Jasper listened patiently to her lie, knowing it was a fabrication of the utmost attempt. Yet before she had finished uttering the last prevaricating strains, he was dismounting his snappish charger and moving for the petite woman with the silky brown hair. His orders, after all, were specific.
Grasping Maggie by the arm, he yanked her off the palfrey and hauled her off the road, into the moldering woods. Behind him, his legion of fifty men were already in the process of engaging Maggie’s escort of twenty. A match not long in the running, for there would be no witnesses left behind.
Screaming and gasping, Maggie realized his intentions and blind panic set in. Dear God…she was going to die.
Her lies had failed. If her mission to separate Christian from his captive was intended for heady success, she would never know the extent of her victory. In fact, she realized with sickening certainty that she was about to pay for her twisted sense of revenge with her very own mortality.
“Please, Jasper, have mercy!” she cried as he pulled her through a thicket and into a small clearing. “Surely you do not believe that I am allied with Alex de Gare?”
Jasper’s grip was so tight that she swore he had broken her arm. Pausing under the dusky sky, he gazed impassively at the small woman who would never live to see another sun set.
“It does not matter what I believe,” he said. “All that matters is that you were seen entering Winding Cross, retreating from the castle less than an hour later. By setting foot upon enemy soil, you signed your own death warrant regardless of your reasons for being there. Do you understand this?”
Pale and sweating, Maggie’s brown eyes were wide with terror and confusion. “You… you would kill me simply for daring to enter de Gare territory?”
“Uncle Jean was specific. All traitors are to be killed, no matter what the reason behind their betrayal.”
Swallowing hard, Maggie whimpered when Jasper unsheathed his broadsword in one clean move. “But… but what of Christian? He has endeared himself to his de Gare captive. Does that not make him a traitor too?”
Veiled by the menacing visor, she didn’t see Jasper’s expression falter, confusion and pain rippling across his features. “That is for Uncle Jean to decide if, in fact, your lies bear some merit.” The broadsword gleamed in the weak light of the setting sun and Maggie tugged against Jasper’s mighty grip, struggling wildly to break away. “As for you, the treachery and lies and humiliation end here. Your body and the bodies of your escort will be discovered and it will appear as if you have been robbed and killed by bandits. This, madam, is the sentence for your betrayal.”
“I never betrayed the House of St. John!” Maggie cried. “Kelvin Howard will vouch for my loyalties and intentions!”
“If Kelvin Howard is involved in your lies, then his days are surely numbered as well.”
Jasper tightened his grip and Maggie shrieked, knowing his blade was imminent. Seized with panic, her knees gave way. “Where is Quinton? He will believe me!”
“Quinton is back at Eden with no knowledge of his father’s directives to me.” Jasper’s voice was quiet. “Being a foolishly smitten lad, Uncle Jean did not fully advise him of the treachery he suspected. Only I am immune to your sluttish charms and am capable of carrying out your execution for crimes against the House of St. John.”
“Prithee mercy, Jasper!” Maggie sobbed, her composure vanished. “I am innocent!”
Jasper raised the blade, listening to Maggie’s shrieks and grunts of terror. “Beg mercy from God, madam,” his voice was hoarse, laced with emotion and a fervent desire to be done with his task. “Only He can purge thy soul of sin. Only He has interest in your supplication for grace. I care not, m’lady, for your transgressions against the House of St. John are transgressions against me.”
Bright, red blood, brighter than life and redder than death, spilled from Maggie’s chest as his broadsword plunged deep.
Jasper had never seen it flow with greater ease.
*
Gaithlin realized she was actually glad to return to the cozy little shack lodged deep in the Wood, a home that she and Christian had shared for five days. Strolling through the light bramble with Malcolm in hand, Christian was several feet away from her, leading his great white charger by the reins.
