Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  But his triumphant expression was cut short as the wind was slammed from his chest by a blow of such force that he swore his ribs had been caved in. The powerful explosion sent him reeling in spite of his heavy armor, stars dancing before his stunned eyes. In his shock and agony, he realized it would be easy to relent to unconsciousness as he stumbled to the floor.

  On his knees as the room spun recklessly, Christian struggled to regain his footing. Dimly aware of the shouts of his men, he managed to halfway unsheathe his sword when another blow caught him on the shoulder, sending him sprawling. Smacking his helmed head against the wooden floor, the comforting darkness beckoned stronger than before but Christian staunchly resisted. He could not relent to the black realm of nothingness if he was going to survive.

  Struggling with every ounce of his fading consciousness, he rolled to his back in time to see a woman descending upon him with a long iron candle sconce wielded high above her head. Unsheathing his sword with amazing speed considering his compromised senses, he brought the weapon up to counter the blow that was undoubtedly aimed at his face.

  Meeting with his heavy broadsword, the woman shrieked with frustration as a horde of stunned St. John soldiers managed to halt her attack. Kicking and struggling like a lion in a snare, the avenging female was removed from Christian as he attempted to regain his balance. Struggling against one hundred pounds of armor that was usually weightless on his powerful frame, he rose on knees that had developed the consistency of jelly.

  Even if the woman had been prevented from attacking him again, she was not subdued in the least. Striking out with a booted foot, she caught one of her captors in the groin and sent the soldier to the floor. Grunting like a man, she twisted and threw her body weight about in a wild attempt to dislodge the hands that held her.

  Although in the grip of substantially stronger men, she succeeded in pulling one of her arms free. Swinging a balled fist at the nearest soldier, she caught the unfortunate simpleton in the nose and blood sprayed in all directions as she turned her frenzied attentions to another soldier. Fortunately, the man possessed enough sense to step out of her frantic range.

  As Christian stood on unsteady feet, the soldier who had moved away from the crazed woman suddenly lashed out a mailed fist and caught her on the side of the skull. Instantly, she collapsed in a heap, ending several long seconds of a most brutal situation. As quickly as it started, the assault was sharply concluded.

  The room that had been filled with harsh grating gasps and shuffles of violence was instantly hushed. The shocked St. John soldiers looked to each other in uncertainty, unbelieving that a single woman had managed to catch them off-guard with her ferocious assault and brutal tactics.

  “Good Christ,” Christian hissed, raising his visor and taking a deep, steadying breath. “What banshee is this?”

  Ignoring the men with the bloodied nose and violated groin, the remaining St. John soldiers shook off their surprise, and embarrassment, as they joined their liege in observing the prostrate woman. Masses of long, glittering blond hair covered the floor and a good portion of her body, obscuring her face.

  “It has got to be the de Gare bitch,” one of the soldiers rumbled. “There is no one in this room but her.”

  Christian passed a rapid glance about the long room; except for a few crumbling cots, it was vacant and hardly furnished. Returning his attention to the unconscious woman, he found himself taking a hard, long look at the deeply-hated enemy. He’d never seen a de Gare at close range and could scarcely believe she was actually within his midst; finally, he was beholding the object of seventy years of powerful loathing. He had her.

  “She’s a big one,” another soldier commented. “Tall and strong.”

  “And stupid,” came yet another voice. “She will be severely punished for her transgression against Sir Christian.”

  Ears ringing but his balance somewhat restored, Christian ignored the comments of his men and motioned to the two soldiers standing closest to her. “Pick her up,” he commanded softly. He was already moving for the door, anxious to be gone from the abbey he had technically desecrated with his harsh presence and bribery. Now that he had obtained his objective, he was eager to put the entire distasteful episode of acquisition behind him.

