Alicia and Eldon looked to each other, stricken with shock and a rising apprehension. Before Alicia could respond, Eldon was already moving for the solar door. As he brushed roughly past Uriah in his attempt to vacate the room, the older knight watched him leave with a mixture of confusion and irritation.
“Where is he going?” he demanded, turning to his mistress. “First the St. John missive, and now a mysterious woman demanding to speak with Alex de Gare. What in God’s Bloody Realm is going on?”
Alicia eyed the older man, a knight who had served her husband for over twenty years. Forcing herself to rein her mounting anxiety, she drew in a deep calming breath.
“You will mind your language in my presence.” She’d lost track of how many times she had relayed the very same warning. “Eldon will inform you of our dilemma when he is able. Frankly, I have not the strength at the moment.”
Uriah lowered his head like a scolded dog as he always did when met with Lady Alicia’s reprimands. “Forgive, my lady. I didn’t mean to offend.”
She didn’t reply; his excuse was always the same. Pacing the floor beside the aged and worn desk, Alicia struggled to maintain her composure as she waited for Eldon to return.
“Tell me, Uriah. Did this mysterious young woman have a name?”
He nodded, unlatching his battered breastplate where it met with his shoulder protection. The constant chaff had left a wound that hadn’t healed correctly in five years. “The Lady Margaret du Bois. I have never heard of her.”
Alicia shook her head. “Nor have I,” she said softly, morosely. “I wonder what news she brings of my Gaithlin?”
“Lies, I am sure,” Uriah growled. “Gaithlin is safe within the walls of St. Esk. If this woman demands money for her falsehoods, I shall slit her bloody gullet.”
Alicia raised an eyebrow at his barbaric threat, refraining from repeating her request that the knight curtail his harsh language. “Is she alone?”
Uriah shook his head. “Nay. She’s accompanied by an escort of at least twenty men.”
“No standards?”
“Not a stitch.”
Puzzled as well as deeply concerned, Alicia lowered herself slowly onto her husband’s worn chair. “I wonder who she is,” she murmured, more to herself than to the elder knight.
Uriah watched his mistress, noting her pallid demeanor and lethargic movements. Nothing at all like the warlord he had served for the better part of ten years, a brilliant tactician as her husband had been. A finer commander he had never attended in spite of the fact that his lord and master was a woman.
Certainly, a man could not want for a more devoted widow. The very day Alex de Gare had perished as a result of a St. John arrow, Alicia had donned a coat of outdated mail and had met the marauding invaders with a grief-fed fury. Through the years she had taken up Alex’s battle, carrying on the legacy and tradition of a de Gare and never once languishing from her duties.
But it was a life and legacy that seemed to be weakening with time. Even as Alicia pensively gazed into the distant space of the room, she was far more exhausted and aged than Uriah had ever known her to be. The latest St. John attack had left Winding Cross particularly devastated and the weary soldiers and peasants had been working day and night to repair the damaged bridge.
Uriah found himself pondering the state of the destroyed bridge as Alicia leaned wearily into the chair, sighing heavily with fatigue. “Do you think it possible that she is a ploy from Jean?”
Broken from his somber train of thought, the aged knight focused on his beaten mistress. “I do not know, my lady,” his voice was rough. “Certainly, we shall find out.”
Alicia’s gaze lingered on the man a moment before returning her gaze to the weakening hearth. “I suppose we shall, Uriah,” her tone was barely a whisper. A defeated, resigned whisper. “I suppose we shall.”
*
The shack was exactly where Christian remembered it to be. Although the woods had grown heavily over the years, obliterating the path he clearly recalled set deep into the southwestern portion of the territory, he was able nonetheless to pick his way through the bramble and foliage under the three-quarter moon in his quest to locate the elusive shelter.
The bright, cloudless night sky had afforded him a good deal of light in his search. Past the thick copse of Scot pines the locals called The Titans for their strength and age, he bisected two small brooks and used the third stream as a directional indicator before coming to the object of his focus – a small, dilapidated hut.
