The Warrior Poet (19 page)

Gaithlin felt as if
she had been slapped. Gasping, she jerked herself free from Christian's arms,
shoving at him and swinging her big fists until he had no choice but to release
her or risk a physical conflict. Only when she stumbled to several feet away
did she dare face him.

"You
what?"
 
she
hissed.

He remained quite
calm, still seated on the rushes. "You are my second cousin and I intend
to marry you to end the hostilities between Eden and Winding Cross once and for
all."

Mouth agape with
astonishment, she could only stare at him. "Are you mad? My mother will
never allow such a thing!"

He rose to his full
height, tall and proud and strong. "I am unconcerned with your mother's
reaction
. 'Tis your father who controls Winding Cross and the
de Gare armies.
If I marry his daughter, he can no longer in good
conscience continue the Feud. Nor can my father, for that matter."

Gaithlin's head was
wagging back and forth as she listened to his rational reasoning.
"Never, Christian.
This can never happen."

"It can and it
will," he said, moving for his boots leaning against the pile of armor
near the wall.
"'Tis a most logical solution to an
illogical situation."

She took a deep
breath to clear her reeling thoughts, watching him as he donned his shoes.
"'Tis a death sentence for us both," her voice was shaking.
"Your father will kill me, and my mo... father will have your head. As it
is, you have earned his wrath by abducting me and to marry me will surely
provoke him into madness."

He pulled on his
second boot and his foot hit the floor with a resounding thud. Hands on hips,
he faced his captive. "Don't you realize what we have happened upon? You
and I are related, Gaithlin. And to my father, blood ties are more important
than anything.
Even hatred.
Our marriage will merely strengthen
that bond."

She was unnaturally
pale. Marriage had been her only hope of possibly escaping the Feud, however
she could, and to imagine herself married to the very source of the conflict
was unthinkable.
Married to the Demon who sparked such passion,
a man who would probably treat her like a captive and a whore for the remainder
of their lives.

"What about
Lady Maggie?" her voice was faint yet firm.

He looked away.
"I do not intend to honor the marriage contract. After I have told my
father what happened, he will undoubtedly agree."

She watched him
move for the crumbling door. "I do not want to marry you."

He paused, a
flicker of emotion rippling in the ice-blue depths of his expressive eyes.
Gaithlin swore she saw a flash of pain that was just as quickly vanished.
"The subject is not open for discussion. You will do as I say."

A surge of
self-protectiveness and fury surged through her at his hard reply. "I
refuse to be belittled and humiliated for the remainder of my life, Demon. Even
if a disorderly peace is settled, your family will never accept me as your wife
as you will never be accepted by the de Gares as my husband. Where will we
live? At Eden where I will be in fear for my life every moment of the day?
Or at Winding Cross where you can live in hatred and loathing for
the remainder of your existence?"

His irritation
gained speed at her harsh words. "What would lead you to believe that I
would belittle you or humiliate you? Since the moment I took you from St. Esk,
have I not treated you with...."

His words were cut
off by a loud rustling from outside the shack. Before Gaithlin could react to
the noise, Christian was already acquiring his sword and charging through the
splintering door with strength potent enough to rip the panel from the worn moldings.
Without thought for her own safety or the fact that she should possibly allow
Christian to take care of the prowler alone, Gaithlin dashed after him.

By the time she
quit the shack, Christian was plowing into the heavy undergrowth that
surrounded their shelter, hacking and ripping through the thick growth.
Gaithlin observed his movements anxiously, watching his shadow as he ripped his
way amongst the bramble and bushes in search of the elusive threat.

He sounded like a
trapped animal as he moved through the brush, grunting and growling and
creating an enormous racket. Gaithlin watched with growing apprehension,
wondering if she should retrieve one of his weapons and assist the cause. He
seemed to be focused on something, for he was moving in a relatively small
space purposefully and Gaithlin inched closer to the heavy growth, straining to
catch a glimpse of his target.

Christian's blade
glinted with evil malevolence in the weak light as he wielded it effortlessly
amongst the bushes, chopping and ripping intently. Gaithlin moved to the edge
of the bramble, bending low in an attempt to locate the subject of Christian's
attention.

The very moment she
gazed into the greenery,
a pair of startled green eyes were
staring back at her and she let out a whoop of surprise.

The eyes whooped
back.

 
'Is Discovery the
process by which

Life continues,

or
the process by
which it begins?'

 
~ Chronicles of
Christian St. John

 
Vl. V, p. CCXIII

CHAPTER
EIGHT

A small body
suddenly plowed into Gaithlin and she teetered dangerously, instinctively
grasping hold of the little torso sprouted with skinny arms and spindly legs.
Amazingly, the tiny figure was strong and she toppled onto her bottom, still
clinging to the struggling, shrieking form as it attempted to wrest itself from
her powerful grip.

But her efforts
were eased when Christian marched through the brush like a great preying beast,
upending plants and tearing apart substantial shrubbery in his wake. In the
blink of an eye, he grasped the wrestling body from Gaithlin's startled
clutches and had to immediately loosen his grip when he realized his entire
hand had encompassed a very small, very slender neck.

