Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Christian recollected coming here on a few occasions as a child while the place was still being built, listening to Lord Howard boast at the greatness of the structure intended for his only son. While Jean had been mildly impressed by his ally’s fortune and expansion, inspecting the fortress at Lord Howard’s insistence, Christian and Kelvin had run amuck in the surrounding woods, chasing down rabbits and fox.

  Christian smiled as he remembered those days. He and Kelvin had always been particularly companionable, even as youths, fostering for opposing households. They had met occasionally at tournaments, stealing away from their duties to peruse the activities and pilfer apples. Aye, he liked Kelvin and was looking forward to seeing the man once again. Ten years was a very long time to remain distant.

  The massive double gate loomed ahead and Christian could see the sentries on the narrow walls. As he announced himself to the shouted query, Gaithlin was startled awake by his booming voice.

  “Where are we?” she bolted upright, smacking her head against the side of his helm.

  Although he hadn’t been injured in the least by her reflexive action, he instinctively winced on her behalf and attempted to remove the hood of the cloak to see if she drew blood. But Gaithlin would have no part of his mothering; batting his hands away, she rubbed the violated spot.

  “I asked where we are, Demon.”

  He eyed her, his concern for her injury fading. “Do not call me Demon. I do not like it.”

  She heard her own words and ceased to massage the growing lump on her head. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she cocked a saucy eyebrow. Since childhood, she had awoken from sleep to a disagreeable mood and today, unfortunately, was to be no exception.

  “Then what would you have me call you?” she asked.

  He matched her raised-eyebrow expression, noting her cross disposition with a degree of disapproval. But as he gazed at her, a shout on the wall came back to him and the giant gates began to swing open. Christian tore his eyes away from her, focusing on the gate.

  “My Dearest,” he rumbled. “For tonight, you shall call me My Dearest.”

  Gaithlin’s mouth opened in outrage. “My Dearest? I think not, De…!”

  He clapped a massive hand over her mouth, spurring his charger through the gates. Although his expression was intentionally tender, his tone was deadly. “You are my lover and will address me as My Dearest in front of my close ally. If you choose not to assume the charade, I will turn about this instant and you can spend the remainder of your night tied to a tree.”

  Eyes wide, Gaithlin had no doubt that his threat was sincere. Even as her natural urge advised complete defiance, an inner sense somehow managed to suggest that she might come to like such a thing. That addressing the Demon of Eden by a term of endearment wasn’t as completely horrible as she would have liked to believe.

  A peculiar inner struggle commenced at his subtle command. She didn’t want to call him My Dearest, or Sweetling, or any other expression of affection. At least, the defiant de Gare within her soul was staunchly resistant to such an idea. But the isolated, naive young lady was not entirely unwilling.

  “My Dearest?” she repeated, mumbling through his gloved fingers. When he removed his hand and fixed her with a heady, no-nonsense glare, she sighed in resignation. “My Dearest.”

  The corner of his lip twitched with a smile. “That was not so hard, was it? ’Twill become easier with time.”

  “I don’t intend to call you My Dearest for the rest of my life.”

  “If I demand it, you will.”

  His manner wasn’t quite so severe and Gaithlin was surprised to realize it bordered on amusement. “Is that so?” she felt her own sense of humor take hold. “And what do you intend to call me if I must address you by a sickening term of sentiment?”

  He raised an eyebrow as they rode into the well-kept bailey of Forrestoak. He deliberately avoided her piercing gaze as his eyes perused their surroundings. “I have yet to decide. Certainly something nauseating.”

  She pursed her lips wryly and turned away, curious of their environment. “I dare not ask again,” she mumbled, clutching his black cloak about her weary body.

  Several soldiers rushed to greet them. Between the bedraggled lady wrapped in the oversized cloak and the auspicious presence of the Demon of Eden, there was a good deal of respectful chatter and attention. Christian dismounted into a nest of excited soldiers, pulling Gaithlin off with him. Arm about her shoulders tightly, he ignored the common rabble of fighting men and made his way toward the green-tinged manor.

