Still smiling, Gaithlin returned her attention to the wide-eyed yet somewhat calmer lad before her. But her pleasant gesture faded as she sensed his fear and defiance radiating forth from the little body like a black fog, and she pondered his demeanor a moment before commencing her interrogation.
As the sun rose in the morning sky, Gaithlin sank to her knees before the small boy, studying him intently as she cautiously loosened her hold. His blond hair was caked with dirt and filth and she could literally see the vermin crawling about his scalp. His entire body, thin and frail and grimy, was wracked with sores and malnutrition. But the bright green eyes that gazed at her were alert and intelligent.
“My name is Gaithlin,” she said softly, watching the slight breeze muss his already wildly-spikey hair. “What is your name?”
His brow furrowed and his lips pursed in a pout. “I am not gonna tell ye.”
She smiled gently. “Fair enough,” she caught a glimpse of Christian over her shoulder and cast him a brief glance before returning her attention to the small lad. “My… companion and I have traveled a very long way and we were unaware that this was your property. Certainly we did not mean to trespass. Would it be possible to pay you for its use?”
Immediately, the green eyes glimmered with the naked possibilities of her suggestion and his dour expression softened. Blinking thoughtfully, he cast Gaithlin a long, dubious glance. “What do ye have to pay me with?”
“What do you require?”
His brow furrowed again, this time in thought. Glancing sidelong, he noticed the sturdy charger and a myriad of possessions that Christian had stacked neatly against the wall of the shelter the evening before. Absently, his dirty finger dug into his nose and Gaithlin gently pulled the offending hand away from his face, smiling encouragingly when he looked to her in puzzlement and concentration.
“I want yer food,” he said after a moment, his manner far less harsh and bordering on urgent. “Do ye have food?”
Gaithlin nodded faintly, her heart aching with kindred sympathy for his plight. “Lots,” she said. “If we promise to feed you every day, will you allow us to stay here?”
His eyes widened with the miraculous concept. Eating every day! His rebellious nature rapidly dissolved in light of the concept of regular meals and he nodded eagerly to Gaithlin’s suggestion.
“I want bread and meat!” he said.
“And you shall have bread and meat,” her grin returned. “Now, will you tell me your name so that we may know the title of our overlord?”
“Malcolm,” he said without hesitation.
Gaithlin let go of the boy; it was obvious he wasn’t about to leave their presence with the thought of food to be had. Rising to her feet, she could feel Christian’s presence behind her as he quietly drew close.
“ ’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Laird Malcolm,” she said. “How many years have you seen?”
“I am not sure,” Malcolm said, eyeing the satchels against the wall. “Six or seven. Mayhap more.”
Gaithlin nodded in understanding. “Can you tell me why you were spying on us?”
Distracted from the possibility of food, he eyed both Gaithlin and Christian with a certain degree of remorse. Kicking at the dirt, he shrugged. “I heard yer voices,” he said softly. “Voices carry in the wood and I was curious.”
“Then you live nearby?”
Finished kicking at the dirt, he returned to eyeing the baggage. “I live all over,” he replied, turning to Gaithlin with a look of utter eagerness. “Can we eat now?”
As Gaithlin gazed down at the bristle-haired lad, a good deal became clear to her. All of the clues, pieced together through conversation and observation, brought about the situation with brutal clarity and she felt a tug to her heart at the plight of the plucky young lad. He was a survivor, like she was.
“Are your parents dead, Malcolm?” she asked gently.
He nodded without distress, his gaze moving from the food yet again and falling on Christian this time. His expression immediately turning baleful. “Are ye going to punish me still, hound?”
Christian, having been an observer to the entire exchange between Gaithlin and the boy, was also wise to the interpretation of the entire situation. As a result, he was far calmer than he had been moments before. Even in the face of Malcolm’s hateful insult.
“Let us establish our rules from the beginning,” he growled, a softness underlying his stern demeanor. “You will no longer insult me if you expect to eat my fare. Is this understood?”
