“But what of th’ mud?” Malcolm wanted to know. “Dunna ye want me to patch th’ wall?”
“Certainly,” Christian’s eagerness was gaining speed as they approached the shelter, more anxious to see Gaithlin with each passing step. “You can build a fire and patch the wall, can you not?”
Malcolm nodded fervently, moving with Christian to the edge of the southern wall as the English knight set the pot of mud to the ground. Gesturing for the boy to get to work, he forgot about the lad the very moment he moved to the shelter door. Pausing briefly, mayhap to gain a measure of courage and strength to face his greatest, most magnificent weakness, he pushed the door open.
True to Malcolm’s word, Gaithlin was laying on her side amongst the dried rushes of their bed, facing away from him. As Christian’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he set his diary quietly to the ground next to his saddle bags, his attention riveted to Gaithlin’s reclining form. Even with the slight noise he had made entering the hut, she hadn’t moved and he wondered if she was asleep. Not wanting to wake her, he moved to peer at her face and was startled when she shifted listlessly upon the wool.
“Malcolm?” she said weakly. “Do you need something?”
“It’s me, Gae,” he said softly.
Jolted, Gaithlin rolled onto her back, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. She looked pale and worn and Christian’s heart tugged painfully in his chest at the sight of her; obviously, she had spent a rough night of emotional upheaval and he was unwilling to add to her turmoil. Her anguish, the tension between them, had been entirely his doing with his raging and harsh words, and he silently resolved to make immediate amends.
The time for turbulence had passed into the dawn of a new morning. Clearly, it didn’t matter any longer. Nothing did.
But Gaithlin wasn’t feeling his sense of resolution. Her gaze was wide on him, a palpable longing evident in her eyes. “You… you’re back,” she stammered, unsure of how to react to him. Should she express gladness? Reserve? An undeniable loathing to match his own?
Christian could read her uncertainty and he smiled faintly, grasping her hand. Bringing it to his lips, his kissed the palm softly. “I was foolish to have left in the first place,” he said quietly, more concerned with her obvious health that last eve’s argument. “Malcolm says you are feeling ill. What’s wrong?”
Surprised and off-guard by his declaration of truce, the focus shifted to Gaithlin’s condition and she was immediately embarrassed with his question. Certainly, she could not tell him her true ailment and she instinctively averted her gaze. “My… my stomach hurts.” It was the truth for the most part.
His brow furrowed and he touched her forehead, her cheeks. “You are not feverish,” he said. “But you are very pale. Where does it hurt?”
Her cheeks flushed as he watched, desperately attempting to avoid his concerned gaze. “My stomach,” she repeated, feeling another surge of the cramps. Closing her eyes, she grunted softly as the pain pulsed and then died. “I shall… I shall be fine, truly.”
Christian watched her expression, hearing her soft grunt of pain, and his distress mounted. “Gae, if you’re ill, then you must tell me. We shall seek a physic and….”
She cut him off sharply, her humiliation increasing by the second. It became apparent he would not be content to absorb a simple explanation. “Please, Christian… I shall be fine.”
“But you’re obviously in pain,” he pointed out, growing increasingly agitated at her evasiveness. “I demand you allow me to seek a physic.”
“Nay,” she reached out, grasping his hand. Reluctantly meeting his darkened expression, she smiled weakly. “A physic is not necessary, I assure you.”
He frowned, completely convinced that she was hiding a serious affliction from him. “Tell me what the matter is or I shall retrieve a physic this instant.”
Gaithlin sighed; clearly, she was uncomfortable discussing her menses with anyone, much less her captor. In fact, the entire idea horrified her. But her rational sense agreed that he was a mature male and certainly had knowledge of the workings of the female body. If she were to confess, she doubted he would be overly surprised or offended. Even if she herself would be certain to die from embarrassment. Was nothing sacred within the Demon’s presence?
