them to reach the lovely little church, Christian realized that Sweetheart Abbey, or Dulce Cor as it was known locally, was indeed the perfect place to seal their union.

  He and Gaithlin drew in the sight of the gentle Norman structure with a mixture of awe and excitement, listening to Malcolm’s endless commentary of the view of the Firth of Solway lingering in the distance. The hills were lush with the green ambience of early fall, casting a delightfully pristine aura over the landscape. Gaithlin dismounted the snappish charger with her gaze riveted to the brilliant scenery, slapping distractedly at the animal when it gnashed its teeth in her direction.

  “It’s lovely,” she murmured, hearing the creak of Christian’s armor as he dismounted behind her. “After the story you told me regarding its legacy, ’tis a perfect place to marry.”

  Moving to dislodge his purse from his saddlebags, Christian gave the red structure a long glance. “ ’Twas said that Lady Dervorgilla kept her husband’s embalmed heart close to her, always. When she died, both she and Lord Balliol’s heart were interred beneath the floor of the sanctuary. Together for all eternity.”

  Gaithlin tore her eyes away from the structure long enough to cast Christian a look of pure, unrestrained warmth. “A perfect place, sire,” she repeated for his ears alone. “A perfect place for us.”

  As Christian and Gaithlin predictably lost themselves in the midst of tender, meaningful gazes, Malcolm leapt eagerly off the rear of the charger. Having ridden happily behind the English warlord and his lady all the way from their wooded encampment, he was oblivious to the passionate aura surrounding him. Clad in the new tunic that Gaithlin had basted together, he was wildly excited with his very first trip out of Galloway.

  Appearing reasonably clean and healthy, the joyful young lad was most anxious to be witness to a ceremony, as Christian had explained vaguely, that was a mere formality; although he and Gaithlin were man and wife in mind and body and spirit, the church was nonetheless required to legalize the arrangement.

  Fortunately, Malcolm had been neither judgmental nor remotely knowledgeable regarding the matters Christian had attempted to explain. The only factor of importance to him was a new tunic and the prospect of a journey that would take him out of the dank, moldering recesses of his native Wood. To a young boy whose life had drastically changed over the past few days, he was eager to sample all he could of this wonderful new world.

  Even now, Malcolm bristled with acceptance and pride as Christian moved past him, placing a giant mailed glove on his skinny shoulder as he made way towards his pink-cheeked betrothed.

  “I agree,” he said softly in response to her tender declaration, removing his hand from Malcolm’s shoulder in lieu of pulling Gaithlin into his armored embrace. “A perfect place for you and me to create a new beginning for both Eden and Winding Cross.”

  She smiled happily, relishing his tender kisses and laughing softly when his raised visor bumped her forehead. “I do believe I am kissing more of the helm than your flesh.”

  He returned her smile, fully content
to indulge in the sweetly passionate kisses that had become an integral part of their daily existence. Since initiating Gaithlin into the tender powers of the sexual realm that morn, there lingered an added element of such gripping intensity that he couldn’t begin to describe. Knowing only that he was physically linked to Gaithlin in a way he had never before experienced, a link more powerful than generations of St. John loyalty or the threat of death.

  Which might not be out of the realm of possibility when his father discovered what he had done; gazing up at the aptly-named abbey, the reality of his decision weighed more heavily than ever before. But he refused to linger on the negative factors of the situation, choosing to focus instead on the joy of his selected circumstance. And it was a joy; he would make his father understand just how deeply the joy forged. Even if it killed them both.

  Releasing Gaithlin from his embrace, he enclosed her hand within one mighty fist and clasped Malcolm with the other. “Then, if we are ready to proceed, I believe we have an appointment with destiny.”

