Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “No more, Christian,” she whispered, her gaze moving between the crippled man and her angry captor. “Let’s go. We shall leave tonight.”

  For the second time since entering her bower, his given name rolled off her tongue like the finest, most delectable wine. His gaze lingered on Kelvin a moment longer before returning his gaze to the woman hovering beside him. Disheveled, weary and beaten, she was the most beautiful angel he had ever beheld and he knew, at that moment, that there was nothing on earth he wouldn’t do for her. Good Christ, he was falling deeper into trouble by the moment.

  The large palm that had so recently clutched Kelvin returned to Gaithlin’s hand. To his surprise, she willingly clasped it tightly.

  “I told you that I do not believe it wise to leave this night,” his voice was a raspy whisper. “It’s raining like mad and I refuse to be a party to the resulting illness that will surely claim your life.”

  She frowned. “I have not been ill a day in my life, Demon. I am as hardy as you.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I believe I told you not to call me Demon.”

  She burst into a radiant smile, laughing softly at his irritation, and he was immediately unbalanced by the display as if she knew what a devastating affect her smiles had against him.

  “You did,” she snickered weakly. “But you are very humorous when you are angry.”

  Both of his eyebrows rose. “Your sense of humor is misplaced. I am attempting to preserve your health and you are intent to annoy me?”

  Her smile faded as she stared into the depths of his icy-blue eyes. So entirely pale that they were nearly white. “I apologize then,” she said softly, with gentle sincerity. “I suppose it is my own way of making light of your concerns. To prove to you that I am well aware of my own welfare.”

  He drew in a long, deep breath, feeling her silken hand enclosed within his own. “I realize that,” he said softly. “But the moment I whisked you from St. Esk, you became my responsibility. And I do not take my duties lightly.”

  It had gradually become easier for her to forget her captive state as time and situations progressed and being abruptly reminded of her crisis brought a certain measure of depression and gloom settling about her once again. Above all of the giddy emotions, baffling ideals and terrifying occurrences, one factor remained true; she was the prisoner of Christian St. John.

  In the corner, Kelvin stirred again, jolting her from her train of thought as the man suddenly struggled to a semi-upright position as if rising from the dead. Noting the fact that his newly-found enemy was coming lucid, Christian hastened for the door with Gaithlin in tow. But not before Kelvin focused his venom on the both of them.

  “If I see her again, Christian, I shall kill her,” he grunted, clutching his gut. “You’d better take your bitch far, far away.”

  Christian unbolted the door, pausing a moment to match Kelvin’s hostile gaze. “Listen to me well, Kelvin Howard. I could have spilled your guts this night for having discovered your tryst with my former betrothed and I would have been entirely within my right to do so. But I spared you simply for the fact that Maggie is not worth the price of your life.” Gently, he pulled Gaithlin through the archway, ignoring the soldiers and servants hovering in the corridor beyond. “But hear me now and know that I speak the truth; you will never again threaten the lady you were so careless in attacking. Any incursion, violation or threat on her person, no matter how minor, shall be met with lethal force by the Demon of Eden. I will not repeat this warning.”

  Pale and drawn, Kelvin knew full well the meaning of Christian’s utterance. But he was also well aware of the St. John – de Gare Feud; having grown up in Cumbria, the state of the two warring families was an established fact. It was a detail that had not escaped the confines of his pain-hazed mind as he had wallowed on the floor in complete misery.

  He had heard her defiantly mentioned name the very moment she had driven her rock-hard boot into his lust swollen privates. It was a name he would never, ever forget.

  “She’s a de Gare, Christian,” he hissed, fighting the urge to vomit yet again. “You would deprive me of the pleasure of seeking revenge against her simply because you would complete the task yourself.”

  Gaithlin heard him. Eyes wide, she focused on Christian as his unwavering gaze continued to meet Kelvin’s agonized orbs. “What I do with the lady is my own business,” his voice was exceptionally low. “As I have not demanded answers as to what you and my former intended were doing isolated far from the convenient cover of Castle Howard, you will do me the courtesy of not questioning my motives or my intent.”

