The Warrior Poet (17 page)

"Lies, I am
sure," Uriah growled. "Gaithlin is safe within the walls of St.
Esk.
 
If this woman demands money for her
falsehoods, I shall slit her bloody gullet."

Alicia raised an
eyebrow at his barbaric threat, refraining from repeating her request that the
knight curtail his harsh language. "Is she alone?"

Uriah shook his
head.
"Nay.
She's accompanied by an escort of at
least twenty men."

"No standards?"

"Not a
stitch."

Puzzled as well as
deeply concerned, Alicia lowered herself slowly onto her husband's worn chair.
"I wonder who she is," she murmured, more to herself than to the
elder knight.

Uriah watched his
mistress, noting her pallid demeanor and lethargic movements. Nothing at all
like the warlord he had served for the better part of ten years, a brilliant
tactician as her husband had been. A finer commander he had never attended in
spite of the fact that his lord and master was a woman.

Certainly, a man
could not want for a more devoted widow. The very day Alex de Gare had perished
as a result of a St. John
arrow,
Alicia had donned a
coat of outdated mail and had met the marauding invaders with a grief-fed fury.
Through the years she had taken up Alex's battle, carrying on the legacy and
tradition of a de Gare and never once languishing from her duties.

But it was a life
and legacy that seemed to be weakening with time. Even as Alicia pensively
gazed into the distant space of the room, she was far more exhausted and aged
than Uriah had ever known her to be. The latest St. John attack had left
Winding Cross particularly devastated and the weary soldiers and peasants had
been working day and night to repair the damaged bridge.

Uriah found himself
pondering the state of the destroyed bridge as Alicia leaned wearily into the
chair, sighing heavily with fatigue. "Do you think it possible that she is
a ploy from Jean?"

Broken from his
somber train of thought, the aged knight focused on his beaten mistress.
"I do not know, my lady," his voice was rough. "Certainly, we
shall find out."

Alicia's gaze
lingered on the man a moment before returning her gaze to the weakening hearth.
"I suppose we shall, Uriah," her tone was barely a whisper. A
defeated, resigned whisper. "I suppose we shall."

***

The shack was
exactly where Christian remembered it to be. Although the woods had grown
heavily over the years, obliterating the path he clearly recalled set deep into
the southwestern portion of the territory, he was able nonetheless to pick his
way through the bramble and foliage under the three-quarter moon in his quest
to locate the elusive shelter.

The bright,
cloudless night sky had afforded him a good deal of light in his search. Past
the thick copse of Scot Pines the locals called The Titans for their strength
and
age,
he bisected two small brooks and used the
third stream as a directional indicator before coming to the object of his
focus – a small, dilapidated hut.

He well remembered
the aged old woman who occupied the hut. She had been a senile member of the
Douglas clan, unable to socialize or communicate with the rest of the family,
and had sought refuge and isolation deep within the heart of the Galloway
territory.

Christian's mother
had brought her two young sons to visit the woman only once, introducing the
lady as an aunt. Other than his clear memories of that meeting, he had no
further knowledge as to who the old woman was, but he easy recollected his
fantasy with her Fortress of Solitude deep within the Galloway wilderness. From
the very moment his father had demanded the de Gare wench be whisked into the
shady wilds of Anne's ancestral forest, Christian knew exactly where he would
take her.

It was very late
when they arrived. Exceedingly sleepy but alert nonetheless, Gaithlin eyed the
overgrown shelter with no particular reaction, relatively resigned to the fact
that they had reached their destination, such as it was. Christian dismounted
his steed, leaving Gaithlin alone as he scrutinized the structure nearly
covered with vines and bramble. The occupant long since dead, as he knew she
would be, the forest had claimed the shack for its own.

A shack Christian
was determined to take back. Wasting no time, he removed his upper body armor
and hauberk before delving into the arsenal strapped to the right side of his
saddle. Bringing forth a nasty-looking pole-axe, he began to hack away at the
overgrowth obstructing the door.

Gaithlin watched
him tear into the shrubbery a moment before calmly dismounting.
Reasoning that if she was no longer making the effort to fight her
St. John captor, she should be helping him make the best of their situation.
Without hesitation, she moved for the array of weapons and unfastened a
medium-sized war hammer. Like a short pick-axe with a heavy spike, she shunned
Christian's black cloak and moved beside him.

Christian caught a
flash of steel in the moonlight and instinctively leapt away from the threat.
The war hammer plowed into the bramble, tearing away a good portion of greenery
as his wide eyes came to bear on Gaithlin's curious expression.

"What is
wrong?" she asked, genuinely confused with his skittish manner.

Exhaling sharply
with relief and irritation, he cocked an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

Her brow furrowed
with puzzlement and a measure of amusement. "I am helping you. Did you
truly think I intended to plant this war hammer in your back?"

He scratched his
head, dirty with sweat and grim. "No," he said after a moment,
feeling rather foolish. As much as he attempted to disregard the fact that she
was a de Gare, his sub-conscious was apparently unwilling to relent. Irritation
fed with a myriad of conflicting emotions, he gestured at the weapon in her
hand. "Give me that. I shall clear this shack without your help."

"Why? If I
help you, 'twill
make
the work go faster."

"Don't argue
with me," he tried to pull the instrument from her grasp. "Give me
the weapon and go stand by my horse."

She yanked the war
hammer away from him, stumbling back and nearly tripping over her feet.
Irritated in her own right, she scowled at him. "I am perfectly capable of
helping you clear this foliage." As if to prove her point, she lifted the
weapon again and swung it at the growth with a good deal of skill and strength.
A heavy measure of leaves and branches crashed to the earth below.