Malcolm looked to Gaithlin, who nodded firmly. After a moment, the little boy kicked the ground and turned away. “I wunna call ye names, Englishman.”
“His name is Sir Christian,” Gaithlin informed him, her voice soft and her eyes twinkling as she looked to Christian. “You will address him properly, Laird Malcolm.”
The boy nodded again, scratching his louse-ridden tunic. Being addressed as a laird had a very pleasant sound to it, a respect and honor given that he had never before known. And noting the homage to come from a beautiful woman fed arrogance within his little heart that he never knew existed. But her brutish friend was another matter and they eyed each other like a pair of dominant cocks.
“Sir Christian…he is yer brother?” he asked her, his brow furrowing when Christian’s gesture darkened.
“I am her husband,” Christian replied before Gaithlin could respond.
Husband. Malcolm’s heart was strangely crushed with that knowledge. Even though the lady did not look entirely pleased with the declaration, she kept silent but refused to meet Sir Christian’s gaze, even when he deliberately looked to her. Instead, the lady was still focused on his dirty little face.
“Laird Malcolm, do you know where there is water about?” she asked, ignoring Christian’s searching gaze.
Malcolm nodded, pointing to the west. “There’s a brook down the hill.”
Gaithlin nodded firmly. “You will go and wash the filth from your hands before you partake of our morning meal.” When he looked incredibly puzzled, she simply pointed in the direction he had indicated. “Hurry, now. You do not want to be late and Sir Christian will not wait for a straggler.”
Still confused as to why he should wash the dirt from his hands, Malcolm nonetheless obeyed her order. Watching the tiny, slovenly body dash across the clearing, Gaithlin was surprised when a pair of warm, delicious lips suddenly planted themselves over her mouth. A moment of confused shock was replaced by painful bolts of awakening desire as she allowed herself the delightful luxury of Christian’s powerfully heated embrace.
A gentle kiss that harbored all the elements of a devilishly carnal lust. Her arms wound themselves about his neck as his massive arms crushed her against him, relishing the feel and taste and smell of his musk. Hungrily, his tongue pried her lips open and delved into her honeyed essence, licking her until she was mindless. Then he pulled away, watching her dazed expression.
“What was that for?” she rasped.
“Do I need a reason?” he asked huskily. “I am your husband.”
Her blinking became more rapid and her limp body suddenly stiffened as his words sank in. “You are not my husband. And it wasn’t fair to lie to Laird Malcolm.”
He continued to grin. “A minor technicality. As soon as I find a proper priest, the situation will be remedied.”
Gaithlin sighed heavily. “I told you that I do not want to marry you, Christian. I meant it.”
Although his smile didn’t waver, a distinctly moody haze shrouded his ice-blue orbs. “As did I. Stop arguing with me.”
She pursed her lips in irritation and he attempted to kiss her again, laughing deeply when she slugged his shoulder in her quest to be free of him. Releasing her, his gaze lingered warmly on her frustrated expression as he turned for the supplies nestled against the wall of the crumbling shelter.
His thoughts were warm as he unbound the satchels holding their eating supplies, continuing to ponder the eagerness o
f her passionate response. It had been so natural to take her in his arms and kiss the breath from her that he vowed at that moment he would do it with every opportunity. Mayhap with time and enough kissing, she would begin to respond to his notions of marriage as well. Mayhap when she realized the pleasure and contentment that await them both, she would relent her stubborn stance. Certainly he could prove to her that being married to the Demon was not such a horrible fate.
Christian was so deeply pondering the impending future that he hardly noticed when leather-booted feet came to stand beside him. Glancing up from his task when he realized their presence, he found himself staring into her beautiful face.
“Why did you truly kiss me, Christian?” her voice was a whisper. Demanding answers that might possibly help her understand her own befuddled questions.
He gazed at her a moment, his thoughts of their future fading for the moment. After a temperate pause, he shook his head.
“Because you showed uncanny wisdom and understanding with Malcolm,” he said softly. “And because I wanted to.”
