Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  He tapped her gently but sternly under the chin, his icy orbs soft. “It is my money and I’ll spend it how I please.” Studying her delicious features, a mailed gauntlet gently stroked her cheek. “You do not have to worry about wealth or starvation or commodities any longer. I promise you will never again want for anything, Gae. I swear it.”

  Staring into the depths of his marvelously pale eyes, she believed every word spoken. The Demon had vowed to protect and support her, and she had no qualms in the acceptance of his words. Still, the concept of wealth was difficult to digest and she found herself looking away from him, her reluctant gaze raking over the frivolously taunting displays of ware.

  “Select several things,” he encouraged her again, noting that he had succeeded in casting a measure of doubt against her stubborn refusal. “I’ve a bit of business to attend to and upon my return I wish to see your arms full of silly, feminine, impractical items. Do you comprehend me?”

  She tore her gaze away from a pewter broach inlaid with a large semi-precious piece of quartz. “Business? Where are you going?”

  He kissed her on the forehead, intent on distracting her from his true objective. “Nowhere that would interest you.” Releasing her, he moved his mass between the tables and toward the door. “Select whatever you wish, Gae. As much as you wish.”

  She watched him maneuver sideways to exit the door; he was far too large to move through it conventionally. Successfully diverted from his “business”, she pondered his instructions with restrained excitement. As if she was still having difficultly believing his command. “Anything?”

  “Anything,” he repeated firmly. “In fact, I shall send Malcolm in to assist you.”

  Her slightly-stunned expression returned to the tables of goods. “Can I select something for Malcolm?”

  Christian cocked an eyebrow, motioning to the lad impatiently lingering outside by the ox. “Like what? Perfumes or cosmetics?” As Malcolm dashed into the shop, bumping into Christian’s bulk in the process, he jabbed a finger at Gaithlin. “I forbid you to shower the lad with feminine goods. If he is to return home with us, then it will be as a proper young man and not a glorified dandy.”

  Looking up from a vial of pink-colored perfume, she smiled radiantly. “He will return as a proper young lad, I promise. As befitting your adoptive son.”

  A smile tugging at his lips, Christian quit the shop. Entirely pleased that his dirt-poor captive appeared willing to succumb to the frivolous, useless items women seemed to cherish, he was better able to focus on a portion of important business he was eager to conduct. With Gaithlin properly diverted, he sought out the fat, dwarf-like man who had appointed himself the English knight’s shadow.

  “Lutey,” he said, marching up on the man. “I am in need of advisement and services. Can you help me?”

  The far merchant, his jowls quivering anxiously, bobbed his head in agreement. “If I can, m’laird. What d’ye wish?”

  “I need a messenger to carry a missive to Castle Douglas,” Christian’s voice was low. “I need a well-spoken man who can relay my instructions to Laird Roger Douglas. Do you know of such a man?”

  Lutey nodded eagerly. “M’son is capable. Ye met him earlier, at th’ stalls.”

  “I met two young men. To which do you refer?”

  “Peter, m’eldest lad. He’s a smart one.”

  Glancing casually over his shoulder, Christian peered into the open shelter window to make sure that Gaithlin and Malcolm were still grossly involved in their quest. Returning his attention to the rotund merchant, he nodded shortly. “Send the lad to me. I shall pay him well for his troubles.” When the merchant turned away obediently, Christian suddenly halted his departure. “And there is one more matter. Is there a church nearby?”

  Lutey thought a moment. “There’s an abbey in New Galloway, though it’s inhabited by reclusive nuns. Do ye need tae beg forgiveness, m’laird?”

  Christian’s expression was impassive, though he did not appreciate the probing question. “No priest?”

  The rounded merchant shook his head. “Nay. Th’ priests are at Sweetheart Abbey, near Glencaple on the Firth o’ Solway.”

  Christian thought a moment, clearly recollecting his Scot geography. “To the south of Castle Douglas?”

  “Aye, m’laird,” Lutey nodded.