  Gaithlin felt his arm around her, torn between relishing the new experience and wanting to pull away from him. He’s a St. John, no matter how willing you are to forget the fact! She was only too well aware of the message her nagging conscience was intent on constantly informing her. She didn’t need to be reminded that she hated him.

  It would have been simple to allow herself to slip into the realm of depressing thought as she once again pondered her predicament, but stumbling over Christian’s lengthy robe distracted her from impending doom. In fact, she tripped twice on their trek across the bailey. The third time she stumbled, Christian came to an irritated halt.

  “Is something the matter?” he demanded.

  She shook her head weakly. “You’re cloak is too long,” she replied, then added with malicious sweetness: “My Dearest.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her mocking tone. “Grace certainly isn’t one of your strong points, is it? You stumble more than any woman I have ever had the misfortune to witness.”

  He was correct; grace had never been one of her strong points, being long-legged and rather tall for a woman, and she averted her gaze with embarrassment. Christian felt himself softening somewhat at her humiliation and a faint smile tugged at his lips.

  “But I suppose your beauty makes up for the finer qualities you lack,” he added, but the expression on Gaithlin’s face stopped him cold. His brows drew together curiously. “Why do you look at me like that?”

  There was a bit of color in her cheeks; ’twas the first time he noticed. “You jest with me.”

  His scowl increased. “When did I do this?”

  She smiled, bright and beautiful. “You said I possessed beauty,” she said. “How can you say that when I stand before you wet and dirty and completely disheveled?”

  He drew in a deep breath, off-guard with the beauty of her smile. “My lady, there is no beauty in all of England that can compare to you.” He’d used the same coaxing words before, on several women in order to gain his way. But the identical phrase spoken to Gaithlin was God’s living truth. Unnerved and unbalanced by his compliments to her, he cleared his throat and pulled her towards the manse. “Come along. They should have already commenced with the evening meal and we risk being thrown the bones if we delay any longer.”

  The door loomed high and heavy before them; before they reached the stoop, several household servants in the Howard colors of gray and yellow emerged from the manse, intent on serving their newest arrivals. Gaithlin eyed the haughty house servants, far removed from the simply serving wenches and old men they employed at Winding Cross. Certainly, the servants of Forrestoak were clad in finer garments than she even owned.

  But the sight of the well-dressed serfs was not enough to deter her from the subject at hand and she continued to linger on their conversation a moment, even as the fanciful employees rushed forward in their haste.

  “Have you decided what you are going to call me?” her voice was soft as she observed the approaching horde.

  He, too, was scrutinizing the cluster of servants. “You will answer to whatever comes forth from my lips,” he told her.

  Before them, the great manse of Forrestoak loomed and they were sucked forth into the warm, welcoming bosom.

  The interior of the great fortified manse was very warm, the heat of the blaze in the foyer hitting Christian and Gaithlin in the face like a slap. As Christian removed his helm, Gaithlin lowered her ho
od, observing her surroundings with wide-eyes; surely the halls of Heaven weren’t any less grand.

  A massive tapestry hung resplendent against one wall, an intricately designed rug that depicted a scene from the Crusades. Ignoring the hovering servants, Gaithlin wandered in the direction of the magnificent piece, studying the mail-clad knights in crimson tunics as their ladies fair bid them a fond farewell. Helm and gauntlets removed, Christian moved to stand behind her, appraising the work he’d seen before.

  “King Richard the Lion Heart is in the middle,” he pointed to the center of the artwork. The men depicted were the very heart of the St. John – de Gare Feud, he couldn’t help but notice. “See? His brother John and advisor William Marshall watch the king’s departure from the Tower.”

  Gaithlin nodded, intently studying the scene. “And that must be Berengaria,” she gestured to the delicate lady with the towering wimple. “She was lovely.”

