It was a tiny shelter he and Kelvin used to pretend to be their fortress in the early days of their youth, protecting it against the Scots and Roman invaders alike. Locating the haven had not been difficult, for it was exactly where he remembered; pulling an exhausted Gaithlin off his wet charger, he proceeded to hustle her into the dilapidated lean-to.
It was musty and moldering, but it was relatively dry. Using her newly-acquired satchel for a pillow, he forced Gaithlin to lie down on the damp earth, feeling a good measure of regret in the fact that he had nothing better to offer her by way of a bed or comfort. But she had drifted off to sleep almost immediately and he had spent a good portion of the night watching her rest in peaceful slumber and listening to the rain outside.
Just before dawn he built a small fire in the hearth out of twigs and dried leaves, for the temperature had dropped considerably over the course of the night. Watching Gaithlin shiver and twitch in her sleep, he carefully laid himself beside her purely for the added warmth and was not surprised when she burrowed herself tightly against him. When he awoke to clear skies and singing birds two hours later, it had been with Gaithlin in his arms.
The Galloway Forest was a massive expanse of trees and bramble and wildlife that occupied a good portion of Douglas lands. The River Cree carved a fine path through the enormous wilderness, giving life and beauty to the primitive surroundings.
As the smell of Scot pine and beechwood fell heavy on the damp early fall air, Christian was transported back to his early childhood. With crystal clarity, he could recollect the days when he and his Scot grandfather spent a good deal of time traipsing about the sacred lands in search of the perfect fishing spot or a small animal to kill. It was moist earth his mother had harbored a deep attachment for, being a Douglas, and introduced her young sons to the earth that had bred her people. Lands that Christian loved dearly.
Lands, however, that Gaithlin was unfamiliar with. The wind was cold as it whipped through the trees, sending chills skating down her slender spine as she clutched Christian’s cloak more closely about her. Around her waist, his massive arm squeezed her gently and she instinctively pressed closer to him, pondering her new surroundings.
Yet her new environment wasn’t the only matter of import she seemed destined to ponder. Two days of traveling with the Demon of Eden had brought about the most peculiar emotions and ideals she had ever managed to envisage. It was an uneventful trip for the most part, silent and calm, but given the circumstances, it was very odd.
Since the moment they had left Forrestoak, it was as if some invisible bond linked them together, binding them emotionally and sometimes physically as the lengths of endless road stretched before them on the horizon. Gaithlin tried not to linger on the kiss Christian had delivered the day he whisked her from St. Esk, the heat he provoked from his magnificent touch and tender lips. In fact, what she found most despondent other than her obvious reaction to the Demon was the resonate recollection of Kelvin Howard’s words, a bitterly hissed phrase in the midst of a man’s deepest anguish.
You’re a St. John, Christian. You must kill her.
Torn between the desperation of her captivity, the warmth lingering in the depths of Christian’s ice-blue eyes, and the vengeful mutterings of an injured man, the past four days had been spent in relative silence as she attempted to sort the muddled workings of her young mind. A mind she didn’t seem to recognize any longer and a hatred for the St. Johns that she couldn’t seem to remember.
A hatred Christian had all but forgotten as well. Four days with his delectable water nymph had brought him to the unalterable conclusion that he was indeed in love with the woman. Over the miles of eternal forested lands and the bleak hills of the border he had clutched her tightly against him, relishing the feel of her in his arms and trying desperately not to delve too deeply into the future of his plans.
A future his father had already established. A future that included using Gaithlin to bring Winding Cross to ruin, treating her with the respect warranted of a captive. Good Christ, he wasn’t entirely sure he could allow his father to use Gaithlin in the manner intended and as his charger pounded out the miles towards their destination, his resistance and confusion gained strength.
In truth, he didn’t know what he was going to do about the situation. To maintain his plans, to continue into Galloway and establish a base seemed the most logical course of action at the moment. To keep Gaithlin away from the war and the hatred and the vengeance of those who would seek to harm her was the most reasonable conclusion he could seek for the time being. Until he could decide how to handle his most treacherous emotions, he would stay the chosen course.
“Are you really going to kill me?”
Limp against his chest, he had assumed Gaithlin to be dozing. But her softly uttered question set against the backdrop of her sultry voice broke him out of his thoughts and he shifted in the saddle, his gaze staring intently at the thoroughfare ahead.
“Nay.”
“Kelvin said you had to.”
“Kelvin is an idiot.”
She didn’t reply for a moment. Then, she sat forward and turned in the saddle, gazing into his stubbled face. Visor raised, he met her puzzled stare evenly. After a moment of observing his piercing orbs, she sighed heavily.
“Then where are you taking me?”
“Far away, my lady,” he replied quietly. “Far away from the Feud.”
“Why?”
He cocked an eyebrow. Of course she was curious for her future and he was no longer entirely resistant to the idea of informing her of his directive. After four days of eating and sleeping with her, he was eager to speak with her, to know her better. But his naturally reserved nature and confusion of loyalties had prevented him from doing so. But as he gazed into her eyes, he realized that he was no longer confused.
“Because you are going to end the Feud,” he replied frankly, watching her expression wash with confusion. It was enough to cause a smile across his tired face. “You do not believe me?”