  “You are going to kill her anyway,” Kelvin struggled to his knees. “At least allow me the right to punish the woman for possibly depriving me of an heir.”

  Gaithlin jerked against his vise-like grip, but he did not release her. Nor did he look at her as his attention remained on his former friend. After a moment, his gaze moved to Gaithlin and her terrified struggles ceased; never had she witnessed a look of such tenderness, such warmth. Her almond-shaped eyes were wide with wonder as he graced her with an even, completely unexpected smile.

  “Look at her, Kelvin,” his voice was faint. “Do you truly believe I would kill her?”

  “You are a St. John, Christian,” Kelvin’s voice was faint. “You must kill her.”

  Uncertain and struggling with the terror Kelvin’s words evoked, Gaithlin averted her eyes from Christian as the man’s smile faded. After a lengthy pause, he returned his attention to his former friend one last time. His expression was nothing short of loathsome.

  “I shall send Maggie to you,” he said, his voice cold. “Mayhap she can heal what ails you.”

  In a haze of tension and confusion, Christian swept Gaithlin down the smoke-shrouded corridor, leaving Kelvin to the care of his servants and soldiers and cursing the events the day had brought upon him.

  Praying he saw the de Gare bitch one last time before he died.

  Praying for revenge.

  *

  It had been an exceptionally difficult night. Uncomfortable spending the remainder of the night within the walls of Forrestoak, Gaithlin convinced Christian that they would do better to seek shelter somewhere else. Reluctant but uncharacteristically compliant to his captive’s reasoning, Christian packed her gowns into a confiscated satchel and, wrapping her yet again in his black cloak, took her down to the stables to retrieve his steed.

  Through the rain and the wind and the biting climate, they set north for the Borders. Physically drained, Christian was concerned that his weary state would impede his ability to protect them from the threats that abound on the open road, especially in the dead of the night. Recollecting that an old hunter’s shack was not far to the north of Forrestoak, set deep into the wooded clusters that populated Howard lands, he veered off the path a few miles up the road in search of the little refuge.

  It was a tiny shelter he and Kelvin used to pretend to be their fortress in the early days of their youth, protecting it against the Scots and Roman invaders alike. Locating the haven had not been difficult, for it was exactly where he remembered; pulling an exhausted Gaithlin off his wet charger, he proceeded to hustle her into the dilapidated lean-to.

  It was musty and moldering, but it was relatively dry. Using her newly-acquired satchel for a pillow, he forced Gaithlin to lie down on the damp earth, feeling a good measure of regret in the fact that he had nothing better to offer her by way of a bed or comfort. But she had drifted off to sleep almost immediately and he had spent a good portion of the night watching her rest in peaceful slumber and listening to the rain outside.

  Just before dawn he built a small fire in the hearth out of twigs and dried leaves, for the temperature had dropped considerably over the course of the night. Watching Gaithlin shiver and twitch in her sleep, he carefully laid himself beside her purely for the added warmth and was not surprised when she burrowed herself tightly against him. When he awoke to clear skies and singing birds two hours l
ater, it had been with Gaithlin in his arms.

  The Galloway Forest was a massive expanse of trees and bramble and wildlife that occupied a good portion of Douglas lands. The River Cree carved a fine path through the enormous wilderness, giving life and beauty to the primitive surroundings.

  As the smell of Scot pine and beechwood fell heavy on the damp early fall air, Christian was transported back to his early childhood. With crystal clarity, he could recollect the days when he and his Scot grandfather spent a good deal of time traipsing about the sacred lands in search of the perfect fishing spot or a small animal to kill. It was moist earth his mother had harbored a deep attachment for, being a Douglas, and introduced her young sons to the earth that had bred her people. Lands that Christian loved dearly.

  Lands, however, that Gaithlin was unfamiliar with. The wind was cold as it whipped through the trees, sending chills skating down her slender spine as she clutched Christian’s cloak more closely about her. Around her waist, his massive arm squeezed her gently and she instinctively pressed closer to him, pondering her new surroundings.