  Satisfied with the information, Christian waved the man on his way. Lutey quickly shuffled off, nearly slipping on a soft section of urine-soaked mud as he made haste to complete the Englishman’s bidding.

  Christian leaned against his newly-purchased rig, watching the man lumber away and feeling deeply satisfied with the information and arrangements attainted. Tomorrow, Gaithlin would become his wife at the appropriately named Sweetheart Abbey, and his message would reach Castle Douglas without delay. Once the missive fell into the hands of Roger Douglas, it was a virtual guarantee that Jean St. John would be reading his son’s revelations by the following day.

  The missive containing the true extent of St. John-de Gare blood relations. But Christian would wait to relay the entire truth of the deeply intertwined relationship until the moment he met with his father personally. Some factors, imperative as they might be, were better left told in person.

  As the day approached noon, he waited for the merchant’s eldest son to heed the call of duty, and found himself pondering his father’s reaction to his missive. Clearly, the factor of mutual Douglas relations and the subsequent marriage of the Demon to Winding Cross’ heiress would cast a distinctly fresh light on the Feud that had been plaguing the two families for decades.

  As Christian had determined over the course of the past few days, the de Gares were far stronger in character than the shallow St. Johns. But, truly, he wondered just how deep the vein of shallow traits ran. Having never confronted his father on a matter of such predominant importance, he had no way of knowing the verity of St. John pettiness. But he was loathe in realizing that he would not be at all surprised should his father choose to disregard the blood ties altogether in lieu of his own agenda – victory at any price.

  Hearing Gaithlin’s faint laughter, he turned to peer over his shoulder at the merchant’s shop; Malcolm had placed some sort of filigree diadem on her brow and she was having an amusing time prancing about in parody of a royal relation. Still leaning casually against the rig, he smiled at her gaiety and returned his attention to the distant avenue, continuing to wait for the produce merchant’s son.

  He liked to hear her laugh. God only knew, she had been dealt very little in this life to find amusement with. And given the approaching circumstances, there could be very little in the future to rejoice over, either.

  His smile faded, thinking on the chaos and battles that lay ahead, abhorring the fact that he would be pulling Gaithlin into the depths of the vortex like a weighty anchor. But he knew that there was no other course if they were to achieve what they both so obviously desired – each other.

  He didn’t even know if Gaithlin realized she needed him; certainly, she had thanked him for showing her a measure of freedom that she had never known to exist and she had furthermore proclaimed her contentment within his company. And he had been positive that he had read a mirror of his own emotions within the depths of her deep blue eyes on more than one occasion; occasions that were coming more and more frequently until they seemed to run headlong into each other. No more division of sentiment. No more division of blood and hatred and legacy.

  A large Scot with a crown of wild red hair rounded the corner of a distant structure and headed directly toward him. Struggling to pull himself from his train of thought, Christian recognized the elder son of the produce merchant. As the man advanced in anticipation of the message he would carry, Christian was unsuccessful in completely clearing his thoughts and found himself wondering if he would be forced to choose between Gaithlin and his St. John inheritance at some point in the future. He wondered if his enraged father would force him to give up the only woman he had ever remotel
y cared for in lieu of being granted his substantial endowment.

  Whether or not Gaithlin would be his wife, it was not out of the realm of possibility that his father would force him to make a choice. But it was not a difficult one.

  Listening to Gaithlin’s throaty laughter once again, Christian realized there was nothing on this earth worth relinquishing the woman he had seen on that distant summer day, swimming in the shimmering lake with all of the grace and beauty of a mythical mermaid. A woman who had unknowingly endeared herself to his soul and had branded herself upon his heart.

  As of that warm August day, his choice had been made for him.

  There was no turning back.

  ‘I set the Wheels of Fate in motion myself,

  suspecting of the chaos I had unleashed.

  Like the ungrateful child that I was,

  there was no swaying my convictions.

  There is no truer loyalty that Love.’

  ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

  Vl. VII, p. CIX

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “I told you that your daughter was in the company of Christian St. John. Did you not believe me, my lady?”

