In faith, he loved his brother dearly and could not comprehend the notion that Christian would willingly choose to disregard seventy years of family honor simply for the virtue of a captive woman. But his brother was a rogue of legendary proportions and Quinton would not be at all surprised if he had indeed bedded the wench, if only to strip her of her dignity and bring her to bear on the fact that she was a prisoner of the Demon of Eden.
Aye, Christian was deeply loyal to the Feud. He had returned from the king’s service to help Jean and Quinton triumph over Alex de Gare once and for all, and to suggest that he might be softening his stance in the hypnotic presence of Alex’s daughter was pure foolishness. No woman could make him forget his directive, and especially not a de Gare.
At least… he hoped not.
Jean rose from his seat, clumsily dropping the crystal decanter in the process. The commotion of breaking glass and loud curses broke Quinton from his train of thought and he struggled to respond to the question put forth to him by his drunken father.
“I understand completely,” he replied quietly, praying that he would not be facing such a situation. Christian was a far better fighter than him and he did not relish the idea of meeting his angry brother in arms should he be required to enforce his father’s directive. “But if I bring Christian here, what of the woman?”
“The bitch?” Jean snarled mockingly, looking about for another flask of wine. “Kill her. Then you will cut off her head and bring it to me for delivery to Alex de Gare.”
Shocked, Quinton gazed uncertainly at his father. “You… you cannot be serious, da. To kill a wo….”
“You will not dispute me!” Jean roared, jerking around to face his youngest son and nearly losing his balance in the process. Even as Quinton reached out to steady him, he angrily batted the younger man’s hands away. “She’s a de Gare, an animal, a beast! God help Christian if he has allowed the whore to sway him. God help him!”
Quinton watched his father stumble about, listening to the curses and fury venting high to the rafter of the solar. Knowing that even though the man was dead drunk, his hatred and threats were very real. Although the alcohol magnified the mannerisms and lack of control, it did not add to the already substantial loathing. An inherent malice reserved only for those unfortunate enough to bear the de Gare name.
And his threats towards Christian were very real as well. If the Demon had somehow softened his stance towards the enemy, Jean was correct when he pleaded for God’s assistance. God help them all should that be the case.
“We should be receiving word from Galloway soon,” Quinton struggled to keep his manner calm. “The moment we receive direction, I shall ride north and have a look for myself.”
Jean snorted, having located a pewter flask of harsh Scotch Whiskey. Taking a healthy swallow, he choked and sputtered as the fire liquid coursed down his throat. “God damn Christian if he has shown mercy towards the bitch. I shall kill him myself and take great pleasure in his pain.”
Quinton didn’t reply for a moment, feeling more despondent with each passing word. “You realize that it’s entirely possible that Maggie has lied. You’re condemning Christian before you have seen verity of her tales.”
Jean, his lids half-closed, sat at his desk a moment, whiskey flask in hand. His ice-blue eyes found his youngest son. “You’re entirely correct, of course. I don’t trust her as far as I can spit. But I know Christian when it comes to women, and if by some outlandish chance he has taken a fancy to this one, then….”
His voice trailed off, his anger easing in lieu of a gripping depression. Taking another massive swallow of liquor, tears sprang to his eyes and coursed down his cheeks. Quinton absorbed the scene, quite caught up in his own anxieties. After an enteral span of silence, he put his hand on his father’s shoulder in a comforting gesture.
“Not to worry,” he said hoarsely. “Christian has not defected to the enemy. I shall see to it.”
Out in the phantom recesses of the dark hall, a shadowed figure huddled against the cold stone listening to the conversation between Jean and Quinton. Barely breathing, barely moving, the form nonetheless possessed the energy to smile. A bright and sinister smile. Eavesdropping always had possessed a great deal of advantage.
