His glare faded into an expression of complete impassiveness. But his eyes, orbs of blue ice, were as biting as hungry wolves in winter. “I will not hear you refer to the breached abbey again,” his voice was deeper than a growl and by far more threatening. After a moment, his eyebrow twitched purely for sinister effect. “Let us place the blame where it lies. ’Twas your misfortune to have been born a de Gare in the first place.”
They stared at each other for a moment. All of the learned hatred, the mutual disgust at the sight and presence of a long-cultivated enemy came to bear in spite of the natural attraction between them. For the moment, the loathing was stronger than the interest and Gaithlin felt the bitterness to her soul. The previous warm feelings, the confusion at his touch, were forgotten as she turned away in repugnance.
“Damnable St. John bastard.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Christian heard her, his own sense of family hatred filling him. It wasn’t the physical company of the woman before him as much as it was the name she bore. It was the generations of de Gares she represented, spawning a hatred that had aged like a powerful wine.
Above their heads, the collecting clouds could no longer contain themselves. A soaking rain descended on man and beast alike, washing the countryside with a violent downpour. But even the rain wasn’t strong enough to cleanse the palpable hatred between the two inhabitants of the field below.
*
Gaithlin was positive the rain had been conjured from the bowels of Hell by her Demon captor. Her lavender woolen gown had quickly become soaked through the driving sheets of rain and to make matters worse, the Demon had tied her hands together as they traveled through the brutal weather. Pressed against his armored back, her arms about his waist, she could feel the rope chafing her tender wrists.
The top of her head against his back, she found herself staring at her parted thighs, embracing the Demon’s huge legs as she rode astride behind him, positioned like a man. He hadn’t permitted her the more dignified position seated in across his lap; instead, he had forced her into a most degrading stance. Legs wide open, her pubic bone against his buttocks. Were she not so completely miserable as a result of the weather, she would have been exceedingly furious at his lack of consideration but in truth, she expected no less from the Demon of Eden.
Soaked to the skin, frozen and ash-white, she licked her lips every so often as beads of rain coursed over her lowered face. Head bowed behind Christian’s massive frame, she was afforded a slight amount of protection from the stinging rain, but not enough. Not enough to offset her misery and anguish at the direction her future had seemingly taken.
As Gaithlin wallowed silently in discomfort, Christian was making a valiant attempt to pretend that the raging storm about them was of no concern. Shielded in his armor, he was amply protected against the elements and was quite content to continue on his journey. But every so often, the pair of bound hands about his waist would twitch and he would glance in their direction, noting the utterly colorless pallor like the hands of a corpse.
A pair of ashen hands that were attached to a thoroughly chilled body. As he felt himself relenting in the face of his barbaric cruelty, he would remind himself of his prisoner’s identity and his resolve would make a bold return. It was an odd mental struggle that went on mile after mile, and when the sun began to set and Gaithlin’s soaked body set into violent quaking seizures, he could no longer ignore the obvious. He had to find shelter.
A shelter that consisted of a thick cluster of Scot pine. Even though the rain was dripping from the leaves to the ground below, they were somewhat protected from the driving elements and he reined his charger to a halt amongst the damp, moldering leaves.
The sound of the rain was soft and lulling as Christian moved to untie Gaithlin’s hands. He was fully aware of her dead weight against his back and he wondered if she had fallen asleep. Her hands were limp and icy as he fumbled with the rope, finally removing one of his gauntlets for improved dexterity. Heavy and boneless, Gaithlin lay against his huge body as the bindings fell away.
But it was a grand performance for the benefit of the Demon. As soon as the rope fell away, she bolted to life, shoving Christian so hard that he was in danger of losing his seating. Leaping from the charger, Gaithlin landed on her knees in the muddy, musty pile of compost just as Christian lost the battle against his balance and crashed to the ground.