“All women suffer with stomach pains from time to time,” she said finally, her voice soft. Even as she spoke, her cheeks flushed brightly. “Unfortunately, I seem to have more pain than others and there is nothing to do but allow it to pass.”
“Pains? What pains? From whence do they happen?”
Gaithlin rolled her eyes in exasperation and extreme mortification. Merciful Heavens, did she have to give him a demonstration to make him understand? “Stomach pains, Christian,” she fixed him in the eye firmly, resolutely. “Womanly stomach pains.”
He stared at her a moment, his brow still furrowed. Then, as realization dawned, his expression relaxed into one of understanding and remorse. It was obvious that she had delivered an answer he was unprepared for and he struggled not to appear too dismayed with the result his bullying tactics had brought him.
“Oh… Gae,” he swallowed, looking nearly as embarrassed as she was. “I am sorry. I didn’t… I thought you were truly ill ’else I would not have….”
She smiled, finding an ease to her humiliation in his chagrin. “I realize that,” she said, turning on her side once more to avoid his flustered expression. “I shall be fine. I simply need to rest.”
He nodded instantly, feeling like a fool for having pressed her into a very personal confession. But as he gazed at her shapely backside, he also felt a distinct urge to help her through her pain. Female afflictions were mysterious and awesome, striking wonder and fear into the hearts of all men. The secretive matters of feminine reproduction were to be respected and honored, and Christian’s attitude was of no exception.
Moreover, it was an extremely natural affliction that would guarantee him an heir and he somehow felt a part of her malady. The matters of the previous evening, the rage and tears and shock, were forgotten as he focused on Gaithlin’s delicate state.
“Can I do anything?” he asked, a gentle hand touching her shoulder.
Gaithlin shook her head, wishing he would leave her alone with her pain, but also finding a great deal of comfort in his concern and company. “Nothing, Christian. Why don’t you help Malcolm with the wall?”
He frowned, looking to his saddle bags and wondering if there was something amongst the herbs and medicaments he brought that could ease her ache. “I have brought a poppy mixture for pain. Would that help?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Poppy elixirs are expensive and we never had the money to spare.”
Immediately, he moved to his satchels and began to rummage about with a sense of purpose. Removing several items from the larger of the bags, he fumbled about in the bottom until he came across a leather pouch. Removing the brown purse, he rose on his long legs and collected a wooden cup.
Opening the splintered door, he called for Malcolm and the filthy child immediately appeared, covered with a fresh coating of grayish mud. Sending the lad to the brook to fill the cup, he waited impatiently for the child’s return.
Panting and flushed in the misty morn, Malcolm had spilled nearly half of the contents from the cup with his eager actions and hurried pace by the time he returned to Christian. Casting the boy a wink of gratitude, Christian ducked into the hut once more and shut the door. Sprinkling a bit of powder into the cup, he offered it to Gaithlin.
Gaithlin’s embarrassment was faded, replaced by a genuine humor in Christian’s nearly fearful manner. As if she was going to erupt at any moment. Accepting the cup and downing the contents, she lay back down upon the musty wool in the fervent hope that the expensive poppy potion would do some good. In faith, she was exhausted and weary from the constant crampy ache and eager to be done with it.
Even if her pain had made Christian forget his anger. For that, she was almost thankful
for the cursed throbbing. Moreover, distracting her from her current physical state was the fact that he had professed his foolishness for having left their shelter last night and she was deeply perplexed by the assumption of guilt. He had been rightfully angry with the divulgence of Alex de Gare’s death and had been justified in his reaction. Gaithlin had never faulted him his fury.
But his odd statement of personal assumption gnawed at her and as the poppy potion flushed her veins with a warm lethargy, she struggled to keep her eyes open.
“Why did you say what you did?” she asked, losing the battle against the powerful opiate.
Seated next to her on the rushes, he reached out to stroke her hair. “What is that?”
“That you were foolish to have left in the first place,” she repeated, her voice faint. “What did you mean?”