He well remembered the aged old woman who occupied the hut. She had been a senile member of the Douglas clan, unable to socialize or communicate with the rest of the family, and had sought refuge and isolation deep within the heart of the Galloway territory.
Christian’s mother had brought her two young sons to visit the woman only once, introducing the lady as an aunt. Other than his clear memories of that meeting, he had no further knowledge as to who the old woman was, but he easy recollected his fantasy with her Fortress of Solitude deep within the Galloway wilderness. From the very moment his father had demanded the de Gare wench be whisked into the shady wilds of Anne’s ancestral forest, Christian knew exactly where he would take her.
It was very late when they arrived. Exceedingly sleepy but alert nonetheless, Gaithlin eyed the overgrown shelter with no particular reaction, relatively resigned to the fact that they had reached their destination, such as it was. Christian dismounted his steed, leaving Gaithlin alone as he scrutinized the structure nearly covered with vines and bramble. The occupant long since dead, as he knew she would be, the forest had claimed the shack for its own.
A shack Christian was determined to take back. Wasting no time, he removed his upper body armor and hauberk before delving into the arsenal strapped to the right side of his saddle. Bringing forth a nasty-looking pole-axe, he began to hack away at the overgrowth obstructing the door.
Gaithlin watched him tear into the shrubbery a moment before calmly dismounting. Reasoning that if she was no longer making the effort to fight her St. John captor, she should be helping him make the best of their situation. Without hesitation, she moved for the array of weapons and unfastened a medium-sized war hammer. Like a short pick-axe with a heavy spike, she shunned Christian’s black cloak and moved beside him.
Christian caught a flash of steel in the moonlight and instinctively leapt away from the threat. The war hammer plowed into the bramble, tearing away a good portion of greenery as his wide eyes came to bear on Gaithlin’s curious expression.
“What is wrong?” she asked, genuinely confused with his skittish manner.
Exhaling sharply with relief and irritation, he cocked an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
Her brow furrowed with puzzlement and a measure of amusement. “I am helping you. Did you truly think I intended to plant this war hammer in your back?”
He scratched his head, dirty with sweat and grime. “No,” he said after a moment, feeling rather foolish. As much as he attempted to disregard the fact that she was a de Gare, his sub-conscious was apparently unwilling to relent. Irritation fed with a myriad of conflicting emotions, he gestured at the weapon in her hand. “Give me that. I shall clear this shack without your help.”
“Why? If I help you, ’twill make the work go faster.”
“Don’t argue with me,” he tried to pull the instrument from her grasp. “Give me the weapon and go stand by my horse.”
She yanked the war hammer away from him, stumbling back and nearly tripping over her feet. Irritated in her own right, she scowled at him. “I am perfectly capable of helping you clear this foliage.” As if to prove her point, she lifted the weapon again and swung it at the growth with a good deal of skill and strength. A heavy measure of leaves and branches crashed to the earth below.
Surprised, Christian stood motionless as she brought about two more powerful blows. Branches and vines went hurling to the earth with the force of her strength as she ripped, tore and c
hopped the growth away from the front door. Four chops later, she came to a panting, sweaty halt and turned to Christian, fully expecting another barrage of refusals and disapproval. Instead, he was smiling at her.
“Tell me, my lady,” he said in his rich, smooth voice. “Are you considered Alex de Gare’s premier soldier?”
Wiping the sweat from her pretty brow, a modest if not somewhat embarrassed smile creased her lips. “My mother won’t let me.”
Christian grunted. “Pity. Were you to fight, I suspect the St. Johns would be in a good deal of trouble.” Regaining his grip on the pole-axe, he cast her a long glance. “Keep going. We should have this bramble cleared in little time.”
Between the two of them, the entire shelter was cleared in a considerably short span and Gaithlin returned her weapon to his saddle, securing the ties with deft fingers. Christian joined her a moment later, binding his pole-axe against the leather.
