Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Her eyes opened as Christian’s kisses faded and she found herself gazing into his ice-blue eyes. Merciful Heavens, he was certainly the most beautiful man she had ever seen; there wasn’t one portion of the man imperfect or flawed. His wisdom, his intelligence, his physical appearance… everything about him was wonderful. He was wonderful. He was also undeniably wealthy.

  She blinked as her mind began to move from thoughts of ending the Feud to thoughts of the supposed benefits she would bring to this marriage. Other than ending the long-standing war, she had nothing more to offer her prosperous prospective husband, and she realized that he had no idea of the economic state of Winding Cross. Certainly, he expected that she would have a dowry. Of course, she did not.

  As with her other endearing and responsible qualities, forthrightness had always been one of Gaithlin’s strong points. She wasn’t afraid to voice her thoughts, her opinions, or relay the truth when necessary. But gazing into Christian’s amazing eyes, she realized she was very apprehensive informing Christian that she would enter into their marriage with only the clothes on her back.

  Moreover, there were other de Gare secrets she was reluctant to inform him of as well, foremost the fact that her mother had spearheaded the de Gare defenses for the past ten years. She didn’t want the Demon of Eden learning all that remained of the de Gare legacy was a splintered bastion, a dead lord, and starving people. If he was to marry her, however, he would inevitably discover the truth. It was a truth she would rather keep buried.

  Torn between her instinct to disclose the reality of her situation and the verity of the need to protect the illusion of de Gare strength, Gaithlin struggled to reach a satisfactory medium. Would it be possible to keep the worst of it from him? Did she dare try?

  “Your thoughts are lost to me,” Christian’s rich voice wafted upon the damp forested air. “What are you thinking?”

  She met his eyes, wrestling with her dilemma, struggling with her anxieties. As Christian expected an answer, she labored to supply him with one.

  “I… I do not have a substantial dowry to bring to this union, Christian,” she finally said.

  His brow furrowed. “What do I care about a dowry? I am not marrying you for the money; I am marrying you to end mutual hostilities. It matters not if you do not have any dowry at all.”

  His answer surprised her and she cleared her throat daintily, hastening to recover her astonishment. “But… what do you mean it does not matter? It should matter a great deal. Every man marries for what his wife can bring him.”

  “As am I. You can bring a peace our families have not known in seventy years. That is the only item of wealth I am concerned with.”

  Truly perplexed, Gaithlin stared at him with wide-eyes, wondering if he was being completely sincere. “You have no interest in my money?”

  Christian’s warm expression faded, knowing she was delicately attempting to broach the fact that she had virtually no monetary support to offer. His heart ached for her plight, the proud heiress without a pence to subsidize her claim. He fully intended that she should never have to voice her shame, especially to her future husband. In faith, he didn’t care in the least.

  “My only interest is that my wife come to me pure and without hesitation,” he said softly, stroking her hair again. “That is the greatest dowry I could hope for.”

  She swallowed contemplatively, pondering his words. “You consider my purity to be a greater dowry?”

  “Indeed.”

  She thought a moment, her brow rippling with the course of her tumultuous concerns. “But… but isn’t it proper to deliver the dowry when the marriage takes place?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then it would be reasonable to assume that if you take my innocence now, you will be accepting my dowry before the actual wedding.”

  Immediately, he could see where she was leading and he nearly groaned with the displeasure and rightness of it. He sighed faintly, studying her face in the dim light. “Technically.”

  “But you would not take the monetary dowry before such time. Correct?”

  He sighed again. “Correct.”

  She cocked her head and he swore he saw a twinkle of a smile flicker of her ripe lips. “Then why would you take my innocence before that proper time if you consider it most important?”

  He raked his fingers through his honey-blond hair, scowling at her accurate statement. “You wicked enchantress. You unknowingly lure me mindless and then have the audacity to point out the fact that I am a lustful beast and completely incapable of controlling my actions without your level wisdom.”