Not that it had taken a great deal of intuition to suspect that the seed of doubt planted within the mind of Jean St. John had grown roots and a will of its own. Burgeoning into a disturbing vine of unbelievable destruction as the wispy tendrils of doubt took firmer and firmer hold within the fickle thoughts of a wearily aging man.
Maggie knew this all too well; intensely clever, she had intended that the doubt should grow and spread. Quinton was feeling the doubt, as would Jasper soon enough. As would the rest of the St. John family. Doubt that would cause Christian to give up his whore and retreat to the bosom of his heritage in the desperate struggle to convince them that he was not a traitor.
Her smile grew as Quinton marched past her, handsome and regal, though not nearly so elaborate as his brother’s beauty. Faded into the flickering shadows, Maggie watched the youngest St. John march down the hall and fade into the darkness, no doubt with a myriad of doubts plaguing his mind, doubts of the Demon’s loyalties.
Aye, her scheme was working admirably. She had succeeded in sowing great misgivings in Jean St. John’s sanity against his mighty son, and she had furthermore succeeded in discovering the location of her errant fiancé. A location she would be more than happy to relay to all interested parties. After all, she had made a pact with the de Gares; a pact she fully intended to fulfill.
Galloway….
*
The fog was like a thick blanket, heavy and cloaking and completely obliterating the landscape. Gaithlin had awoken to the hazy curtain at dawn, alone and cold within the confines of the small shelter.
Swathed in Christian’s cloak, he couldn’t recall falling asleep the night before. All she could recollect was a good deal of crying, of desolation and hopelessness like she had never experienced. Of knowing that the warm discovery she had been so willingly to succumb to had been abruptly cleaved due to her own foolish mistake. By admitting that Alicia de Gare had managed to hold off the brilliant Jean St. John and his legendary son had been enough to send Christian into seizures of fury.
Fury that had kept him away from her all night. A wise move to remove himself from her presence, she suspected; had he remained, she sincerely wondered if she would have seen the light of morn. A furious Demon was not a particularly healthy thing, especially for a de Gare.
Although she tried not to linger on what the day would bring, it was difficult as she forced herself to rise and wash her face, mechanically preparing for the morning meal. Lighting the hearth had proven difficult with her freezing hands, driving her to tears at one point. And when she put the small pot of lentil stew to warm over the flaming embers, a fairly persistent cramping in her groin and lower back told her that the misery of her day was to be made complete.
Of all time for her menses to be upon her. The tears of self-pity and apprehension continued as she warmed the stew, hoping that the smells would bring Christian out of his hiding place. She didn’t know why she was so eager to see him, to confront his anger once again, but she was desperate to gaze upon his magnificent face again and to apologize for withholding the truth.
The smells of smoke and stew did indeed bring forth a male, but not the one she was hoping for. Malcolm burst into the hut, dirty and wide-eyed and shivering, eager for his morning feast. Gaithlin tried not to let her melancholy mood show as she fed the boy, vaguely answering his questions as to Christian’s whereabouts. Instead, she focused on the orphaned lad in an attempt to discover where he himself had spent the night. She received as vague an answer from him as he had from her regarding Christian’s location.
Malcolm ate a hefty portion of stew but Gaithlin refrained from eating all together, preferring to save the remaining portion for Christian should he ever decide to return. But as the morn
ing gained speed, it became apparent Christian was intent on staying away.
Gaithlin struggled against her deepening despair and mounting cramps as she went about her morning work, rummaging through Christian’s saddlebags and planning meals from the supplies he had brought. Somewhere in the midst of her forced-activities, she realized that Christian’s diary and writing implements were missing.
They had been on the floor when Christian had left the hut, of that she was certain. She recalled seeing them through her haze of tears. But they were most definitely missing and she became cognizant of the fact that Christian must have returned for them sometime during the night. One of the oil lamps was missing, too.
The knowledge that he had returned sometime during the darkened hours filled her with a good deal of relief. But it also managed to supply her with a certain degree of anger, an irritation knowing he had entered their hut without bothering to speak to her. A foolishness in wishing he had roused her from a deep sleep simply to yell at her once again.