“What is this place?” Gaithlin’s back was to him as she observed the lean-to in the moonlight.
Finished with the ties, he moved up behind her, hands on hips as he, too, studied the broken-down lodge. “Our home.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him; he was standing conspicuously close. Close enough that she could feel his heated breath on her face and the sensation fueled a faint tingling in her limbs. After a moment of experiencing his proximity, she forced herself to turn away in giddy confusion.
“How… charming,” she managed to utter.
He smiled faintly and moved around her, heading toward the structure. “Let’s see if we can eke out an acceptable corner to sleep in for the night. On the morrow, we shall endeavor to make the place livable.”
Considering the state of the exterior, the interior of the shelter was relatively uninhabited. The main room was uneven and coarse, while the tiny second room seemed to have been populated by a family of rodents at one time. There was a broken table and a worn chair, a cast iron kettle askew in the hearth and little else. Everything else of value or otherwise seemed to have vanished or disintegrated over years of neglect and harsh conditions.
Gaithlin surveyed the surroundings with little emotion, while Christian seemed rather disheartened by the entire overview. Moving to the hearth, he kicked at the large pot while Gaithlin inspected the smaller room, barely tall enough for her to stand.
“I would be uncomfortable lighting a fire before I have had a chance to inspect the chimney,” he said, almost apologetically. “The night may become chilly before the sun crests.”
Emerging from the smaller room, Gaithlin merely shrugged to his statement. “I doubt it. Your body gives off more heat than a furnace.”
He eyed her, noting that she refused to meet his gaze. Even in the darkness, he would swear she was blushing. Amused as well as oddly aroused, he lowered his head in a firm attempt to make eye-contact. “Do I scald you, my lady? I was not aware of my scorching attributes.”
Fighting off a grin and a supreme blush, she turned for the door. “Merciful Heavens, you have forced me to sleep beside you for the past two nights for fear that I would escape if out of arm’s length. I could not help but be made cognizant of your heat.”
She breezed through the doorway, stumbling over a pile of branches as she made her way across the thick grass toward the destrier. Christian’s eyes never left her.
“That wasn’t why I forced you to sleep beside me,” he murmured.
She heard him.
*
Brilliant sunlight was streaming in through the splintered walls of the ancient shack, striking Christian directly in the eyes. Still partially asleep, he rolled to his back to be free of the blinding beam but was unable to locate suitable shade. Turning on his side once more, he was vaguely aware of a warm body loosely wrapped in his arms; pulling her against him firmly enough to cause her to groan, he buried his face in Gaithlin’s back.
“Stop squirming,” she mumbled.
He grunted in reply, tightening his grip. With a heavy, weary sigh, Gaithlin’s eyes fluttered open to the dazzlingly illuminated shelter.
“The sun has been up for hours,” she murmured, jostling his hands to rouse him. “We have work to do.”
After a lengthy silence, he grunted again and raised his head, blinking rapidly in the radiance. Honey-blond hair hung wildly in his face. “Good Christ,” he muttered. “It must be mid-morning.”
Head on the crook of her arm, Gaithlin nodded. “We went to bed very late last night.”
Scratching his scalp with his free hand, he glanced down at his captive. In spite of the fact that she had just awoken, she looked rested and peaceful. And completely, utterly beautiful. He couldn’t help but drink in her exquisite profile, feeling the familiar heat and confusion take flight.
“Did you sleep well?” his voice was an erotic purr in her ear.
Gaithlin could feel his breath on her cheek, a surge of liquid fire filling her veins. If the man wasn’t sending the Fear of God through her, he was filling her with a scorching fever she had never known to exist. Only with him did this inferno seem to ignite, burning her mindless and giddy at the same time.
Terrified to look at him, knowing how intimately close they were lodged, her body began to quiver with the emotions he seemed to stir within her. Merciful Heavens, how he thrilled her and frightened her at the same time.
“Well enough,” she managed to reply. “But you snore.”
He snorted. “How dare you accuse me of such wretched manners. I do nothing of the kind.”