"Lemme
go
!"

Gaithlin put her
hands up to avoid being kicked in the head by a pair of flailing legs.
Regaining her footing, she found herself gazing at the wildly thrashing body of
a young boy.

"Lemme
go!" the child swung his little fists at Christian, completely
disregarding the fact that the man who held him was easily five times his size
and weight. "I din' do anything!"

Astonished,
Gaithlin tore her eyes away from the lad long enough to gaze at Christian's
impassive face. He gazed steadily at the squirming child, his eyes like blue
ice.

"Why were you
spying on us?" he demanded sternly.

Held by the neck
and shoulder by one massive hand, the pain from the grip was rapidly coming to
outweigh the child's outrage and he visibly winced, his hand moving from his
attempts to slug Christian to trying to peel the man’s fingers off of him.

"Ye're hurtin'
me!" he roared.

Baffled but not
senseless, Gaithlin moved toward the child and his massive captor.
"Christian, put him down," she ordered softly, grabbing hold of the
lad when Christian immediately complied. With a firm grip, she forced the child
to face her. "Who are you, boy? Why were you spying on us?"

Filthy, frightened
and furious, angry green eyes met with those of deep blue. His freckled face
was pitifully pale as he eyed the tall, blond lady. "This is
my
place!"

Gaithlin's brow
furrowed. "What do you mean? No one has lived here for years."

Frowning verily, he
attempted to twist free of her confining grasp. "It's mine! I take care o'
it!"

Christian stood
behind Gaithlin, hands on his hips in a grim gesture. "You will answer her
questions or I shall spit you over an open fire and have you for sup. What is
your name and what
are
you doing here?"

Struggles fading,
the young lad gazed at Christian with little doubt that he would carry out his
threat. But the massive Englishman's warning only served to fuel his stubborn
defiance, and he displayed a pink little tongue at the huge man in response.

"I shall not
tell ye anything, ye English hound! Go away from here!"

Christian's jaw
ticked.
"Very well, you little maggot.
Have it
your way." Reaching over Gaithlin's shoulder, he grabbed the boy by the
arm. "Have a taste of English justice."

"No, Christian,"
Gaithlin found herself defending the saucy young intruder from Christian's
mighty wrath. "I forbid you to harm him."

He allowed her to
tear the boy free of his grasp, his ice-blue eyes riveted to her beautiful
face. "I wasn't going to harm him, my lady. I was going to punish
him."

"For
what?"
Still holding the boy tightly, she managed to pull him behind her as
if to act as a shield between the lad and his antagonist. "You are being
very cruel and he is reacting accordingly."

He raised his
eyebrows in a gesture of disbelief. "
I
am
being cruel?
He
was
the one spying, not I."

She pursed her lips
in a frustrated gesture, glancing to the wide-eyed boy in her grasp. After a moment,
she returned her attention to Christian, tall and strong and massive before
her.

"Please allow
me deal with him, sire," she said softly, her sensual voice sending chills
racing through his big body. "I am sure I can obtain the answers we
seek."

He eyed her a
moment, still feeling the lingering caress of her delicious voice. After a
brief pause, he let out a resigned snort and turned away. "Good Christ,
Gae, you could probably wheedle the Secret of Life from God himself if you
approached him with your seductive voice."

She watched him
pace a few feet away, smiling with an odd satisfaction. When he found the
appropriate spot from which to watch the proceedings, he raised his eyes to
find her still staring at him, grinning. He sheepishly returned the gesture.

Still smiling, Gaithlin
returned her attention to the wide-eyed yet somewhat calmer lad before her. But
her pleasant gesture faded as she sensed his fear and defiance radiating forth
from the little body like a black fog, and she pondered his demeanor a moment
before commencing her interrogation.

As the sun rose in
the morning sky, Gaithlin sank to her knees before the small boy, studying him
intently as she cautiously loosened her hold. His blond hair was caked with
dirt and filth and she could literally see the vermin crawling about his scalp.
His entire body, thin and frail and grimy, was wracked with sores and
malnutrition. But the bright green eyes that gazed at her were alert and
intelligent.

"My name is
Gaithlin," she said softly, watching the slight breeze muss his already
wildly-spikey hair. "What is your name?"

His brow furrowed
and his lips pursed in a pout. "I am not gonna tell ye."

She smiled gently.
"Fair enough," she caught a glimpse of Christian over her shoulder
and cast him a brief glance before returning her attention to the small lad.
"My... companion and I have traveled a very long way and we were unaware
that this was your property. Certainly we did not mean to trespass. Would it be
possible to pay you for its use?"

Immediately, the
green eyes glimmered with the naked possibilities of her suggestion and his
dour expression softened. Blinking thoughtfully, he cast Gaithlin a long,
dubious glance. "What do ye have to pay me with?"

"What do you
require?"

His brow furrowed
again, this time in thought. Glancing sidelong, he noticed the sturdy charger
and a myriad of possessions that Christian had stacked neatly against the wall
of the shelter the evening before. Absently, his dirty finger dug into his nose
and Gaithlin gently pulled the offending hand away from his face, smiling
encouragingly when he looked to her in puzzlement and concentration.