  She giggled softly, winding her long arms about his neck and pulling him down to her. “My virginity is all the dowry I have to offer you at the moment,” she whispered hotly against his ear. “It would make me happy to deliver it at the appropriate time, not in the middle of the Scots wilderness.”

  His massive arms went about her, moaning softly with the torture of what he was about to endure. Their gazes locked, faces intimately close, and Gaithlin could feel his heated breath on her lips.

  “Your reasoning is sound. And if you wish to delay the deliverance of the dowry, as you so delicately phrased it, until our wedding, then so be it. But I will forewarn you that it will not be a comfortable delay for me,” his eyes raked her with such searing tenderness that her heart fluttered wildly against her ribs. “How can I hold you in my arms and not possess every facet of your sweetness?”

  She smiled gently, touching the sharp angles of his Nordic features. “By demonstrating your superior control,” she teased softly.

  He grunted ironically, casting a long glance over her exposed breasts before again closing his eyes tightly, turning his head from their delectable vision. “Even my control has its limitations,” he kissed her swiftly one last time before pushing himself off of her, turning his attention elsewhere as she replaced her half-undone gown.

  Gaithlin rose, fumbling with the last few stays of her dress. Christian caught movement out of the corner of his eye, feeling comfortable enough to aid her with the task now that her beautiful breasts were covered from his lusty gaze. Without another word on the subject of dowries and weddings and a lack of self-control, he took her hand, kissed it loudly, and led her from the thicket. There was work to do.

  *

  Malcolm was nowhere to be found. Gaithlin searched a wide perimeter around their shelter as Christian produced an axe and went about securing more wood for their heat and repair needs. Although he pretended to be indifferent to the boy he chased away in the heat of desire, it distressed him to hear Gaithlin’s sensual voice calling out the young lad’s name every few seconds.

  She sounded saddened as she crept among the bramble looking for the orphan and Christian paused in his wood chopping, leaning on his axe as she prowled the undergrowth across the small, weed-choked clearing. Feeling his guilt increase by the moment, he took a deep breath and resigned himself to assist Gaithlin in her search. After all, it was his fault that Malcolm was missing in the first place and it was only right that he lend aid to find him.

  Laying the axe down, he began to move toward the sound of her voice. He hadn’t taken two steps when Gaithlin suddenly let out a screeching yelp and the overgrowth began to shake violently. Fear surged through Christian; he was racing towards Gaithlin’s screams before he could draw another breath, hurling his big body across the cluttered clearing before he even thought to return to the shelter for his sword.

  Adding puzzlement to his terror was the fact that he swore he heard barking as he approached. Loud, fearful barking that was rapidly fading. Just as he reached the cluster of overgrowth, Gaithlin came shooting from the bushes and slammed against him with all of her might.

  Grunting harshly, he stumbled back, gripping her tightly even as he struggled to regain his balance. It was only a moment later when he became aware that she was superficially unharmed did he realize that she had bashed her forehead against his jaw.

  “Good Chri
st,” he gasped, ignoring the throbbing pain in his cheek as he embraced Gaithlin with fierce protectiveness. “What in the hell…?”

  “People,” she breathed before he could finish. “Two people in the thicket… they startled me!”

  He swallowed hard, catching his breath. “And me,” he said wryly. “Did they hurt you?”

  She shook her head, only just realizing that her forehead ached painfully. “Nay, but they… they barked at me.”

  Both hands on her face, he tilted her head back to gain a better look at the lump already forming on her head. “I heard the barking,” he muttered, still breathless. “Was that them?”

  She nodded, wincing when he touched the knot. “Oh, Christian, they were horrible-looking. I have never seen such dirty, scrawny people.”

  He didn’t reply for a moment, scrutinizing her swelling nodule. “Like Malcolm?” he cocked an eyebrow, tearing his gaze away from her forehead in lieu of scanning their surroundings. “Mayhap he isn’t an orphan, after all. Mayhap he’s a scout for a group of filthy, scrawny, barking people.”