She digested his honest reply, gazing at him steadily until he turned away and resumed digging about in his packs. As he drew forth bags of lentils and dried pork, Gaithlin reached down and pulled the sacks gently from his grip. When his eyes came up to her, wide with curiosity, she merely smiled.
“You will permit me to cook your meal,” she said softly.
He cocked a slow eyebrow. “And what does a finely-bred young lady know of cooking?”
Her smile faded. “The same as you. ’Tis a necessity to be able to feed oneself, is it not?”
Based on his earlier observations of her eating habits and knowing that she had known her share of hardship and starvation, he refrained from mentioning another word regarding her cooking abilities. God only knew how little there had been to cook at Winding Cross. As he watched her gather the parcels of supplies and disappear into the shack, he swore at that very moment that she would never again know such brutal tribulation. He would make sure of it.
“Are you going to check on the condition of the chimney?” she called from the shelter, breaking him from his thoughts.
“Aye,” he called back to her, rising to stand and brushing off his hands as he eyed the mud-based stack rising from the edge of the lean-to. “Do not light a fire until I have seen to it.”
“Hurry, then,” she called back, sounding suspiciously like a seasoned, imperious wife. “I am hungry and I doubt Laird Malcolm will be able to wait very long.”
He grunted, nodding in a patronizing fashion and realizing with increasing resignation that he was already acquiring the obedient mannerisms of a bullied husband and liking it. “Aye, honey love, I am moving.”
Not strangely, he couldn’t recall ever in his life when he had been so eager to please.
*
Alicia couldn’t recall ever seeing a finer dressed lady. In a magnificent cloak of burgundy brocade with a brown mink lining, the Lady Margaret du Bois sat stiffly against the back of the worn chair that was hardly suitable for a lady of her wealth and station. But she remained perched on the seat nonetheless, her lovely face intently focused on her hostess. In fact, from the moment she had been escorted into the room by Eldon, she had seemed exceptionally eager to commence the purpose of her visit.
Alicia would not keep her waiting. Motioning for what meager refreshments they had to be brought forth, she knew she must present an extremely sorry picture before such a terribly refined woman. Brushing at the dust on her woolen skirt, she made a valiant attempt to promote a composed figure; once, before marrying Alex, she had been privy to the wealth and beauty that society had to offer. But that had been long ago and she realized with horror that she had missed such extravagances.
But she did not regret the choice she had made; leaving a life of wealth and beauty behind for the love of a man dedicated to a fifty-year-old war. If she had to relive the moment in her life when she decided love was more valuable than luxury, she would have made the same decision again.
“You have declared your need to speak with my husband, my lady,” Alicia began softly. “I regret to inform you that Sir Alex has taken ill and is unable to attend you. As his wife, I would hope that you will relay your business to me.”
Maggie’s hands were folded primly in her lap as she eyed the small, stocky woman. After a moment, she nodded faintly. “Certainly my business involves you as well, considering it is regarding your daughter.”
Alicia couldn’t help the twinge of panic that swept her, that was just as quickly quelled. Uncertain as to the message the woman bore, she restrained the instincts of her natural terrors as she took a chair directly across from her visitor. But she couldn’t help but wonder if the lovely perfumed woman was a ploy sent from Jean St. John, somehow, to unbalance her.
“Speak, then. What business do you bear concerning my daughter?”
Maggie drew in a deep, delicate breath. “Although I am not from Cumbria, I am well aware of the long-standing Feud between Winding Cross and Eden Castle. It is for that fact that you should know that I witnessed your daughter in the company of Christian St. John.”
Alicia went to great lengths to control her rapid breathing, slammed with the confirmation of Jean St. John’s missive. Yet more than the crushing blow of reality was the mere mention of the Demon of Eden; the infamous Christian St. John suddenly came to the forefront and Alicia struggled against the horror that threatened to consume her composure.
“Tell me, my lady,” she said with strained patience. “Do you know for certain it was my daughter?”
“She gave her name.”