  Completely happy and utterly content within the grasp of her powerful Demon, Gaithlin dreamily followed him across the mossy stone walkway towards the main entrance to the abbey. She was only aware of the warmth of the vanishing sun, the twittering of the birds as they prepared to nest for the night. All other thoughts but the knowledge that she and Christian were to finally become man and wife were unimportant flotsam in her mind. Not Feud nor family nor the inherent danger they were about to face was able to disturb her euphoric state. Nothing was of more import than her forbidden love.

  The entrance to the abbey was marked by a tall, worn oaken door that had fallen victim to years of harsh elements. As Christian allowed Malcolm to announce their presence with the heavy iron knocker, Gaithlin leaned happily into the curve of the knight’s torso.

  “What if they deny us?” she whispered, a smile playing on her lips and not at all concerned with the answer to her question. She had become quite adept at the adult game of flirting, escaping the boundaries of her usually reserved nature, and she greatly enjoyed practicing her new talents on Christian. “What if they chase us away? What if they draw and quarter us when they realize we have indulged in the marriage bed before the actual ceremony?”

  He shushed her sternly as she giggled, though there was a distinct curve to his lips. “Quiet, foolish woman. Do you mean to give us away?”

  She nodded as her giggling grew uncontrollable. “We’re terribly wicked, Christian. We should be married by Devil-worshipping Druids rather than God-fearing priests.”

  He put his hand over her mouth, struggling with his own snickers as Malcolm worked the iron knocker vigorously. “Be still before I take you over my knee,” he commanded softly.

  Her silly laughter continued to bubble forth as she kissed the mailed gauntlet that covered her mouth with amorous fervor. “Do take me over your knee, Christian. Be wicked to me.”

  His eyebrows rose in astonishment at her titillating request. For a woman who had been untouched and completely naive until the introduction of the Demon, her inherent qualities of erotica amazed him. As if she knew, instinctively, how to drive him mad with want.

  “What do you know of wicked intentions?” he growled, his breathing gaining pace as he watched her lick his mailed finger. “Good Christ, Gae, don’t put your tongue on that. Put it where it will do the most good.”

  Although her giggles were fading, her smile was fixed and decidedly sultry. “And where would that be, sire?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Do I have to tell you? Use your imagination.”

  She matched his cocked eyebrow, a thoughtful gesture, and Christian watched with mounting desire as she decided lifted her lips to meet his own. Feasting on her mouth, tasting her honeyed essence, he abruptly pulled away with a painful groan.

  “Don’t do this to me,” he rasped, his mailed fingers in her silken hair. “This armor is most restrictive for a man in my present state.”

  She gazed seductively at him, licking the taste of him from her lips. “I do not understand. What state is that?”

  His features twisted drolly. “A most swollen state. Engorged, even. Rigid and hard for the want of you.”

  Naive though she might be, a glimmer of understanding appeared in her eye. Although she had scarcely had a chance to view Christian’s throbbing manhood as he repeatedly claimed her earlier that day, she understood through sheer factual inference that his condition was acute beneath his ungiving armor. As she had come to realize over the past several days, a man’s organ became grossly swollen when his desire was aroused and observing his uncomfortable face, she began to giggle again. Only this time, it was a gesture of delight and adulation.

  “You… you would take me again? Now?”

  He rolled his eyes sardonically. “Good Christ, woman, what a foolish question.” Pretending to ignore her flushed, eager expression, he struggled to focus on Malcolm. “Well? Have the priests not answered yet?”

  Turning away from the massive door, Malcolm’s hand was still feverishly working the knocker. “Not yet. Should I open th’ door meself?”

  Christian shook his head, wincing ticklishly when Gaithlin thrust her finger playfully into his open visor, brushing his ear. Attempting desperately to ignore his heated condition, he moved towards the ancient door with Gaithlin still clinging to his torso, fully intent on pounding out a response from the negligent priests. The sooner he wed the searing bit of flesh lodged against his body, the sooner he could do with her as he pleased.

  Fortunately for the both of them, their wait was proceeding towards a definitive end. Just as Christian raised his mailed hand against the aged oak, the door suddenly shifted and popped as the bolt from the other side was released. Giving the impending priest a wide berth, he took a step back and pulled Malcolm with him as they wait with mounting anticipation to announce their presence.

