Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  His instinct was to quit the shelter, only to return when, and if, his calm was restored. But gazing at Gaithlin’s shaking body, he couldn’t seem to accomplish the necessary actions. She had confessed Winding Cross’ darkest secret, a slip though it might have been, and was understandably ashamed. Ashamed that she had been unable to contain the truth until she desired to use it against him.

  A cold, calculating blanket of doom settled about Christian’s shoulders. It was an aching stench so powerful, so heady, that it nauseated him. Sickening him to the realization that Lady Gaithlin de Gare might not have been as naive as she appeared. A realization that, mayhap, she had been using him all along, playing to his sympathies so that he might forget his true directive in life – to quash the de Gares.

  Good Christ, he had almost forgotten his motive. He wanted to forget his motive in lieu of a delicious future within his captive’s arms. She knew his wants.

  God, he felt like a fool.

  “Is there anything else you have neglected to tell me?” his voice was hoarse with emotion. “Tell me now, or God help me, you will not be pleased with my reaction should I discover it on my own.”

  Sobbing abating, Gaithlin listened to the low rumble of his voice, never more terrified of anything in her life. Wiping at her face, she forced herself to calm; he had every right to be angry with her. Certainly, he had every right to feel the humiliation of the St. Johns as they discovered themselves to be matched against a woman.

  Realizing there was nothing left for her to do but be completely honest about all else she had attempted to hide and pray the Demon’s mercy was a giving entity, she sat up on the rushes, turning to face him.

  “I have no dowry,” she said, her sultry voice scratchy and faint. “Winding Cross has no money to speak of. We haven’t for years. The St. John blockades have managed to cut off the majority of our supply lines and we have hovered in the bowels of poverty since before I was born.” Taking a breath for courage and strength, she continued; she couldn’t bear to look at him. “All that is left of a once-powerful army are fifty men-at-arms and two knights; my mother took up arms ten years ago when my father was killed by a St. John arrow and has fought in his stead ever since.”

  Christian watched her, feeling more confusion and grief than he ever imagined possible. A small army, led by a woman, had managed to hold off hordes of St. John soldiers for years. Had the situation not been so terribly shameful from a St. John standpoint, it would have been a most admirable feat. But it wasn’t so much the fact that a woman had routed Jean St. John and his mighty son; it was more the fact that Gaithlin had kept the information from him.

  But in the same breath, he was fully cognizant that the Gaithlin de Gare he had come to know over the course of the past few days was a remarkably strong woman, full of bravery and wit and inner strength. Even in the face of her fear and humiliation, she had shown amazing fortitude. And she had always, always, been brutally honest in every sense of the word. Even when he did not want to know the truth.

  Gazing into her beautiful, tense face, he could not honestly bring himself to believe that she had been keeping Alex’s death from him as some sort of secret weapon, a private joke she intended to enjoy alone. In faith, the disclosure of his death could only serve to weaken her cause and as he reflected on that thought, he came to realize that she had most likely withheld the information for that very reason.

  She didn’t want the Demon to believe Winding Cross to be any weaker than it already was. Still, he had to know the truth. He had to hear it from her lips.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” he asked hoarsely.

  She shrugged weakly, staring at her hands. “I did not want you to know,” she whispered, bringing her gaze to meet his icy orbs. There were tears welling in the deep blue depths. “Why do you think I was so adamant that you not blackmail Winding Cross with my abduction? You would have discovered the truth of the matter, that there was no Alex de Gare to bargain with. With my father gone, what is left between Eden and complete victory? For the sake of my family’s honor, I had to maintain the illusion of de Gare strength for as long as I was able.”

  He was still crouched on his haunches, watching her with rigid intensity. Good Christ, her reasoning was completely logical and he could hardly dispute her loyalties. Weak with an emotional turmoil such as he had never known, he sank to his buttocks, resting on the cold dirt floor. His expression, his entire demeanor, was laced with fatigue and confusion.

  “When did you plan on telling me?” he finally asked. “I would have found out eventually.”