Rolling to his knees, Christian was surprised to see that Gaithlin continued to kneel on the ground, her deep blue eyes blazing at him. Her beautiful hair was drenched, the woolen gown clinging indecently to her magnificent body as her furious gaze beheld him. The sight of her wet figure was almost enough of a deterrent to cause him to forget his surprise and irritation. But not quite.
“You will pay for that, wench,” he growled, putting his feet beneath his body to regain his stance. His helm met with the ground as he marched towards his prey.
“With what?” she snapped, her wet hair whipping about her shoulders. “My health? My freedom? My dignity? Pray, what else can you take that you have not already stolen, Demon?”
His fury gained measure and substance. Christian had a tendency for volatile emotions, hence the basis for his reputation and nickname. Volatile emotions that he usually funneled into his sword, but gazing at the wet woman before him, he wasn’t the least bit willing to strike her down in a fit of fury. Usual outlet thwarted, he found himself irrationally considering more damaging means. Beautiful or not, the woman was driving him to the brink of fury-induced madness.
“There is much more to be taken, you foolish chit. Surely you do not intend to provoke my wrath with your senseless actions and insipid words?”
Gaithlin rose, slowly, and Christian found himself faced with an unhindered view of her delectable body. Completely wet and coated with a dusting of molding leaves, she was still the most magnificent woman he had ever seen.
“The only item of import left to take is my life,” she was shaking with chill and fury. “You said you weren’t going to kill me, but you obviously lied. I can see it in your eyes.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I never lie. And what you see in my eyes has nothing to do with murder.”
Her breathing increased at his rumbled statement; he could see her beautiful, firm breasts heaving against the damp wool. After a moment, she coughed softly, as if her breath had caught in her throat, and her head slowly wagged back and forth.
“ ’Tis your insanity I see, then. The St. John madness that infects your entire family like a raging disease,” she gestured feebly at him, as if finally coming to grips with the situation. “Look at you; you’re the Demon of Eden, the fiercest knight known to these parts. You have made a name for yourself killing and fighting and waging blood-lust sport. And you have made a sport of hating the House of de Gare.”
He eyed her, his fury cooling in spite of the fact that her heated words were true. “It is the way of things.” He almost looked around to see if his father was standing nearby; the words out of his mouth were sounding more and more like Jean St. John every day.
Gaithlin’s face took on an expression of pain and regret, of defeat and resolve. “You sound like my parents,” she whispered, her gaze trailing down his massive body to the arsenal of weapons decorating his waist. With a resigned shrug, she gestured to his ammunition. “Well, give me a weapon then. I suppose we should battle to the death as all of our ancestors have done. As we shall do.”
He cocked an eyebrow, nearly amused by her unmistakably droll comment. “I told you I was not going to kill you.”
She returned the facial expression. “But I may kill you. Will you not defend yourself?”
“I already have.”
She maintained her countenance, bordering on arrogance. “And you have so far proven to be an unworthy adversary. I push you and you fall, I bump you and you grunt with pain. For a man with a formidable reputation, Demon, you certainly are a weakling.”
He was on her in two strides, h
is angry dark face an inch from her own. Gaithlin suddenly found herself clutched in the mightiest embrace she had ever experienced; gasping with surprise and a certain measure of apprehension, she braced her hands against his chest as if to push him away. He was as immovable as a mountain.
“I am indeed a formidable adversary, wench, but I will not prove my point against a weaker, smaller de Gare. I told you that you would regret your actions, and I meant it.”
Lips quivering with shock and fright, Gaithlin met his ice-blue orbs steadily. The heat that had ignited earlier that day when he had so gently probed her for injury suddenly rekindled with searing intensity. She’d never been this close to a man; any man, and certainly not a St. John.
Yet family hatred didn’t seem to matter overly at the moment. Gaithlin was only aware of the fact that she was gazing into the face of the most beautiful man she had ever seen, his musky maleness filling her nostrils, assaulting her ingenuous emotions. The odd warmth erupted into a roaring blaze and her entire body began to shake, rippling like the waves of the sea in rapid succession.
