Although caught up in his own struggle with his remarkably strong sister-in-law, Quinton was not so focused that he did not see his brother running at him with his sword held high. Instantly, he released the weapon of struggle and scrambled for his own sword, completely determined to defend himself from his brother’s infuriated wrath.
Unfortunately for Quinton, he wasn’t fast enough to reclaim his sheathed broadsword; Christian brought his blade down, flat side, and caught Quinton on the upper arm. The maneuver was indicative of Christian’s skill with a blade; he had purposely intended to shove his brother aside, not outright slice him to ribbons, and Quinton immediately crashed to the ground from the force of the blow. Before he could recover his footing, Christian had his wife by the arm and was pulling her in the direction of the ancient sod shelter.
“Get inside,” he commanded. “Take Malcolm with you and stay there. Don’t come out until I retrieve you myself.”
Eyes wide with terror, Gaithlin fell to her knees clumsily as Christian yanked her across the clearing. Pulling his wife to her feet, he was momentarily distracted from his impending battle when she threw her arms fearfully, painfully, about his neck.
“Let me help you,” she begged, her panting breath hot on his ear. “Let me fight with you!”
Allowing himself the brief luxury of experiencing the mutual apprehension, he kissed her fiercely. A gesture laced with the potency of his emotion. “Nay, honey. You must stay to the shelter and allow me to wage our war.”
They were nearly to the structure; he was practically carrying her across the trampled earth. Still clinging to his neck, Gaithlin refused to release her hold. Afraid if she did, she might never see him again.
“Please, my dearest, please,” she whispered desperately. “Please let me help you. There are too many of them for you to fight alone.”
“And you believe that you will make the difference between victory or defeat?” he set her to her feet, kissing her again and lingering over their contact as if he, too, was afraid it might be his last. Everything was happening so quickly that he had yet to build up a substantial panic, but he could feel his terror gaining momentum. Shoving open the door, he tried to push her inside. “Go, honey. Do as I say.”
“Sir Christian!” came a childish, completely terrified shout. “Behind ye!”
Christian gave Gaithlin a brutal shove, pushing her deep into the sod shack. Ducking simultaneously, the distinct hum of a broadsword sang inches above his head. Raising his own sword in an offensive gesture, he realized at that split second that he and Jasper had engaged in a fearsome battle. And it was something he never thought he would live to see; a St. John protecting a de Gare.
Matching Jasper blow for heavy blow, he was vaguely aware when a shrill whistle pierced the clear night air and he realized, once again, that his brother was moving against him. Whether or not Quinton saw his reasoning, it was apparently not enough to sway him against Jean’s directive. Quinton was, after all, the only loyal St. John son left; whether or not he understood Christian’s motives or sympathized with his plight, he was evidently determined to carry out his father’s orders for the sake of the St. John cause.
Christian’s heart sank as he caught shadows of movement beyond Jasper’s animated form. Quinton was mobilizing the company of men, moving them towards the sod house with the intent of overwhelming Christian with sheer man-power. Up until this moment, the men-at-arms were completely content to remain out of the vicious argument between family members; now, however, Quinton was pulling them into the skirmish. By using their strength and loyalties against the Demon.
“Quinton!” he roared. “Leave her alone! If you hold any love for your brother, you will leave my wife alone!”
Mingled within the advancing tide of men, Quinton heard the cry, tearing his heart into a thousand pieces. Christ, he understood his brother’s change of sympathies as much as he was able and the reasoning behind the hope for a lasting peace was logical and inviting. But in faith, it was not his judgment to make; the only man capable of truly waging a lasting peace was the very same man who controlled the House of St. John.
Christian must be returned to face what he had done, to explain his reasons and to prove that he was not a traitor; in faith, it was evident that he was the only truly loyal St. John among them. Only Christian was willing to jeopardize his very life for the sake of peace.
And only he could make Jean understand his motives, his desires, his very sanity.