It was early afternoon as they returned from their morning trip into the village. They had their supplies and goods, and Gaithlin was saddled with enough frivolous luxuries to last her the rest of her life; perfumes, oils, and other feminine pleasures Christian had been insistent she own. And the boots that he had been so intent on purchasing for her would be ready on the morrow, so promised the skilled cobbler with one good arm. Gaithlin wondered how in the world the man was able to excel in his craft with only one useful hand, but Malcolm had assured her that he was a master with leathers and soles.
The ox and wagon transporting their goods followed them down the road as Malcolm held on to the rope that attached to the animal’s nose ring. The entire trip home had been filled with warm glances and bold winks, saucy smiles, and flirtatious gestures. The entire world of courting was completely new to Gaithlin and she found quite early on that she enjoyed the game immensely.
Outside of Christian’s influence, her only experienced with adult diversions had been the perverse sport Kelvin Howard had been intent to force upon her. She had been frightened and anxious within the unwanted company of her would-be accoster, but she found the gentle flirting Christian so easily employed a true joy to behold. The two men were a world apart in manners and techniques and Gaithlin was upswept in Christian’s charming, roguish distractions; in faith, there was no comparison between the two.
He possessed charms that she responded to readily, though she was new and unsure in the deliciously spirited world. The mood was light and delightful, the air somehow purer and the birds somehow sweeter. As Malcolm trudged beside her in a pair of boots Christian had managed to purchase off another peasant boy about his own size, the happy young lad kept up a running conversation that went entirely ignored by the smitten adults.
Gaithlin would have been content to walk for the rest of her life, absorbing Christian’s grins and winks and silent kissing gestures. Unfortunately, however, they were drawing close to their lodgings and she was loathed to realize that their engaging little game was coming to a close for the time being.
Just as she reluctantly resigned herself to the end of the enticing exchange, Christian suddenly seemed particularly distracted by the approach of their encampment. Barely visible through the line of trees, she was startled when he came to an abrupt halt.
“Good Christ,” he hissed, releasing the charger and unsheathing his sword from the carved scabbard strapped against the magnificent saddle. Broadsword glistening in the weak light, his ice-blue eyes blazed at the familiar clearing looming through the trees.
“What’s wrong?” Gaithlin demanded, suddenly frightened. “What do you..?”
He hushed her sternly, huddling behind a bank of thick brush. His icy orbs glittered intently in the weak light and Gaithlin moved up beside him curiously, only to be grasped firmly and pulled to her knees.
“Christian..?” she began, but he clapped a gauntleted hand over her mouth.
“Hush,” he whispered harshly. Removing his hand, he gestured through the leaves and branches into the heart of their encampment. “Look. I would hazard to guess that your dog people have returned. Malcolm?”
The lad was between them, his green eyes wide on his bald head. In the distance, two slovenly forms were busy inflicting severe damage on the sod house as they sifted the area for anything of value. “Aye, tha’s them,” suddenly, he shot to his feet in outrage. “They’re tearin’ apart our work!”
Both Gaithlin and Christian shushed him loudly, pulling him down to his knees once again. As Gaithlin put her arm about his skinny shoulders in a comforting gesture, Christian darted back to his charger and deftly removed his double-catapult Welsh crossbow from its secures. Entrusting Mal
colm a broadsword that weighed more than the lad himself, he efficiently loaded the wicked-looking weapon.
“Are you going to shoot them?” Gaithlin whispered, wide-eyed with concern.
One eye on the clearing and the other on securing two long-headed arrows, Christian fastened the last projectile and moved towards the edge of the foliage.
“Nay,” he said softly. “But I intend to make it so that they never bother us again.”
Gaithlin and Malcolm watched, eyes bulging with apprehension, as Christian skirted the edge of the clearing, guiding his armored-body through the bramble and shadows. Keeping himself hidden, he managed with surprising ease to make his way towards the center of activity.
The dog people were oblivious to the impending threat, busy ripping asunder the entire structure of the shack in their quest for valuables. Twice, the man paused in his search to sniff the air and Christian froze, waiting until the wind shifted before advancing once more. Closer and closer he edged, prepared to frighten the life from the scruffy dog-like humans.
