Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She nodded vaguely in understanding, rubbing at her tense shoulder with one hand. “You should have killed them all, Eldon,” she turned away once again, her worn boots pacing the cold floor. After a moment, she paused long enough to fix him in the eye. “They have Gaithlin.”

  Eldon leapt from the table’s edge, his eyes wide and his body tense. “Impossible!” he gasped. “I delivered her to St. Esk myself and…!”

  She shook her head, feeling her emotions surge. “Somehow they were able to discover that we had removed her from Winding Cross in anticipation of the Demon’s assault.” Tears were in her eyes again, a desperate anguish that threatened to destroy her. “They sacked the abbey and abducted my daughter. They have my Gaithlin.”

  Eldon’s young face was a frightening shade of ashen and his mouth hung agape as he struggled to form a rational thought. “But….” Unable to continue, he plopped heavily to the table once again, listening to it crack and groan under his weight. His entire body was flooded with shock as he pondered the stunning news. “I took her there myself, Alicia. How could the St. Johns have discovered her whereabouts? How?”

  “I do not know,” her voice was hoarse. “There are several possibilities, as you are aware. Spies, or paying our servants for information… there is no way to know. But one matter is for certain; Jean is in possession of her and, as his missive states, he intends to use her to his advantage.”

  Eldon was silent, pondering the dim shadows of the room as his thoughts reeled in sickening progression. “When they kidnapped Glenn de Gare, they simply killed him. How do we know she is still alive?”

  “Because she is,” Alicia snapped softly, wrapping her arms about her bountiful torso as if to keep from falling apart completely. “I refuse to believe that they would harm her at this early stage; a dead hostage would be of no use to their cause.”

  Eldon dropped his head in a gesture of resignation, raking his fingers through his dirty brown hair. “Poor Gaithlin,” he murmured, nauseated by the thought of Alicia’s beautiful daughter in the hands of their most vile enemy. A woman of such magnificence that he shuddered to think of the abuse she had undoubtedly already suffered at the hands of her captors. Certainly, the St. John dogs would not allow such beauty to go untouched.

  A tangible gloom settled about the room, thick and cloying. Alicia could scarcely move through the thick fog of melancholy, refusing to imagine the worst as Eldon was allowing himself to envision. She could not allow herself to visualize Gaithlin at the hands of Jean St. John, her daughter’s naturally reserved and fearless nature being put to the ultimate test of strength.

  The torture of a young woman who had known her share of hardship. Isolated, poverty-bound, knowing little joy and more than her share of pain. Although Alex and Alicia had tried to nurture and educate their daughter as best they could, their preoccupation with the Feud had prevented them from bestowing more attention on their daughter than they were able to spare.

  Little Gaithlin had been raised knowing the names of various weapons as well-bred young ladies should have been learning the arts of needlework or music. She could ride a horse as well as any man, or mend a kink in a coat of mail. But she could not sew a garment if her life depended on it and knew very little in the ways of delicate women.

  An unfortunate, cruel twist of fate. Considering Gaithlin had blossomed into a beauty of exquisite proportions, the fact that she knew little of lady-like manners was a true travesty indeed. She could be sullen and moody, dry of humor and sharp of wit, and she had a distinct tendency to trip over her own feet when she should have been completely able to walk a straight line.

  All of these odd, magnificent characteristics combined to create the de Gare heiress, a woman whose strength and inner courage had sustained the entire fortress through the hardest of times. When there was virtually nothing to eat, Gaithlin would make sure the old soldiers and her mother were fed before she would even consider consuming her own meager portion. When the dead of winter brought bottomless cold, she would scrape and struggle for anything remotely flammable. And when the strain of their scanty existence grew difficult to tolerate, her encouragement was solid.

  As Alicia struggled with her grief and guilt, she found herself fervently praying for Gaithlin’s well-being. There was nothing more important than her daughter, as her failed attempt to protect the woman within the walls of St. Esk had proven. Surely there was nothing of more significance than Winding Cross’ heiress, the sole survivor of generations of de Gares, now in the hands of the enemy.

