Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  A flash of anger coursed through him. “You have no right to act so sanctimonious. Your father would do the same if the opportunity were present.”

  Her pretty jaw ticked with emotion as the rage between them built once again. “You will never have your peace, Demon. Not like this.”

  Unwilling to argue the point, he abruptly shifted his weight from her and rose to his feet. With one swift jerk, he pulled her to stand as his hand kept a vise-like grip on her tender arm.

  “How I achieve my ends is none of your concern,” he growled, pulling her toward his horse. “I will ask you only once; will you ride peacefully until we reach our destination or will I be forced to bind you?”

  She would not lie to him. St. John or not, her naive emotions and swirling puzzlement had been brutally dashed by his arrogant intentions towards achieving peace and she was dangerously close to tears. Bitterness strengthened her bold forthrightness as she gazed into his eyes, cursing him with every breath she took. Damn him!

  He had protected her one minute, battled with her the next. There wasn’t one element to Christian St. John that was predictable and she hated him for it. She hated herself for not loathing him as deeply as she should have.

  “Bind me,” her sensual voice was a whisper. “It is necessary if you do not want me to fight you every step of the way.”

  He met her gaze, knowing her sincerity. With another flash of fury, stronger than the one before, he maintained a grip on her arm as his mailed hand fumbled through his saddlebags for a length of rope. Locating the knotted cord, he roughly wound the bindings about her tender wrists, tying them more tightly than he should have purely out of anger and frustration.

  His emotional level soared to untapped heights as he fastened the knot with unusual harshness, noting that he had tied her so securely that her hands were already devoid of blood. His fury knew no limits and he was fully aware of his irrational state, but his anger was completely void of conscience. He was glad to see her suffer.

  If the de Gare wench wanted him to bind her, then bind her he would and take great pleasure in it. In fact, he would tell her of his sadistic glee so she would realize the fruitlessness of her actions. He would draw strength from her terror and defeat, lusting after the power her emotions could provide his failing St. John loyalties.

  Rope secured, he grunted with satisfaction at his fiendish handiwork. But the moment he glanced up to verbally lash her for her stupidity, his brutal words died in his throat.

  She was crying.

  “Good Christ,” he muttered. Fury vanished with unnatural speed, he immediately moved to jerk her bindings free. But they were secured far too snuggly and he fumbled furiously with them as a mournful sob escaped Gaithlin’s throat. The harder she cried, the more panicked his movements became. The very moment the rope fell away to the damp road beneath their feet, she collapsed hysterically into his massive arms. Christian held her tightly enough to squeeze the breath from her.

  “Forgive me, Gaithlin, forgive me,” he murmured into her hair. “I did not mean to injure you, truly.”

  Her sobs were heavy and unrestrained, as if her heart was breaking. Christian attempted to pull her tighter, feeling like a sadistic beast for brutalizing her so. Good Christ, his emotions were so out of control he hardly recognized himself any more.

  “Let me see your wrists, honey,” he whispered. “Let me see what I have done.”

  She shook her head, sobbing deeply. “I… I hate you, Christian. I hate you terribly.”

  Harsh, utterly insincere words. He fought off a smile as he rocked her gently under the fading Scot sun. “I hate you, too.”

  Removing her face from his neck, she laid her cheek against the cold steel of his shoulder, still sobbing. “You… you cannot do this to my family,” she whispered. “I would rather you kill me.”

  His smile faded as he stroked her hair, her back. “I told you that I was not going to kill you. Not ever.”

  She suddenly pulled away from him, her slender hands gripping his arms in a desperate gesture. “Please do not force my family to surrender. I beg of you, sire; do not do this.”

  He was sucked into the vortex of her panic, seized by the sincerity of her hopelessness. Gazing into her pleading blue eyes, he felt himself losing ground by the second.

  “I…” he stammered, swallowing hard in an ineffectual attempt to reclaim his slipping composure. “Gaithlin, there is nothing I can do. My father is….”

