Brides of the North

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Jasper averted his gaze, his blue eyes lingering on the moonlit landscape of Galloway. “As I said, I don’t like this situation any more than you do. But we must do as we are told, no matter if we have personal feelings on the matter or not.”

  “Even at Christian’s expense?”

  “He’s a traitor.”

  “And I disagree. He’s willing to sacrifice his entire reputation in order to achieve peace.”

  Jasper looked to his cousin. “If you believe him, then why are you willing to kill his wife?”

  This time, Quinton averted his gaze. “We must follow orders, mustn’t we? I don’t want to incur my father’s wrath any more than you do by giving in to my sympathies.”

  “So you risk Christian’s hatred instead?”

  “According to my father, Christian is a dead man. A dead man does not hate.”

  Jasper’s gaze lingered speculatively on his young cousin a moment longer before turning in the direction of the shielded St. John army. In faith, there was nothing more to say.

  Quinton watched the man disappear into the bramble, waiting a lengthy eternity to make sure he wasn’t being watched by his suspicious cousin. As the night owl sang high overhead, enhancing the eerie stillness that had suddenly encompassed the clearing, he turned for the sod shelter with slow, deliberate movements. Just as he neared the splintered door, a sharp stabbing pain to his thigh abruptly halted his advance.

  Grunting with agony, he immediately put his hand to his leg and was surprised to find a dagger protruding from his thigh. And standing near the extended dagger was a small, nearly-bald and exceedingly angry little boy.

  “Take tha’, ye bastard!” he crowed in triumph. “Ye’ll not take the lady wi’out a fight!”

  Quinton grasped the dagger, wrenching it from the weak point in his leg protection that the child had managed to take advantage of. Grunting again with frustration and pain as he tossed the weapon away, he glared at the confrontational young lad.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Malcolm frowned, wielding the other dagger he had collected from Christian’s belongings. When the fight ensued and Gaithlin had been shoved into the safety of the shelter, he had hidden in the bramble out of sheer terror. He had witnessed Christian’s battle and subsequent abduction, and he had furthermore witnessed the murder of the dog-people. Horrified and bewildered, he had nonetheless possessed the courage to emerge from the brush one last time to protect the lady in her husband’s stead.

  He didn’t understand the motives behind Sir Christian’s kidnapping, nor could he comprehend the malevolent thrust of the entire situation. But he was positive of one factor; he loved the lady very much. She and her husband had been the only people who had ever shown him any kindness and he was determined to protect her as best he could. Even to the death.

  But he maintained his fury in spite of the odds against him. Displaying his sassy, insolent tongue, he brandished the dirk threateningly. “I shall not tell ye, ye English hound! Go away from here!”

  Quinton cocked an eyebrow at the child; he had no time for such foolishness. Reaching out, he easily disarmed the boy and received a kick to his armored leg in the process. Twisting Malcolm’s arm until the lad screamed, he swatted the youngster on his behind and sent him stumbling in the opposite direction.

  “Go home, boy,” he growled. “I have no time for your antics.”

  Turning for the ancient door once more, he was caught completely off-guard when it flew open, striking him in the face. Tripping over his feet from the shock and power of the slam, he stumbled back with his hand against his already-bruised face as Gaithlin emerged from the shelter, her deep blue eyes wide with apprehension.

  “Malcolm!” she gasped, eyeing the fumbling Quinton as the young boy raced to her side. “Are you all right?”

  Malcolm ignored her question. “Get th’ hammer! Kill ’im before he kills ye!”

  Pushing Malcolm behind her, into the shack, Gaithlin stared at Quinton as he recovered from her unintentional blow. Her eyes darted about nervously as she surveyed the darkened clearing, but her gaze instinctively returned to the powerful knight undoubtedly intent on harming her. Killing her.

  “Where is my husband?” she demanded, her sultry voice raspy with fear.

  Quinton took a deep breath to collect himself, fighting off his pain and loathing and confusion as he gazed at his brother’s wife. “He is gone.”

  Gaithlin’s eyes moved about in closer scrutiny of the clearing. “He would not have gone willingly. God damn you if you have harmed him.”