  She frowned, wincing yet again when she touched her bump. “I cannot believe that Malcolm would betray us in such a manner. Moreover, these people barked like animals. Malcolm can speak fairly well.”

  Christian was staring back towards their shack and his eyes abruptly narrowed. Gaithlin turned to follow the object of his focus, concerned and surprised when she beheld the source of his attention. Before she could speak, however, Christian was moving for Malcolm as the lad emerged from the trees.

  “He’d better do a good deal of speaking if he is going to convince me he is not a traitor,” Christian growled.

  Hand still to her head, Gaithlin dashed after Christian, grabbing hold of his arm. “Do not yell at him,” she admonished quietly. “You know how he reacts to you. Let me ask him.”

  “I have no intention of yelling,” Christian sounded calm enough. “But I vow to get to the bottom of his presence.”

  Gaithlin yanked on his arm, forcing him to look at her. When blazing pure-blue met with shards of ice, he came to a halt.

  “Let me speak with him,” Gaithlin reiterated sternly. “You will only upset him.”

  Christian sighed with exasperation, opening his mouth to refute her unfair statement when Malcolm suddenly marched up, his green eyes wide with apprehension.

  “I heard ye yellin’!” he said to Gaithlin. “Did the English hound hurt ye?”

  Both Gaithlin and Christian looked to him, their faces writ with surprise. After a moment, Christian’s brow furrowed with disgust at Malcolm’s suggestion as Gaithlin sank to one knee, gently grasping the boy by the arm.

  “Where did you go?” she asked with concern. “I was looking for you.”

  Malcolm, his eyebrows lowered in distrust, eyed Christian. “I din’ want tae be hit,” he said truthfully, refocusing on Gaithlin. “Why did ye yell?”

  “Because I was startled by two people I found to be hiding in the bushes,” she said, casting him a long, intense glance. “You wouldn’t know anything about them, would you? People who barked like dogs?”

  Malcolm nodded without hesitation. “I know ’em. They live not far from ’ere.”

  Christian knelt down beside Gaithlin, knowing the semblance of innocence when he observed it. The lad was obviously guiltless of treachery and he was wise enough to interpret the undeniable fact. “Who are they?” he asked.

  Malcolm scratched his lousy head. “I dunno know their names, but they are a man and his wife. They bark like dogs instead of speakin’.”

  Christian digested his words. “Are they trustworthy?”

  Malcolm moved from scratching his head to picking at his nose, an action Gaithlin quickly quelled. “They’ll steal anythin’. They were chased from the village because they try to steal from the merchants.”

  Christian rose to his feet, sighing heavily. “Just what we need,” he said as he scratched his head. “Thieves for neighbors.”

  “They wouldn’t hurt anyone, would they?” Gaithlin asked softly.

  Malcolm shook his head. “They keep tae themselves, mostly. But I have seen ’em eat a rabbit without killin’ it!”

  Gaithlin made a horrified face, glancing to Christian to note his own grim reaction. As long as Malcolm stated that the barking couple were incapable of harm, he would keep his apprehension at bay. Still, he was unnerved by the entire situation of dog-speaking, rabbit-eating, thievery-prone neighbors.

  Since he had no interest or intention of confronting the dog-people at the moment, he fully intended to make use of the time and manpower at his disposal. Returning his attention to Gaithlin and Malcolm, who were now standing hand-in-hand, he put his hands on his hips and sized them up determinedly.

  “Now,” he said firmly. “There is much to do before the day sets. Gae, can you transfer the contents of the iron pot into something else? Since I have no buckets, I have a need for the pot.”

  She nodded. “You brought several bowls and a smaller pot of your own. What do you need the pot for?”

  “To put mud in,” he looked to Malcolm. “I require your strength. Assist me in collecting my mud and I promise you an evening meal fit for King Henry himself. Then, on the morrow after we go to town, you can help me hunt. Is this satisfactory?”