His hand stopped stroking, coming to rest on the top of her head. “That should be obvious,” he resumed stroking. “I should not have left with such anger and confusion between us. I should have remained and rationally confronted your information.”
She sighed, her ache lessening somewhat as the drug went to work. “You were right to become angry,” she whispered. “I was determined not to inform you of my father’s passing and my mother’s quest to bear arms. Had my foolish tongue not slipped, you still would not know the truth.”
He understood her reasoning too well. “I know,” he said softly, watching the colors of her hair glimmer in the weak light. “You were simply protecting your family, Gae. I would have done the same.”
Her eyes came open, unfocused from the potency of the medicine. “What now, Christian? You must tell your father.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, his hand moving from her hair to her arm. “How do you feel?” he asked, obviously changing the subject.
She sighed wearily, her eyes closing. “Eased and exceedingly tired,” she said softly. “You did not answer my question.”
He caressed her arm, rubbing gently at her shoulder. “Is there anything else I can do to ease your pain?”
Mind fogged with the potion, Gaithlin had difficulty holding a thought and it was an easy matter to divert her attention. “My mother used to rub my lower back,” she said after a moment, thinking on the painful curse both she and her mother had shared. After a moment, she remembered that he had again failed to answer her question and struggled to maintain her lucidity as she demanded a reply. “When are you going to tell your father of my father’s death?”
He shifted behind her, stretching his big body out on the rushes. Propping himself up on one elbow, she could feel his strong, gentle hand massaging the small of her back with infinite care. “Then if your mother stroked your back, I shall do the same.”
His expert massage threatened to put her to sleep immediately, but she struggled with the last shards of consciousness to obtain her answer. “Answer me, Christian. I demand it.”
“You do?” he raised his eyebrows in gentle disapproval, rubbing her delicious torso tenderly. “I do not know if I appreciate your imperial demands. But, considering your diminished mental state, I will forgive you. As for my father, he will know when I decide to tell him and not a moment sooner.”
She shrugged faintly, groaning softly with the delight of his attentions. He smiled, studying her relaxed features in the dimness. Her beautiful face, calm and peaceful as the poppy elixir worked its magic, reminded him of a prose he had composed during the night, a verse that somehow helped him express his emotions. When she sighed again in contentment, he lay down beside her completely and continued to massage her cramping back.
“I wrote something for you last night,” he said softly, his alert eyes staring into the dimness of the shelter.
“You did?” she was barely audible. “What?”
“A bit of prose,” he said softly. “You may read it when you are feeling better.”
She didn’t reply. But then she rolled onto her back, her beautiful face gazing up at him in the soft illumination. Her half-lidded eyes were struggling against the force of the opiate concoction.
“I cannot read, Christian,” she said, unashamed.
He wasn’t surprised; very few ladies could read. Touching her cheek, he smiled faintly. “Then I shall teach you.”
“But that will take time,” she slurred, her eyes blinking slowly. “Please read your prose to me. I want to hear it now.”
Nodding faintly, he pulled her into his arms, continuing his massage as she snuggled against him. The night of fury and turmoil was forgotten by the both of them as they relaxed into a most natural state, enfolded within the company of each other’s arms.
As Gaithlin struggled against the force of the elixir, Christian thought on the ponderings and poetry he had scribed the night before, effortlessly isolating the gentle verse he had written specifically for Gaithlin.
“ ‘Beauty bewareth comes the passion
of rough tides and blissful dreams.
To ever haunt the beauty of the passion;
into the night, she surely hides.’ ”
His prosaic passage was met with silence and he thought she had fallen asleep. With a faint smile, he kissed her delicious hair and felt his own fatigue clutching at him, the result of a sleepless and turbulent night. No longer willing to wage battle with his exhaustion, he closed his eyes against the comfort of their bed.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “What does it mean?”
He scarcely heard the muttered question. His eyes remained closed as he answered. “It means that you are the beauty of my passion. And it means that you and I will not have a perfect life together.”
