Until now. With every word from Christian’s mouth, she found herself relishing each distinct sound. With every glance from his piercing blue eyes, she found herself quaking with emotion and glee. And with every touch from his massively gentle hands, she found herself willing to surrender all that she was.
Love. An interesting concept; a fool’s dream of fleeting emotions. At least, that was how her father had described love. Her mother had mostly refused to answer the inquisitive questions of adoration from a young girl’s curious mind. In her younger days, Gaithlin had wondered why her mother was so evasive when it came to the discussion love and emotion, knowing how desperately her mother had loved her father. But as she grew older, she began to realize that Alicia’s refusal to deliberate sentiment was a protective mechanism; as if she had come to realize that love was a foolish emotion when it was not returned in kind.
Alex de Gare had never loved his wife. He had loved the Feud, the de Gare legacy, and all items pertaining thereto. When Alicia de Norville had married the strapping young Alex, she firmly believed she could convince the man that loving her was far more rewarding than the passion he held for his tumultuous heritage.
But she had been wrong, and Gaithlin had seen the result of that mistake. A woman immersed in constant pain, bestowing what little affection she could on her only child for fear that once again her love would prove to be a self-destructive force. Because of the inherent lack of affection, Gaithlin had learned to view love as an unreasonable farce until she met the Demon. Strange how her most hated enemy would show her the meaning of true adoration.
Aye… she knew she loved him. Even if she had never experienced the true meaning of love within her short lifetime, she knew without question that she was in love with him. Surely there was no other explanation for the wondrous, giddy emotions surging deep within her heart.
Breaking from her warm thoughts, Gaithlin rose from her chilled bed. Passing a concerned eye over her young border, she proceeded to wrap the shivering young lad in a thick woolen blanket, smiling gently when he subconsciously kicked the cover off. Making a second such attempt, she wrapped him tighter than before and was pleased when he was unable to dislodge the blanket entirely.
With Malcolm satisfactorily tended, Gaithlin mummified herself in the long length of Douglas Tartan Christian had purchased the day before. Deliciously savoring the warmth of the fine wool, she stepped forth into the misty Scot morn in search of her elusive Demon.
He was not difficult to locate. Christian was seated on an upturned log, his favorite chair, as Malcolm’s exterior fire smoked and crackled lazily at his feet. His diary was open in his lap and as Gaithlin approached, she noted his concentration as he carefully scribed each letter. Smiling softly, she was careful not to jostle him as she reached out to touch his silken hair.
“Good morning,” she murmured hoarsely.
His head came up from the book, an instant smile on his face. Grasping hold of her hand, he pulled her close and kissed her lips tenderly. “Good morning,” he responded. “Is Malcolm awake?”
She shook her head and he cautiously put the book aside, pulling her onto his lap. Wrapping his arms about her bundled body, he cast a long glance over the yards of Douglas fabric.
“You are to make a gown from this, not use it as a blanket,” he said.
“But it’s warm and wonderful,” she sighed, laying her head against his. “How long have you been awake?”
“Not long,” he replied, feeling her warmth against his chilled skin. “Just enough time for me to scribe a few thoughts and notations.”
“Like what?”
“Like our trip to town,” he glanced over his shoulder at the slumped figure tied to the tree several feet away. “And our visitors. I was surprised when his wife did not return last night in an attempt to free him.”
Gaithlin looked to the dog-man as well, huddled and cold and menacing against the pine. “Have you tried to talk to him?” she asked.
Christian shook his head. “I do not believe he understands spoken language. I have tried English, French, even Gaelic. He does not respond to any of it.”
She continued to observe their captive, shaking her head with genuine sorrow. “Merciful Heavens, Christian,” she sighed. “Is it possible that he is more animal than human? Is it possible he’s never known how to speak our language, but has spent his entire life barking like a beast?”
“It’s possible,” he eyed her as she rose from the warm huddle on his lap, her attention drawn to the captive. “What are you going to do?”