Were it up to Quinton, he would have turned on his heel and left his brother and new wife in peace. But with Jasper as his overbearing conscience, he had no choice but to uphold his father’s orders. Whether or not he agreed with them.
The men-at-arms had effectively surrounded Christian and the sod house, waiting impatiently to capture the treacherous Demon. Quinton stood by a moment, watching his brother’s fluid, magnificent movements as he met Jasper’s onslaught with effortless grace. But he could also see the panic in his brother’s expression, something he had never seen before, and it only served to destroy his heart further. The sooner he controlled Christian and returned him home, the sooner the chaos would settle.
With a heavy heart and stinging tears, Quinton gave another piercing whistle and several dozen men threw themselves forward into the sword fight, swarming over both Jasper and Christian. There was a good deal of grunting and cursing as the soldiers struggled to control the man who had once been their greatest leader.
It was a violently boiling mass of men and limbs, straining and struggling against their unwilling target. Before it was over, four men had been mortally gored by the Demon’s sword and Quinton watched with a lump in his throat as his brother was brutally subdued by his own men.
Quinton lost sight of Christian as the angry, betrayed soldiers bound him hand and foot like a common thief. Jasper, having stood silently during the entire melee, calmly sheathed his sword as his mighty cousin was lifted from the ground, hog-tied by the ropes of dozens of furious men.
“Quinton,” above the chaos and disorder, Christian’s gaze sought out his brother. His beautiful face was bruised and battered, his expression beseeching. “Don’t kill her. I have never been known to beg in the past, but I will beg you now. If you have ever loved me, don’t kill her. Please.”
Quinton didn’t reply. As the soldiers carried Christian away, he swore he saw tears in the man’s eyes. Tears for his wife. Dear God, he’d never seen that expression on his brother’s face and he prayed he never would again. Swallowing hard, he opened his mouth to demand the men show their mighty Demon a measure of compassion when two barking, terribly filthy humans suddenly burst forth from the bramble and threw themselves at the retreating soldiers.
Startled, the soldiers that weren’t carrying Christian hastened to retrieve their swords, but not before they were savagely bitten and scratched by the screaming banshees. Kicking and fighting and snapping, the dog-man and his wife valiantly attempted to defend the only man who had ever shown them any kindness. Although terribly outnumbered, they didn’t seem to pay the negative odds the deserving heed; all that mattered was that their master was in trouble. And they would do what they could to assist him.
But their courageous efforts were not enough against the seasoned St. John soldiers. In a flash of moonlit metal, the dog-man and his wife met with a particularly violent death.
Christian witnessed the exchange, more sorrow settling over his already grief-saturated heart. From the beginning of their bizarre relationship, Christian had never paid any particular heed to the sub-human pair and was devastated to discover that, along with their trust for his caring wife, they had also placed their trust in him. Because he was a part of her.
Good Christ, he should have listened to their barks of fear earlier this eve. He should have given in to his instincts, realizing something was horribly wrong and thereby taken appropriate action when their unsettling howls unnerved him. If he had given the dog-people their due credence, mayhap he and
Gaithlin would still be relatively safe. Fleeing from his brother and cousin, but still relatively safe.
But there was no time for hindsight, what-ifs and could-have-beens. What mattered now was that he was being taken away to face judgment for his most grievous actions and his wife, that which was most precious to him, was in grave jeopardy. If only he could make his brother understand. If only he could make him listen.
Twisting his head away from the crumpled forms littering the moon-bathed earth, he struggled to catch a final glimpse of his brother. “Quinton!” he shouted, his voice breaking with emotion. “If you kill her, I swear I shall hunt you down like an animal and make you suffer as you have never suffered before! Do you comprehend me?”
Quinton remained silent, biting off his equally-emotional reply. As Christian was carted through the trees, he staunchly endeavored to deliver one last, heart-wrenching plea.
“Don’t kill her, Quinton,” his voice was faint with distance and pain. “I love her. Please… don’t kill her.”
