Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  It was a state that threatened to consume him, crumbling his mind and spirit and soul. It was a few moments before he was able to emerge from the tumultuous depths long enough to speak.

  “I have been nowhere,” he emitted a long, heavy sigh, looking up from the bubbling stream. His eyes were dark circles from the lack of sleep as he observed the young boy. “Are you patching the southern wall?”

  Malcolm nodded, scooping up the mud and putting it in the pot. “I am doin’ a good job without ye.”

  Christian watched the lad, distracted from his misery by the sight of the scrawny young child. Thinking how cold the mud was but noticing that it didn’t seem to bother Malcolm. Barefooted and hardly clothed, the boy seemed to ignore the chill morning temperature.

  “Is my wife helping you?”

  “Na,” Malcolm shook his head, shoveling more muck. “She’s sick.”

  Christian’s brow rippled with concern. “Sick? What do you mean?”

  Malcolm shrugged, picking a few pebbles out of the mud he had collected. “She’s layin’ on the floor, cryin’. I asked her what’s the matter, but she dinna tell me. She just holds her belly and cries.”

  Christian rose from the rock, swamped with uncertainty and concern. He’d spent the entire night torn between wild fury and bleak confusion, cursing the adoration he bore the woman who was his inherent enemy. Knowing that every moment he spent with her was another nail in his coffin, a coffin his own father would most happily place him in when he became aware of his heir’s irrational emotions. He hated himself for feeling increasingly torn between his blossoming love for Gaithlin and the loyalty he was required to devote to his legacy.

  It wasn’t a matter of simple betrayal any longer. He actually found himself sympathizing and supporting the de Gare stance. Poverty and determination they had shouldered due to the St. John incursion, unwilling to fold even though they were already beaten. A strength of people who had lingered in the bowels of devastation for years, but had managed the honor and courage to continually withstand the pressures of the Feud. Honor that had thrust a woman into a man’s role. He found himself admiring de Gare fortitude.

  Good Christ, he was in deeper trouble than he could begin to comprehend.

  So he had stayed out all night to compose his thoughts and ideals, returning to their hut well after midnight to collect his diary. Gaithlin had been asleep, a catch in her breathing every so often the only indication of her emotional state. He had paused several moments to watch her sleep, wishing he could lie beside her and gather her in his arms. But there were things he had to reconcile before he could return to her.

  By the dim light of the oil lamp he had scratched out three pages of text, his thoughts and emotions and feelings as he could begin to describe them. After he had finished the three pages of wild, undaunted confusion, he had scribed a message to his father containing his whereabouts, the information on the Douglas link, and asking for progress on the de Gare blackmail.

  Knowing they would be going to town come the morn, he planned to hire a boy to take the missive to Castle Douglas to request that the message be forwarded to Eden. He had no doubt that his Scot relatives, and Gaithlin’s cousins for that matter, would hurry the parchment to England, eager to be of service to their English cousin.

  He furthermore had no doubt that a reply would be equally rapid in return. As gloating as his father was sure to be over the successful capture of Gaithlin de Gare, he would be eager to inform his son of his grand progress.

  A progress it was increasingly difficult to accept. Every time he gazed at Gaithlin, he felt his resolve weaken another notch and after pondering the quandary of Lady de Gare, fighting admirably in her husband’s stead for nearly ten years, his St. John loyalties were faltering even further.

  He knew Gaithlin believed that he was angry with her for having divulged a secret particularly humiliating to the St. John cause, and in truth he had been angry for a time as a St. John loyalist should have been. But as the night passed and he had come to grips with the stunning revelation, he realized he was more angry at himself for feeling a good deal of understanding towards Lady de Gare’s plight. How easily he could picture Gaithlin doing the very same thing, as the Demon’s wife.

  There was a silent strength to the de Gares that he was only now coming to understand. A commendable quality he very much appreciated. It was a quality the St. Johns seemed to lack.