  “They beat ’im to a pulp!” Malcolm announced from the ragged doorway. “Th’ English soldiers jumped on ’im and tied him up!”

  Quinton could see the color drain from Gaithlin’s face, even in the moon glow. Her deep blue eyes ceased to search the area for her husband, instead, intently focusing on Quinton. “How… how could you allow this? Merciful Heavens, he’s your brother!”

  Quinton felt the impact of her words as if she had physically struck him. Swallowing away his nausea, he drew in a deep, cleansing breath. “He must answer for what he has done,” he replied quietly, eyeing the woman in the weak light. “Did you not hear his struggle from your shelter?”

  She shook her head faintly. “The sod blots out most sounds. I heard voices, swords blows, and little else,” panic rising, she stepped away from the ancient door, looking to the trampled area where her husband had been subdued. “Dear God… what will become of him now?”

  Quinton continued to gaze at her, scrutinizing her from the top of her beautiful blond hair to the bottom of her booted feet. Tall, elegant and exceedingly beautiful, he truly couldn’t fault his brother for succumbing to the natural attraction she provoked. But Christian had declared his love for her, several times, and Quinton found himself deeply curious as to how she had managed to bewitch his brother into believing he was in love. The Demon, with a beautiful fiancée and more women than he could handle, had been incapable of an emotion as frivolous as love.

  Her powers of persuasion, however, were inconsequential at the moment. The only matter of import was the immediate future, a future Quinton found difficult to follow.

  If you have ever loved me, don’t kill her.

  His brother’s plea echoed in his mind as he moved to un-sheath his broadsword. A violent lashing of desperate begging, the appeal of a man’s most fervent desire, and Quinton’s head began to swim with conflicting emotions. Duty, desire, duty, desire… they wrestled about in his mind as if they had attained a life of their own, robbing him of his ability to think, to feel, to reason.

  Even as the broadsword came free of the leather scabbard, still, Quinton could scarcely form a rational thought. The only factor of awareness was that Christian had asked him not to kill his wife. Yet, as a good son, he should obey his father’s order. A father who was living on the reeking edge of madness… and a brother who had always been his hero.

  Gaithlin saw the broadsword come free and she gasped with fear, pushing Malcolm deep into the shelter as Christian had done with her in a futile attempt to preserve her life. There was no use in seeking the war hammer; it would only delay the inevitable. Her only hope, as she decided, was to reason with her new brother-in-law. To seek mercy from a soul that loved her husband almost as much as she did.

  She already knew that at least one St. John was capable of caring. Mayhap the same would hold true with another.

  “Are you going to kill me, Quinton?”

  He stared at her, gripping the sword. “I… I have been ordered to.”

  She could sense his reluctance, his hesitation, and it served to bank her apprehension somewhat. Feeling oddly bolstered by his lack of courage, she moved toward him beneath the silver moonlight.

  “I understand. In spite of everything Christian has told you, do you still intend to kill me?”

  Quinton could hear his brother’s plea reverberating with deafening clarity in the recesses of his befuddled mind; staring a
t the magnificent woman before him, he honestly couldn’t muster the bravery needed to accomplish his most heinous task. In faith, he realized Christian’s heart-felt plea had affected him more deeply than he had a desire to acknowledge. Hearing his brother’s pain, seeing his most agonizing expression as he battled to protect his wife, Quinton knew that he was fully incapable of killing his brother’s beloved spouse, even if she was a de Gare.

  Which is why he had volunteered for the task, sending Jasper to deal with his errant brother. Jasper would have plunged his sword deep into her beautiful chest without thought to his actions, only aware that he was carrying out his orders. But in the tender extremes of Quinton’s sensitive heart, he had known all along that he couldn’t kill his brother’s wife. He had to be the one who remained behind to accomplish the ‘task’.

  If you have ever loved me, don’t kill her!

  His sword clattered to the ground. “Nay,” his voice was raspy. “I am not going to kill you. God forgive me for disobeying my father’s wishes, but I find that I cannot do you harm.”