  Christian made his way down the corridor and took the stairs with his customary grace. Several of his soldiers had finished rehanging the nearly splintered door and he passed a lingering glance at the handiwork, concerned that the repair had been completed correctly. Behind him, the soldier bearing the unconscious woman reached the bottom of the stairs and Christian wasn’t surprised when the ancient nun who had accepted his monetary graft emerged from the musty shadows.

  Her aged face was wide with concern as she observed the young woman slung over the warrior’s shoulder like a sack of grain. Her long blond hair dragged along the floor and her lanky arms drifted bonelessly as the nun tore her horrified gaze away from the sight and focused on the mighty knight.

  “You promised you would not hurt her!”

  Christian’s expression was impassive. “I assure you that she contributed to her own injury. My men were merely defending themselves against her onslaught.”

  The woman reached out and touched the silken blond hair with a wrinkled hand, silently begging forgiveness for the results her sinful actions had caused. Christian watched the old nun closely.

  “I would gather this is the Lady Gaithlin de Gare? I did not confiscate the wrong woman?”

  The nun shook her head slowly, turning away from the limp woman with a painfully remorseful expression. She could scarcely fight down the guilt that threatened to consume her.

  “It is her.”

  Christian felt a great deal of satisfaction at the confirmation. Without delay, he swept from the devastated abbey in a great form of mail and power, strength and might. The mission had been a success and he was eager to send word to his father in that regard. With Gaithlin de Gare captive, Jean would be able to coerce her father to attractive surrender terms. He could smell victory already.

  The great white destrier was grazing on the myriad of uprooted vegetables that populated the nearly-razed garden. Christian whistled sharply to the beast and the animal immediately broke from his feeding frenzy, his mouth full of greens as he tried to eat around the massive bit.

  “I sincerely hope those leaves are not poisonous,” he admonished the steed as if the horse could understand him, pulling bits of stem from the huge lips. “ ’Twould serve you right, you gluttonous beast.”

  The horse nickered softly in response as if to apologize. Chuckling softly, Christian was interrupted by several soldiers, one bearing the body of the comatose woman captive. Smile vanished, he eyed the de Gare wench and emitted a harsh, grumbling sigh.

  “Put her on my saddle,” he growled, moving to check his bags for the final time; he had packed nearly everything of any value or import, stuffing the pouches strapped to his armored saddle until they were full to bursting. Since his isolation in the wilds of Galloway was to be for an unknown amount of time, he wanted to be sure he was prepared for every advent and he found himself repeating the list of items for the fourth time that day.

  Tally complete, he was in the process of resecuring a strap when his men obediently tossed the woman across his saddle in a brutal gesture; even in her unconscious state, she grunted. In spite of the fact that she was a de Gare, Christian cast his men a disapproving glance.

  “It would not do to mortally injure her before we achieve our goal,” he rumbled, giving the woman a shove on the bottom to better balance her and noticing how wonderfully supple and firm her buttocks were beneath his hand; he could feel her through the mail. However, he would not be distracted and secured his visor in preparation for mounting. “Return home and tell my father that our mission was a success. I am taking the woman into the Galloway territories and will send word as to our approximate location if I am able.”

  The soldiers nodded firmly. “The terri
tories are a wide expanse of lands, my lord,” one man said. “Mayhap we should accompany you until you have settled, and then return to your father with the information.”

  Christian tightened his gauntlets and pushed the woman’s leg out of the way so that he could slide his foot into the stirrup. “Unnecessary. I am quite capable of sending word of my location when I am able.”

  He mounted the saddle, pushing the limp burden forward and struggling to find a comfortable position for them both. The boneless, limp captive nearly slithered to the ground during his movement, but Christian grabbed hold of her wonderful hair and managed to right her somewhat. Cursing and grunting, he put one arm around her slender torso while the other grasped the reins.

  “Waste no time,” he commanded in his deep baritone. “Return to my father with the victorious news. The de Gare wench is ours.”

  Digging his spurs into the pristine white sides of his charger, the horse thundered its way out of the destroyed vegetable garden and northward to the road. As Christian’s men watched, their liege disappeared down the well-traveled byway en route to the Scots border.