  Cold and tired and utterly beaten, Gaithlin averted her gaze. “What does it matter? You know now that there is nothing left of Winding Cross. You are in possession of her heiress and soon your father will use me to blackmail my mother.” Weakly, she lay on her side again, away from him; Merciful Heavens, she could no longer bear to look at the man. “And I lied on another account, sire. My mother will indeed sacrifice Winding Cross to keep me safe. She will turn it all over willingly in the hopes that your father will spare my life. So, you see, Winding Cross was yours the moment you whisked me from St. Esk, whether or not you realized your feat.”

  He stared at her, his face pallid in the weak light. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so defeated. He found he couldn’t reply to her statement, merely capable of dully gazing upon her horizontal form as she lay deathly still within the confines of their musty shelter. The discovered revelations and the ensuing emotional upheaval was almost too much for him to endure.

  “I am sure you realize that there is no need to marry me any longer,” Gaithlin’s voice was a slurred whispered above the snapping embers. “I can bring nothing to this marriage, as you have already acquired Winding Cross. Pray be merciful in your judgment of my heritage and actions, Demon.”

  He continued to gaze at her a moment longer. Gaithlin heard his joints pop as he rose from the floor, his soft boot falls as they crossed the room. The old door creaked open, then shut softly behind him.

  Gaithlin lay there and wept.

  *

  Eden was certainly an appropriate name for the fortress labeled the Gem of Cumbria. Within the gray-stoned walls of the mighty fortress, there was music and laughter and food for all.

  Certainly, the grand hall of Eden was greater than any house in the north. With two six-foot hearths filled to capacity with flaming embers, a collection of minstrels huddled in the open-beamed loft above, peppering the merry crowd of diners with their assortment of musical delights.

  And none more merry nor more appreciative of the finery than Lady Margaret du Bois. Seated between Jean and Quinton, she was in the process of delightfully sucking the meat from a bone Quinton had offered her. Game fowl, her favorite, as her grunts of pleasure and giggles of contentment conveyed. Quinton was so aroused by her sucking noises that he had nearly soiled himself. Twice.

  And Maggie knew of his excitement all too well; Quinton always had the same reaction to her, although he had refrained from forcing his attentions purely for the fact that she was pledged to his elder brother, whom he adored. Had she been anyone else’s betrothed, he would have bedded her repeatedly and taken great delight in it. As it was, watching her luscious red lips devour a tiny portion of fowl nearly drove him off the brink of lust-induced madness.

  Jean pretended to ignore the sexual games going on between his younger son and his heir’s intended, weakly attempting to convince himself that Maggie was simply being true to her usual, over-affectionate character. Since the moment she had arrived this morn, unannounced and escorted by a company of Howard soldiers, Quinton had been completely blinded by her beauty and charm. He always had been. Jean wondered what the future held for two brothers both smitten with the same woman and tried not to dwell on the darker implications.

  “Maggie darling,” he said finally, unwilling to allow the grunting and teasing to progress further lest Quinton be forced into irrational actions. “You have not yet mentioned the p
urpose of your visit. As I told you this morn, Christian is away on business for me and shan’t return for some time.”

  Distracted from Quinton’s flushed face, Maggie’s expression was instantly serious. Wiping her fingers on a towel, she leaned close to Jean. Too close.

  “And as I mentioned briefly, I am aware of Christian’s absence,” she said, her eyes suggestively roving the older man. “I believe I alluded to the fact that I was desperate to speak with you regarding your eldest son.”

  Jean gazed down his nose at her, fighting the natural urge to put proper distance between them. She took great delight in her feminine skills, skills she used on her future father and brother-in-law with tremendous glee. Had she not come from such an unbelievably wealthy and prominent family, Jean would have thought her to be the precise essence of a soiled trollop. Certainly, he couldn’t think so poorly of Christian’s future wife. But, God, there were times….

  “Would it be possible to retreat to your solar, my lord?” she asked prettily, batting her eyelashes. “What I say is most important and I do not wish to be interrupted.”

