England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection
Page 169
The longer he stared at her, the more confused and frustrated he became. Good Christ, he realized that above his arrogance and bafflement he was actually ashamed of himself. He’d never been ashamed of anything in his life and the words expressing sorrow for his actions did not come easily, especially to a de Gare.
“I apologize if I frightened you,” he said gruffly. “It was not my intent.”
Sniffling loudly, she squared her shoulders and faced him. “Pray, what was your intent? To degrade me, humiliate me, force your hated enemy to bow to your superior strength and will so you could return to Eden and boast of your conquest over the de Gare heiress? Is that what you intended, Demon?”
He sighed, annoyance joining his other emotions. “If my goal was to humiliate or degrade you, I would have done so by now,” the flicker of an armored gauntlet amongst the leaves caught his attention and he bent down, retrieving his hastily-discarded gloves. “And as for returning to Eden, I do not expect to return home for some time.”
Her gaze cooled, her eyes smoking with curiosity. She had asked him at the onset what he intended to do with her and he had rebuffed her request. Suddenly, she saw an opportunity to seek her answer.
“Why not?”
“Because I will be with you.”
“You are not taking me to Eden?”
“Nay.”
“Then where are we going?”
He glanced at her as he secured his left gauntlet. “Does it matter?”
She nodded, slowly, trying to keep her manner calm. She was not so naive that she did not notice he responded more easily to her when she was rational and collected. “It does. I should like to know where I am to spend the remainder of my life.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Who is to say you are going to spend the rest of your life a captive?”
She held his gaze a moment before looking away, wandering to a rotted stump amongst the overgrowth. The moment she planted her damp bottom upon the wood, she realized her fatigue was great and her shoulders sagged with resignation and sorrow.
“Henri St. John captured my grandfather twenty years ago and held him captive,” her voice was faint. “We never saw him again.”
Christian well remembered the capture of Glenn de Gare. Although he had been fostering at Ludlow at the time, being a lad of eleven, he would never forget the triumphant missive he received from his father announcing the capture of their greatest de Gare enemy. A man who had been sentenced to the vault of Eden and who had died in the nauseating hole less than a year later.
His rotted corpse was still chained to the walls of the lower level, a grisly trophy for the St. Johns to savor. In fact, his father still spoke to the cadaver now and again to announce St. John victories. But gazing at Gaithlin’s lowered head, Christian was unwilling to divulge the fate of her grandfather. As a loyal St. John, he should have been pleased to announce the fact; but as the heir to Eden, weary of a foolish ancestral war, he was reluctant to be a party to her pain.
“Surely you are not old enough to remember your grandfather,” he said quietly, hoping to divert the subject.
She shrugged, rubbing her arms for warmth as the rain in the canopy increased. “I was two years old when he was captured. I remember images of the man, his gentle voice, but naught else.”
Christian cocked an eyebrow. “You are twenty years and two? Good Christ, wench; how is it that you are so old and unmarried?”
Sharply, her head came up and he saw a flash of fury in the beautiful blue depths. “No one wants to marry a woman whose only dowry is a seventy-year-old Feud and a battered fortress.”
Abruptly, she averted her gaze, hoping he would allow the subject to rest. She didn’t like speaking on her married state, knowing she was far too old and too poor to be considered a viable marriage prospect. The seventy-year war with Eden had not only left the de Gares laced with hatred and bitterness, but it had left them poverty-bound as well. No one wanted a destitute heiress.
Depressed with her gloomy thoughts, she could feel his stare against her back. An inquisitive, piercing stare that annoyed and unnerved at the same time. Emotions on the surface as a result of their exchange, she found herself lingering on a particular issue that had seen well to vex her from the start. A degrading mention he continued to utilize, a term she considered offensive. Strange how above all her other concerns, one particular subject would come into focus.
Moving away from the topic of her dowry and marriage prospects, she shifted the subject to the center of her annoyance. “There is something else I would like to say.”