  Yet her new environment wasn’t the only matter of import she seemed destined to ponder. Two days of traveling with the Demon of Eden had brought about the most peculiar emotions and ideals she had ever managed to envisage. It was an uneventful trip for the most part, silent and calm, but given the circumstances, it was very odd.

  Since the moment they had left Forrestoak, it was as if some invisible bond linked them together, binding them emotionally and sometimes physically as the lengths of endless road stretched before them on the horizon. Gaithlin tried not to linger on the kiss Christian had delivered the day he whisked her from St. Esk, the heat he provoked from his magnificent touch and tender lips. In fact, what she found most despondent other than her obvious reaction to the Demon was the resonate recollection of Kelvin Howard’s words, a bitterly hissed phrase in the midst of a man’s deepest anguish.

  You’re a St. John, Christian. You must kill her.

  Torn between the desperation of her captivity, the warmth lingering in the depths of Christian’s ice-blue eyes, and the vengeful mutterings of an injured man, the past four days had been spent in relative silence as she attempted to sort the muddled workings of her young mind. A mind she didn’t seem to recognize any longer and a hatred for the St. Johns that she couldn’t seem to remember.

  A hatred Christian had all but forgotten as well. Four days with his delectable water nymph had brought him to the unalterable conclusion that he was indeed in love with the woman. Over the miles of eternal forested lands and the bleak hills of the border he had clutched her tightly against him, relishing the feel of her in his arms and trying desperately not to delve too deeply into the future of his plans.

  A future his father had already established. A future that included using Gaithlin to bring Winding Cross to ruin, treating her with the respect warranted of a captive. Good Christ, he wasn’t entirely sure he could allow his father to use Gaithlin in the manner intended and as his charger pounded out the miles towards their destination, his resistance and confusion gained strength.

  In truth, he didn’t know what he was going to do about the situation. To maintain his plans, to continue into Galloway and establish a base seemed the most logical course of action at the moment. To keep Gaithlin away from the war and the hatred and the vengeance of those who would seek to harm her was the most reasonable conclusion he could seek for the time being. Until he could decide how to handle his most treacherous emotions, he would stay the chosen course.

  “Are you really going to kill me?”

  Limp against his chest, he had assumed Gaithlin to be dozing. But her softly uttered question set against the backdrop of her sultry voice broke him out of his thoughts and he shifted in the saddle, his gaze staring intently at the thoroughfare ahead.

  “Nay.”

  “Kelvin said you had to.”

  “Kelvin is an idiot.”

  She didn’t reply for a moment. Then, she sat forward and turned in the saddle, gazing into his stubbled face. Visor raised, he met her puzzled stare evenly. After a moment of observing his piercing orbs, she sighed heavily.

  “Then where are you taking me?”

  “Far away, my lady,” he replied quietly. “Far away from the Feud.”

  “Why?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. Of course she was curious for her future and he was no longer entirely resistant to the idea of informing her of his directive. After four days of eating and sleeping with her, he was eager to speak with her, to know her better. But his naturally reserved nature and confusion of loyalties had prevented him from doing so. But as he gazed into her eyes, he realized that he was no longer confused.

  “Because you are going to end the Feud,” he replied frankly, watching her expression wash with confusion. It was enough to cause a smile across his tired face. “You do not believe me?”

  She shook her head vaguely. “I did not say that. But how am I going to stop the Feud?”

  His smile faded. “By forcing Winding Cross to lay down her arms,” he answered softly. “With Gaithlin de Gare a captive of the St. Johns, your father will have no choice but to surrender. Therefore, you will end a foolish skirmish that has lasted seventy years without a drop of blood being shed in additional resistance.”

  Gaithlin stared at him a moment as no immediate reaction was forthcoming; then, her eyes widened and the color drained from her cheeks.