She shook her head vaguely. “I did not say that. But how am I going to stop the Feud?”
His smile faded. “By forcing Winding Cross to lay down her arms,” he answered softly. “With Gaithlin de Gare a captive of the St. Johns, your father will have no choice but to surrender. Therefore, you will end a foolish skirmish that has lasted seventy years without a drop of blood being shed in additional resistance.”
Gaithlin stared at him a moment as no immediate reaction was forthcoming; then, her eyes widened and the color drained from her cheeks.
“You… you intend to blackmail Winding Cross with my capture?” her voice was a throaty echo. “The St. Johns attempted to blackmail my family with the capture of Glenn St. John nearly twenty years ago and the de Gares refused to fold. They will never surrender, Demon. Especially not for me.”
Christian was well aware of the facts surrounding Glenn de Gare but refused to be deterred. “You’re the heiress. And you are Alex’s daughter. Certainly you are of more sentimental worth to your family than an aged old man.”
Gaithlin continued to stare at him, dumbfounded and unbalanced. How could she tell him that her father had died years ago, leaving a poverty-stricken keep that could barely sustain itself? Other than the family pride, there was barely anything left to surrender and Gaithlin refused to be the instrument through which generations of de Gares were submitted for defeat and shame.
The St. Johns believed Winding Cross to be as strong as she ever was, intact and lead by the powerful Alex de Gare. In truth, the remains of the once-mighty family had dwindled to a middle-aged mother, her isolated daughter, and less than fifty defenders and servants. There was nothing left to surrender except their dignity.
And she refused to give it up. Her expression suddenly took on a look of acute desperation and Christian was somewhat prepared for the fist that came flying at his unprotected face.
“I shall not allow this!” Gaithlin shrieked, struggling against him as Chris
tian fought to control both her and his excited charger. “Let me go, you St. John bastard! Let me go or I shall kill you, I swear it!”
Had his horse not leapt in agitation, Christian would have been quite able to control his rebelling captive. But the horse danced nervously on his rear legs as Gaithlin shrieked and struggled, pitching both master and hostage to the damp earth.
Christian heard her grunt as she hit the ground, but his irritation outweighed his concern. Four days of nearly-pleasant coexistence had suddenly reverted to the very hour he had whisked her from St. Esk and once again, he found himself in possession of a bitter, terrified captive. But he refused to rehash old territory; there had already been a good deal of happenstance between them and he was unwilling for her to ignore the fact.
Cursing himself for being stupid enough to inform her of her truer purpose in the St. John – de Gare Feud, he pinned her luscious body against the pebble-strewn road and roughly captured her hands beneath his massive gauntlets.
“Enough!” he roared, feeling her start beneath him. Her violent motions lessened as his icy orbs met with deep blue. “You will cease this resistance or I shall bind you hand and foot. Do you comprehend me?”
“You… cannot… do this!” she grunted, disregarding his threat with her continued struggles. “I shall… not allow you to… destroy my family!”
He stared at her. Lowering his body completely, she groaned when his excessive body weight smashed her into the dirt and nullified the majority of her struggles. Head and arms trapped within the vise of his massive arms, she was unable to avert her eyes from his piercing gaze.
“Listen to me well,” his voice rumbled like the distant thunder. “I am weary of the Feud. I have lost uncles, cousins and two grandfathers to a foolish argument that has lasted for the better part of seventy years. I am tired of hating, of fighting, of living under a constant state of alert within the confines of my father’s barony. My children will know the meaning of peace and freedom as my brother and I never knew, and I intend to bring about that peace any way I can.”
Chest heaving with emotion and strain, Gaithlin stared into his serious eyes. “Then surrender your own forces. Why must it be the de Gares?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “To the victor goes the spoils. I have captured you; therefore, it is only logical for the de Gares to surrender. How foolish would it be for me to mastermind your apprehension only to relinquish you as a bizarre peace offering?”
Her struggles had ceased entirely, her glorious hair spread over the dirt like an abstract halo. From the depths of fury to the pinnacles of lust in a swift, blinding moment, Christian was suddenly seized with the desire to kiss her as she struggled to form a reply.
“ ’Twould be a show of good faith, I should think, to return me home,” she answered breathlessly, flattened by his weight. “To prove that your peaceful intentions are sincere.”
His usually impassive expression washed with skepticism. “You know as well as I that any St. John peace overture would be met by an arrow to the chest. If my father and I are to achieve harmony, then we must take it.”
“Then you do not seek true peace,” she hissed. “You only wish to demand victory, whatever the price.”
A flash of anger coursed through him. “You have no right to act so sanctimonious. Your father would do the same if the opportunity were present.”
Her pretty jaw ticked with emotion as the rage between them built once again. “You will never have your peace, Demon. Not like this.”
Unwilling to argue the point, he abruptly shifted his weight from her and rose to his feet. With one swift jerk, he pulled her to stand as his hand kept a vise-like grip on her tender arm.
“How I achieve my ends is none of your concern,” he growled, pulling her toward his horse. “I will ask you only once; will you ride peacefully until we reach our destination or will I be forced to bind you?”
