The Warrior Poet (14 page)

In the corner,
Kelvin stirred again, jolting her from her train of thought as the man suddenly
struggled to a semi-upright position as if rising from the dead. Noting the fact
that his newly-found enemy was coming lucid, Christian hastened for the door
with Gaithlin in tow. But not before Kelvin focused his venom on the both of
them.

"If I see her
again, Christian, I shall kill her," he grunted, clutching his gut.
"You'd better take your bitch far, far away."

Christian unbolted
the door, pausing a moment to match Kelvin's hostile gaze. "Listen to me
well, Kelvin Howard. I could have spilled your guts this night for having
discovered your tryst with my former betrothed and I would have been entirely
within my right to do so. But I spared you simply for the fact that Maggie is
not worth the price of your life." Gently, he pulled Gaithlin through the
archway, ignoring the soldiers and servants hovering in the corridor beyond.
"But hear me now and know that I speak the truth; you will never again
threaten the lady you were so careless in attacking. Any incursion, violation
or threat on her person, no matter how minor, shall be met with lethal force by
the Demon of Eden. I will not repeat this warning."

Pale and drawn,
Kelvin knew full well the meaning of Christian's utterance. But he was also
well aware of the St. John - de Gare Feud; having grown up in Cumbria, the
state of the two warring families was an established fact. It was a detail that
had not
escape
the confines of his pain-hazed mind as
he had wallowed on the floor in complete misery.

He had heard her
defiantly mentioned name the very moment she had driven her rock-hard boot into
his lust swollen privates. It was a name he would never, ever forget.

"She's a de
Gare, Christian," he hissed, fighting the urge to vomit yet again.
"You would deprive me of the pleasure of seeking revenge against her
simply because you would complete the task yourself."

Gaithlin heard him.
Eyes wide, she focused on Christian as his unwavering gaze continued to meet
Kelvin's agonized orbs. "What I do with the lady is my own business,"
his voice was exceptionally low. "As I have not demanded answers as to
what you and my former intended were doing isolated far from the convenient
cover of Castle Howard, you will do me the courtesy of not questioning my
motives or my intent."

"You are going
to kill her anyway," Kelvin struggled to his knees. "At least allow
me the right to punish the woman for possibly depriving me of an heir."

Gaithlin jerked
against his vise-like grip, but he did not release her. Nor did he look at her
as his attention remained on his former friend. After a moment, his gaze moved
to Gaithlin and her terrified struggles ceased; never had she witnessed a look
of such tenderness, such warmth. Her almond-shaped eyes were wide with wonder
as he graced her with an even, completely unexpected smile.

"Look at her,
Kelvin," his voice was faint. "Do you truly believe I would kill
her?"

"You are a St.
John, Christian," Kelvin's voice was faint. "You
must
kill her."

Uncertain and
struggling with the terror Kelvin's words evoked, Gaithlin averted her eyes
from Christian as the man's smile faded. After a lengthy pause, he returned his
attention to his former friend one last time. His expression was nothing short
of loathsome.

"I shall send
Maggie to you," he said, his voice cold. "Mayhap she can heal what
ails you."

In a haze of
tension and confusion, Christian swept Gaithlin down the smoke-shrouded corridor,
leaving Kelvin to the care of his servants and soldiers and cursing the events
the day had brought upon him.

Praying he saw the
de Gare bitch one last time before he died.

Praying for revenge.

 
***

It had been an exceptionally
difficult night. Uncomfortable spending the remainder of the night within the
walls of Forrestoak, Gaithlin convinced Christian that they would do better to
seek shelter somewhere else. Reluctant but uncharacteristically compliant to
his captive's reasoning, Christian packed her gowns into a confiscated satchel
and, wrapping her yet again in his black cloak, took her down to the stables to
retrieve his steed.

Through the rain
and the wind and the biting climate, they set north for the Borders. Physically
drained, Christian was concerned that his weary state would impede his ability
to protect them from the threats that abound on the open road, especially in
the dead of the night. Recollecting that an old hunter's shack was not far to
the north of Forrestoak, set deep into the wooded clusters that populated
Howard lands, he veered off the path a few miles up the road in search of the
little refuge.

It was a tiny
shelter he and Kelvin used to pretend to be their fortress in the early days of
their youth, protecting it against the Scots and Roman invaders alike. Locating
the haven had not been difficult, for it was exactly where he remembered;
pulling an exhausted Gaithlin off his wet charger, he proceeded to hustle her
into the dilapidated lean-to.

It was musty and
moldering, but it was relatively dry. Using her newly-acquired satchel for a
pillow, he forced Gaithlin to lie down on the damp earth, feeling a good
measure of regret in the fact that he had nothing better to offer her by way of
a bed or comfort. But she had drifted off to sleep almost immediately and he
had spent a good portion of the night watching her rest in peaceful slumber and
listening to the rain outside.

Just before dawn he
built a small fire in the hearth out of twigs and dried leaves, for the
temperature had dropped considerably over the course of the night. Watching
Gaithlin shiver and twitch in her sleep, he carefully laid himself beside her
purely for the added warmth and was not surprised when she burrowed herself
tightly against him.
 
When he awoke to clear
skies and singing birds two hours later, it had been with Gaithlin in his arms.

The Galloway Forest
was a massive expanse of trees and bramble and wildlife that occupied a good
portion of Douglas lands. The River Cree carved a fine path through the enormous
wilderness, giving life and beauty to the primitive surroundings.