  “The last time you stood before an abbey door, the situation was quite different,” Gaithlin whispered as another noisy bolt was thrown, muffled by the thick wood.

  His eyes on the door, Christian nodded faintly. “Quite. But I most assuredly do not regret my actions.”

  Smiling with delirious contentment, Gaithlin laid her head against his cold armor. “Nor do I, my dearest Demon.”

  He fought off a grin, quelling it completely as the foreboding door slowly creaked open. Suddenly, the dim archway was filled by a fat priest a few inches taller than Malcolm himself. The man’s head was shorn respectfully and he was clad in coarse brown wool. His gaze was wide and curious on the three individuals converging on his front stoop. Before Christian could politely introduce their purpose, Malcolm stood boldly before the round monk and openly scrutinized him.

  “Are ye th’ priest?” he demanded. Before the man could answer, Malcolm pointed imperiously at Christian and Gaithlin. “They need tae be married!”

  Shocked, Gaithlin moved forward to firmly pull Malcolm aside as Christian cleared his throat loudly. “My apologies,” he said, moving into the spot recently occupied by Malcolm the Brazen. “You must forgive the impudent nature of a young boy.”

  The priest’s expression had gone from curious to baffled as he gazed up at the massive English knight. “I… he is your son, m’lord?”

  “Nay,” Christian replied.

  “Aye,” Gaithlin countered at the same moment.

  As the priest’s brow furrowed, Christian cast Gaithlin an exasperated look. She met his gaze evenly, staunchly, and his jaw ticked with acute irritation. Sighing heavily, he returned his attention to the priest in a fervent attempt to clarify the matter.

  “He… he is my adoptive son. Our adoptive son,” he gestured weakly towards Gaithlin, who clutched Malcolm protectively. “And he is entirely correct. My lady and I wish to be married.”

  The priest’s brow lifted in confusion. “He is the adoptive son of the two of you, yet you are not married?”

  Good Christ, Christian muttered inwardly. The situation was rapidly deteri
orating and he sought to gain a firm handle before it spiraled further out of control. “The lad is an orphan whom my betrothed and I have adopted,” he explained, musing drolly that Malcolm had, more likely, adopted them. “And to complete our proper family unit, the lady and I would like to be married immediately. Who may I speak with regarding such transactions?”

  The priest eyed the trio, his expression returning to its original curious guise. Somewhat in better understanding of the situation, he stood aside and motioned the small group forward. “Inside, if you will. Leave all weapons at the door.”

  Christian’s broadsword was strapped to his saddle, but he obediently removed a small dagger from the fold between his breastplate and shoulder protection and handed it to Malcolm, who eagerly returned the weapon to the arsenal attached to the war saddle. Christian cast a final glance over his stocked saddle as Malcolm returned from replacing the weapon, knowing that his great white charger would prevent anyone from looting his possessions. Without further hesitation, he followed Gaithlin and Malcolm into the cool, musty interior.

  The foyer of the abbey was dim, lit by fatty candles and torches soaked in oil. The heavy smell of mold and smoke emitted from the very walls as the fat brother led them down a short corridor and into a broader common room. Indicating his visitors to sit upon the rough wooden stools that furnished the barren room, he abruptly disappeared into the shadows.

  Perched stiffly upon a leaning stool, Gaithlin glanced about the dingy surroundings with open curiosity. “I expected an abbey to be better appointed.”

  Christian’s gaze roved the bare walls, the swept floor. “They will be amply fortified to furnish their rooms when I pay handsomely for our ceremony.” He suddenly glanced at her over his shoulder, his expression bordering abruptly on intolerance. “Which brings me to a subject you have refused to discuss since leaving our shelter. I shall go broke if we have to replace all of the possessions left behind should your dog-people decide to raid our camp while we’re gone.”