Abruptly, the man vanished, swallowed up by the surrounding woods as the soldiers carried him to their distant mounts. Next to Quinton, Jasper shifted his weight on his thick legs and moved to unsheathe his broadsword. Examining the weapon as Quinton stared dully into the darkened cluster of trees where his brother had so recently disappeared, he took a resigned step towards the shelter.
“I shall do what needs to be done,” he said quietly.
“Nay,” Quinton held out a sharp hand, halting his advance. Meeting Jasper’s dubious gaze, he struggled to regain his splintered composure. “I shall do it. He’s my brother and I shall take care of his… mistake.”
Jasper cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t think….”
“I said I shall do it,” Quinton snapped more forcefully. Waving his cousin off, he moved towards the shelter. “You help the men with Christian. I shall catch up to you when I am finished.”
Jasper let out a long, blustery sigh. “Quinton, I don’t like this any better than you do. This entire situation is unnerving to say the least. But I believe it would be best if I…”
Quinton unsheathed his broadsword with a loud clang. “Catch up with the men and make sure they do not skewer Christian in their anger. If anyone is going to kill my brother’s… wife, it shall be me. I shall not have his hatred looming over your head any more than it already is.”
Jasper’s jaw ticked as he cast his younger cousin a long, skeptical gaze. After a lengthy pause, his broadsword was slowly re-encased in its heavy scabbard and he sighed again. A completely heart-felt gesture.
“Be swift, then,” he mumbled. “Only for the sake of Christian, I should not like his enemy wife to suffer.”
Quinton eyed him a moment. “For a man who was most intent on seeing my father’s orders carried out, your manner has softened.”
Jasper averted his gaze, his blue eyes lingering on the moonlit landscape of Galloway. “As I said, I don’t like this situation any more than you do. But we must do as we are told, no matter if we have personal feelings on the matter or not.”
“Even at Christian’s expense?”
“He’s a traitor.”
“And I disagree. He’s willing to sacrifice his entire reputation in order to achieve peace.”
Jasper looked to his cousin. “If you believe him, then why are you willing to kill his wife?”
This time, Quinton averted his gaze. “We must follow orders, mustn’t we? I don’t want to incur my father’s wrath any more than you do by giving in to my sympathies.”
“So you risk Christian’s hatred instead?”
“According to my father, Christian is a dead man. A dead man does not hate.”
Jasper’s gaze lingered speculatively on his young cousin a moment longer before turning in the direction of the shielded St. John army. In faith, there was nothing more to say.
Quinton watched the man disappear into the bramble, waiting a lengthy eternity to make sure he wasn’t being watched by his suspicious cousin. As the night owl sang high overhead, enhancing the eerie stillness that had suddenly encompassed the clearing, he turned for the sod shelter with slow, deliberate movements. Just as he neared the splintered door, a sharp stabbing pain to his thigh abruptly halted his advance.
Grunting with agony, he immediately put his hand to his leg and was surprised to find a dagger protruding from his thigh. And standing near the extended dagger was a small, nearly-bald and exceedingly angry little boy.
“Take tha’, ye bastard!” he crowed in triumph. “Ye’ll not take the lady wi’out a fight!”
Quinton grasped the dagger, wrenching it from the weak point in his leg protection that the child had managed to take advantage of. Grunting again with frustration and pain as he tossed the weapon away, he glared at the confrontational young lad.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Malcolm frowned, wielding the other dagger he had collected from Christian’s belongings. When the fight ensued and Gaithlin had been shoved into the safety of the shelter, he had hidden in the bramble out of sheer terror. He had witnessed Christian’s battle and subsequent abduction, and he had furthermore witnessed the murder of the dog-people. Horrified and bewildered, he had nonetheless possessed the courage to emerge from the brush one last time to protect the lady in her husband’s stead.