In spite of her inane thoughts, she knew he had not left her. Even if he was furious. The white destrier was still tethered to a soaring Scot pine and except for his diary and quill, all of Christian’s belongings remained. Standing at the open doorway of their hut as a cloying mist of fog blanketed the landscape with tangible gloom, Gaithlin wondered miserably where on earth he could have gone.
It was a longing Malcolm did not share. Determined to continue with his chore of patching up the hut with or without his English associate, he was already busy carrying the large pot to the stream for the first batch of clay-like mud. Gaithlin would have helped him had she not been rapidly succumbing to crippling cramps, eventually distracting her from her depression and confusion over Christian’s absence. By the time Malcolm returned from the stream dragging the first pot full of mud, Gaithlin was lying in a fetal position inside the hut and praying for an early death.
Malcolm wondered what was wrong with the beautiful woman, going so far as to ask her. She simply mumbled an evasive reply and told him to go about his chores. Obedient and eager, he gladly began progress on the southern portion of the hut.
Although the lad had no concept of time, he knew it had taken him a measure of duration to plaster nearly one-eighth of the southern wall. When he entered the hut to tell the lady of his return trip to the stream, he had been concerned to find her on her back with her knees raised, tears streaming from her closed eyes. When he had asked her what the matter was, she had ignored him completely, clutched her stomach, and rolled onto her side. Perplexed and wondering heavily on her mystery illness, he had proceeded to the stream.
He almost didn’t see Christian as he reached the banks of the simmering brook. Seated on a large bolder, the Demon’s face was the color of the fog; pale and colorless. A large book sat in his lap as he pondered the noisy water, not bothering to glance up when Malcolm lowered the pot onto the moist, mossy earth.
“Where ye been?” the lad asked. “Yer wife ha’ the meal waitin’.”
Christian continued to stare at the water as if entranced; he looked so completely phantom-like that he nearly blended in with the gray mist and boulders. A great hulking figure that had become part of the landscape, dense and unfeeling and unseeing, wallowing in a gross confusion borne of fatigue and guilt.
It was a state that threatened to consume him, crumbling his mind and spirit and soul. It was a few moments before he was able to emerge from the tumultuous depths long enough to speak.
“I have been nowhere,” he emitted a long, heavy sigh, looking up from the bubbling stream. His eyes were dark circles from the lack of sleep as he observed the young boy. “Are you patching the southern wall?”
Malcolm nodded, scooping up the mud and putting it in the pot. “I am doin’ a good job without ye.”
Christian watched the lad, distracted from his misery by the sight of the scrawny young child. Thinking how cold the mud was but noticing that it didn’t seem to bother Malcolm. Barefooted and hardly clothed, the boy seemed to ignore the chill morning temperature.
“Is my wife helping you?”
“Na,” Malcolm shook his head, shoveling more muck. “She’s sick.”
Christian’s brow rippled with concern. “Sick? What do you mean?”
Malcolm shrugged, picking a few pebbles out of the mud he had collected. “She’s layin’ on the floor, cryin’. I asked her what’s the matter, but she dinna tell me. She just holds her belly and cries.”
Christian rose from the rock, swamped with uncertainty and concern. He’d spent the entire night torn between wild fury and bleak confusion, cursing the adoration he bore the woman who was his inherent enemy. Knowing that every moment he spent with her was another nail in his coffin, a coffin his own father would most happily place him in when he became aware of his heir’s irrational emotions. He hated himself for feeling increasingly torn between his blossoming love for Gaithlin and the loyalty he was required to devote to his legacy.
It wasn’t a matter of simple betrayal any longer. He actually found himself sympathizing and supporting the de Gare stance. Poverty and determination they had shouldered due to the St. John incursion, unwilling to fold even though they were already beaten. A strength of people who had lingered in the bowels of devastation for years, but had managed the honor and courage to continually withstand the pressures of the Feud. Honor that had thrust a woman into a man’s role. He found himself admiring de Gare fortitude.