  “Sir Jean will be mightily pleased to hear that we have succeeded in capturing Alex’s daughter,” one of the men said, observing the faint outline of Jean St. John’s distant son.

  The men nodded in agreement, moving for their mounts and reveling in a triumphant mission against their hated enemy. Truthfully, there had been very little victory to rejoice over as of late and this particular mission, however small and bordering on blasphemous, was nonetheless an asset to their cause.

  Like most other men-at-arms in the midst of England’s realm, their fathers and grandfathers had devoted their lives to the same houses they themselves served. It was a tradition of loyalty passed on through the generations, and the seasoned men bearing the colors of the House of St. John took great pride in their vows of dedication. As with the tradition of service, another more powerful legacy also infected their way of life – the traditional hatred of the de Gares. The prisoner on Christian’s saddle was as important to them as it was to him.

  “I wonder what Christian is going to do with the wench,” a particularly seasoned soldier scratched at his dirty mail, then rubbed his nose with an equally dirty finger. “He’s got quite the reputation as a randy with the women.”

  “Not that woman,” the sergeant in charge shook his head, whistling loudly for the rest of the men to assemble. “She’s a de Gare and entitled to such treatment. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tied her to a tree and left her to the elements.”

  “Or deflowered her and begot her with his bastard,” the dirty soldier snickered.

  “Who’s to say she’s virgin?” the sergeant snorted, stressing his point. “I have yet to meet a pure de Gare.”

  As the final stragglers moved into formation, the sergeant counted heads and, satisfied, waved his men onward. As the horses cantered lightly across the trampled grass and met with the dirt of the road, he turned to the dirty soldier once again.

  “I shall be quite curious to learn what Christian’s betrothed has to say to the fact that he’s taken another woman to Scotland,” he laughed softly at the thought. “Marble-head Maggie won’t be pleased in the least.”

  The men who heard the comment snorted loudly with humor as the horses thundered down the rocky thoroughfare. The dirty soldier picked at his nose again. “Marble-head Maggie,” he repeated with a longing sigh. “Every man who looks at her grows hard for the woman.”

  “Why do you think they call her Marble-head?” the sergeant replied over the roar of the hooves. “She can bring a man’s head to marble without even trying. And I hear she pleasures Christian with her talents all the time.”

  The men nodded and snorted their agreement as the dirty soldier spoke loudly so that all would know of his intimate knowledge of their liege’s activities. “My own daughter says she’s seen Christian and Maggie in the alcove in the great hall, her mouth to his member. She’s a delightful trollop, Maggie is.”

  “I know I would like a piece of her,” the sergeant growled, casting a knowing glance at his subordinates. “I hear she even swallows.”

  His men appeared rightly awestruck, gasping their surprise and pleasure at the thought of a woman who swallowed a man’s seed as he spent his ecstasy, allowing him uninterrupted enjoyment until his convulsions had ceased. Reaching a new level of lust and wonder with the mysterious aura of the Lady Margaret du Bois, they allowed the conversation to linger a moment on that highly erotic note.

  “She left Eden a week ago for Grayburn Fortress,” one of the men practically groaned after the lengthy pause, still lingering on the previous revelation. “She and Lady Carolyn Howard are the best of friends.”

  “The Lady Carolyn is another high-bred trollop,” the dirty soldier said firmly. He liked to believe he knew everything about everybody. “She’s spent too much time in France, learning their lustful secrets. Maggie probably went to Grayburn to discover more of Carolyn’s methods to use against Sir Christian.”

  The sergeant shook his head slowly as they entered a particularly dense collection of trees. “Maggie already knows all there is to know about pleasuring a man. She went to Grayburn to fornicate with Kelvin Howard.”

  “But Sir Kelvin doesn’t live at his father’s castle,” the dirty soldier said, appalled that he had not been the first to hear of the relationship between Kelvin and Maggie. “He resides at Forrestoak.”