Surprised,
Christian stood motionless as she brought about two more powerful blows.
Branches and vines went hurling to the earth with the force of her strength as
she ripped, tore and chopped the growth away from the front door. Four chops
later, she came to a panting, sweaty halt and turned to Christian, fully
expecting another barrage of refusals and disapproval. Instead, he was smiling
at her.

"Tell me, my
lady,” he said in his rich, smooth voice. “Are you considered Alex de Gare's
premier soldier?"

Wiping the sweat
from her pretty brow, a modest if not somewhat embarrassed smile creased her
lips. "My mother won't let me."

Christian grunted.
"Pity.
Were you to fight, I suspect the St. Johns would
be in a good deal of trouble." Regaining his grip on the pole-axe, he cast
her a
long glance. "Keep going. We should have
this bramble cleared in little time."

Between the two of
them, the entire shelter was cleared in a considerably short span and Gaithlin
returned her weapon to his saddle, securing the ties with deft fingers.
Christian joined her a moment later, binding his pole-axe against the leather.

"What is this
place?" Gaithlin's back was to him as she observed the lean-to in the
moonlight.

Finished with the
ties, he moved up behind her, hands on hips as he, too, studied the broken-down
lodge.
"Our home."

She glanced over
her shoulder at him; he was standing conspicuously close. Close enough that she
could feel his heated breath on her face and the sensation fueled a faint
tingling in her limbs. After a moment of experiencing his proximity, she forced
herself to turn away in giddy confusion.

"How...
charming," she managed to utter.

He smiled faintly
and moved around her, heading toward the structure. "Let's see if we can
eek out an acceptable corner to sleep in for the night. On the morrow, we shall
endeavor to make the place livable."

Considering the
state of the exterior, the interior of the shelter was relatively uninhibited.
The main room was uneven and coarse, while the tiny second room seemed to have
been populated by a family of rodents at one time. There was a broken table and
a worn chair, a cast iron kettle askew in the hearth and little else.
Everything else of value or otherwise seemed to have vanished or disintegrated
over years of neglect and harsh conditions.

Gaithlin surveyed
the surroundings with little emotion, while Christian seemed rather
disheartened by the entire overview. Moving to the hearth, he kicked at the
large pot while Gaithlin inspected the smaller room, barely tall enough for her
to stand.

"I would be
uncomfortable lighting a fire before I have had a chance to inspect the
chimney," he said, almost apologetically. "The night may become
chilly before the sun crests."

Emerging from the
smaller room, Gaithlin merely shrugged to his statement. "I doubt it. Your
body gives off more heat than a furnace."

He eyed her, noting
that she refused to meet his gaze. Even in the darkness, he would swear she was
blushing. Amused as well as oddly aroused, he lowered his head in a firm
attempt to make eye-contact. "Do I scald you, my lady? I was not aware of
my scorching attributes."

Fighting off a grin
and a supreme blush, she turned for the door. "Merciful Heavens, you have
forced me to sleep beside you for the past two nights for fear that I would
escape if out of arm's length. I could not help but be made cognizant of your
heat."

She breezed through
the doorway, stumbling over a pile of branches as she made her way across the thick
grass toward the destrier. Christian's eyes never left her.

"That wasn't
why I forced you to sleep beside me," he murmured.

She heard him.

***

Brilliant sunlight
was streaming in through the splintered walls of the ancient shack, striking
Christian directly in the eyes. Still partially asleep, he rolled to his back
to be free of the blinding beam but was unable to locate suitable shade.
Turning on his side once more, he was vaguely aware of a warm body loosely
wrapped in his arms; pulling her against him firmly enough to cause her to
groan, he buried his face in Gaithlin's back.

"Stop
squirming," she mumbled.

He grunted in
reply, tightening his grip. With a heavy, weary sigh, Gaithlin's eyes fluttered
open to the dazzlingly illuminated shelter.

"The sun has
been up for hours," she murmured, jostling his hands to rouse him. "We
have
work
to do."

After a lengthy
silence, he grunted again and raised his head, blinking rapidly in the
radiance. Honey-blond hair hung wildly in his face. "Good Christ," he
muttered. "It must be mid-morning."

Head on the crook
of her arm, Gaithlin nodded. "We went to bed very late last night."

Scratching his
scalp with his free hand, he glanced down at his captive. In spite of the fact
that she had just awoken, she looked rested and peaceful.
And
completely, utterly beautiful.
He couldn't help but drink in her
exquisite profile, feeling the familiar heat and confusion take flight.

"Did you sleep
well?" his voice was an erotic purr in her ear.

Gaithlin could feel
his breath on her cheek, a surge of liquid fire filling her veins. If the man
wasn't sending the Fear of God through her, he was filling her with a scorching
fever she had never known to exist. Only with him did this inferno seem to
ignite, burning her mindless and giddy at the same time.

Terrified to look
at him, knowing how intimately close they were lodged, her body began to quiver
with the emotions he seemed to stir within her. Merciful Heavens, how he
thrilled her and frightened her at the same time.

"Well
enough," she managed to reply. "But you snore."

He snorted.
"How dare you accuse me of such wretched
manners.
I do nothing of the kind."

She grinned,
turning her face away from him and attempting to bury it in the material
cloaking her arm. "You snore
and
you talk."

His eyebrows rose
in feigned outrage. "You will apologize for your slanderous lies at once.
I will not tolerate these accusations one moment longer."

She giggled into
the fabric of her long-sleeved gown, yelping when he swatted her behind. The
next he realized, a pointy elbow dug deep into his ribs and he grunted loudly,
grunting yet again when she shoved against his chest in an attempt to rise.
Quick as a flash, he grasped her by the arm and pulled her down against him,
grinning as she struggled and growled in protest.