Whether or not England’s crown was, at the moment, relatively peaceful, she had never known a moment’s reprieve from warfare. Since she was old enough to recall, the St. Johns had been waging battle on her ancestral home and she had grown accustomed to the constant raids, the death, and the destruction.
Never sent away from her native fortress to foster for fear of falling into St. John hands, Gaithlin had lived an extremely sheltered life within the confines of Winding Cross. Her father had been terrified that his only child would somehow become fodder for his most hated enemy and had therefore sentenced his daughter to a life of utter friendlessness and isolation. With only her mother and a few servants for companionship, Gaithlin de Gare had lived a short life of unending, complete solitude all because of the St. Johns.
Eden was a large barony, far larger than Winding Cross and understandably more powerful. Yet the fortress of Winding Cross had been built for fortification and protection, explaining why the St. Johns had never been able to breach her walls. Year after year of raids and skirmishes and fighting had failed to determine a decisive winner; Eden may have been more powerful, but Winding Cross was laden with tenacious fighters unwilling to concede defeat.
Back and forth the struggle went until Gaithlin assumed that all young women were as sheltered and isolated as she was. Other than a stolen jaunt outside of the walls to swim or walk, experiencing a degree of freedom she considered a stolen ration of Heaven, her entire life had been spent within the moldering dark stones of her native fortress. She never realized her loneliness, however, for her sequestered continuance was the only means of existence she had ever known. Certainly, there was nothing else in life than one’s family and household, and the need to hate the St. Johns. She’d never known any other way.
Even now, she cursed the St. Johns as the mighty charger plodded over the dusty, rocky road. It was because of the St. Johns she had been forced to seek sanctuary at St. Esk; catching rumor that none other than the fabled Demon of Eden had returned from the Welsh border for the specific task of quelling the House of de Gare once and for all. Gaithlin’s mother had been forced into a desperate move.
The woman had been fighting in her husband’s stead for nearly ten years, a fact that even the St. Johns were not aware of, and she had battled against them long enough to realize that the return of Eden’s heir was not an asset to the well-being of Winding Cross. Suspecting that her husband’s beloved fortress might very well indeed meet its end at the hand of the mighty Demon, she had been dealt little choice in sending her daughter to the small convent of St. Esk in hopes of preserving her young life.
As her ribs cracked and her stomach lurched, Gaithlin cursed the St. Johns for her predicament. Had the rumors of their imminent attack not spooked her normally-collected mother, she would not have been forced into religious sequestration. And she would not, at this very moment, be a prisoner of those unscrupulous enough to sack an abbey.
The horse stumbled and recovered harshly, causing Gaithlin to grunt as her body was slammed brutally against the saddle. From hanging upside-down, her heart was already pounding in her ears and with the added violent motions, she wondered if the next step in her discomfort wouldn’t be to experience the embarrassment of vomiting up her breakfast.
“Do you think me for a fool, wench? I know you are alert.”
Gaithlin briefly considered ignoring her captor; however, from the tone of his voice she was able to deduce that he was already grossly irritated with her. Unwilling to provoke him further until she could discern her situation, she sighed with resignation.
“I do not know you. How would I know if you were foolish or not?”
Christian reined the destrier off the road, down an embankment into a cluster of trees. The warm September air infiltrated the canopy without the slightest hint of autumn as he dismounted, electrified with the anticipation of coming face to face with his captive. In faith, he’d not yet been able to catch a glimpse of her sure-to-be monstrous features for the simple fact that her long hair had obscured her from view.
But now, watching her struggle to right herself on the charger in preparation for dismounting, he could scarcely contain his curiosity and apprehension. Finally, he was to gaze upon the visage of Hell.
Gaithlin was aware that he was standing behind her, an enormously large man from the very size of the legs that she had become acquainted with. Up-righting herself on the saddle, she groaned softly as the world spun recklessly and her temples throbbed with ache, grasping hold of the saddle as best she could to keep herself from slithering to the ground. But her strength wasn’t enough against her discomfort, and with a yelp she plummeted off the destrier to the hard earth below.
Christian watched her fall without moving a muscle to lend aid. Wild masses of silken blond hair covered her from the top of her head to her buttocks as she wrestled with the unruly strands in an attempt to push them from her face. She was obviously shaken and ill, but he maintained his callous attitude as she struggled to compose herself.
“Lady Gaithlin de Gare,” his voice rumbled like thunder. “You are now my captive and the slightest show of resistance will be forcefully met. Do you comprehend me?”
Swallowing the bile in her throat from fear as much as from her aching head, Gaithlin ceased her attempts to rise to her feet. Seated on her bottom beside the massive legs of the great white destrier, she swept the remains of her disorderly mane aside.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He still couldn’t see her face; she was looking to the ground and his irritation suddenly spiked. “Look at me when I speak to you, wench. Your bestial de Gare manners will not be tolerated.”
Sharply, her head came up and Christian found himself gazing into huge, almond-shaped eyes of the most amazing blue. Deep, rich, captivating blue. The blue of the pond.