  The sergeant cast him a knowing glance. “A half-day from Grayburn. I have heard Maggie spends the majority of her visits to Carolyn at Kelvin’s manor.”

  ’Twas of no concern for a man to be unfaithful to his betrothed, but it was an entirely different matter if the woman was indulging in acts of betrayal. The conversation came to an uneasy, thoughtful end as the horses thundered down the deserted thoroughfare, each man pondering his private, if not amorous, thoughts.

  Eden beckoned nearly two hours away and the company made haste with their message of victory. With Sir Christian guarding the wench, she was as captive as Lucifer in Hades and already they could smell the panic soon to infiltrate Alex de Gare’s soul. A panic that would lead him to his own demise.

  ‘The first I gazed into her eyes…

  Heaven glimpsed!

  And then I beheld the battle for my soul

  and knew that I was no more.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. IV, p. LIV

  CHAPTER THREE

  Christian knew his way to Scotland only too well. His memory had always been an amazing source of talent; with one glance at a missive, he could recall the entire message to the letter. When instructions or names were relayed into his conscious, he could remember to the very last detail. He never forgot a name or a face, and he never required a second explanation or request. His memory was like a vise as it sank intelligent teeth into the smallest of facts, never to let go.

  The road north of Carlisle was dusty and vacant, being slightly past the nooning hour. He had been riding well over two hours with his unconscious burden who, he suspected, had been lucid for quite some time. But she had elected to remain still, draped over the armored saddle in a most uncomfortable position, and Christian realized that he would find himself in possession of a wildcat the moment her head cleared completely and she saw her way to resist his control.

  Bracing for that eventuality, he skirted the edge of the bustling city and headed through wooded Cumbrian territory en route to the Borders. He was on Howard land, a large and prestigious northern family alongside the Northumberland Percys and the Border Grays. The Percys had long been considered Kings of the North and the St. Johns had always been loyal supporters whilst their mortal enemy, the de Gares, had always managed to align themselves with the more prominent families of Southern England.

  The outskirts of the Holy North Woods could be seen in the distance and Christian slowed his charger to a jaunty trot, purposely bouncing his captive to see if she would be prone to
displaying any signs of life. He was well aware of her conscious state, for her breathing had increased within the past half-hour, and he was determined to release her from her state of silence so he could berate her for her defiance at the abbey.

  The harder the horse bounced, the more frustrated he became with her lack of response. With thinly-veiled patience, he waited. But his tolerance would not last indefinitely; brushing against his abdomen were her hips, her wool-covered buttocks gracefully saluting the sky as she folded neatly over his saddle.

  He eyed her buttocks, thinking that if she would not respond to the horse’s jostling trot, she would most definitely respond to the stinging palm of his hand. In fact, he was sure of it. And the action was not far in coming.

  He bided his time.

  *

  In spite of the fact that the destrier’s gait was intent on cracking several ribs, Gaithlin was not about to reveal her lucidity. The very last she remembered, she had been engaged in mortal combat with several soldiers who had breached the sanctuary of the abbey.

  She’d not been able to catch a glimpse of their colors as they bore down upon the front door of the convent, and truthfully had no idea who would be intent upon violating tiny St. Esk. For all she knew, they were marauding bandits or thieves come to confiscate what wealth they could from God’s holy house.

  The possibility that they were seasoned St. John soldiers sent to sniff out the unmistakable aroma of a de Gare had never occurred to her; she assumed, at the abbey, she would be safe from those who would seek to harm her. But from the active noise transpiring on the moist lawn of the convent, there were those not even the sanctity of the church could repel.

  Certainly, it was not out of the realm of possibility. In the northern wilds far away from the organization of London, quite a bit of sacrilege and lawlessness took place without an over amount of surprise or fanfare. It was simply the way of the chaotic northern territories and Gaithlin had grown used to the anarchy. In fact, she had been a part of it.