  Gaithlin’s limbs washed with relief. Slowly, she closed the distance between them, reaching down to collect his fallen sword. With a gentle, thankful smile on her lips, she sheathed the weapon into his knee-length scabbard.

  “Where have they taken Christian?” she whispered, gazing into Quinton’s pained brown eyes.

  “Home,” his voice was equally faint. “My father is going to kill him for marrying you.”

  Gaithlin’s smile vanished. “Then you must return immediately and prevent this. Our marriage will bring a lasting peace and your father must come to understand this.”

  Quinton shook his head, his manner laced with sorrow and grief. “My father never listens to me. The only person he remotely considered was Christian, and with his betrayal of the St. John legacy, there will be no reasoning with the man.” Unlatching his visor, his helm swung open to reveal his handsome, sweaty face. “There is nothing I can do, especially since I have failed to kill you as my father demanded. I, too, am now subject to his wrath.”

  Although Gaithlin was confident enough that Quinton no longer meant her any harm, the terror she was experiencing on Christian’s behalf was overwhelming. To think of her Demon, her most beloved knight, trapped by his vengeful father nearly drove her mad with unimagined horrors.

  She had always suspected the extent of the man’s wrath and she had tried several times to voice her fears. But Christian, as always, had remained confident that he could force his father to see reason. However, witnessing the fear in Quinton’s eyes when he spoke of his father’s rage, she wasn’t at all sure that her husband could preserve his own life. In fact, she was sure of it.

  “You… you do not have to tell your father that you did not carry out his orders,” she said halting, thinking furiously. “Tell him that I threw myself into the river when I discovered Christian had been returned to Eden. Tell him anything you desire, if it will only keep you in his good graces long enough to help your brother.”

  As Quinton shook his head in defeat, Gaithlin grasped him by the arm, forcing him to meet her gaze. Now that they had moved beyond their inbred loathing and disgust of one another, now that the fear had dissipated, she had no tolerance for his cowardice. Not when Christian’s life was at stake.

  “Listen to me, Quinton. You must save your brother. I shall return to Winding Cross and convince my mo… father to surrender his arms. That was your father’s goal with the initiation of my abduction, was it not? Go and tell your father that if he will spare Christian, Winding Cross shall surrender.”

  Quinton stared at her, disbelief clouding his eyes. “How can you be so certain that your father will submit based purely on your pleadings? Moreover, what leads you to believe that he will not punish you for marrying my brother? Surely he will be livid with the knowledge that his heiress has foolishly wed the Demon of Eden.”

  Gaithlin shook her head vigorously, the desperation to act immediately to save Christian’s life animating her mannerisms. “You must trust me, Quinton. My father will listen. He will do anything I ask. Now, you must go immediately and defend Christian. I shall find my way home and….”

  “Nay, lady, I must take you home,” Quinton interrupted her desperate chatter, his fatigue and emotions depleting his energy. “ ’Twould be foolish of me to spare your life, only to have you fall victim to thieves or ruffians on the journey home. Certainly my brother would never forgive me in that case.”

  Gaithlin’s smile made a weak return in spite of her simmering panic; their riotous beginnings notwithstanding, she was coming to like him. His mannerisms and wit were a good deal like Christian’s.

  “As you say, sire,” she said quietly, a true sense of urgency grasping her as her mind moved to the journey homeward. “Allow me to collect a few possessions and my son and we shall be on our way.”

  “Your son?” Quinton looked tremendously confused. “You… you have a son?”

  Already halfway to the shelter, she paused to nod at his inquiry. “The lad who stabbed you,” she said remorsefully. “And I do apologize. You can blame Christian for his protective instincts; he’s quite intent on mimicking your brother in every way.”

  Quinton’s gaze moved to the bold young boy, standing in the doorway to the shelter. “Christ,” he muttered. “You must have been a child yourself when he was born. Is he a bastard?”

  Gaithlin managed to spare a small laugh, rubbing her hand across Malcolm’s scratchy scalp as she moved into the shack. “I don’t know. He’s an orphan.”