  “You… you intend to blackmail Winding Cross with my capture?” her voice was a throaty echo. “The St. Johns attempted to blackmail my family with the capture of Glenn St. John nearly twenty years ago and the de Gares refused to fold. They will never surrender, Demon. Especially not for me.”

  Christian was well aware of the facts surrounding Glenn de Gare but refused to be deterred. “You’re the heiress. And you are Alex’s daughter. Certainly you are of more sentimental worth to your family than an aged old man.”

  Gaithlin continued to stare at him, dumbfounded and unbalanced. How could she tell him that her father had died years ago, leaving a poverty-stricken keep that could barely sustain itself? Other than the family pride, there was barely anything left to surrender and Gaithlin refused to be the instrument through which generations of de Gares were submitted for defeat and shame.

  The St. Johns believed Winding Cross to be as strong as she ever was, intact and lead by the powerful Alex de Gare. In truth, the remains of the once-mighty family had dwindled to a middle-aged mother, her isolated daughter, and less than fifty defenders and servants. There was nothing left to surrender except their dignity.

  And she refused to give it up. Her expression suddenly took on a look of acute desperation and Christian was somewhat prepared for the fist that came flying at his unprotected face.

  “I shall not allow this!” Gaithlin shrieked, struggling against him as Christian fought to control both her and his excited charger. “Let me go, you St. John bastard! Let me go or I shall kill you, I swear it!”

  Had his horse not leapt in agitation, Christian would have been quite able to control his rebelling captive. But the horse danced nervously on his rear legs as Gaithlin shrieked and struggled, pitching both master and hostage to the damp earth.

  Christian heard her grunt as she hit the ground, but his irritation outweighed his concern. Four days of nearly-pleasant coexistence had suddenly reverted to the very hour he had whisked her from St. Esk and once again, he found himself in possession of a bitter, terrified captive. But he refused to rehash old territory; there had already been a good deal of happenstance between them and he was unwilling for her to ignore the fact.

  Cursing himself for being stupid enough to inform her of her truer purpose in the St. John – de Gare Feud, he pinned her luscious body against the pebble-strewn road and roughly captured her hands beneath his massive gauntlets.

  “Enough!” he roared, feeling her start beneath him. Her violent motions lessened as his icy orbs met with deep blue. “
You will cease this resistance or I shall bind you hand and foot. Do you comprehend me?”

  “You… cannot… do this!” she grunted, disregarding his threat with her continued struggles. “I shall… not allow you to… destroy my family!”

  He stared at her. Lowering his body completely, she groaned when his excessive body weight smashed her into the dirt and nullified the majority of her struggles. Head and arms trapped within the vise of his massive arms, she was unable to avert her eyes from his piercing gaze.

  “Listen to me well,” his voice rumbled like the distant thunder. “I am weary of the Feud. I have lost uncles, cousins and two grandfathers to a foolish argument that has lasted for the better part of seventy years. I am tired of hating, of fighting, of living under a constant state of alert within the confines of my father’s barony. My children will know the meaning of peace and freedom as my brother and I never knew, and I intend to bring about that peace any way I can.”

  Chest heaving with emotion and strain, Gaithlin stared into his serious eyes. “Then surrender your own forces. Why must it be the de Gares?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “To the victor goes the spoils. I have captured you; therefore, it is only logical for the de Gares to surrender. How foolish would it be for me to mastermind your apprehension only to relinquish you as a bizarre peace offering?”

  Her struggles had ceased entirely, her glorious hair spread over the dirt like an abstract halo. From the depths of fury to the pinnacles of lust in a swift, blinding moment, Christian was suddenly seized with the desire to kiss her as she struggled to form a reply.

  “ ’Twould be a show of good faith, I should think, to return me home,” she answered breathlessly, flattened by his weight. “To prove that your peaceful intentions are sincere.”

  His usually impassive expression washed with skepticism. “You know as well as I that any St. John peace overture would be met by an arrow to the chest. If my father and I are to achieve harmony, then we must take it.”

  “Then you do not seek true peace,” she hissed. “You only wish to demand victory, whatever the price.”