When he was nearly upon them, Gaithlin and Malcolm held their breath as Christian leveled the crossbow, aiming for the dog-man who was intently shredding the sod covering from the northern wall. The bow held as steady as stone and Gaithlin continued to observe the scene, not at all sure that Christian was determined not to harm the less-fortunate male. Although he had stated that he had no intention to murder, he could have very well changed his mind as he made his way towards the destructive, sub-human people.
Anxiety rising, Gaithlin knew she could not stand by while the Demon carried out a seemingly mortal threat. Mayhap the dog-people would be reasonable if only she was able to speak with them; after all, she and Christian had not made the attempt to converse with the somewhat-canine natives of the Wood. And she could not allow Christian to kill the pair without making an effort at some type of communication.
Rising swiftly to her feet, she grasped a startled Malcolm by the hand and thrust herself forward through the underbrush. As calmly and as pleasantly as she could manage, she smiled brightly and waved her hand in greeting.
“Salutations!” she called evenly. “I…!”
The dog-people swung on her, startled into a soaring crest of giddy fear. Barking furiously, they looked as if they had been scared out of their minds; they tripped and scrambled and bashed into each other in their haste to leave. Gaithlin tried to calm them with words of supplication and reason, but they clearly ignored her pleas. As the harried woman took flight into the thick bramble, the male attempted to follow suit but was quickly thwarted by a massive, armored body.
Christian emerged from the thicket, crossbow in one hand and the captive dog-man in the other. As his prisoner howled and thrashed, he cast the man a most curious glance before turning his attention to Gaithlin.
Crossing the length of the clearing, she was practically running with Malcolm in tow. Her lovely face was etched with concern.
“Do not hurt him!” she commanded softly. “Christian, you are breaking his arm!”
“I am doing nothing of the kind,” Christian said calmly, cocking a blond eyebrow at her. “Why, may I ask, did you reveal yourself before I had a chance to act?”
“Because I was afraid you were going to kill them,” she said frankly, watching the man twist and yelp with a distinct sense of dismay. “Now that you have captured him, what do you plan to do?”
The man was terribly skinny and disheveled, a pathetic little mouse in Christian’s mighty trap. Gnashing his teeth, it was apparent he was attempting to bite the English warrior and Christian held the man at arm’s length as he watched him foam and twitch.
“What would you suggest I do?” he asked.
Gaithlin looked to him, surprised he would ask her opinion. The omnipotent Demon did not require suggestions or council, and certainly not from a woman. A de Gare. Flattered, not to mention strangely empowered by his regard for her convictions, she thought carefully as she eyed the thrashing human.
“Tie him up until he calms,” she said. “Then, mayhap we will be able to reason with him.”
He nodded faintly, thoughtfully. “That is logical. Were I to release him now, he would flee in terror, yet his seemingly natural instincts to steal and pillage would be undaunted in the least. Although properly frightened, he would indeed return and I refuse to rebuild my shelter only to find it torn down again sometime in the future,” he began to move across the clearing with his thrashing captive in hand as Gaithlin and Malcolm followed closely. “I must make him understand that I will not tolerate his incursions and if I have to tie him to a tree and pound my message deep into his dim-witted skull, then so be it.”
Tying the dog-man to the tree, however, proved to be a chore of enormous proportions. Even though the man was skinny and frail-looking, he was sly and wily and on more than one occasion nearly escaped Christian’s grasp. After the second such near-attempt, Christian’s patience waned and he decided it would be best if he held the man in place while Gaithlin secured the bindings.
Working as an efficient team, Christian used brute strength to hold the man against a youthful Scot pine while Gaithlin firmly tied the prisoner to the trunk. Malcolm hovered beside Gaithlin, informing her where to place the rope and exactly how tightly to secure the ties as Christian spent his time avoiding flying spit and thrashing feet.
As the sun sank low in the deepening colors of the pristine Scot sky, Gaithlin finished securing the male to the sturdy young tree. Able to release his hold, Christian studied her handiwork with a critical eye.