She would not lie to him. St. John or not, her naive emotions and swirling puzzlement had been brutally dashed by his arrogant intentions towards achieving peace and she was dangerously close to tears. Bitterness strengthened her bold forthrightness as she gazed into his eyes, cursing him with every breath she took. Damn him!
He had protected her one minute, battled with her the next. There wasn’t one element to Christian St. John that was predictable and she hated him for it. She hated herself for not loathing him as deeply as she should have.
“Bind me,” her sensual voice was a whisper. “It is necessary if you do not want me to fight you every step of the way.”
He met her gaze, knowing her sincerity. With another flash of fury, stronger than the one before, he maintained a grip on her arm as his mailed hand fumbled through his saddlebags for a length of rope. Locating the knotted cord, he roughly wound the bindings about her tender wrists, tying them more tightly than he should have purely out of anger and frustration.
His emotional level soared to untapped heights as he fastened the knot with unusual harshness, noting that he had tied her so securely that her hands were already devoid of blood. His fury knew no limits and he was fully aware of his irrational state, but his anger was completely void of conscience. He was glad to see her suffer.
If the de Gare wench wanted him to bind her, then bind her he would and take great pleasure in it. In fact, he would tell her of his sadistic glee so she would realize the fruitlessness of her actions. He would draw strength from her terror and defeat, lusting after the power her emotions could provide his failing St. John loyalties.
Rope secured, he grunted with satisfaction at his fiendish handiwork. But the moment he glanced up to verbally lash her for her stupidity, his brutal words died in his throat.
She was crying.
“Good Christ,” he muttered. Fury vanished with unnatural speed, he immediately moved to jerk her bindings free. But they were secured far too snuggly and he fumbled furiously with them as a mournful sob escaped Gaithlin’s throat. The harder she cried, the more panicked his movements became. The very moment the rope fell away to the damp road beneath their feet, she collapsed hysterically into his massive arms. Christian held her tightly enough to squeeze the breath from her.
“Forgive me, Gaithlin, forgive me,” he murmured into her hair. “I did not mean to injure you, truly.”
Her sobs were heavy and unrestrained, as if her heart was breaking. Christian attempted to pull her tighter, feeling like a sadistic beast for brutalizing her so. Good Christ, his emotions were so out of control he hardly recognized himself any more.
“Let me see your wrists, honey,” he whispered. “Let me see what I have done.”
She shook her head, sobbing deeply. “I… I hate you, Christian. I hate you terribly.”
Harsh, utterly insincere words. He fought off a smile as he rocked her gently under the fading Scot sun. “I hate you, too.”
Removing her face from his neck, she laid her cheek against the cold steel of his shoulder, still sobbing. “You… you cannot do this to my family,” she whispered. “I would rather you kill me.”
His smile faded as he stroked her hair, her back. “I told you that I was not going to kill you. Not ever.”
She suddenly pulled away from him, her slender hands gripping his arms in a desperate gesture. “Please do not force my family to surrender. I beg of you, sire; do not do this.”
He was sucked into the vortex of her panic, seized by the sincerity of her hopelessness. Gazing into her pleading blue eyes, he felt himself losing ground by the second.
“I…” he stammered, swallowing hard in an ineffectual attempt to reclaim his slipping composure. “Gaithlin, there is nothing I can do. My father is….”
“Please!” She suddenly fell to her knees, holding both of his hands against her face. “Christian, I swear I shall do anything you ask. Anything at all. Just do not force my family to surrender Winding Cross.”
He was in danger of completely losing what was left of his control. He weakly attempted to pull her to her feet,
but she refused to move. Instead, she continued to hold his hands tightly against her cheeks and sob as if her heart was being destroyed by her worst nightmare.
Destroyed by a St. John.
He simply couldn’t deal rationally with her hysteria. Before he realized his actions, he was on his knees in front of her, pulling her into a crushing embrace.
“Stop this,” he rasped, feeling her wet cheeks against his face. “Stop crying, Gaithlin. I cannot….”
“Please, Christian,” she moaned, her tapered fingers intertwined in his beautiful blond hair. “Please do not do this. You cannot imagine the suffering and agony you will cause.”
Good Christ, he had to come to grips with his surging emotions. There was no telling what would happen were he to allow them to rage unchecked any longer; already, he had entered a realm where he had never before traveled, a world of such desperation and anguish that he would have willingly given his own life simply to stop her tears.
Taking a deep breath, he grasped her head and forced her to look at him; which, in fact, was not an entirely wise move. The very moment he gazed into her terrified blue eyes, he felt his control slip yet another notch.
“Listen to me,” he whispered huskily. “Whatever happens between the St. Johns and the de Gares is out of my hands. My father is Eden’s baron and I am merely his son, subject to his commands and directives as are the rest of his vassals. By taking you from St. Esk, I have completed my orders and the remainder of my father’s scheme is beyond my control.”
She shook her head, tears spattering on his wrists. “You do not understand. I shall do anything to prevent the compromise of Winding Cross.” She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushed with emotion. “I shall…I shall give you my servitude, my body, my dignity. Anything to prevent my family from having to choose between my life and their honor.”
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