“I… I am not afraid of you,” she breathed, gasping softly when his grip tightened. “Do what you will, Demon. I shall never beg for mercy.”
Christian heard her quietly-uttered defiance, feeling the familiar anger it roused. But the fury was quelled by desire of unbelievable proportions. With Gaithlin’s luscious body within his embrace, nothing else existed in the world.
Gaithlin never saw him move. One moment, his ice-blue orbs were blazing threateningly, and in the next moment his mouth was on her neck as a wildcat devours its prey. Burning lips against her tender, damp skin, scorching her with a passion she had never imagined to exist. His teeth bit into her flesh, enough to cause pain but not enough to break the skin. It was enrapturing. Dear God, he was a St. John, her family’s most hated nemesis! An evil Demon capable of nothing less than horror and pain and… complete, unrestrained pleasure. The Demon was consuming her and she would let him.
Christian could scarcely believe the rashness of his actions. It was as if something had given way, collapsing his control until only his desire was capable of coming forth. But as his tongue sampled the rain-sweet flesh of her neck, he was aware that she was far more delicious than anything he had ever sampled. And he knew, doubtlessly, that he had to have more of the newly-discovered delicacy. He had to take more.
He was barely aware of Gaithlin’s stunned gasp, her body as it stiffened within the crushing enclosure of his arms. He ignored her squirms of panic, her cries of fear, fully engulfed in the ravishment of her neck. So involved was he in the tender white morsels of her earlobes that he was unaware when her terrified struggles turned into an overwhelming reaction to his raging desire.
‘Treacherous are the Crossroads;
by which direction you seek
May not be the course intended.
Either path will bring about
a selection of self-deliberated anguish.’
~ Chronicles of Christian St. John
Vl. IV, p. CCII
CHAPTER FOUR
Hands that were braced against Christian’s chest not a moment before were suddenly around his neck, twisting their way into his honey-blond mane. As his mouth utterly devoured the exquisite line of her jaw, he became cognizant of her gasps, her soft groans of pleasure and delight, and they only served to feed his furor.
For a man that was the perpetual idealism of calm and control, he was unaware when he tumbled over the brink of lust-induced insanity. All he knew was that he had waited for this moment since the very first he beheld the vision in the lake, and the physical pleasure he was receiving as a result of his lack of composure was the greatest ecstasy he had ever experienced.
Suddenly, there was no hatred, no St. Johns, no de Gares. There was only Christian and Gaithlin, a man and a woman, and he intended to handle the situation accordingly. He’d never wanted a woman so badly in his life.
Still holding her tightly against his armored chest, he viciously tore away his right gauntlet, then his left. Naked hands the size of a serving trencher entangled themselves in damp blond hair, holding her captive to his desire as his heated lips moved down her neck and across her collarbone. Delicately, smoothly, he slid her gown from her shoulders.
Gaithlin existed in mindless limbo as Christian’s searing mouth plundered her delicate skin, conveniently neglecting the fact that her most detested enemy appeared intent on ravishing her. Merciful Heavens, if this was what it meant to be plundered and ravaged, she would have been willing to submit to him long ago. If this was his punishment, she would live for the moment when her actions warranted his idea of a suitable reward.
She’d heard tale of the excitement of a man’s touch from the serving wenches at Winding Cross, the ribald stories the young women were free in repeating, and she had harbored a great curiosity of the mating aspects between a man and a woman. Knowing that it was a mysterious, intimate, intensely private encounter, but little beyond that.
Now, to actually sample the reality of her curious ponderings, she realized that the servants and soldiers had hardly paid proper homage to such action. To be kissed, caressed, touched, fondled…
Fondled?
She was suddenly aware of his hand on her breast, massaging her firm globe with the utmost tenderness. Blinking away the disorientation his lustful endeavor had induced, she gazed at the top of his honey-blond head as his mouth moved over the swell of her ripe breasts. As one hand teased her nipple through the wet wool, the other was intent on removing her from her garment.