She grinned, turning her face away from him and attempting to bury it in the material cloaking her arm. “You snore and you talk.”
His eyebrows rose in feigned outrage. “You will apologize for your slanderous lies at once. I will not tolerate these accusations one moment longer.”
She giggled into the fabric of her long-sleeved gown, yelping when he swatted her behind. The next he realized, a pointy elbow dug deep into his ribs and he grunted loudly, grunting yet again when she shoved against his chest in an attempt to rise. Quick as a flash, he grasped her by the arm and pulled her down against him, grinning as she struggled and growled in protest.
“Apologize, wench.”
“I will not. And don’t call me wench.”
Christian gazed at the rosy-cheeked hostage clutched against his chest. “Apologize for your defamation and I shall not call you wench.”
“But it is true. I shall not apologize for speaking the truth.”
He scowled. “You are a disagreeable female. I should punish you severely for your insults.”
She raised a saucy eyebrow at him, unable to disregard her giddy tingling any longer. From the moment she had awoken in his arms, the sensation had been pervasive, gaining in strength. Odd that her captivity with the Demon of Eden was becoming more and more attractive, isolated with a man who was both her enemy and her protector. A man who was able to evoke primitive, wicked emotions within her.
“You would punish me for the truth?” she sounded breathless.
Christian caught the tone, desire and lust such as he had never known coursing through his big body. Good Christ, this woman affected him like none other, her exquisite face and unexpected personality drilling deep into his soul. If there were any doubts that he had fallen in love with her lingering in the recesses of his mind, they had been dashed to reckless cinder. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he hadn’t been focused on Lady Gaithlin in every sense of the word. She was his captive, but he wanted much, much more.
And he was unafraid to take what he wanted. Gazing into her eyes, he realized she wanted him to take what he so obviously desired. Even if she was unable to voice her silent commands, he was quite adept at reading her mind. He knew, without a doubt, that they reflected his own thoughts precisely.
There was no longer a Feud between them. St. John or de Gare didn’t seem to matter any longer; all that mattered was the fact that Christian was in love with his fair captive, and she too was coming to feel something
for him. The Demon was no longer an object of fear and loathing, but a subject of curiosity and discovery.
Gaithlin felt his lips, soft and gentle and seeking, and she gave into him without a struggle. One moment she was crushed against his chest, half of her long body on the dirt of the floor; in the next, she was completely atop his magnificent torso, straddling him as she matched his fevered kisses blow for blow. Her inquisitive desire coupled with her natural fearlessness caused her not to passively succumb to his attentions, but rather to parallel his actions. Touch for exquisite touch, and kiss for magnificent kiss.
Christian’s fingers were in her hair, feeling the tresses covering them like a silken web of glory. Her mouth, delicious and curious and eager, met his passion with head-on force and there was nothing on earth strong enough to rein his lust as she mimicked his suckling actions. Biting softly into her lower lip, he plunged his tongue into her mouth when she gasped softly in surprise.
Gaithlin was hardly aware when he rolled her onto her back, his massive body crushing her against the rushes that had constituted their bed. Her legs still straddling his hips, she could feel a hard lump pressing against her thigh. Having never experienced a male arousal before, she did not understand the significance; the only matter of consequence at the moment was the sensation of his bold tongue stroking the pink interior of her mouth.
She groaned in disappointment and ecstasy as he left her lips, moving down her neck to the swell of her beautiful breasts. Clad in one of the woolen garments confiscated from Kelvin Howard, a clinging garment with a plunging neckline that was far too short for her height, the soft fabric gave way to Christian’s probing lips as he branded her with the proof of his desire. This time, when the neck of the gown fell away to his eager fingers, she did not resist.
In fact, he seemed to incite a boldness in her that she was unaware of. Naïve or no, a pure virgin in every sense of the word, she instinctively knew what she wanted from a man. The pleasure, the ecstasy, and the maddening desire that threatened to devour her very soul… she needed it.
England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 176