“Say it.”
“Do not call me wench. I do not like it.”
His eyebrows rose as if the thought had never occurred to him. “You do not like it?”
She slanted him a long gaze. “You asked me not to address you as a bastard, and I graciously complied. I will ask you not to call me wench.”
He stared at her a moment longer, wondering why her quietly uttered request sounded suspiciously like a demand. But she was correct; he had asked her not to refer to him in a derogatory manner and in spite of their heated exchange at the time, she had obeyed his command.
It began to occur to Christian that the de Gare woman responded in kind when handled rationally. Since she had been willing to comply with his request not to address him as a bastard, he was inclined to react in the same manner. He was, after all, a chivalrous knight bound by his brotherhood vows to respect and nurture the fairer sex. Even a de Gare.
“Very well,” his voice was quiet. “I will not address you by the term if you find it offensive.”
She gazed at him in the fading light, her shivers of chill having returned since Christian’s heated body was no longer providing her with his searing warmth. Even when she looked away, pale and cold now that the blazing lust between them was doused, he continued to stare at her and wondered why he was so utterly preoccupied with her.
He would have been content to stand and gaze at her all night, lost to his puzzling thoughts, but she quaked violently and began rubbing her arms again to stay warm and he was jolted from his thoughts by her misery.
“I shall build a fire,” he mumbled, glancing at the wet ground and knowing a fire would be unable to compete with the wet foliage. Several possibilities crossed his mind, but he found himself focusing on one particular thought; he was traversing Howard lands. Three miles to the north and west sat the mighty fortified manor of Kelvin Howard, a childhood friend. He’d not seen Kelvin in ten years but he knew for a fact that the man would gladly put him up for the night.
Christian’s gaze moved to Gaithlin again, shivering uncontrollably on the rotted stump and startled himself with the idea of gathering her against him purely for warmth. The very thought was foolish for two very logical reasons; she would probably accuse him of attempting to rape her again and, more than likely, he would be unable to control his lusty urges were she nestled against him. Therefore, her accusation would be true.
“I know of a manor not far from here where we could spend the night,” his rich, beautiful voice was low. “I will take you there on two conditions, my lady; that you swear you will not attempt to escape, nor will you inform anyone of your true relationship to me.”
So cold that her lips were blue, Gaithlin met his serious gaze. The thought of spending the night in a soft bed, warm and dry, was infinitely appealing, but the natural urge to resist a St. John was a powerful force to be reckoned with. Deep within her heart, she saw her situation for what it was; she was his captive. There was no escape. But the foolish, less rational portion of her personality was not so easily subdued. How could she give in to a St. John with so weak a struggle?
“My lady?” he asked. “Do you comprehend me?”
She did. Too well. Averting her gaze, she nodded feebly. “Aye,” she whispered. “I understand.”
“Do I have your word of honor?”
She cocked an eyebrow, meeting his inquisitive gaze. “Would you believe a de Gare?”
Fair enough. A violent seizure of chill embraced her and she hugged herself fiercely, waiting for the quaking to stop. Christian watched her as impassively as he could, again fighting off the strong urge to warm her chilled body. He turned and marched across the wet compost towards his charger. As the horse tore up a bush of plump green leaves, he dug into his saddlebags. Drawing forth a heavy black cloak of wool and fleece, he returned to his shivering captive.
“Here.”
He swung the massive cloak about her shoulders, wrapping her in the yards of fabric as well as a mother swaddling a babe. Too cold and too tired to protest, Gaithlin allowed herself to be buffeted back and forth by the power of his gruff concerns.
When she was wrapped as tightly as a newborn infant, he pulled her to her feet and silently returned the mummy-like form to the feeding destrier. Without a word, he lifted her effortlessly onto the saddle and retrieved his helm before mounting. This time, he sat behind her.