It took him a moment to realize the verity of what his disbelieving mind was attempting to convey. He heard his breath escape in a sharp, forceful blow; the longer he gazed into the enchanting eyes and utterly beautiful face, the more difficult it became for him to catch his breath.
The cruelty of Fate was almost more than he could grasp and he found himself struggling against the perfect memories of her magnificent body, her graceful movements, the pure femininity of her presence as she had displayed her aura within the privacy of the isolated lake. Never had he met with such perfection. But the fact remained that she was a de Gare.
Life was a wicked thing, indeed.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Christian heard her voice, sultry and seductive regardless of her apprehension. Good Christ, even her voice was beautiful. Forcing himself to overcome his incredulity, he struggled to retain a measure of his authoritarian disposition without completely losing his composure.
“I have never met a de Gare before,” he finally said. It was the truth.
She blinked in puzzlement and he could literally see the thick lashes fan against her cheeks. “What do you know of the de Gares? And how do you know who I am?”
He stared at her; he’d been unable to keep from staring at her from the very moment he laid eyes upon her. Small cracks appeared in his hard facade, weakening him, causing him to shake with the internal struggle they encouraged. He didn’t want to weaken in the face of a hated de Gare; he had to maintain the superiority, to maintain the loathing. But the longer he gazed into her beauty, the deeper the cracks bled.
With his last ounce of resistance, he closed his eyes against her and turned away, attempting to focus on something other than her in order to restore his sanity. He’d been aware of her identity for less than five minutes; already, he knew he was destined for trouble. The moment he realized that an indefinite length of sequestration with her was actually an appealing thought was the moment he realized he was well along the path to his own destruction.
“I know a good deal about the de Gares,” he said, praying his voice did not give away his shock. “And you, wench, do indeed kn
ow who I am, of that I have no doubt.”
Although her head was still throbbing, the world had righted itself somewhat and Gaithlin labored to her feet. Straightening her heavy woolen gown, the color of lavender, she allowed her gaze to rove the massive knight; he was a good deal taller than she was, a remarkable feat considering she was quite tall for a woman.
His hair was the color of honey with streaks of gold laced throughout as it tumbled its way to his shoulders and she found it odd that his hair, for its length, should be kept so neatly groomed about his face as if he placed concern in his appearance. In fact, his hair was quite beautiful and she found herself gazing at it curiously as he focused his attention on their surroundings. Her eyes moved from his hair to his chiseled features, fine and straight and intelligent, and she could catch a glimpse of the remarkable color of his eyes. Eyes of pure ice.
Even if she didn’t know who he was, as he had imperiously announced, it was obvious that the knight before her was wise and seasoned. Her initial terror with her abduction had faded somewhat, leaving her drained and weary and deeply perplexed; whereas she should have maintained a rightful fear, she simply couldn’t muster the energy at the moment. He was far too beautiful to be frightening, and her puzzlement won over her apprehension for the moment.
“I have never seen you before,” she said after a lengthy pause. “Why would you assume that I know you?”
He continued to take in their surroundings for a moment. When he turned to her, she could read a palpable degree of dread in his expression and her bafflement grew.
“You’re a de Gare. You should know a St. John on sight.”
Her brows drew together and, as his statement settled, her eyes widened to bulbous proportions. Christian watched her closely as the color drained from her cheeks.
“You… you are a St. John?” She took a step backward, slamming against the charger, who responded by swinging his great head around to snap at her. Never one to back down from a fight, Gaithlin shoved her fist into the soft velvet of his nose. As the horse lurched away, sneezing and snorting, she put several feet of distance between herself and Christian.
Hatred and panic ran a desperate race in her mind as she stared back at the man who represented several lifetimes of intense hatred. She could scarcely believe that the St. Johns had managed to locate her in spite of her mother’s precautions and she silently cursed God for his favoritism of the enemy. God had welcomed her into the bosom of the convent only to deliver the unsuspecting refugee into the arms of the very nemesis she sought to escape.
Gaithlin was loathed to realize that tears were very near the surface, tears of frustration and fear and anger. But she would not display her emotions; in fact, it went far against her nature to display anything other than complete restraint and impassiveness. As her mother was reserved in nature, so was she.
“Who told you where I was?” she demanded.
“Does it matter? I have you and that is the only factor of import.”
Previous thoughts of his male beauty were forgotten as Gaithlin’s terror returned in one hearty blow, overshadowing the fury of coming face to face with a St. John. She continued to back away from Christian, positive he was determined to murder her. But her sense of self-preservation was strong as she struggled against her panic; strong enough to warrant refuting an enemy twice her size.
“You will not kill me without a fight, St. John bastard,” she hissed. “I shall resist you ’til the end!”
She had succeeded in moving well away from him and he casually sought to regain lost ground; should she decide to run from him, he would be at a distinct disadvantage in a hundred pounds of armor and mail. The pure weight resting on his massive boots dug small crevices into the damp English soil as he carefully advanced.
“I never said I was going to kill you.”
“Then why have you abducted me?” she continued to back away from him, her anxiety growing by the moment.