  Wracked with confusion and guilt, he had spent the past few hours wondering how to apologize to Gaithlin for his anger. Certainly, he wanted to explain his reaction, but he was terrified that one confession might lead to another. And he had no intention of telling her what was in his heart; frankly, he was too terrified to fully explore his feelings himself.

  So he forced the consuming thoughts away, struggling to disregard his turmoil and confusion as he focused on Malcolm’s assessment of Gaithlin’s health; he was far too exhausted from a night of mulling over his bafflement to lend the energy to his emotions any longer.

  Book in hand, he leapt across the stream without effort as Malcolm continued to dig in the mud. The little boy looked up from his work as the massive man moved past him.

  “Where’re ye goin’?” he asked.

  Christian paused a moment, eyeing the boy and noting that at closer proximity, the lad was indeed shaking with chill. In fact, his little lips were blue and he could only imagine that the child must be losing feeling in his hands and feet from contact with the icy ground. In spite of his urgent concern for Gaithlin, he managed to spare a small measure of interest to the lad’s well-being.

  “I am going to see my wife,” he said, his voice low. He scrutinizing the child a moment longer. “Do you know how to build a fire?”

  Malcolm nodded. “A flint and stone.”

  Christian glanced about, noting the wet foliage and knowing the lad would be unable to find any dry material for burning. Motioning for Malcolm to follow, he moved towards the shelter. “I have a pile of dry wood inside the hut. I shall give you some to build a fire with, a fire we can use outside the shelter.”

  Lugging the pot half-filled with mud, Malcolm struggled behind Christian until the large man assumed the burden easily. “What fer?” Malcolm asked.

  “Washing, eating, warmth. Many things,” Christian found himself diverted from their conversation as they burst into the clearing and the shabby hut came into view. “Find an appropriate spot and I shall bring you the wood after I have seen to my wife.”

  “But what of th’ mud?” Malcolm wanted to know. “Dunna ye want me to patch th’ wall?”

  “Certainly,” Christian’s eagerness was gaining speed as they approached the shelter, more anxious to see Gaithlin with each passing step. “You can build a fire and patch the wall, can you not?”

  Malcolm nodded fervently, moving with Christian to the edge of the southern wall as the English knight set the pot of mud to the ground. Gesturing for the boy to get to work, he forgot about the lad the very moment he moved to the shelter door. Pausing briefly, mayhap to gain a measure of courage and strength to face his greatest, most magnificent weakness, he pushed the door open.

  True to Malcolm’s word, Gaithlin was laying on her side amongst the dried rushes of their bed, facing away from him. As Christian’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he set his diary quietly to the ground next to his saddle bags, his attention riveted to Gaithlin’s reclining form. Even with the slight noise he had made entering the hut, she hadn’t moved and he wondered if she was asleep. Not wanting to wake her, he moved to peer at her face and was startled when she shifted listlessly upon the wool.

  “Malcolm?” she said weakly. “Do you need something?”

  “It’s me, Gae,” he said softly.

  Jolted, Gaithlin rolled onto her back, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. She looked pale and worn and Christian’s heart tugged painfully in his chest at the sight of her; obviously, she had spent a rough night of emotional upheaval and he was unwilling to add to her turm
oil. Her anguish, the tension between them, had been entirely his doing with his raging and harsh words, and he silently resolved to make immediate amends.

  The time for turbulence had passed into the dawn of a new morning. Clearly, it didn’t matter any longer. Nothing did.

  But Gaithlin wasn’t feeling his sense of resolution. Her gaze was wide on him, a palpable longing evident in her eyes. “You… you’re back,” she stammered, unsure of how to react to him. Should she express gladness? Reserve? An undeniable loathing to match his own?

  Christian could read her uncertainty and he smiled faintly, grasping her hand. Bringing it to his lips, his kissed the palm softly. “I was foolish to have left in the first place,” he said quietly, more concerned with her obvious health that last eve’s argument. “Malcolm says you are feeling ill. What’s wrong?”

