England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  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 know 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 brook, 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.

  “Oh… God,” she moaned, coughing. “I… I cannot breathe!”

  His jaw ticked as he sat back on his haunches, jerkily removing his gauntlets. “Do you hurt? Show me where.”

  Her breathing was erratic and rapid. Christian’s movements slowed when he saw a single tear stream down her temple, dampening her hair. His urgent, sharp manner softened. It softened for a de Gare.

  “Tell me where you hurt, my lady. Are you injured?”

  She swallowed hard and the deep blue eyes opened, staring at the darkening sky above. With the utmost reluctance, her mesmerizing orbs came to rest on eyes of ice-blue. “I… I don’t believe I am injured. At least, I don’t feel any real pain.”

  He looked dubious, as if he did not believe her. Their eyes held steady for a brief, indescribable moment as Christian lowered his naked hand to her heaving torso. Fingers as gentle as the wings of a butterfly drifted over her ribs, probing with the utmost tenderness. Gaithlin found herself observing his actions with a level of surprise she had never before experienced.

  His eyes never left her face. “No sharp pains?”

  She could scarcely manage to shake her head. Where fear and agony had reined not moments before, suddenly there was a degree of emotion she was unable to interpret. An odd warmth seemed to radiate from his trencher-sized hands, a peculiar heat that was intent on wreaking havoc with her breathing far more than the agony his propelled body weight had managed to cause.

  “No,” she whispered. “No sharp pains.”

  He nodded vaguely, feeling her warmth beneath his fingers, remembering with brilliant clarity the vision of Gaithlin emerging from the waters of the pristine pond as Venus rising from the lake. He could still see the sunlight reflecting off her magnificent curves, the embrasure of the light as it caressed her sensuous flesh, and he recalled with complete precision his physical reaction as he had devoured the vision. How desperately he had wanted to experience her beauty for himself.

  His fingers drifted over her torso, unaware that his own breathing had increased. Palms met with the material of her gown, drifting from her waist to the under-swell of her beautiful breasts. Under the guise of probing her for injury, he allowed himself a stolen touch of her most enticing body as he had graphically fantasized since the very first time he saw her. He wished the barrier of her gown was not impeding his exploration.

  “No pain anywhere?” he asked huskily.

  Oddly, she was in pain, but not of the agonizing variety. A sharp tingling had invaded her limbs, mingling with the heat, and she found the peculiar prickle most unnerving. The searing ache seemed to flow directly from his hands, assaulting her like nothing she had ever imagined. She should have been frightened but instead, she found she was actually curious.

  “As I said, there is no pain,” she replied softly, her breathing steady. But his hands were still probing her, touching her, and she felt her cheeks flush with a confused heat. “Take your hands from me, Demon. I told you I was not injured.”

  His expression was unnaturally soft as his hands moved along the curve of her waist. But as realization dawned, the fact that he was touching her purely for his own pleasure and that she clearly wasn’t returning the sentiment, his chiseled features hardened and he abruptly removed his hands from her torso.

  “I simply wanted to see for myself that you were not injured,” he said, almost harshly. “Your weak attempt to flee has demonstrated to me that you possess the supreme de Gare trait of foolishness and stupidity.”

  Shaken, Gaithlin sat up, blinking her eyes rapidly as the world rocked. But she was not so muddled that she had not experienced the full impact of his insult. “You have mentioned two traits,” she mumbled, putting a hand to her head in an attempt to stop the swaying. “Furthermore, the same could be said for your bold assault on St. Esk.”

  Christian had little patience for her reminder of his blasphemous deed. As she struggled to her knees, he yanked on his gauntlets with a good deal of annoyance. Just as she managed to get one foot beneath her in preparation for standing, he finished securing his gloves and grasped her roughly by the arm.

  Gaithlin gasped with the harsh and swift movement, her deep blue eyes coming to focus upon those of ice-blue. Gazing into the depths, her apprehension and defiance made a bold return; but in the same breath, the odd heat that had filled her as his hands roved her tender torso made an unexpected reappearance. The longer she gazed into his eyes, the stronger the warmth became.r />
  “So… so you intend to kill me now?” she swallowed hard, listening to the breathlessness of her sultry voice.

  Christian met her gaze steadily, although his outward facade made a cover for the fiercely raging lust that threatened to devour his control. Good Christ, man, she’s a de Gare! Seventy years of St. John hate refused to allow him to consider his own desires over the duty demanded. But, God help him, he was becoming more weakened and confused by the moment. If she were anything other than a de Gare….

  “I never said I intended to kill you,” his breathless voice matched her own.

  Gaithlin swallowed hard as she listened to his husky reply, realizing that her apprehension was fading somewhat. “Then what do you intend to do with me if your intention is not that of murder?” she asked.

  “What I intend to do with you is none of your concern,” he replied, pulling her towards his charger. “You are my prisoner to do with as I please.”

  Head throbbing and chest sore, her oddly warm thoughts of the man vanished as Gaithlin stumbled after him. Tripping over an exposed clod of earth, she tumbled to her knees and succeeded in dislodging Christian’s grip. With a grunt of irritation, he bent to help her stand when she suddenly regained her feet, ramming the top of her head into his chin.

  She yelped. He groaned. Hand to his jaw, he grasped Gaithlin’s arm once more. “Good Christ, wench,” he grumbled. “You are a plethora of pain for me.”

  She didn’t struggle against his vise-like grip as he tugged her toward the grazing steed. Free hand on the top of her head, she rubbed the violated area. “I am not to blame for this mishap. Had you not handled me so brutally, I would not have fallen.”

  He glared at her. “Had you not shown a glimpse of your magnificent intelligence by attempting to evade me, I would not have been forced to brutally handle you.”

  She matched his glare, removing her hand from her aching head. “Had you not violated St. Esk at the onset, none of this would have happened.”