  With every swish of the long-lashes, Jean felt as if he were being whipped by some unseen, force. Sometimes he didn’t know if he should laugh at her or run for his life; he wasn’t blinded by her as his sons were. To him, she was simply the means by which to link the St. Johns to greater power and wealth. But that didn’t omit the fact that he was human, and he didn’t want to be alone with her.

  He drank from his pewter chalice, his eyes perusing the room even as Maggie gazed seductively at him. Down the table, Jasper St. John guffawed like a wild man as a host of young servant girls surrounded him, feeding his considerable ego and tactfully ignorant of his lacking smarts.

  Jean watched his brother’s son a moment before swallowing his fine red wine, wondering if he would have been wiser to have wed the du Bois woman to his simpleton nephew. He would still have the fortune, but none of the direct linkage.

  But whatever his regrets or lack of foresight where it pertained to Lady Maggie, he refused to ponder them now. Forcing himself to focus on the woman, he cast her a thin smile. “I believe we can speak quite adequately here,” he said. “No one will interrupt us, save Quinton, and I suspect he should like to hear what you have to say about his brother.”

  Fully prepared to launch into her grand performance, Maggie graciously agreed to his reasoning and logic. Wresting to rekindle her courage, she drew in a deep, if not dainty, breath. She knew what she had to do. She had been waiting for this moment.

  “As you say, my lord,” she said softly, glancing about the room filled with the stench of roasting meat and musty bodies as she collected her thoughts. “But I believe it only fair to warn you that you will not like what I have to say.”

  “Is that so?” Jean was well into his third cup of wine. “Then I am amply fortified. Please continue.”

  Making sure that Quinton was attentively hovering over her right shoulder, Maggie leaned inconspicuously towards Jean. “I saw Christian several days ago in the company of a woman,” she said softly. “A woman he claimed to be his captive.”

  Jean’s tolerant expression vanished. No one save his sons and a few men-at-arms knew of Gaithlin de Gare’s capture, a delightful bit of blackmail he had been savoring for several days now. His greatest secret, lodged in the wilds of Scotland with his Demon Seed, never again to see the light of day as Jean played God with her family and future. A task he had taken particular sadistic glee in executing.

  But his abduction of the de Gare wench had yet to become public knowledge; at least, he had been assured by his spies and officers that his secret was still intact. Until now; his eyes, blinding shards of Nordic blue, suddenly blazed at the woman beside him and for a brief moment, he could see the flicker of fear glimmering in her eyes. A glimmer that was far more satisfying than any sexual trick she could perform.

  “How in the devil do you know this?” Jean’s voice was a growl. “Where did you see them?”

  Maggie could feel Quinton’s body heat behind her; discreetly, she moved away from Jean and gently pressed herself into Quinton as if seeking protection from his father’s anger.

  “Please, my lord, you must calm yourself,” she implored weakly. “There is far more to tell and you will send me into fits with your vicious temper.”

  Temples throbbing, Jean saw though his haze of hatred clearly enough to know the verity of Maggie’s words. Forcing down his abhorrence when it came to the mere mention of the de Gare name, he took another swallow of wine with snappish patience.

  “Speak, then.”

  Maggie eyed the man, knowing well his enmity of the de Gares and not particularly surprised with his reaction. In fact, his instability when it came to his most hated foe would make her mission to exact revenge upon Christian that much easier. Already, she could taste the chaos she was about to create.

  “Your son and his captive paused at Forrestoak Manor in the Howard Territories for a night of feasting and merriment,” she went on quietly, quickly. “Lady Carolyn and I happened to be at Forrestoak visiting Lady Carolyn’s brother, Kelvin, when Christian and the de Gare woman arrived. Truthfully, my lord, I will not mince words when I say that I was shocked to discover my intended with another woman, even if he did declare her to be his prisoner. And I was even more shocked with the manner in which they responded to one another. Certainly not how a captive should react to her captor.”

  Stunned, Jean simply stared at her, unsure how to respond. Unsure if he wanted to know exactly what she meant. Confusion swept him, a momentary lapse that deadened his tongue. But when he waded through the befuddlement, he found he was better able to control his loathing towards the House of de Gare in lieu of discovering why Marble-Head Maggie found Christian’s behavior to be so reprehensible.