  Malcolm’s eyes were wide with excitement and wonder. “Can I shoot the bow?”

  Christian pursed his lips. “That depends. Are you skilled?”

  Malcolm didn’t hesitate, smiling from ear to ear. “I have never shot an arrow in me life.”

  Gaithlin smiled broadly, turning her head so that Malcolm would not see her humor at his bold, innocent statement. Christian, too, fought off a grin and grunted harshly to cover his amusement. Reaching out, he tore the boy from Gaithlin’s grip.

  “No matter,” he said. “I shall teach you myself and you shall shoot finer than all the knights in England.”

  Giddy with delight, Malcolm was already dashing off for the shelter in order to gain the pot they would use to collect the mud. Gaithlin and Christian watched him skip across the grass, darting about with childish glee. After a moment, Christian turned to his captive, watching as the gentle breeze stirred her silken hair and feeling the familiar tug to his heart. A sensation he was coming to identify with Gaithlin.

  With a faint smile, he reached out and gently took her hand, and in silence they began to walk toward the hut.

  ‘Contentment is a state of mind,

  not limited to physical hedonism.

  True contentment comes from within.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. VI, p. CII

  CHAPTER TEN

  Since the whistling wind seemed inclined to approach from the west, Christian patched the western wall first. Spattered with gray, clayish mud, he and Malcolm made steady work between repairing the wall and returning to the stream for more materials. In fact, they made an efficient pair and Malcolm seemed to be gradually overcoming his fear and jealousy of the English warlord.

  Working side by side with the massive man, he endeavored to complete his task with excellence; he was eager to hear a word of praise from the knight. A gesture of male kindness he had never known, yet an instinctive need for the display all the same. When he stopped hating the man long enough, he realized he very much wanted to be like the Englishman; tall, strong and completely skilled in all he attempted.

  Christian knew the boy’s longing all too well. His father had been short on praise, quick to condemn or correct. Watching Malcolm mimic his movements as he spread the clay, or observing the lad’s eager disposition as they trekked to the creek for more mud, only served to remind him of his own discontented childhood. Thrust from an unappreciative father into a fostering household of those unconcerned with his mental stability had been nothing of a shock. He had simply learned not to depend on praise or approval to satisfy his ego.

  Instead, the lack of support had forced him to strive for an inner perfection imp
ervious to praise or scorn of any kind. He was only concerned with his own standards, not those of others, including his father. When his reputation had been solidified at a very young age, he found himself well beyond the delight of his father’s pride. Jean was only concerned how the rest of England viewed him as the father of the Demon; his true concern had never been in his son’s achievements, only family honor.

  Watching Malcolm work his little hands raw brought back the pain of the familiar young lad with a sickly mother and an insensitive father. And because he knew the pain so well, somehow he was determined that Malcolm not be subjected to the same anguish.

  So he lavished praise on the boy for a job well done, casting Gaithlin a knowing wink now and again as she helped keep the mud wet. The more he praised, the harder Malcolm worked. Even when the sun set and Gaithlin lit two oil lamps so they could make sense of the darkness, Malcolm continued to work as if he had no intention of stopping.

  The night progressed and an exhausted Gaithlin was reduced to sitting on an upended stump, wrapped in Christian’s cloak and yawning profusely as Malcolm and Christian continued their important work.

  “If th’ rain comes, won’t it wash away th’ mud?” Malcolm wanted to know, smeared from head to toe with gray muck.

  Christian finished patching a particularly large hole. “I do not expect it to rain tonight,” he said confidently. “Tomorrow, we shall begin digging up heaps of sod to cover the walls, and the sod shall protect the mud from the rain.”

  Malcolm’s brow furrowed. “But how will th’ sod stick?”

  Christian gazed down at the boy, an uncharacteristically gentle smile on his face. “We shall keep the mud damp, which shall cause the sod to stick. Eventually, the roots from the grassy sod shall dig into the mud and anchor it to the walls.”