  “Did they make any demands in the missive?” Eldon’s voice was weak upon the musty atmosphere of the solar.

  “Nay,” Alicia replied quietly. “Not yet. They simply wished to announce their crowning achievement. But the demands will come and I can only speculate as to what they may contain.”

  Eldon’s gaze found her once more. “Surrender?”

  Alicia refused to look at him. “Mayhap,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to the tanned leather scroll, partially unraveled. “The missive was addressed to Alex. Jean still believes him to be alive, you know.”

  “I know,” Eldon nodded faintly. “Do you suppose he will request Alex’s presence at the bargaining table?”

  Alicia raised her eyebrows in an unknowing gesture. “I will be forced into a most unpleasant position if he does. How do you think Jean St. John will react upon learning that he has battled a woman for the past ten years? It should be enough to drive him insane with fury and I shudder to think how his mood will reflect upon Gaithlin.”

  Eldon was reluctant to ponder that scenario as well. Rising from the table yet again, he attempted to move toward his mistress when the door to the solar abruptly opened, spilling forth the other knight sworn to Winding Cross’ legions.

  Sir Uriah de Royans stomped across the worn stone, short and compact with all the grace of a rabid dog. Bearded and unkempt at forty-three years of age, his face was flushed with exertion.

  “We have a visitor, my lady,” he said breathlessly. “A young woman who wishes to meet with you.”

  Alicia’s brow furrowed delicately. “A young woman?” she repeated. “I am not expecting any guests this day. What is her business?”

  Uriah looked between Eldon and Alicia, his aged face lined with disbelief and shock. “She says she bears news of Lady Gaithlin,” his voice was considerably softer. “I told her to go away, but she insists on meeting with Alex.”

  Alicia and Eldon looked to each other, stricken with shock and a rising apprehension. Before Alicia could respond, Eldon was already moving for the solar door. As he brushed roughly past Uriah in his attempt to vacate the room, the older knight watched him leave with a mixture of confusion and irritation.

  “Where is he going?” he demanded, turning to his mistress. “First the St. John missive, and now a mysterious woman demanding to speak with Alex de Gare. What in God’s Bloody Realm is going on?”

  Alicia eyed the older man, a knight who had served her husband for over twenty years. Forcing herself to rein her mounting anxiety, she drew in a deep calming breath.

  “You will mind your language in my presence.” She’d lost track of how many times she had relayed the very same warning. “Eldon will inform you of our dilemma when he is able. Frankly, I have not the strength at the moment.”

  Uriah lowered his head like a scolded dog as he always did when met with Lady Alicia’s reprimands. “Forgive, my lady. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  She didn’t reply; his excuse was always the same. Pacing the floor beside the aged and worn desk, Alicia struggled to maintain her composure as she waited for Eldon to return.

  “Tell me, Uriah. Did this mysterious young woman have a name?”

  He nodded, unlatching his battered breastplate where it met with his shoulder protection. The constant chaff had left a wound that hadn’t healed correctly in five years. “The Lady Margaret du Bois. I have never heard of her.”

  Alicia shook her head. “Nor ha
ve I,” she said softly, morosely. “I wonder what news she brings of my Gaithlin?”

  “Lies, I am sure,” Uriah growled. “Gaithlin is safe within the walls of St. Esk. If this woman demands money for her falsehoods, I shall slit her bloody gullet.”

  Alicia raised an eyebrow at his barbaric threat, refraining from repeating her request that the knight curtail his harsh language. “Is she alone?”

  Uriah shook his head. “Nay. She’s accompanied by an escort of at least twenty men.”

  “No standards?”

  “Not a stitch.”

  Puzzled as well as deeply concerned, Alicia lowered herself slowly onto her husband’s worn chair. “I wonder who she is,” she murmured, more to herself than to the elder knight.

  Uriah watched his mistress, noting her pallid demeanor and lethargic movements. Nothing at all like the warlord he had served for the better part of ten years, a brilliant tactician as her husband had been. A finer commander he had never attended in spite of the fact that his lord and master was a woman.