  Surprised and off-guard by his declaration of truce, the focus shifted to Gaithlin’s condition and she was immediately embarrassed with his question. Certainly, she could not tell him her true ailment and she instinctively averted her gaze. “My… my stomach hurts.” It was the truth for the most part.

  His brow furrowed and he touched her forehead, her cheeks. “You are not feverish,” he said. “But you are very pale. Where does it hurt?”

  Her cheeks flushed as he watched, desperately attempting to avoid his concerned gaze. “My stomach,” she repeated, feeling another surge of the cramps. Closing her eyes, she grunted softly as the pain pulsed and then died. “I shall… I shall be fine, truly.”

  Christian watched her expression, hearing her soft grunt of pain, and his distress mounted. “Gae, if you’re ill, then you must tell me. We shall seek a physic and….”

  She cut him off sharply, her humiliation increasing by the second. It became apparent he would not be content to absorb a simple explanation. “Please, Christian… I shall be fine.”

  “But you’re obviously in pain,” he pointed out, growing increasingly agitated at her evasiveness. “I demand you allow me to seek a physic.”

  “Nay,” she reached out, grasping his hand. Reluctantly meeting his darkened expression, she smiled weakly. “A physic is not necessary, I assure you.”

  He frowned, completely convinced that she was hiding a serious affliction from him. “Tell me what the matter is or I shall retrieve a physic this instant.”

  Gaithlin sighed; clearly, she was uncomfortable discussing her menses with anyone, much less her captor. In fact, the entire idea horrified her. But her rational sense agreed that he was a mature male and certainly had knowledge of the workings of the female body. If she were to confess, she doubted he would be overly surprised or offended. Even if she herself would be certain to die from embarrassment. Was nothing sacred within the Demon’s presence?

  “All women suffer with stomach pains from time to time,” she said finally, her voice soft. Even as she spoke, her cheeks flushed brightly. “Unfortunately, I seem to have more pain than others and there is nothing to do but allow it to pass.”

  “Pains? What pains? From whence do they happen?”

  Gaithlin rolled her eyes in exasperation and extreme mortification. Merciful Heavens, did she have to give him a demonstration to make him understand? “Stomach pains, Christian,” she fixed him in the eye firmly, resolutely. “Womanly stomach pains.”

  He stared at her a moment, his brow still furrowed. Then, as realization dawned, his expression relaxed into one of understanding and remorse. It was obvious that she had delivered an answer he was unprepared for and he struggled not to appear too dismayed with the result his bullying tactics had brought him.

  “Oh… Gae,” he swallowed, looking nearly as embarrassed as she was. “I am sorry. I didn’t… I thought you were truly ill ’else I would not have….”

  She smiled, finding an ease to her humiliation in his chagrin. “I realize that,” she said, turning on her side once more to avoid his flustered expression. “I shall be fine. I simply need to rest.”

  He nodded instantly, feeling like a fool for having pressed her into a very personal confession. But as he gazed at her shapely backside, he also felt a distinct urge to help her through her pain. Female afflictions were mysterious and awesome, striking wonder and fear into the hearts of all men. The secretive matters of feminine reproduction were to be respected and honored, and Christian’s attitude was of no exception.

  Moreover, it was an extremely natural affliction that would guarantee him an heir and he somehow felt a part of her malady. The matters of the previous evening, the rage and tears and shock, were forgotten as he focused on Gaithlin’s delicate state.

  “Can I do anything?” he asked, a gentle hand touching her shoulder.

  Gaithlin shook her head, wishing he would leave her alone with her pain, but also finding a great deal of comfort in his concern and company. “Nothing, Christian. Why don’t you help Malcolm with the wall?”

  He frowned, looking to his saddle bags and wondering if there was something amongst the herbs and medicaments he brought that could ease her ache. “I have brought a poppy mixture for pain. Would that help?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Poppy elixirs are expensive and we never had the money to spare.”

  Immediately, he moved to his satchels and began to rummage about with a sense of purpose. Removing several items from the larger of the bags, he fumbled about in the bottom until he came across a leather pouch. Removing the brown purse, he rose on his long legs and collected a wooden cup.