Her gown was sliding down her arms with swift, gentle action and she was suddenly aware that his most euphoric attentions were quickly becoming far more threatening. It was obvious that he wanted more than she was willing to give and their previous conversation came back to her in all of its blinding force, slamming her with the interpretation of the underlying meaning.
What you see in my eyes has nothing to do with murder.
Now, she knew what she saw in his eyes. Merciful Heavens, she had been so foolish to challenge him, informing him that he had managed to strip her of all dignity and respect and that the only matter of personal import left to take was her very life. There had been another intimate possession, one she had neglected to remember through her anger and apprehension. A possession she valued most over all else.
She had been wrong. Terribly wrong. The innocence meant for her husband’s pleasure was in great danger of being forever lost and she knew, now, that it had been his intent all along.
It had never been his purpose to kill her. He intended to do far worse damage than mere death. And she was letting him.
The gown was suddenly peeled away from her damp breasts, revealing the rain-cold beauties to Christian’s lust-glazed eyes. They were as magnificent as he had remembered, the most exquisite mounds of flesh he had ever had the fortune to experience. Her nipples, as large as a small plum, wordlessly screamed for his attention and he heeded the call far more harshly than he should have. The moment his hot mouth clamped down on her swollen nipple, Gaithlin let out a scream.
Her body was stiff as he suckled her, wrapping his arms about her slender torso, entrapping her breasts against his hungry mouth. Her arms were enveloped within his iron embrace as well, and he was vaguely aware that her struggles had increased. But it only served to excite him, for he was positive she was responding freely to his demanded advance.
Lapping the sweetness of her distended nipple, he hungrily moved to the other breast when a distinct, heart-broken sob penetrated his desire. Even as his lips enclosed her nipple, another sob broke forth and he realized she wasn’t responding to him any longer. She was fighting him.
His head came up, meeting deep blue orbs swimming with hot, frightened tears. Startled, his expression washed with genuine concern; this woman had suffered a brutal afternoon of pain and harsh encounters and physical abuse, and her bravery had been nothing short of astounding. He was suddenly very interested
to know what had driven this tough woman to tears.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?”
She sobbed again, tears spilling down her cheeks and catching him with their splatter. Christian licked the errant tear from his lip as she struggled with her composure.
“Answer me,” he demanded gently. “What is wrong?”
Her head lolled to the side and she shut her eyes, avoiding his gaze, avoiding his presence. Avoiding him. “Please… don’t. I beg of you, sire. Please… don’t do this!”
His brow furrowed faintly. “Don’t do what? Don’t kiss you?”
She twisted within his grasp, struggling to break free, but he refused to release his hold. Frustrated and bordering on panic, her eyes blazed at him. “You said you that it was not your intention to kill me. So you intend to rob me of my innocence in punishment for having been born a de Gare? You intend to rob me of what is most precious to any maiden?”
He released her. Fighting off the sobs of shame and embarrassment, Gaithlin turned away from him and struggled to re-dress herself. Christian watched her with a good deal of confusion and a generous measure of personal shame.
“But you… you allowed me to kiss you, wench,” he pointed out. “You encouraged me to continue.”
“I was not given a choice!” she threw back at him, sniffling as she pulled the damp wool over her shoulders. “You were intent on ravishing me whether or not I encouraged you.”
He stared at her a moment before averting his gaze, raking his fingers through his wetted blond hair and feeling more humiliation than he could ever recall. He’d never known a woman to refuse his advances and was quite inept in dealing with the rejection. The advances of the Demon of Eden were never unwanted.
… were they?
But… it simply wasn’t true! A spark of anger flared within his chest and he turned to her once more, watching her tears ease and her composure return. He was willing to admit that he had lost control, but she had most definitely responded to his touch as if she had been made for his pleasure alone. Never had a woman felt so natural in his arms, so genuine, as if she had always been meant for him.
England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 168