  “And how did they respond to one another?” he asked.

  Maggie made sure to meet his eye, delaying her answer as she settled more firmly against Quinton. A delicate white hand interlaced itself within the hearty folds of Quinton’s large palm, purely for effect. As if she were groping for the strength to confess.

  “Like lovers.”

  It wasn’t the answer Jean was expecting. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. After a moment’s deliberation, his brow furrowed and the color drained from his face. Maggie thought he, quite literally, might become ill.

  “What… what do you mean?” he rasped.

  Maggie felt the advantage swing heavily in her favor. Embellishing the part of the jilted betrothed, she dabbed daintily at her eye. “Exactly that, my lord. Christian fed her like a child, held her hand, smiled gently at her and even kissed her,” she took a deep breath. “And… and they shared a chamber. Dare that is all I tell you, my lord.”

  Jean’s jaw swung open in disbelief. He was scarcely aware when he rose from his chair, knocking over the chalice of wine that had rested near the edge of the table. His ice-blue eyes were riveted to Maggie as if they were somehow physically attached, digging into her tender flesh with claws of demanding anguish.

  “You will tell me everything,” he nearly shouted, oblivious to the audience he was attracting.

  “Father!” Quinton hissed, acutely aware of their listeners. “Lower your voice, please. You will simply frighten Maggie with your raging.”

  Jean heard his youngest son’s plea, but it did little to quell his mounting outrage. Cold shock washed over him as he pondered the possibilities Maggie was suggesting. Certainly, Christian would not have treated an enemy as a lover. And especially not a de Gare. His eldest son was exceedingly clever, and if he had shown an ounce of mercy towards the wench, then he must have possessed good reason.

  With that thought, Jean forced himself to calm. Taking a deep breath, he haltingly regained his seat and bellowed for more wine.

  “You must be mistaken, Maggie,” he said as evenly as he could muster, struggling to maintain his composure.

  Wide-eyed, Maggie watched Jean’s wo
oden movements as he consumed yet another chalice of wine. The man had always been quick of temper and not particularly rational at times, but she had been fortunate enough through the years to never have become personally acquainted with his wrath. To realize that she might not have been entirely wise in her scheme or methods was not a factor she would entertain at the moment; she had a task to complete. Knowing how desperately Jean St. John hated the House of de Gare would work to her advantage. And she would carry out the performance no matter how ugly the situation became.

  “Christian brought the girl to Kelvin’s manse during a terrible storm,” she said quietly, eyeing the smoldering father. “Certainly, I do not know why the de Gare woman was with him and I have little interest other than protecting the strength of my marriage contract to your son. Kelvin will swear to the allegations that Christian and his prisoner were most affectionate with one another.”

  “Christian would never show affection towards a de Gare,” Quinton scoffed, finding the entire idea ludicrous. “Your jealousy has blinded you, Maggie. The lady is Christian’s captive, certainly not what you are suggesting. It’s pure foolishness!”

  “I know what I saw, Quinton,” Maggie said, incensed. “I know fondness when it is thrust into my face. In fact, Christian was more than willing to flaunt his whore….”

  “Enough, Maggie,” Jean put up a sharp hand, his face pallid with the level of emotion he was experiencing. “I shall hear no more of this slander. The Demon of Eden is loyal to the death and to even consider that he would show a measure of tenderness towards a de Gare is purely imaginative. Clearly you were mistaken.”

  Rebuked and mildly insulted, Maggie stared at her primly folded hands. “There is one way to find out,” she said, her soft voice unmistakably biting. “Seek him out and discover for yourself. I believe he told me he was taking the girl to Scotland; certainly, you would know his location if he were acting on your orders to abduct her, my lord.”

  Jean’s ice-blue gaze found her lowered head, wondering why he had ever agreed to a marriage contract between Margaret du Bois and his eldest son at the first. Even those years back, she had been a liar and a whore. For the first time in his life he pondered the weight of her wealth against the hollowness of her soul. Until now, the coinage had always overwhelmed her shortcomings. He wasn’t entirely certain that was still the truth.