Gaithlin grunted when he shifted in the saddle, pulling her across his hard thighs. But she was far more comfortable than she had been all day; wrapped in his deliciously warm cloak, her blood was warming and her shivers fading. Christian pulled her against his chest with one arm and positioned his helm with the other, gathering his reins when his head protection was secured. As he prepared to spur his charger on, her soft voice stopped him.
“Aren’t you going to tie my hands?” her voice was muffled within the folds of his cloak.
He glanced at her, noting the faint gleam in her eye. “Should I?”
To his surprise, she actually grinned and he was enchanted; as beautiful as her mouth was in repose, her smile changed her face dramatically. Christian found himself staring at her mouth as his horse trampled its way out of the underbrush.
“You have wrapped me so tightly that I do not believe tying my hands to be necessary,” she said.
He grunted, his only response as his charger regained his footing on the muddy road. The rain was pounding harder than before as the clouds above darkened with impending nightfall. Within the hour they would be at Kelvin Howard’s manor and Christian found himself looking forward to the evening ahead. Good food, wine, warmth… he ignored the fact that he was looking forward to an evening attempting to become acquainted with his mortal enemy.
They hadn’t traveled a quarter mile when Christian felt his mummified captive go limp against him. Casting her a lingering glance, her peaceful, pale face slumbered wearily beneath the hood of his cloak and he shifted her gently to better cradle her against his chest. With a lengthy sigh, one of contentment and pensive reflection for the future, Christian would have been content to hold the black-shrouded figure for the rest of his natural life.
It was a peculiar satisfaction that seemed to infect them both. As the wind howled and the rain came down in buckets, the Lady Gaithlin de Gare had never slept so peacefully in her entire life.
Shielded in the arms of the enemy.
*
Forrestoak Manor was a massive fortified structure encompassing enough square footage to have made an adequate castle. Made of stone that had developed a deep green color for the moss that grew upon its surface, it was nestled deep within the heart of the surrounding trees.
Christian recollected coming here on a few occasions as a child while the place was still being built, listening to Lord Howard boast at the greatness of the structure intended for his only son. While Jean had been mildly impressed by his ally’s fortune and expansion, inspecting the fortress at Lord Howard’s insistence, Christian and Kelvin had run amuck in the surrounding woods, chasing down rabbits and fox.
Christian smiled as he remembered those days. He and Kelvin had always been particularly companionable, even as youths, fostering for opposing households. They had met occasionally at tournaments, stealing away from their duties to peruse the activities and pilfer apples. Aye, he liked Kelvin and was looking forward to seeing the man once again. Ten years was a very long time to remain distant.
The massive double gate loomed ahead and Christian could see the sentries on the narrow walls. As he announced himself to the shouted query, Gaithlin was startled awake by his booming voice.
“Where are we?” she bolted upright, smacking her head against the side of his helm.
Although he hadn’t been injured in the least by her reflexive action, he instinctively winced on her behalf and attempted to remove the hood of the cloak to see if she drew blood. But Gaithlin would have no part of his mothering; batting his hands away, she rubbed the violated spot.
“I asked where we are, Demon.”
He eyed her, his concern for her injury fading. “Do not call me Demon. I do not like it.”
She heard her own words and ceased to massage the growing lump on her head. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she cocked a saucy eyebrow. Since childhood, she had awoken from sleep to a disagreeable mood and today, unfortunately, was to be no exception.
“Then what would you have me call you?” she asked.
He matched her raised-eyebrow expression, noting her cross disposition with a degree of disapproval. But as he gazed at her, a shout on the wall came back to him and the giant gates began to swing open. Christian tore his eyes away from her, focusing on the gate.
“My Dearest,” he rumbled. “For tonight, you shall call me My Dearest.”
Gaithlin’s mouth opened in outrage. “My Dearest? I think not, De…!”
He clapped a massive hand over her mouth, spurring his charger through the gates. Although his expression was intentionally tender, his tone was deadly. “You are my lover and will address me as My Dearest in front of my close ally. If you choose not to assume the charade, I will turn about this instant and you can spend the remainder of your night tied to a tree.”