  Christian’s gaze moved from the tapestry to Gaithlin’s mussed hair, dry and tousled from their ride. He caught himself before he could compliment her beauty again, but his superior control could not prevent him from putting his hand to her disheveled hair in an ineffectual attempt to smooth it. Untidy and weary, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  Gaithlin felt his hand; startled, she instinctively put her hand to her head and their fingers touched, inadvertently intertwining, and Christian removed his hand from her hair only to find her slender appendage entangled in his massive fingers. Deep blue, almond-shaped eyes met with Nordic jewels of pure ice.

  “Your hair was out of place,” he felt like a fool even suggesting his consideration in her appearance. Yet the experience of her silken hand within the fold of his palm was almost worth the chagrin.

  But she jerked her hand from his grip before he could further relish the feel, her cheeks flushing a faint pink as she ran her fingers through her tangled mess. “I do believe that everything on my person is out of place at the moment.”

  Sounds of the gallery wafted on the warm, fragrant air and Gaithlin turned her attention in the direction of the grand room. She could catch a glimpse of a page now and again, young boys running about to serve the knights and master. As a fat wolfhound wandered from the rounded Norman archway, she suddenly found herself extremely apprehensive to attend a formal meal in her unkempt state.

  Although she shouldn’t have given her image a second thought in lieu of the fact that it would be St. John allies she would be sharing a meal with, the same innocent girl who was so desperately confused over Christian’s presence was equally excited and eager to eat her first meal outside of the walls of Winding Cross. With the exception of the meager feasts St. Esk had to offer, she spent her entire life supping from the worn oak table in the thinly furnished gallery of her ancestral home.

  Listening to the gentle music and soft laughter emitting from the smoke-hazed room, she found herself wanting to know how the wealthy and affluent lived.

  Christian was unaware of her dilemma as he motioned to a well-dressed steward with a bowl-shaped haircut. After a few muttered phrases to the little man, in which he mentioned words to the effect that his company was to be a surprise to Kelvin, he cast a lingering glance at Gaithlin. She tore her eyes away from the gallery entrance long enough to meet his gaze, her expression steady. After a lengthy moment of staring into the deep blue depths, Christian pursed his lips.

  “I suppose I should offer you my arm so that we may enter the gallery as a companionable pair,” he said with a hint of disgust. But the aversion in his tone was forced; as if he was required by the nature of their relationship to offer a customary show of distaste.

  Even Gaithlin sensed that he was not entirely repulsed by the thought of her company on his arm. Odd, she thought, that she too was not entirely repulsed by the idea of accepting his escort. But she would play the Disgust Game as well, so he would not note the fact that she was more comfortable with his suggestion than she should have been.

  “Since when have a St. John and a de Gare been companionable?”

  Christian’s intense eyes gazed at her a moment before meeting the tapestry behind her. “Since before the days of that man,” he tilted his head in King Richard’s direction. “Once, the two families were quite companionable.”

  She turned to glance at the intricate needlework, large enough to cover two beds with ease. Pondering the king and his Crusaders for a moment, she shrugged and turned away. “One would have been led to believe that we began the Feud the day Lucifer split from the Heavenly Horde.”

  Christian’s gaze lingered on her a moment, the familiar feelings of waste and foolishness coming to bear as he pondered the state of their families’ relations. More than ever, he believed the Feud to be a senseless attempt to maintain the family honor. Two families sentenced to live and die by a grossly distended argument that had lurched out of control until the true sense of righteousness had been lost.

  The noise level in the gallery increased, breaking Christian from his thoughts as a pair of dogs appeared in the doorway, fighting over a large bone. Without another word on the Feud that had been a part of their mutual existence since before their birth, he extended his arm to Gaithlin and she placed her slender hand on his forearm.

  As he led her toward the warm, hazy room, he caught her rapid movements as she attempted to make herself more presentable from the corner of his eye. They were frantic actions from a woman who had spent the entire afternoon being battered or abused, one way or the other.

  “Stop your fretting,” he growled. “Your worries are for naught.”