  Alicia knew Lady Maggie to be irritated with the apparent lack of faith in her information; furthermore, she could hardly blame the woman. Short of calling her a liar, she had not been discreet with her assessment of the lady’s covertly-delivered details and had even gone so far as to command Eldon to relay the painstaking factors of his trip to St. Esk. Seated in fuming silence, Maggie had listened impatiently to the knight’s deliberate accounting.

  “ ’Twas not a matter of disbelief of acceptance, my lady,” Alicia answered calmly. “My husband merely thought it wise to confirm your information before we acted accordingly. And, as we discovered, you were entirely correct.”

  Maggie’s gaze was cool on the ruddy, compact woman seated across from her. “I see,” she said calmly, realizing that to become angry with the de Gare lack of faith would only serve to hinder the achievement of her true motive. And her true motive, of course, was to convince Winding Cross’ army to ride northward to save their heiress.

  Shifting on the splintering chair, she tried to hide her irritation, focusing instead on the message she was prepared to deliver. With twenty of Kelvin’s men waiting to escort her back to Forrestoak, she was concerned that lurking St. John spies would identify her borrowed escort and return the information to their liege. And a suspicious Jean St. John would not be a healthy ingredient to her vengeful stew. Daintily, she cleared her throat and focused on the older woman.

  “Certainly I do not fault you for confirming my information, for it would be a natural path of progression,” she said quietly. “However, as I promised, I have located the whereabouts of your daughter through great hazard on my part. Jean St. John was unwilling to divulge the information and I fear I had to compromise both my integrity and my life in order to obtain your daughter’s location.”

  Alicia’s gaze held steady, although she didn’t believe her slickly embellished story for a minute. She could hardly imagine that a woman as shrewd as Margaret du Bois would be placed unwillingly in a position that would compromise both her integrity and livelihood; somehow, she suspected the woman’s reputation and integrity to be jeopardized already.

  “Then I would thank you for your determination and personal sacrifice,” she managed to say, still disturbed by the woman’s motives in the overall scheme of Gaithlin’s abduction. How could she benefit from all of this? “We are indebted to you.”

  Maggie offered a thin, entirely feigned smile. “Not at all, my lady. As I stated before, my reward is in knowing that I have prevented yet another atrocity committed by the Demon of Eden,” she removed her heavily-scented kerchief from her silk purse, bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply as if the scent would fortify her spirit and courage.

  Alicia could smell the expensive perfume from where she sat, feeding her irritation considerably. Had the woman not truly possessed valuable information regarding Gaithlin’s captivity, she would have taken great pleasure in personally removing her from Alex’s solar. “I understand completely. Would you tell me, then, where my daughter is?”

  In her crumbling chair, Maggie’s smile turned genuine. “She is in Galloway,” she announced quietly, watching Alicia’s face turn a peculiar shade of yellow. “On Douglas lands, I believe. Jean is expecting a missive from Christian within the next few days that will definitively name the precise location with the intention of sending support into Scotland to fortify Christian’s holding. If I may suggest, my lady, your spies would do well to wait for the St. John posse to ride northward after receiving the Demon’s missive. They can lead you directly to your daughter.”

  Alicia continued to stare at the woman. Incapable of answering for the moment, the softly uttered words of her informant rolled with thunderous propulsion through the weary depths of her astonished mind. Douglas lands. Why on earth had the Demon taken her to Douglas lands? Alicia had no knowledge that the St. Johns were allied with the Douglas; if anything, they seemed to spurn Scot alliances in favor of more powerful English ties. As most of the north disregarded the wild Scots, so did the St. Johns. And so had the de Gares.

  An arrogant ignorance, truly. Alex had possessed little love for Alicia’s Scot bloodlines, as had his father. Alicia’s grandmother had been a Douglas, the lovely and tall Calandra Douglas. In fact, Alicia believed that Gaithlin inherited her height and clumsiness from her statuesque, beautiful grandmother. But a resemblance to the Scot was the only acknowledged link between the Clan Douglas and the House of de Gare.