"I want yer
food," he said after a moment, his manner far less harsh and bordering on
urgent. "Do ye have food?"

Gaithlin nodded
faintly, her heart aching with kindred sympathy for his plight. "Lots,”
she said. “If we promise to feed you every day, will you allow us to stay
here?"

His eyes widened
with the miraculous concept. Eating every day! His rebellious nature rapidly
dissolved in light of the concept of regular meals and he nodded eagerly to
Gaithlin's suggestion.

"I want bread
and meat!" he said.

"And you shall
have bread and meat," her grin returned. "Now, will you tell me your
name so that we may know the title of our overlord?"

"Malcolm,"
he said without hesitation.

Gaithlin let go of
the boy; it was obvious he wasn't about to leave their presence with the
thought of food to be had. Rising to her feet, she could feel Christian's
presence behind her as he quietly drew close.

"'Tis a pleasure
to make your acquaintance, Laird Malcolm,” she said. “How many years have you
seen?"

"I am not
sure," Malcolm said, eyeing the satchels against the wall.
"Six or seven.
Mayhap more."

Gaithlin nodded in
understanding. "Can you tell me why you were spying on us?"

Distracted from the
possibility of food, he eyed both Gaithlin and Christian with a certain degree
of remorse. Kicking at the dirt, he shrugged. "I heard yer voices,"
he said softly. "Voices carry in the Wood and I was curious."

"Then you live
nearby?"

Finished kicking at
the dirt, he returned to eyeing the baggage. "I live all over," he
replied, turning to Gaithlin with a look of utter eagerness. "Can we eat
now?"

As Gaithlin gazed
down at the bristle-haired lad, a good deal became clear to her. All of the
clues, pieced together through conversation and observation, brought about the
situation with brutal clarity and she felt a tug to her heart at the plight of
the plucky young lad. He was a survivor, like she was.

"Are your
parents dead, Malcolm?" she asked gently.

He nodded without
distress, his gaze moving from the food yet again and falling on Christian this
time.
His expression immediately turning baleful.
"Are ye going to punish me still, hound?"

Christian, having
been an observer to the entire exchange between Gaithlin and the boy, was also
wise to the interpretation of the entire situation. As a result, he was far
calmer than he had been moments before. Even in the face of Malcolm's hateful
insult.

"Let us
establish our rules from the beginning," he growled, a softness underlying
his stern demeanor. "You will no longer insult me if you expect to eat my
fare. Is this understood?"

Malcolm looked to
Gaithlin, who nodded firmly. After a moment, the little boy kicked the ground
and turned away.
"I wunna call ye names,
Englishman."

"His name is
Sir Christian," Gaithlin informed him, her voice soft and her eyes
twinkling as she looked to Christian. "You will address him properly,
Laird Malcolm."

The boy nodded
again, scratching his louse-ridden tunic. Being addressed as a laird had a very
pleasant sound to it, a respect and honor given that he had never before known.
And noting the homage to come from a beautiful woman fed arrogance within his
little heart that he never knew existed. But her brutish friend was another
matter and they eyed each other like a pair of dominant cocks.

"Sir
Christian...he is yer brother?" he asked her, his brow furrowing when
Christian's gesture darkened.

"I am her
husband," Christian replied before Gaithlin could respond.

Husband.
Malcolm's heart
was strangely crushed with that knowledge. Even though the lady did not look
entirely pleased with the declaration, she kept silent but refused to meet Sir
Christian's gaze, even when he deliberately looked to her. Instead, the lady
was still focused on his dirty little face.

"Laird
Malcolm, do you know where there is water about?" she asked, ignoring
Christian's searching gaze.

Malcolm nodded,
pointing to the west. "There's a brook down the hill."

Gaithlin nodded
firmly. "You will go and wash the filth from your hands before you partake
of our morning meal." When he looked incredibly puzzled, she simply
pointed in the direction he had indicated. "Hurry, now. You do not want to
be late and Sir Christian will not wait for a straggler."

Still confused as
to why he should wash the dirt from his hands, Malcolm nonetheless obeyed her
order. Watching the tiny, slovenly body dash across the clearing, Gaithlin was
surprised when a pair of warm, delicious lips suddenly planted themselves over her
mouth. A moment of confused shock was replaced by painful bolts of awakening
desire as she allowed herself the delightful luxury of Christian's powerfully
heated embrace.

A
gentle kiss that harbored all the elements of a devilishly carnal lust.
Her arms wound
themselves about his neck as his massive arms crushed her against him,
relishing the feel and taste and smell of his musk. Hungrily, his tongue pried
her lips open and delved into her honeyed essence, licking her until she was
mindless.
 
Then he pulled away, watching
her dazed expression.

"What was that
for?" she rasped.

"Do I need a
reason?” he asked huskily. “I am your husband."

Her blinking became
more rapid and her limp body suddenly stiffened as his words sank in. "You
are not my husband. And it wasn't fair to lie to Laird Malcolm."

He continued to
grin.
"A minor technicality.
As soon as I find a
proper priest, the situation will be remedied."

Gaithlin sighed
heavily. "I told you that I do not want to marry you, Christian. I meant
it."