  Smoothing at her hair, Gaithlin’s wide eyes met with the soaring gallery as they emerged through the doorway. “I look like a street urchin.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, casting her an intolerant glance as the heat and cooking smells from the grand hall assaulted them both. “You are acceptable enough,” placing his free hand over hers in a most companionable gesture, she suddenly found herself pulled tight against his torso. “Remember to address me as My Dearest. Do you comprehend?”

  She sighed with frustration. “I am not daft, Dem… I mean, My Dearest. You have already informed me of the role I am to play and I shall not disappoint you.”

  His eyes on the large table at the far end of the cavernous hall, he raised a threatening eyebrow purely for Gaithlin’s benefit. “You’d better not.”

  Gaithlin would have scowled at him had the sharp smell of burnt meat and dog feces not embraced her like a glove. Wrinkling her nose at the pungent aroma, she allowed Christian to lead her through the smoke and pages and various inhabitants of the hall in their advance to the head table.

  She was so consumed with the atmosphere and sights about her that she failed to notice the change of expression on Christian’s face. From expectation to suspicion to disbelief, the very next thing she was aware of was her escort coming to a complete halt and his entire body went rigid with rage and astonishment.

  For certain, surprise did not seem to encompass the depths of his reaction. The dishonor of his pride was evident in naked proportions.

  ‘Betrayal is a repulsive philosophy;

  unless, of course,

  it is committed with the Purest

  of Intent.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. V, pg. XXII

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Maggie!”

  Dogs scattered as ladies shrieked their fearful reaction to the booming shout. The musicians on the balcony above the gallery came to an unharmonious ending as the entire hall came to a startled halt. Gaithlin, her eyes wide, gazed at Christian in complete surprise.

  He was looking directly at the head table and before Gaithlin could draw another breath, he was marching for the long, cluttered slab of wood, his expression nothing short of lethal. In the very center of the feasting table, an auburn-haired man and a lovely dark-haired woman had been sitting conspicuously close; at the sight of Christian, they peeled apart faster than th
e human eye could comprehend and made great haste to put distance between themselves and the Demon of Eden.

  “What are you doing here?” Christian was focused on the raven-haired lady. When she stared at him with the expression of a frightened doe, he jabbed a massive finger at her. “Answer me, Maggie, or God help me, I shall not be merciful in my punishment. What are you doing here?”

  The Lady Margaret du Bois could scarcely believe the vision before her. Bottomless brown eyes stared at her betrothed with a huge degree of shock as she struggled to force a reply from her dry lips. But as she wrestled with her fear and astonishment, her gaze came to rest on the disheveled woman in the dark cloak and her expression took on a distinct shade of indignant fury.

  “Who is she?” ignoring Christian’s demand completely, she imperiously indicated Gaithlin.

  Although cornered in his own right by being discovered with an unknown female companion, Christian refused to allow his trapped fiancée to change the subject. Ignoring Gaithlin completely, he moved toward Maggie, toppling a chair in his haste. A wounded dog yapped its way into the shadows as Christian focused on his intended.

  “Damnation, Maggie, answer me,” he demanded. “What are you doing with Howard? I thought you were visiting Carolyn.”

  Swallowing hard, Maggie tore her eyes off Gaithlin to focus on the ice-blue orbs of her betrothed. “I… I am,” she insisted. “Carolyn is here, darling. We have been here for two days, visiting her brother.”

  Christian’s jaw ticked. “From the affection between you and Kelvin, I would say you were doing more than visiting.”

  For the first time, his gaze moved to his friend; standing tall and lanky at the opposite end of the table, Christian gestured the man to him with a crooked finger. A slow, deliberate gesture. With a good deal of reluctance and fear, Kelvin complied.

  The entire room was deathly silent as the lord of Forrestoak approached his lover’s betrothed. Tensions rose to explosive proportions, biting into every occupant of the hall as if their very lives were at stake. Certainly, with the Demon of Eden verging on a rage, the likelihood of a bloodless conclusion was slim.