  “Please!” She suddenly fell to her knees, holding both of his hands against her face. “Christian, I swear I shall do anything you ask. Anything at all. Just do not force my family to surrender Winding Cross.”

  He was in danger of completely losing what was left of his control. He weakly attempted to pull her to her feet, but she refused to move. Instead, she continued to hold his hands tightly against her cheeks and sob as if her heart was being destroyed by her worst nightmare.

  Destroyed by a St. John.

  He simply couldn’t deal rationally with her hysteria. Before he realized his actions, he was on his knees in front of her, pulling her into a crushing embrace.

  “Stop this,” he rasped, feeling her wet cheeks against his face. “Stop crying, Gaithlin. I cannot….”

  “Please, Christian,” she moaned, her tapered fingers intertwined in his beautiful blond hair. “Please do not do this. You cannot imagine the suffering and agony you will cause.”

  Good Christ, he had to come to grips with his surging emotions. There was no telling what would happen were he to allow them to rage unchecked any longer; already, he had entered a realm where he had never before traveled, a world of such desperation and anguish that he would have willingly given his own life simply to stop her tears.

  Taking a deep breath, he grasped her head and forced her to look at him; which, in fact, was not an entirely wise move. The very moment he gazed into her terrified blue eyes, he felt his control slip yet another notch.

  “Listen to me,” he whispered huskily. “Whatever happens between the St. Johns and the de Gares is out of my hands. My father is Eden’s baron and I am merely his son, subject to his commands and directives as are the rest of his vassals. By taking you from St. Esk, I have completed my orders and the remainder of my father’s scheme is beyond my control.”

  She shook her head, tears spattering on his wrists. “You do not understand. I shall do anything to prevent the compromise of Winding Cross.” She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushed with emotion. “I shall…I shall give you my servitude, my body, my dignity. Anything to prevent my family from having to choose between my life and their honor.”

  He stared at her, the impact of her words carving a blistering path deep into his soul. “You are truly afraid that they will be willing to sacrifice you in order to maintain the Feud?”

  She wasn’t. Her mother would never allow the life of her only child to be sacrificed for the worthlessness of a battered fortress and an ancient skirmish. But she couldn’t allow Christian to see the truth of it. She had to preserve the illusion of de Gare strength.

  “Nothing is more important than family integrity,” she said after a moment, her tears lessening.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Even the life of the heiress? That does not make any sense.”

  “Would your father sacrifice Eden for you?”

  His gaze held even for an eternity, ice-blue orbs against the deepest of blue. After a moment, he stroked the remaining moisture from her face with the most delicate of touches.

  “You and I are players in a grand theater, my lady. It is a performance that commenced seventy years ago and has yet to play itself out.” He sighed heavily, his expression softening into an emotional mien. “I am weary of this drama. When the sake of family honor becomes more important than the lives of family members themselves, it is time to re-examine the very reasons for our existence.”

  Calming, Gaithlin listened intently to his speech. He touched her hair as he spoke, the gentle man revealed within the
guise of a Demon. When he finished, she shook her head faintly in response.

  “What are the St. Johns and de Gares without their Feud, Christian? It is as much a part of our heritage as the Angles and the Normans. It has become what we are.”

  He digested her words, the mood between them amazingly calm after the desperate madness that had consumed them not seconds before. After a thoughtful pause, he rose to his feet and gently pulled her with him. Still holding her hands, he shrugged vaguely.

  “I do not want to be a part of it. I do not want it to be a part of me,” his gaze raked over her as he spoke. “But I have no choice in the matter. And neither do you.”

  She knew that. And she was well resigned to the fact. “What will happen if my family rejects your father’s attempt at blackmail? What will become of me then?”

  He eyed her a moment before turning for his steed, grazing steadily by the side of the road. “We shall cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said quietly, grasping the animal’s reins. “For now, we are almost to our destination and I should like to arrive before nightfall.”