  Certainly, a man could not want for a more devoted widow. The very day Alex de Gare had perished as a result of a St. John arrow, Alicia had donned a coat of outdated mail and had met the marauding invaders with a grief-fed fury. Through the years she had taken up Alex’s battle, carrying on the legacy and tradition of a de Gare and never once languishing from her duties.

  But it was a life and legacy that seemed to be weakening with time. Even as Alicia pensively gazed into the distant space of the room, she was far more exhausted and aged than Uriah had ever known her to be. The latest St. John attack had left Winding Cross particularly devastated and the weary soldiers and peasants had been working day and night to repair the damaged bridge.

  Uriah found himself pondering the state of the destroyed bridge as Alicia leaned wearily into the chair, sighing heavily with fatigue. “Do you think it possible that she is a ploy from Jean?”

  Broken from his somber train of thought, the aged knight focused on his beaten mistress. “I do not know, my lady,” his voice was rough. “Certainly, we shall find out.”

  Alicia’s gaze lingered on the man a moment before returning her gaze to the weakening hearth. “I suppose we shall, Uriah,” her tone was barely a whisper. A defeated, resigned whisper. “I suppose we shall.”

  *

  The shack was exactly where Christian remembered it to be. Although the woods had grown heavily over the years, obliterating the path he clearly recalled set deep into the southwestern portion of the territory, he was able nonetheless to pick his way through the bramble and foliage under the three-quarter moon in his quest to locate the elusive shelter.

  The bright, cloudless night sky had afforded him a good deal of light in his search. Past the thick copse of Scot pines the locals called The Titans for their strength and age, he bisected two small brooks and used the third stream as a directional indicator before coming to the object of his focus – a small, dilapidated hut.

  He well remembered the aged old woman who occupied the hut. She had been a senile member of the Douglas clan, unable to socialize or communicate with the rest of the family, and had sought refuge and isolation deep within the heart of the Galloway territory.

  Christian’s mother had brought her two young sons to visit the woman only once, introducing the lady as an aunt. Other than his clear memories of that meeting, he had no further knowledge as to who the old woman was, but he easy recollected his fantasy with her Fortress of Solitude deep within the Galloway wilderness. From the very moment his father had demanded the de Gare wench be whisked into the shady wilds of Anne’s ancestral forest, Christian knew exactly where he would take her.

  It was very late when they arrived. Exceedingly sleepy but alert nonetheless, Gaithlin eyed the overgrown shelter with no particular reaction, relatively resigned to the fact that they had reached their destination, such as it was. Christian dismounted his steed, leaving Gaithlin alone as he scrutinized the structure nearly covered with vines and bramble. The occupant long since dead, as he knew she would be, the forest had claimed the shack for its own.

  A shack Christian was determined to take back. Wasting no time, he removed his upper body armor and hauberk before delving into the arsenal strapped to the right side of his saddle. Bringing forth a nasty-looking pole-axe, he began to hack away at the overgrowth obstructing the door.

  Gaithlin watched him tear into the shrubbery a moment before calmly dismounting. Reasoning that if she was no longer making the effort to fight her St. John captor, she should be helping him make the best of their situation. Without hesitation, she moved for the array of weapons and unfastened a medium-sized war hammer. Like a short pick-axe with a heavy spike, she shunned Christian’s black cloak and moved beside him.

  Christian caught a flash of steel in the moonlight and instinctively leapt away from the threat. The war hammer plowed into the bramble, tearing away a good portion of greenery as his wide eyes came to bear on Gaithlin’s curious expression.

  “What is wrong?” she asked, genuinely confused with his skittish manner.

  Exhaling sharply with relief and irritation, he cocked an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

  Her brow furrowed with puzzlement and a measure of amusement. “I am helping you. Did you truly think I intended to plant this war hammer in your back?”

  He scratched his head, dirty with sweat and grime. “No,” he said after a moment, feeling rather foolish. As much as he attempted to disregard the fact that she was a de Gare, his sub-conscious was apparently unwilling to relent. Irritation fed with a myriad of conflicting emotions, he gestured at the weapon in her hand. “Give me that. I shall clear this shack without your help.”