  Scowling with confusion, Quinton opened his mouth to demand clarification when the woods around him suddenly came alive with soldiers and horses. For a split second, he was terrified that Jasper had returned to make sure Jean’s orders had been carried out until he caught a closer glimpse of the chargers invading the moon-lit Galloway clearing.

  Worn, weary chargers.

  Abruptly, he realized he was not gazing upon St. John troops; he’d seen these steeds before, many a time in the heat of battle. In fact, he could practically count the scars he had inflicted upon a particularly beaten brown destrier as the animal thundered within close range.

  Quinton’s sword was drawn before he took another breath, realizing with sickening certainty that he would have almost preferred for the uninvited chargers to have been St. John mounts. In fact, he would have chosen to defend himself against his cousin’s accusations of betrayal rather than face the incoming tide of worn, battered men clearly intent on doing him great harm.

  De Gare men.

  Inside the shelter, Gaithlin emerged from the shack when she felt the ground beneath her shake with the thunder of hooves. The first sight that greeted her startled eyes was a knight in dingy armor bearing down on Quinton. Swords clashed, horses screamed, and Gaithlin was vaguely aware that she had yelped in terror, clutching Malcolm protectively. When it was all over, the mounted knight lay on the ground in a dying heap and Quinton loomed over him, preparing to deliver the merciful final blow.

  Gaithlin bolted from the shelter, moving in Quinton’s direction just as another charger came tearing through the trees. Before Gaithlin was able to reach Quinton and the downed knight, she was startled by a piercing scream that sliced heavily through the still night air; a most familiar scream. She didn’t have to see the individual it came from.

  Already, she knew.

  ‘Truth is often greater than the need,

  Weighing the heart against the head…’

  Are we not creatures of passion over reason?’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. XI, p. CXVII

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Nay, Mother! Do not kill him!”

  Gaithlin was unable to make it to Quinton fast enough. Alicia was hovering over the grounded knight, her heavy sword clutched with two hands. Confused and caught up in the battle for his life, Quinton ducked Alicia’s down parry and leapt to the opposite side of the knight he had wounded, his sword
raised offensively as Alicia reined her charger around the supine de Gare knight.

  “Mother, stop!” Gaithlin screamed again, rushing up on the scene. Thrusting herself in front of Quinton, she put up her hands and narrowly avoided being sliced. “Do not kill him! Mother, listen to me!”

  Gasping and choking on her terror and grief, Alicia’s sword fell to the moist Scot earth as she clumsily dismounted her steed, falling to her knees beside the downed knight. “Eldon!” she cried, noting that the man had been mortally wounded in the abdomen. “My God, he’s killed Eldon!”

  Mouth agape with astonishment and grief, Gaithlin maintained her protective position in front of Quinton as a company of de Gare men swarmed about the clearing. Still grasping Quinton’s arm, she took a few halting steps towards her hysterical mother.

  “Mother…!” Initial shock diminishing, Gaithlin was torn between great delight at her mother’s appearance and deep sorrow for Eldon’s fate. “How did you find me?”

  Weeping unashamedly, Alicia clutched Eldon’s hands to her breast. “He was going to save you personally from the Demon,” she sobbed. “Oh, my sweet adoring knight. What have I done to you? Has your devotion to me finally brought about your demise?”

  Wrestling against a plethora of surging emotions, Gaithlin put aside her questions for the moment to focus on a most sorrowful event; obviously, her mother was incapable of responding rationally and she released her hold on Quinton, kneeling on Eldon’s opposite side.

  “He was a great knight, mother,” she said softly. “He loved you a great deal.”

  “I will always love her a great deal,” Eldon’s voice was barely a whisper. In spite of his fading life and strength, he managed to turn his head in Gaithlin’s direction. With shaking hands, Alicia raised his visor and began to sob anew at his deathly pale face. Soft brown eyes focused on Gaithlin and she smiled, gently. “ ’Tis good to see you again, my lady.”

  “ ’Tis good to see you, too,” she murmured, touching his exposed cheek. “I am so sorry, Eldon. Allow me to look at your wound; mayhap it is not as bad as it seems.”