Christian could see that she was backing herself down a small incline; at the bottom lay a small stream, pristine and noisy. The sound of the water reminded him of the very first time he had ever witnessed Gaithlin de Gare, caressing the still waters of the pond as if fondling a lover, erotically skimming her body over the surface as if responding to its touch. Good Christ, how he wished he had been the water at that moment; truth was that he still wished it. As if the desires of his flesh were able to briefly surmount his inbred hatred of the woman and her family. But only briefly.
He’d never been particularly apt in dealing with resistance or insubordination, and his patience was especially limited when it came to a de Gare. His manner hardened as she continued to move away from him.
“I can guarantee that you will regret your attempt to flee,” he rumbled. “Cease this moment and I may show mercy.”
Eyes wide with defiance and face pale, Gaithlin shook her head. “Leave me alone, you vile bastard. I shall not be your captive, not ever!”
His jaw ticked. “I find your term for my parentage offensive, for it is untrue. You will address me as Sir Christian or ‘my lord’.”
Gaithlin came to a teetering halt and her eyes widened further, if such a thing was possible. He found himself wondering if she were going to burst a vein from the sheer expression on her face. “Christian St. John?” she repeated, awed. “The… the Demon of Eden?”
He came to a halt as well, at the top of the small hill as he gazed down upon her. An easterly wind began to kick up, ruffling her hair in a mass of delightful streamers, but he ignored the charming picture as he focused on the plethora of emotions surging between them.
He deliberately avoided answering her question. “Will you come peacefully or will I be forced to subdue you?”
Gaithlin swallowed hard. A feeble hand came up to pull the hair from her eyes as she stared at him, apprehensive and sickened and disoriented. She realized with ironic certainty that she would not have been so terrified if Lucifer himself were standing before her, demanding her soul.
The vision before her, looming on the crest above her head as the wicked winds whipped his glorious hair into a bizarre halo, was far worse than the threat of Hades. He was the pure embodiment of generations of St. John evil – the Demon of Eden in the flesh.
Gaithlin couldn’t help herself; the more she lingered on her captor, the more frightened she became. Foolishly, giddily frightened in spite of her normally-restrained nature as if the Dam of Reserve suddenly crumbled, spilling forth an uncontrollable tide of emotion that invaded every aspect of her common sense. A rushing surge of current so strong, she was unable to contain the deluge.
“You will not take me back to Eden, Demon,” her voice was tight, quivering, and she hated herself for sounding so utterly shaken. “I shall kill you first.”
Christian put his hands on his hips, eyeing her critically. “You nearly did. I did not appreciate being attacked with a candle sconce.”
“What did you expect? You violated an abbey and I was forced to defend myself.”
“You are a lady; you’re not supposed to defend yourself. God intended for the simple female sex to do as they are told without question or defiance.”
In spite of her terror, Gaithlin found herself willing to spare his statement a good deal of irritation. “I am not simple, Demon, and I will undoubtedly protect myself if necessary. And you are in no position to speak of God’s intentions when you are guilty of breaching the sanctity of an abbey.”
His jaw ticked as much from her bold words as from the return of his own guilt. “You will not speak to me of remorse, wench. Now, will you come to me or will I be forced to pursue you? Preferably the former, as I can guarantee my mood will not be favorable if I am compelled to capture you like an errant animal.”
Her answer was to turn on her heel and bolt across the stream like a frightened deer. Spitting a curse, Christian made haste to his charger and mounted the grazing animal with an effortless leap. Charging down the embankment and jumping the bubbling broo
k, his destrier closed in upon the fleeing captive within a matter of seconds.
As the wind increased, whistling bitterly across the Cumbrian landscape, Christian bore down upon his prisoner and reached out a massive hand, capturing her wild banner of magnificent hair. Giving a hard tug, he meant to cast her off balance enough to send her to her knees and thereby create an easy recovery. He didn’t pause to realize that nothing about Gaithlin de Gare had thus far proven easy or predictable.
Gaithlin felt his hand in her hair, upswept with panic and a complete sense of self-defense. Knowing he meant to disable her, she sought to turn the tables on him; reaching up, she managed to grab hold of his arm with both hands. Simultaneously, she dug her heels into the soft earth and threw her body weight opposite Christian’s forward momentum. Off-balance and off-guard, Christian found himself falling from his destrier in a weighty mass of flesh and mail.
Gaithlin’s joy of success was dampened when she realized Christian’s dead-weight was heading directly for her. But the thrust from her own actions had sent her to the ground and there was no escape from the powerful knight who came crashing down upon her like the toppling of a mighty tree. Crushed and dazed, Gaithlin’s vision dimmed as her breath was slammed from her lungs by several hundred pounds of Demon.
Dazed in his own right, Christian could feel Gaithlin gasping beneath him and he was concerned that he had hurt her. Never mind that she had deliberately evaded him, attempting to escape his presence with a display of complete disobedience. All that mattered for the moment was that she was injured and he struggled to prop himself off her body.
Managing to elevate his massive weight from her torso, he found himself gazing into the most lovely, flushed face he had ever had the fortune to envision.
“Good Christ, are you all right?” he rasped.
Eyes closed, Gaithlin could scarcely breathe. Christian shifted his body weight from her completely, braced on his hands and knees as she lay beneath him.
Border Brides Page 73