Pulling the woolen length more tightly about her shoulders, she shrugged uncertainly. “Speak to him. Feed him. Mayhap I can communicate with him.”
Christian rose stiffly, stretching in the early morning chill. “If anyone can communicate with him, you can. But take heed; his mood is foul.”
She heard Christian’s bootfalls behind her as she made her way toward the quivering captive. The dog-man’s eyes were wide and malevolent, and he snarled harshly as she drew near. Sensing his terror more than his obvious hostility, Gaithlin halted her advance and pondered the course of her actions for a moment. Then, as Christian watched curiously, she disappeared inside their shelter only to re-emerged moments later clutching a wedge of yellow cheese.
The dog-man continued to growl as she approached bearing food, thrashing in his ropes when she knelt before him. Deep-blue eyes riveted to those of murky, non-descriptive brown, Gaithlin smiled encouragingly.
“My name is Gaithlin,” she said softly, her sultry voice low and soothing. “Would you like to eat?” She indicated the cheese.
The man continued to rumble and snap for a few moments until she waved the cheese in front of his nose. Torn between the lure of food and his natural sense of defiance and anger, it was apparent that he could not decide which course of action to take.
His wild eyes darted between the blond woman and the food she held, uncertain and fearful, until the physical need for sustenance overwhelmed his apprehension. He sniffed the air hungrily as the cheese made another pass in front of his face.
“Don’t get too close, honey,” Christian warned softly.
“I have to if I am going to feed him,” she replied. “He cannot feed himself with his hands tied.”
Christian grunted in disapproval, observing closely as she broke off a large piece of cheese and held it up to the dog-man. Like a frightened animal, he sniffed and whimpered, still too frightened to allow himself to accept the morsel, yet feeling the stabs of a powerful hunger weaken his increasingly-lagging resistance. The more Gaithlin smiled and murmured encouraging words, the more feeble his defiance ran.
Like a stone wall gradually succumbing to the inevitably more powerful force, the dog-man’s fear and resistance dissolved stone by stone. Gaithlin was purposely flaunting the cheese, knowing that he would come to trust the hand that fed him. Like any living being, trust had to be earned and she fully intended to acquire his faith with her gentle manner and non-threatening actions. Then, she was positive, communication would follow.
Christian watched with baited breath as the first chunk of yellow cheese met with the dog-man’s filthy mouth. Gaithlin laughed softly as the man chewed vigorously, promptly breaking off another piece when he opened his mouth for more. With every piece of cheese, a stone in the canine-human’s wall smashed to pebbles; the more she fed him, the further relaxed he became. And the closer Gaithlin came to triumph.
Christian watched, hands on hips, as Gaithlin fed the captive the entire wedge of yellow cheese. It was almost like observing a mother bird feed her young; the gaping mouth, the weak whimpers, as bits of food were delivered. When the prisoner had completely devoured the hearty nourishment, Gaithlin retrieved a cup of water from the smaller iron pot and the man drank greedily.
Exceedingly calm for an individual who had been snapping and growling not a few minutes before, the dog-man’s expression on Gaithlin was almost curious as she knelt before him once again. Christia
n continued to watch, amazed with her achievement, as she attempted once more to communicate.
But it was a frustrating progression. The captive obviously did not understand spoken language, as Christian had suggested, and Gaithlin did her best through use of signs and gestures to convey her message; no more stealing, if food is desired simply ask, and no lurking in the thicket with the intention of spying.
By the time she was finished, she could tell by the reflection in the dog-man’s eyes that he had not understood a word of what she had been attempting to convey. Frustrated and disheartened, she rose to her feet and continued to gaze down upon the captive, wondering how on earth she ever could have thought to make him understand.
She should have listened to Christian from the first and saved herself the frustration and heartache. He had been correct regarding Malcolm’s sleeping arrangements, and he had further proved his superiority by passing the proper assessment regarding the dog-man’s intelligence. The prisoner was obviously beyond her help and several minutes of futility and confusion had made her fully cognizant of the fact.