Eyes wide, Gaithlin had no doubt that his threat was sincere. Even as her natural urge advised complete defiance, an inner sense somehow managed to suggest that she might come to like such a thing. That addressing the Demon of Eden by a term of endearment wasn’t as completely horrible as she would have liked to believe.
A peculiar inner struggle commenced at his subtle command. She didn’t want to call him My Dearest, or Sweetling, or any other expression of affection. At least, the defiant de Gare within her soul was staunchly resistant to such an idea. But the isolated, naive young lady was not entirely unwilling.
“My Dearest?” she repeated, mumbling through his gloved fingers. When he removed his hand and fixed her with a heady, no-nonsense glare, she sighed in resignation. “My Dearest.”
The corner of his lip twitched with a smile. “That was not so hard, was it? ’Twill become easier with time.”
“I don’t intend to call you My Dearest for the rest of my life.”
“If I demand it, you will.”
His manner wasn’t quite so severe and Gaithlin was surprised to realize it bordered on amusement. “Is that so?” she felt her own sense of humor take hold. “And what do you intend to call me if I must address you by a sickening term of sentiment?”
He raised an eyebrow as they rode into the well-kept bailey of Forrestoak. He deliberately avoided her piercing gaze as his eyes perused their surroundings. “I have yet to decide. Certainly something nauseating.”
She pursed her lips wryly and turned away, curious of their environment. “I dare not ask again,” she mumbled, clutching his black cloak about her weary body.
Several soldiers rushed to greet them. Between the bedraggled lady wrapped in the oversized cloak and the auspicious presence of the Demon of Eden, there was a good deal of respectful chatter and attention. Christian dismounted into a nest of excited soldiers, pulling Gaithlin off with him. Arm about her shoulders tightly, he ignored the common rabble of fighting men and made his way toward the green-tinged manor.
Gaithlin felt his arm around her, torn between relishing the new experience and wanting to pull away from him. H
e’s a St. John, no matter how willing you are to forget the fact! She was only too well aware of the message her nagging conscience was intent on constantly informing her. She didn’t need to be reminded that she hated him.
It would have been simple to allow herself to slip into the realm of depressing thought as she once again pondered her predicament, but stumbling over Christian’s lengthy robe distracted her from impending doom. In fact, she tripped twice on their trek across the bailey. The third time she stumbled, Christian came to an irritated halt.
“Is something the matter?” he demanded.
She shook her head weakly. “You’re cloak is too long,” she replied, then added with malicious sweetness: “My Dearest.”
He raised an eyebrow at her mocking tone. “Grace certainly isn’t one of your strong points, is it? You stumble more than any woman I have ever had the misfortune to witness.”
He was correct; grace had never been one of her strong points, being long-legged and rather tall for a woman, and she averted her gaze with embarrassment. Christian felt himself softening somewhat at her humiliation and a faint smile tugged at his lips.
“But I suppose your beauty makes up for the finer qualities you lack,” he added, but the expression on Gaithlin’s face stopped him cold. His brows drew together curiously. “Why do you look at me like that?”
There was a bit of color in her cheeks; ’twas the first time he noticed. “You jest with me.”
His scowl increased. “When did I do this?”
She smiled, bright and beautiful. “You said I possessed beauty,” she said. “How can you say that when I stand before you wet and dirty and completely disheveled?”
He drew in a deep breath, off-guard with the beauty of her smile. “My lady, there is no beauty in all of England that can compare to you.” He’d used the same coaxing words before, on several women in order to gain his way. But the identical phrase spoken to Gaithlin was God’s living truth. Unnerved and unbalanced by his compliments to her, he cleared his throat and pulled her towards the manse. “Come along. They should have already commenced with the evening meal and we risk being thrown the bones if we delay any longer.”