  Opening the splintered door, he called for Malcolm and the filthy child immediately appeared, covered with a fresh coating of grayish mud. Sending the lad to the brook to fill the cup, he waited impatiently for the child’s return.

  Panting and flushed in the misty morn, Malcolm had spilled nearly half of the contents from the cup with his eager actions and hurried pace by the time he returned to Christian. Casting the boy a wink of gratitude, Christian ducked into the hut once more and shut the door. Sprinkling a bit of powder into the cup, he offered it to Gaithlin.

  Gaithlin’s embarrassment was faded, replaced by a genuine humor in Christian’s nearly fearful manner. As if she was going to erupt at any moment. Accepting the cup and downing the contents, she lay back down upon the musty wool in the fervent hope that the expensive poppy potion would do some good. In faith, she was exhausted and weary from the constant crampy ache and eager to be done with it.

  Even if her pain had made Christian forget his anger. For that, she was almost thankful for the cursed throbbing. Moreover, distracting her from her current physical state was the fact that he had professed his foolishness for having left their shelter last night and she was deeply perplexed by the assumption of guilt. He had been rightfully angry with the divulgence of Alex de Gare’s death and had been justified in his reaction. Gaithlin had never faulted him his fury.

  But his odd statement of personal assumption gnawed at her and as the poppy potion flushed her veins with a warm lethargy, she struggled to keep her eyes open.

  “Why did you say what you did?” she asked, losing the battle against the powerful opiate.

  Seated next to her on the rushes, he reached out to stroke her hair. “What is that?”

  “That you were foolish to have left in the first place,” she repeated, her voice faint. “What did you mean?”

  His hand stopped stroking, coming to rest on the top of her head. “That should be obvious,” he resumed stroking. “I should not have left with such anger and confusion between us. I should have remained and rationally confronted your information.”

  She sighed, her ache lessening somewhat as the drug went to work. “You were right to become angry,” she whispered. “I was determined not to inform you of my father’s passing and my mother’s quest to bear arms. Had my foolish tongue not slipped, you still would not know the truth.”

  He understood her reasoning too well. “I know,” he said softly, watching the colors of her hair glimmer in the weak light. “You were simply protecting your famil
y, Gae. I would have done the same.”

  Her eyes came open, unfocused from the potency of the medicine. “What now, Christian? You must tell your father.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, his hand moving from her hair to her arm. “How do you feel?” he asked, obviously changing the subject.

  She sighed wearily, her eyes closing. “Eased and exceedingly tired,” she said softly. “You did not answer my question.”

  He caressed her arm, rubbing gently at her shoulder. “Is there anything else I can do to ease your pain?”

  Mind fogged with the potion, Gaithlin had difficulty holding a thought and it was an easy matter to divert her attention. “My mother used to rub my lower back,” she said after a moment, thinking on the painful curse both she and her mother had shared. After a moment, she remembered that he had again failed to answer her question and struggled to maintain her lucidity as she demanded a reply. “When are you going to tell your father of my father’s death?”

  He shifted behind her, stretching his big body out on the rushes. Propping himself up on one elbow, she could feel his strong, gentle hand massaging the small of her back with infinite care. “Then if your mother stroked your back, I shall do the same.”

  His expert massage threatened to put her to sleep immediately, but she struggled with the last shards of consciousness to obtain her answer. “Answer me, Christian. I demand it.”

  “You do?” he raised his eyebrows in gentle disapproval, rubbing her delicious torso tenderly. “I do not know if I appreciate your imperial demands. But, considering your diminished mental state, I will forgive you. As for my father, he will know when I decide to tell him and not a moment sooner.”

  She shrugged faintly, groaning softly with the delight of his attentions. He smiled, studying her relaxed features in the dimness. Her beautiful face, calm and peaceful as the poppy elixir worked its magic, reminded him of a prose he had composed during the night, a verse that somehow helped him express his emotions. When she sighed again in contentment, he lay down beside her completely and continued to massage her cramping back.