Yet, the natural instinct of hope ingrained within her soul had insisted she try, the inherent fortitude of strength and determination that had been instilled to her over years of hopelessness had come to demand she expend the effort. It simply wasn’t in Gaithlin’s nature to surrender; if there was even the smallest measure of hope, she had to try.
When a thick warm arm went about her shoulders, she leaned gratefully against the accompanying torso. Christian gently kissed the top of her head. “You tried, honey. At least he is calm now.”
She shrugged, her head resting on his shoulder. “Release him, then. There is nothing left to accomplish if he cannot understand what I am saying.”
Christian kissed her again before releasing her, moving back to the shelter to retrieve his dagger. Left alone with the shivering, fed prisoner, Gaithlin shook her head sadly.
“Don’t you understand me?” she whispered. “I am trying to be your friend. I want us to live peaceably.”
The man continued to stare at her and she felt as if she were speaking to an animal; the wide-eyed, blank stare was enough to cause her to turn away in sorrowful defeat. The next time the fool and his wife returned to raid their encampment, she would be unable to protect them against Christian’s wrath. Clearly, there would be no other alternative. Still… she had tried.
Christian emerged from the shelter moments later with a sleepy-eyed lad in tow. Malcolm smiled brightly at Gaithlin, who managed a weak grin of her own as she brushed her hand affectionately over his stubbled head. Then, she put her arms about the boy’s shoulders as Christian moved for the dog-man, cutting his rigid bindings in one swift motion.
At first, the man didn’t move; his eyes were wide on both Gaithlin and Christian as he came to realize that he was no longer bound to the tree. Gaze darting frantically between the two blond-haired people, he straightened stiffly and sniffed the air a few times as if attempting to determine their motives purely by the scents they were excreting.
With a loud yelp that startled Gaithlin and Malcolm, he suddenly dashed behind the pine he had been adhered to, peeking out from behind as if to spy on his former captors. The three rational humans continued to observe him curiously as he rounded the tree a couple of times, clutching at the trunk and sniffing the bark strangely. Then, when Malcolm began to giggle as a result of the dog-man’s mystifying antics, the captive dashed off into the trees in a series of whoops and screams.
Even Gaithlin was grinning by the time the peculiar man cavorted off. “What on earth was that all about?”
Christian shook his head. “I could not begin to guess. But I would venture to say that he is happy to be free.”
As Gaithlin nodded, Malcolm suddenly broke from her grip and dashed towards the smoldering embers of “his” fire. “What’s ta eat? I’m hungry!”
“You are on the menu,” Christian said with mock-severity, fighting off a grin when Gaithlin swatted at him on her way back to the shelter. “I intend to make a Malcolm Stew.”
Once, the jesting declaration would have sent the young lad into fits of terror. But coming to know the warlord as he had over the past few days, Malcolm realized the man took great delight in taunting him. And he loved every minute of it.
“Ye haveta catch me first!” he declared.
Christian’s eyebrows rose at the challenge. “Is that so? We shall see how fast you can run, then.”
Malcolm whooped and giggled as Christian moved toward him. “I can run as fast as th’ wind!”
“A bold statement,” Christian countered with mock-outrage. “I would wager to guess that you cannot outrun my charger.”
Inside the shelter, Gaithlin cleaned herself up for the day ahead, listening to Malcolm’s delightful terror and Christian’s low threats. Donning Carolyn Howard’s gown of dual-colored linen, a persimmon bodice and skirt with a contrasting color of pale peach, she braided her hair into a single thick rope and secured the end with a measure of twine.
Emerging from the shack in anticipation of a pleasant day, she was not surprised to find that Christian and Malcolm’s game had ended in an intent huddle over the large iron pot. Secured to the tripod, the ingredients that Malcolm had combined at Christian’s direction were beginning to simmer over the open flame. Gaithlin leaned over the pot, eyeing the contents.