  Alicia well knew that all Scot ties had been severed nearly the moment her grandmother had married into the wealthy Percys. Then, bearing a daughter who married into another household further had diluted the link, a union that had resulted in Alicia’s birth. By the time Calandra’s granddaughter married into the House of de Gare, the Scot blood ties were all but dissolved, forgotten in the distant past.

  A link she suddenly wished to be a steady, sustaining bond. Surely then, she would be able to regain her Gaithlin with the Clan Douglas on her side.

  However… if the Demon of Eden was knowingly nestled within the Galloway territories, certainly it was not coincidence. The Douglas were a protective clan and an intruder to their territories would not be disregarded. If Christian St. John had been offered haven within the shielding confines of the Galloway expanse, then there was far more to the situation than met the eye. Mayhap the St. Johns were indeed allied with the Douglas.

  Baffled and apprehensive, Alicia forced herself from her train of thought to focus on Maggie’s expectant face. The woman was anticipating a reply to her military suggestion and Alicia struggled to form the correct response.

  “Clearly, that would be a wise course of action,” she said hoarsely, eager to dismiss the woman. “My… husband will take your advisement into counsel. If there is nothing else, my lady….”

  Sensing the conversation was concluded and eager to be free of Winding Cross’ mossy and forbidden presence, Maggie rose from the ancient chair and scarcely hid her disdain as she brushed the splinters and dust from her expensive gown.

  “Nay, my lady, there is nothing else,” she said, eyeing the round woman with the cat-like eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, the tone forthcoming from the red-painted mouth was considerably softer. “I hope you are successful in retrieving your daughter. I pray my assistance has not been in vain.”

  As Eldon emerged like a phantom protector from the dank depths of the solar to escort the pampered woman to the door, Alicia fixed her with as heady a stare as she could manage. “As do I,” she replied quietly. “You have our undying gratitude, Lady Margaret. ’Tis my fervent hope that we are able to repay your kindness, someday.”

  By releasing Christian from his captive, your repayment will be complete. Maggie’s mind churned with the obvious reply as she bowed her head graciously to her hostess. She had completed her mission; now i
t was time for inherent hatred and natural malice to take its course.

  Her eagerness to be gone from Winding Cross gained intensity as she crossed the room with the large knight on her heels. By the time she hit the Norman-style archway that led in to the shabby foyer, she was nearly running.

  Alicia heard the footfalls as they faded against the cold stone. Rooted to the spot, she continued to stare at the dim archway as if pondering the course the circumstance had unwittingly taken. The morbid realization that Gaithlin was in much deeper trouble that she had originally believed.

  “She is a lying bitch,” Uriah’s voice was a low rumble from the shadowed alcove next to the hearth. “She is a spy sent from Jean. The entire story smells of a trap.”

  Alicia broke from her train of thought, too caught up in her turmoil to caution the old knight to take care with his language. After a lengthy moment, she turned in the ancient warrior’s direction.

  “She was correct in her information the first time,” she sighed with defeat, her eyes dull and distant. “I have no choice, Uriah. If I am to retrieve my daughter, then I must have faith in her information.”

  Uriah snorted, raking dirty fingers through his equally dirty hair. “I still believe it to be a trap,” he suddenly paused, glancing to his weary, emotionally distraught lady. “Wasn’t your grandmother a Douglas?”

  Alicia’s jaw visibly ticked as she once again struggled against the verity of the shocking revelation. “That was a long time ago,” she said hoarsely, squaring her shoulders as if determined to disregard her turmoil in favor of a decisive course of action. “You will assemble the men, Uriah. I intend to take the woman’s advice and set spies to monitor Jean’s movements. When his men move northward to support the Demon’s position, we shall follow. The element of surprise will be on our side, of course, and I anticipate victory even now.”

  Uriah rose from his chair, a hairy eyebrow cocked at his mistress. “Victory against the Demon?”