  “Why? If I help you, ’twill make the work go faster.”

  “Don’t argue with me,” he tried to pull the instrument from her grasp. “Give me the weapon and go stand by my horse.”

  She yanked the war hammer away from him, stumbling back and nearly tripping over her feet. Irritated in her own right, she scowled at him. “I am perfectly capable of helping you clear this foliage.” As if to prove her point, she lifted the weapon again and swung it at the growth with a good deal of skill and strength. A heavy measure of leaves and branches crashed to the earth below.

  Surprised, Christian stood motionless as she brought about two more powerful blows. Branches and vines went hurling to the earth with the force of her strength as she ripped, tore and chopped the growth away from the front door. Four chops later, she came to a panting, sweaty halt and turned to Christian, fully expecting another barrage of refusals and disapproval. Instead, he was smiling at her.

  “Tell me, my lady,” he said in his rich, smooth voice. “Are you considered Alex de Gare’s premier soldier?”

  Wiping the sweat from her pretty brow, a modest if not somewhat embarrassed smile creased her lips. “My mother won’t let me.”

  Christian grunted. “Pity. Were you to fight, I suspect the St. Johns would be in a good deal of trouble.” Regaining his grip on the pole-axe, he cast her a long glance. “Keep going. We should have this bramble cleared in little time.”

  Between the two of them, the entire shelter was cleared in a considerably short span and Gaithlin returned her weapon to his saddle, securing the ties with deft fingers. Christian joined her a moment later, binding his pole-axe against the leather.

  “What is this place?” Gaithlin’s back was to him as she observed the lean-to in the moonlight.

  Finished with the ties, he moved up behind her, hands on hips as he, too, studied the broken-down lodge. “Our home.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him; he was standing conspicuously close. Close enough that she could feel his heated breath on her face and the sensation fueled a faint tingling in her limbs. After a moment of experiencing his proximity, she forced herself to turn away in giddy confusion.

  “How… charming,” she managed to utter.

  He smiled faintly and moved around her, heading toward the
structure. “Let’s see if we can eke out an acceptable corner to sleep in for the night. On the morrow, we shall endeavor to make the place livable.”

  Considering the state of the exterior, the interior of the shelter was relatively uninhabited. The main room was uneven and coarse, while the tiny second room seemed to have been populated by a family of rodents at one time. There was a broken table and a worn chair, a cast iron kettle askew in the hearth and little else. Everything else of value or otherwise seemed to have vanished or disintegrated over years of neglect and harsh conditions.

  Gaithlin surveyed the surroundings with little emotion, while Christian seemed rather disheartened by the entire overview. Moving to the hearth, he kicked at the large pot while Gaithlin inspected the smaller room, barely tall enough for her to stand.

  “I would be uncomfortable lighting a fire before I have had a chance to inspect the chimney,” he said, almost apologetically. “The night may become chilly before the sun crests.”

  Emerging from the smaller room, Gaithlin merely shrugged to his statement. “I doubt it. Your body gives off more heat than a furnace.”

  He eyed her, noting that she refused to meet his gaze. Even in the darkness, he would swear she was blushing. Amused as well as oddly aroused, he lowered his head in a firm attempt to make eye-contact. “Do I scald you, my lady? I was not aware of my scorching attributes.”

  Fighting off a grin and a supreme blush, she turned for the door. “Merciful Heavens, you have forced me to sleep beside you for the past two nights for fear that I would escape if out of arm’s length. I could not help but be made cognizant of your heat.”

  She breezed through the doorway, stumbling over a pile of branches as she made her way across the thick grass toward the destrier. Christian’s eyes never left her.

  “That wasn’t why I forced you to sleep beside me,” he murmured.

  She heard him.

  *

  Brilliant sunlight was streaming in through the splintered walls of the ancient shack, striking Christian directly in the eyes. Still partially asleep, he rolled to his back to be free of the blinding beam but was unable to locate suitable shade. Turning on his side once more, he was vaguely aware of a warm body loosely wrapped in his arms; pulling her against him firmly enough to cause her to groan, he buried his face in Gaithlin’s back.