  Exhausted by her emotional upheaval, Gaithlin allowed him to seat her aboard his steed. Mounting behind her, he pulled her against him in a manner he was coming quite accustomed to, finding a good deal of comfort and orientation in the familiarity they were beginning to share.

  Gaithlin settled back against him as he spurred his charger down the byway, content in his arms in spite of the wild ride of sentiment that had constituted her temperament minutes before. Gazing into Christian’s beautiful eyes, listening to his words, she was convinced that he was a reluctant partner in his father’s grand scheme to achieve peace.

  Naïve though she might be, she was intuitive enough to realize that the Demon of Eden was not a living, breathing machine of war and hatred. Over the past four days, she had been witness to glimpses of an emotional depth within in his brilliant eyes that she could scarcely hope to comprehend; silent suggestions of the true man beneath the reputation. Even if her mother rejected Jean St. John’s attempt at blackmail, she knew Christian would not allow his family’s vengeance to harm her. The Demon would protect her.

  Snuggled contentedly in Christian’s arms, she observed the landscape surrounding them, the gently rolling hills shaded with hues of wild heather. The memories of panic and humiliation faded into the recesses of her mind as she drew in the tranquil scenery.

  “Where are we?”

  He heard her softly uttered question, knowing there was no longer any reason to keep her in mystery as to her destination.

  “Scotland, my lady.”

  “Scotland?” she repeated, perking up somewhat and glancing about with more of an interest. “My great-grandmother was Scots. From the Clan Douglas. Are we anywhere near their lands?”

  Christian felt a bolt of shock surge through him as the possibilities raged inside his head. Her great-grandmother was a Douglas. Good Christ, was it actually possible that she was related to him somehow? Although the Clan Douglas was a vast conglomeration of families and allies, they were all interrelated and intertwined to varying degrees.

  Although acutely interested in determining the proximity of their relationship, he refrained from mentioning his excitement at the moment. If the St. Johns and the de Gares were linked through unknown Scot ties, then his father would have to be made aware of the fact. And with Jean’s powerful sense of family loyalties and bloodlines, it was not entirely inconceivable that he would reconsider his blackmail towards the de Gares upon discovering that his beloved wife had somehow linked him with his deadliest enemy.

  The further he pondered the quandary, the more excited he became. Unknowingly, Gaithlin may have very well delivered the vehicle through which the seventy year old Feud would be quelled. Unknowingly, her innocent remark may have brought about the beginning of the end.

  He was so consumed with his ideas that he hardly noticed when Gaithlin shifted in the saddle before him, turning to see why he had not answered. His eyes were distant, even when they abruptly focused on her.

  She smiled weakly. “Are we near Douglas lands?”

  Vaguely, he nodded. “We approach.” Gazing into her exquisite eyes, he couldn’t help himself from repeating her innocent statement, exhaling a nearly-demanding statement. “Your great-grandmother was a Douglas relative?”

  She nodded. “My mother’s grandmother was the daughter of Angus Alan Douglas, laird of Clan Douglas. She married John Percy, a family relation to the Northumberland Percys, and settled in North Yorkshire.”

  Christian stared at her. He simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His vow of silence on the matter from moments before was dashed in a second. “My mother is also descended from Clan Douglas,” his voice was raspy with awe and surprise. “Her grandfather was the son of Angus Alan Douglas, laird of Clan Douglas.”

  Gaithlin realized the blood ties perhaps even faster than he had. Her eyes widened. “Your mother is a Douglas relation?” she repeated in wonder. “But… if your great-grandfather and my great-grandmother were….”

  “Brother and sister, so it would seem.”

  “Then that makes us….”

  “Related. Second cousins, in fact.”

  They continued to stare at each other in stunned silence. Gaithlin was first to rediscover her lagging tongue.