“And you fear that I may run?” Her head suddenly came up, her sleepy eyes focusing on him in the darkness. “I would never run from your passion, Christian. I have never run from anything in my life.”
His hand came up, tenderly touching her cheek. “You have not a cowardly bone in your body. But you may want to escape the turmoil in spite of your bravery. ’Twould be a natural instinct.”
She shook her head, a slender finger tracing the squareness of his jaw. “An instinct I would reject. I have spent a mere seven days with you and already I cannot imagine being separated from you, as if we belong together.”
“We do,” he said without hesitation, his heart soaring to hear his own thoughts echoed in her sultry voice. He’d always known she reflected his own feelings to a certain extent, but he was unsure that her own sensations ran as deeply as his did. He’d known he loved her since the first he had ever seen her; mayhap, in time, she would come to love him as well. Hearing her tender words and experiencing her gentle actions, he was greatly encouraged.
Gaithlin smiled, her thumbs stroking his stubbled cheek as she studied his features intently. “Strange that we do. We are supposed to hate each other.”
“I could never hate you.”
“Nor could I.
He drank in her beautiful face even as she continued to scrutinize him, almost thoughtfully in spite of her drug-hazed mind. After a moment, he cupped her gently behind the neck and pulled her to his lips for a tender kiss. Good Christ, there was so much he wanted to tell her. So much he was still unable to voice. Mayhap in time….
“Sleep now,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We shall go to town on the morrow.”
Too tired to protest or question his reasoning, she snuggled into the curve of his mighty torso, never more content in her entire life. Even as she contemplated the magic of his delicious company, another fleeting thought came to mind as the sleep of Morpheus attempted once more to claim her.
“What about Malcolm?” she yawned.
“He’s a job to do,” he replied. “He’ll be busy most of the day.”
Forgetting the wood he had promised the lad, Christian drifted off to sleep without thought to the missive he had intended to send his father this day, or the supplies they were in need of purchasing. All that mattered was that all was right between he and Gaithlin again, a comfort and warmt
h between them that he could not begin to describe in words. All he knew was that he needed the satisfaction as badly as he needed to eat and breathe. He needed the comfort.
He needed her.
*
Gaithlin slept the rest of the day and on into the evening. Christian had awoken after several hours of restful sleep, listening to the soft sounds of Malcolm as the lad continued to patch the walls. Gaithlin was dead weight against him, breathing heavily in her drug-induced sleep and after watching her peaceful expression longer than he could recall, Christian tenderly disengaged himself from her heated body.
Tucking his cloak about her tightly, he kissed her gently on the forehead, listening to her sighs of contentment. With a smile on his lips, he quit the shelter with several splintered logs in his arms, intent on aiding the neglected young lad.
The fog had lifted, leaving the day bright and clear. Malcolm had finished the southern wall and was busily working on the eastern barrier when Christian emerged from the shack. With a few words between them, Malcolm showed him the best spot to lodge a hefty bonfire and proceeded to light the bundle of dried wood as Christian stood over him and supervised.
It took several tries and Malcolm was rapidly succumbing to acute embarrassment, but Christian aided him to make it appear as if the boy’s efforts had culminated after all. Admiring the English warlord more by the minute, Malcolm had been eager to assist Christian in setting up a tripod over the open flame. Made of three long pieces of damp wood, Christian secured the implement for holding pots with a long strip of hide.
With the campfire prepared, the two men proceeded to finish coating the shack with the clay-like mud. Once Christian delved into the task, the project was completed quickly and using the pick-axe from his arsenal of war implements, he and Malcolm began to dig up several long sections of sod to complete the walls of the house.
It was hard, dirty work that progressed into the night. By the time they covered two walls and the roof with the damp, heavy sod, they were both famished and fatigued. Christian had ducked into the hut with the intention of confiscating the remainder of the lentil soup and wedges of cheese he had brought with him, noting with humor that all of their racket throughout the day had failed to rouse Gaithlin. Gathering his supplies, he quit the shack silently.
England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 185