He didn’t understand the motives behind Sir Christian’s kidnapping, nor could he comprehend the malevolent thrust of the entire situation. But he was positive of one factor; he loved the lady very much. She and her husband had been the only people who had ever shown him any kindness and he was determined to protect her as best he could. Even to the death.
But he maintained his fury in spite of the odds against him. Displaying his sassy, insolent tongue, he brandished the dirk threateningly. “I shall not tell ye, ye English hound! Go away from here!”
Quinton cocked an eyebrow at the child; he had no time for such foolishness. Reaching out, he easily disarmed the boy and received a kick to his armored leg in the process. Twisting Malcolm’s arm until the lad screamed, he swatted the youngster on his behind and sent him stumbling in the opposite direction.
“Go home, boy,” he growled. “I have no time for your antics.”
Turning for the ancient door once more, he was caught completely off-guard when it flew open, striking him in the face. Tripping over his feet from the shock and power of the slam, he stumbled back with his hand against his already-bruised face as Gaithlin emerged from the shelter, her deep blue eyes wide with apprehension.
“Malcolm!” she gasped, eyeing the fumbling Quinton as the young boy raced to her side. “Are you all right?”
Malcolm ignored her question. “Get th’ hammer! Kill ’im before he kills ye!”
Pushing Malcolm behind her, into the shack, Gaithlin stared at Quinton as he recovered from her unintentional blow. Her eyes darted about nervously as she surveyed the darkened clearing, but her gaze instinctively returned to the powerful knight undoubtedly intent on harming her. Killing her.
“Where is my husband?” she demanded, her sultry voice raspy with fear.
Quinton took a deep breath to collect himself, fighting off his pain and loathing and confusion as he gazed at his brother’s wife. “He is gone.”
Gaithlin’s eyes moved about in closer scrutiny of the clearing. “He would not have gone willingly. God damn you if you have harmed him.”
“They beat ’im to a pulp!” Malcolm announced from the ragged doorway. “Th’ English soldiers jumped on ’im and tied him up!”
Quinton could see the color drain from Gaithlin’s face, even in the moon glow. Her deep blue eyes ceased to search the area for her husband, instead, intently focusing on Quinton. “How… how could you allow this? Merciful Heavens, he’s your brother!”
Quinton felt the impact of her words as if she had physically struck him. Swallowing away his nausea, he drew in a deep, cleansing breath. “He must answer for what he has done,” he replied quietly, eyeing the
woman in the weak light. “Did you not hear his struggle from your shelter?”
She shook her head faintly. “The sod blots out most sounds. I heard voices, swords blows, and little else,” panic rising, she stepped away from the ancient door, looking to the trampled area where her husband had been subdued. “Dear God… what will become of him now?”
Quinton continued to gaze at her, scrutinizing her from the top of her beautiful blond hair to the bottom of her booted feet. Tall, elegant and exceedingly beautiful, he truly couldn’t fault his brother for succumbing to the natural attraction she provoked. But Christian had declared his love for her, several times, and Quinton found himself deeply curious as to how she had managed to bewitch his brother into believing he was in love. The Demon, with a beautiful fiancée and more women than he could handle, had been incapable of an emotion as frivolous as love.
Her powers of persuasion, however, were inconsequential at the moment. The only matter of import was the immediate future, a future Quinton found difficult to follow.
If you have ever loved me, don’t kill her.
His brother’s plea echoed in his mind as he moved to un-sheath his broadsword. A violent lashing of desperate begging, the appeal of a man’s most fervent desire, and Quinton’s head began to swim with conflicting emotions. Duty, desire, duty, desire… they wrestled about in his mind as if they had attained a life of their own, robbing him of his ability to think, to feel, to reason.
Even as the broadsword came free of the leather scabbard, still, Quinton could scarcely form a rational thought. The only factor of awareness was that Christian had asked him not to kill his wife. Yet, as a good son, he should obey his father’s order. A father who was living on the reeking edge of madness… and a brother who had always been his hero.
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