“What have you fine gentlemen made?”
“Porridge,” Malcolm said proudly.
Christian’s massive hand rested affectionately on the lad’s bald head. “And then we shall grind some of the wheat into flour for tomorrow’s bread.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Tomorrow? Why not today?”
He matched her raised brow. “Because we will not be here to enjoy it. Tomorrow, upon our return, ’twill be a fine meal of fresh bread to greet us.”
“I don’t understand. Why won’t we be here to enjoy our bread today?”
Christian’s hand left Malcolm’s head; suddenly, Gaithlin’s entire face was encompassed by two great palms and the familiar surge of delicious excitement fired through her slender body. Licking her lips, she waited with quivering anticipation for Christian’s delectable kiss and was mildly disappointed when he seemed content for the moment to stare deeply into her eyes.
“Because we will be traveling to an abbey, south of Castle Douglas along the Firth of Solway,” his rich voice was a sensuous growl. When Gaithlin’s eyebrows rose questioningly, he continued with a faint smile. “You see, my lady, I am no longer content to lie beside you at night, forbidden by your logic to devour my fill of your luscious body. Since you wish to wait for our marriage before you relinquish your innocence, I have decided that tonight will see this matter accomplished.”
A flicker of a smile danced across her rosy lips. “We will be married today?”
“Indeed. As I told you, ’twas always my intention to marry you immediately. The sooner we return to Eden as man and wife, the sooner we can settle the foolish boundaries of the Feud.”
Her smile broadened as her hands came up, joy such as she had never experienced filling her heart. The warmth, the delight, was beyond the expression of mere words; Merciful Heavens, how she was desperate to show him the emotions churning within her heart.
She thought herself a fool for having ever resisted his proposal. It was no longer merely the issue of joining two families that had known nothing but the devastation of war for the past seven decades; whether or not peace came as a result of their union was no longer a concern to her. What mattered was that she and Christian would be married, forever of one soul and heart and body. Forever to live as man and wife, no matter what the future contained.
She was so happy she could scarcely contain her emotions. There would be nothing else on the earth that would every cause her to experience more joy than she was sampling at this moment, and as Christian’s ice-blue eyes blazed against the flushed vision of her beautiful face, she wound her hands behind his
thick neck.
“I want to be your wife, Christian,” she breathed, her eyes riveted to his sensual lips as they loomed closer and closer with each successive moment. “I want to be all to you.”
“You already are all to me,” his voice was husky, feeling her need and excitement as it mingled with his own. “Haven’t you realized that by now?”
She nodded unsteadily, feeling his deliciously searing breath on her face. Merciful Heavens, the nearer he beckoned, the hotter she became. What had started as a joyful demonstration of their mutual agreement had suddenly encroached into the familiar territory of lust and desire. A raging wildfire that neither one could manage to control.
His lips clamped down upon her tender mouth, whimpers of passion and pleasure filling the air. Tongues met with natural ease, tasting the recognizable essence captured within their individual qualities as they licked and plundered and ravished. Fingers tightly embedded within his honey-blond tresses, Gaithlin was rapidly losing what was left of her draining senses.
“Oh, Christian,” she gasped against his mouth. “I don’t want to wait until tonight. I want to know you now. I want to show you the joy of my heart.”
He suckled fiercely on her tongue, growling heavily in response to her plea. He was so overwhelmed with the taste and feel of her that he could barely form a coherent thought beyond lifting her from the ground and carrying her towards their shelter. If she wanted him now, then he would not dare dispute the boundaries of their earlier conversation; after all, they were to be married this day. What difference did it make if he took her before or after the ceremony?
He would take her this morn. He would take her tonight. For the rest of their lives, she would be the Demon’s wife and he would take her every day until the sun forever ceased to shine. Good Christ, how he had waited for this moment.
Brides of the North Page 97