“I see. Please describe her to me, if you would be so kind.”
Maggie thought a moment. “Tall, very tall, with long blond hair and large blue eyes,” she suddenly peered at Alicia, a close scrutiny. “In fact, her eyes are shaped as yours are. Slanted, like a cat.”
The rapid breathing was gaining ground on Alicia; the woman had described Gaithlin in definite detail. After an eternity of tussle against her mounting dread, she took a deep breath and folded her hands tightly. Certainly, they were quivering with shock.
“If what you say is true, then why would you seek to relay this information to me? What could you possibly have to gain? Clearly, I have no money to offer you or a reward to bestow for your good conscience. What is your motivation?”
Motivation. Maggie’s motives were always true to her heart. The fact that Christian had shamed her, discarded her, certainly held the largest motivation. And the fact that his lanky lover, a de Gare no less, had brutally attacked Kelvin was an added factor into her arsenal of fervently-sought revenge.
As Maggie had nursed her paramour, tenderly massaging his privates and packing them with cold mud, they had discussed their mutual encounters with the Demon and his lover and had come to discover two very interesting facts; the towering woman had announced herself to be a de Gare, while Christian had distinctly informed Maggie that he was taking his “cousin” north into Scotland. Knowing the Feud as they did, the decades of hatred shared by two prominent families, Maggie and Kelvin were led to a profusion of engrossing conclusions.
The most prevalent opinion was that Christian had abducted the de Gare woman with the intention of killing her, yet both Maggie and Kelvin reasoned that the atmosphere between Christian and his captive was hardly indicative of murder and terror. In fact, the de Gare wench seemed particularly calm within the presence of her St. John adversary, leading the two spurned lovers to surmise that mayhap she had willingly accompanied the Demon on his travels.
A whore, a captive, a trained dog. Who could say what the relationship entailed between two members of violently opposed houses. Yet one thing was for certain; Maggie was intent on seeking revenge on Christian for his humiliation. And she would do it however she could.
Which was why she was presently seated before Lady de Gare, surrounded by the trappings of the hideously impoverish fortress. Since Christian was obviously s
tronger and more reputable than his female counterpart and possessed the ready power to abduct his weaker foe, both Maggie and Kelvin assumed that Alex de Gare had little, if any, knowledge of the Demon’s latest acquisition. And by supplying the man with information regarding his daughter’s activities, mayhap, he would make haste to retrieve the woman from the Demon’s clutches.
Moreover, when she was finished with the House of de Gare, Maggie fully intended to approach Jean St. John with the similar tale. With two outraged fathers directing their wrath at Christian St. John, the likelihood that the de Gare woman would remain at his side was limited. And Maggie would return to his welcoming, remorseful arms.
“My motivation is simple, my lady,” Maggie tore herself from her tumultuous train of thought, focusing on the plump woman. “Christian St. John used to be my betrothed, an evil man with a voracious sensual appetite that I found myself fighting off at every turn. My father annulled the marriage contract because he had no desire to see me wed to the Demon of Eden, and for the protection of your innocent daughter I am compelled to inform you of what I have witnessed. You must retrieve her from his clutches before it is too late.”
The color faded from Alicia’s cheeks as she listened to the sincere plea. Dear God, her worst fears were magnified as the infamous Demon of Eden was mentioned yet again, pounding the reality of his possession into her fragmented mind. Her throat constricted with a powerfully restrained scream as she wrestled fiercely against her shattering, crumbling control.
“How… how do I know this is truth?” she rasped, losing the battle against her fear. “How do I know that Jean St. John did not send you to disrupt his most hated enemy?”
Maggie’s brown eyes were intense. “On my word as a member of the house of Plantagenet, I swear to you that my story is true. Christian told me that he was taking your daughter to Scotland, although I was uninformed as to his purpose. Your husband must act immediately if your daughter is to be spared his malevolent attentions.”
Alicia stared at the woman for an eternal moment before closing her eyes tightly, fighting off the suggested visions of pain and humiliation.
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