  “The St. Johns and the de Gares are linked, Christian,” she whispered with incredulity. “We have been linked for years and never knew it.”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. In the brief span of time that had been encompassed with the shock of discovery, he found himself pondering a most impacting ideal. Suddenly, he knew how to end the Feud. As Gaithlin de Gare lived and breathed before him, he was more aware of the possible cessation of seventy years of bloodshed than he had ever been in his entire thirty-three years. Good Christ, he knew how to end it all.

  “We know it now, don’t we?”

  ‘Duplicity is the weak man’s truth.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. V, pg CLVI

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The parchment was new and bright, the ink perfectly stroked in the lines of communication. But to Alicia de Gare, it was the ugliest, most horrendous missive she had ever laid eyes on.

  Clad in a simple gown of gray wool, covering the heavy black boots she habitually wore, Alicia had been pondering the contents of the missive for the better part of the day. Alone in her husband’s solar, she could scarcely function beyond breathing and reading. Her shock, her terror of events both past and future, cleaved a painful path deep into her chest. She was so involved with her turmoil that she failed to hear a soft knock at the solar door.

  Another rap sounded moments later, louder than the first. Alicia’s head came up from the worn table before her and she hastily wiped the tears from her cheeks, struggling to compose what was left of her shattered control. Only then did she ask the caller to enter.

  A man dressed in aged, worn armor entered the room with measured hesitance. His face appeared older than his thirty-odd years, creased with concern and fatigue. He approached the leaning table, his non-descript brown eyes riveted to the short woman seated at the splintered edge.

  “What did the missive say, my lady?”

  Alicia focused on the knight, one of only two remaining to protect Winding Cross. As Sir Eldon Barkley’s father had served Alex and Glenn de Gare, so did his son. A tradition of service that continued even into the depths of poverty and ruin.

  Sometimes Alicia wished she could dismiss the young man, allowing him his freedom to pursue a life of fortune and triumph. But in faith, she needed his services and was reluctant to part with his skills. And there were times when his services went beyond those of knightly talent and she took comfort in his delicate attentions in the bedchamber. Aye, she needed him.

  “Where is Uriah?” she asked softly, referring to Winding Cross’ second knight.

  Eldon moved to stand by the end of the battered desk
, his vaguely-handsome face calm. “Outside seeing to repairs,” he answered. “He’ll be along shortly. What did the missive say?”

  Alicia’s jaw ticked as she looked to the parchment on the table, biting back the sting of tears once again. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her rounded figure from the chair in a futile attempt to bolster her bravery.

  “I knew when I married Alex that the Feud was the most important factor in his life,” her voice was low and sultry. “And I married him in spite of his preoccupation because I loved him. After a St. John arrow felled him those long years ago, I continued his battle because I was well aware of the importance it held within the scheme of the de Gare legacy.”

  She paused by the end of the table, listening to the sounds of construction in the bailey beyond the covered lancet windows. She looked far older than her thirty-seven years, with cat-shaped eyes of deep blue, reminiscent features of her only child that were tight and drawn with fatigue and grief.

  “I have endured starvation, poverty, hellish winters and endless sieges all in the name of the de Gare honor,” she whispered weakly, so very weary of her difficult existence. “I have survived far more than I should have all for the sake of this foolish war that has continued for seventy long, anguished years. I have been dealt more than my share of heartache, Eldon. But there has come a point where I refuse to suffer any longer.”

  Eldon pensively lowered his big body to the edge of the scrubbed, worn desk. “What’s happened, Alicia?” he hissed. “What do the St. Johns have to say?”

  She pondered his question, turning away from the stained oilcloth over the long windows to glance once more at the vellum on the table.

  “I am curious,” she said. “How did they deliver this message? Certainly, they didn’t march to our doorstep in a gesture of grand announcement.”

  Eldon shook his head. “Nothing so bold, no. A small party flying the Flag of Truce deposited it on the edge of the moat. Our bridge was raised and we were in no immediate danger; therefore, we allowed them to retreat unmolested.”