As the smell of
Scot Pine and Beechwood fell heavy on the damp early-fall air, Christian was
transported back to his early childhood. With crystal clarity, he could
recollect the days when he and his Scots grandfather spent a good deal of time
traipsing about the sacred lands in search of the perfect fishing spot or a
small animal to kill. It was moist earth his mother had harbored a deep
attachment for, being a Douglas, and introduced her young sons to the earth
that had bred her people.
Lands that Christian loved dearly.

Lands, however,
that Gaithlin was unfamiliar with. The wind was cold as it whipped through the
trees, sending chills skating down her slender spine as she clutched Christian's
cloak more closely about her. Around her waist, his massive arm squeezed her
gently and she instinctively pressed closer to him, pondering her new
surroundings.

Yet her new
environment wasn't the only matter of import she seemed destined to ponder. Two
days of traveling with the Demon of Eden had brought about the most peculiar
emotions and ideals she had ever managed to envisage. It was an uneventful trip
for the most part, silent and calm, but given the circumstances, it was very
odd.

Since the moment
they has left Forrestoak, it was as if some invisible bond linked them
together, binding them emotionally and sometimes physically as the lengths of
endless road stretched before them on the horizon. Gaithlin tried not to linger
on the kiss Christian had delivered the day he whisked her from St. Esk, the
heat he provoked from his magnificent touch and tender lips. In fact, was she
found most despondent other than her obvious reaction to the Demon was the
resonate recollection of Kelvin Howard's words, a bitterly hissed phrase in the
midst of a man's deepest anguish.

You're a St. John,
Christian. You must kill her.

Torn between the
desperation of her captivity, the warmth lingering in the depths of Christian's
ice-blue eyes, and the vengeful mutterings of an injured man, the past four
days had been spent in relative silence as she attempted to sort the muddled
workings of her young mind. A mind she didn't seem to recognize any longer and
a hatred for the St. Johns that she couldn't seem to remember.

A hatred Christian
had all but forgotten as well. Four days with his delectable water nymph had
brought him to the unalterable conclusion that he was indeed in love with the
woman. Over the miles of eternal forested lands and the bleak hills of the
border he had clutched her tightly against him, relishing the feel of her in
his arms and trying desperately not to delve too deeply into the future of his
plans.

A future his father
had already established.
A future that included using
Gaithlin to bring Winding Cross to ruin, treating her with the respect warranted
of a captive.
Good Christ, he wasn't entirely sure he could allow his
father to use Gaithlin in the manner intended and as his charger pounded out
the miles towards their destination, his resistance and confusion gained
strength.

In truth, he didn't
know what he was going to do about the situation. To maintain his plans, to
continue into Galloway and establish a base seemed the most logical course of
action at the moment. To keep Gaithlin away from the war and the hatred and the
vengeance of those who would seek to harm her was the most reasonable
conclusion he could seek for the time. Until he could decide how to handle his
most treacherous emotions, he would stay the chosen course.

"Are you
really going to kill me?"

Limp against his
chest, he had assumed Gaithlin to be dozing. But her softly-uttered question
set against the backdrop of her sultry voice broke him out of his thoughts and
he shifted in the saddle, his gaze staring intently at the thoroughfare ahead.

"Nay."

"Kelvin said
you had to."

"Kelvin is an
idiot."

She didn't reply
for a moment. Then, she sat forward and turned in the saddle, gazing into his
stubbled face. Visor raised, he met her puzzled stare evenly. After a moment of
observing his piercing orbs, she sighed heavily.

"Then where
are you taking me?"

"Far away, my
lady," he replied quietly.
"Far away from the
Feud."

"Why?"

He cocked an
eyebrow. Of course she was curious for her future and he was no longer entirely
resistant to the idea of informing her of his directive. After four days of
eating and sleeping with her, he was eager to speak with her, to know her
better. But his naturally reserved nature and confusion of loyalties had prevented
him from doing so.
 
But as he gazed into
her eyes, he realized that he was no longer confused.

"Because you
are going to end the Feud," he replied frankly, watching her expression
wash with confusion. It was enough to cause a smile across his tired face.
"You do not believe me?"

She shook her head
vaguely. "I did not say that. But how am I going to stop the Feud?"

His smile faded. "By
forcing Winding Cross to lay down her arms," he answered softly.
"With Gaithlin de Gare a captive of the St. Johns, your father will have
no choice but to surrender. Therefore, you will end a foolish skirmish that has
lasted seventy years without a drop of blood being shed in additional
resistance."

Gaithlin stared at
him a moment as no immediate reaction was forthcoming; then, her eyes widened
and the color drained from her cheeks.

"You... you
intend to blackmail Winding Cross with my capture?" her voice was a
throaty echo. "The St. Johns attempted to blackmail my family with the
capture of Glenn St. John nearly twenty years ago and the de Gares refused to
fold. They will never surrender, Demon.
Especially not for
me."

Christian was well
aware of the facts surrounding Glenn de Gare but refused to be deterred.
"You're the heiress. And you are Alex's daughter. Certainly you are of
more sentimental worth to your family than an aged old man."

Gaithlin continued
to stare at him, dumbfounded and unbalanced. How could she tell him that her
father had died years ago, leaving a poverty-stricken keep that could barely
sustain itself? Other than the family pride, there was barely anything left to
surrender and Gaithlin refused to be the instrument though which generations of
de Gares were submitted for defeat and shame.

The St. Johns
believed Winding Cross to be as strong as she ever was, intact and lead by the
powerful Alex de Gare. In truth, the remains of the once-mighty family had
dwindled to a middle-aged mother, her isolated daughter, and less than fifty
defenders and servants. There was nothing left to surrender except their
dignity.

And she refused to
give it up. Her expression suddenly took on a look of acute desperation and
Christian was somewhat prepared for the fist that came flying at his
unprotected face.