Good Christ, he was in deeper trouble than he could begin to comprehend.
So he had stayed out all night to compose his thoughts and ideals, returning to their hut well after midnight to collect his diary. Gaithlin had been asleep, a catch in her breathing every so often the only indication of her emotional state. He had paused several moments to watch her sleep, wishing he could lie beside her and gather her in his arms. But there were things he had to reconcile before he could return to her.
By the dim light of the oil lamp he had scratched out three pages of text, his thoughts and emotions and feelings as he could begin to describe them. After he had finished the three pages of wild, undaunted confusion, he had scribed a message to his father containing his whereabouts, the information on the Douglas link, and asking for progress on the de Gare blackmail.
Knowing they would be going to town come the morn, he planned to hire a boy to take the missive to Castle Douglas to request that the message be forwarded to Eden. He had no doubt that his Scot relatives, and Gaithlin’s cousins for that matter, would hurry the parchment to England, eager to be of service to their English cousin.
He furthermore had no doubt that a reply would be equally rapid in return. As gloating as his father was sure to be over the successful capture of Gaithlin de Gare, he would be eager to inform his son of his grand progress.
A progress it was increasingly difficult to accept. Every time he gazed at Gaithlin, he felt his resolve weaken another notch and after pondering the quandary of Lady de Gare, fighting admirably in her husband’s stead for nearly ten years, his St. John loyalties were faltering even further.
He knew Gaithlin believed that he was angry with her for having divulged a secret particularly humiliating to the St. John cause, and in truth he had been angry for a time as a St. John loyalist should have been. But as the night passed and he had come to grips with the stunning revelation, he realized he was more angry at himself for feeling a good deal of understanding towards Lady de Gare’s plight. How easily he could picture Gaithlin doing the very same thing, as the Demon’s wife.
There was a silent strength to the de Gares that he was only now coming to understand. A commendable quality he very much appreciated. It was a quality the St. Johns seemed to lack.
Wracked with confusion and guilt, he had spent the past few hours wondering how to apologize to Gaithlin for his anger. Certainly, he wanted to explain his reaction, but he was terrified that one confession might lead to another. And he had no intention of telling her what was in his heart; fr
ankly, he was too terrified to fully explore his feelings himself.
So he forced the consuming thoughts away, struggling to disregard his turmoil and confusion as he focused on Malcolm’s assessment of Gaithlin’s health; he was far too exhausted from a night of mulling over his bafflement to lend the energy to his emotions any longer.
Book in hand, he leapt across the stream without effort as Malcolm continued to dig in the mud. The little boy looked up from his work as the massive man moved past him.
“Where’re ye goin’?” he asked.
Christian paused a moment, eyeing the boy and noting that at closer proximity, the lad was indeed shaking with chill. In fact, his little lips were blue and he could only imagine that the child must be losing feeling in his hands and feet from contact with the icy ground. In spite of his urgent concern for Gaithlin, he managed to spare a small measure of interest to the lad’s well-being.
“I am going to see my wife,” he said, his voice low. He scrutinizing the child a moment longer. “Do you know how to build a fire?”
Malcolm nodded. “A flint and stone.”
Christian glanced about, noting the wet foliage and knowing the lad would be unable to find any dry material for burning. Motioning for Malcolm to follow, he moved towards the shelter. “I have a pile of dry wood inside the hut. I shall give you some to build a fire with, a fire we can use outside the shelter.”
Lugging the pot half-filled with mud, Malcolm struggled behind Christian until the large man assumed the burden easily. “What fer?” Malcolm asked.
“Washing, eating, warmth. Many things,” Christian found himself diverted from their conversation as they burst into the clearing and the shabby hut came into view. “Find an appropriate spot and I shall bring you the wood after I have seen to my wife.”
England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 184