“A fine knot, my lady,” he said with genuine approval. “Our captive will be unable to break free for months to come. Good Christ, I shall be lucky if I can cut the man free myself.”
Gaithlin smiled modestly, glancing at the beaming young boy by her side. “Malcolm helped,” she said quietly, moving her shy gaze from Christian’s admiring stare to the wagon and ox bordering the clearing. “Now, we should really store our supplies before night falls. Malcolm, come and assist me.”
The eager lad moved immediately to comply with her orders, dashing across the clearing in tattered but clean clothing and boots that were a bit too large for his feet. Gaithlin took a step to follow when a massive gauntlet suddenly reached out, snatching her arm with fierce tenderness.
She knew what was coming before she felt the warmth of his delicious lips, having been the recipient of his spontaneous kisses many a time. With a smile and full cooperation, she pressed herself against his armored chest and delightfully accepted his searing kiss.
Gaithlin was rapidly becoming upswept in his heat when Malcolm shouted something from the wagon, distracting both of her and Christian from their mounting passion. Breathing heavily and with grunts of disappointment, they somehow managed to disengage their lips as their vision sought the small, animated figure at the edge of the trees.
“What did he say?” Gaithlin swallowed, attempting to regain her crumbling control.
“Does it matter?” Christian’s lips moved along her cheek, his breath hot and forceful in her ear.
It would be so easy to give in to his desire. Gaithlin closed her eyes as shivers of erotica cavorted down her spine, turning her knees to water. But Malcolm shouted again and she caught the gist of the message, breaking her from her most delicious, desired experience.
“He needs help with the ox,” she whispered, avoiding Christian’s lips when they attempted to capture her mouth. “Not now, Christian. We must help Malcolm.”
With a heavy sigh writ of remorse and resignation, Christian removed his lips from Gaithlin’s jaw and released her arm. Her cheeks mottled with blush, she held his gaze for a long, entirely passion-filled moment.
“Later, you say?” he repeated, his voice hoarse with lust. “Is that a promise?”
Ever so coyly, she smiled and lowered her gaze. Adult games were coming far easier to her these days, in practice with Christian’s delightfully experienced presence. Beyond the passion and the blind
ing lust that seemed to be able to dictate her very actions as a result of his physical onslaught, there was far more of an emotional foreplay that they were coming deeply to know.
A slender finger flirtatiously traced the square line of his granite jaw, her flushed face glowing with the warmth they so obvious shared. Her faintly-curved lips broadened with offering.
“Not a promise, sire. An invitation.”
His eyebrows rose faintly, a delicious smile playing on his lips. “An invitation?” he took her in his arms once more, ignoring Malcolm’s shouts of frustration. “My lady, I would respond to that invitation immediately. I am your willing servant, any time or anywhere. Any way, for that matter.”
One hand around his neck and the other toying with his shoulder-length hair, Gaithlin averted her eyes coquettishly. “Our shelter will be sufficient. After Malcolm sleeps.”
A gentle frown creased his brow. “Malcolm is to sleep with us? I believe I mentioned it would be wise not to force our company and customs upon him. Mayhap he doesn’t wish to sleep with us. Mayhap he is perfectly content in the Wood.”
She met his frown. “What you mean to say is that we will not be free to do as we please with Malcolm bedded a few feet away,” she shook her head at him, a knowing smile on her lips. “How selfish, Christian. You think only of yourself.”
With feigned upset, Christian released her from his embrace and scowled. “As is my right. ’Tis my shelter and my goods, and I shall act however I please. If I want to sleep alone with the woman I intend to marry, then so be it.”
“Malcolm can sleep in the alcove.” Still grinning, Gaithlin turned away from him. “The small room is perfect for him.”
Hands on hips, Christian’s scowl turned genuine. “Did you not hear a word I said? If I want to sleep in my shack, alone with you, then that is the way of things.”
England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 189