The Warrior Poet (21 page)

"What of
Jean?"

Maggie shrugged,
still averting her eyes. "I consider it my duty to the righteousness of
England to ascertain where he has ordered Christian to take your
daughter," taking a deep breath to summon the courage to maintain her lie,
she faced her hostess. "If I am careful and discreet, Jean will tell me
what you need to know in order to save your daughter. He's always been rather
fond of me and I believe I have his trust."

Alicia stared at
the woman, too frightened and too overwhelmed to maintain her doubt in the
lady's sincerity. If the Demon's former betrothed was willing to help the de
Gare cause, then Alicia would not be so discourteous as to refuse her aid. God
help her, she was becoming more terrified by the moment, enough to willingly
accept whatever assistance offered.

The foolish
reasoning behind an ages-old feud lost a good deal of its meaning as she came
to grips with her daughter's situation. She had maintained the hatred, the
charade of honor, fighting against Jean St. John and wasting her life in the
process. For Alex, she would continue the battle. But for Gaithlin, her only
living flesh and blood, she was willing to consider the end, whatever the
price.

"I can never
repay you for your kindness," she whispered, feeling terribly despondent
and utterly drained.

Maggie rose from
the ancient chair, straightening her cloak. "And I will not ask for
payment. My reward is in knowing that I have accomplished a bit of good with my
life by preventing the Demon of Eden from gaining another victim."

"My husband
and I shall await word, then," Alicia said softly, too exhausted to show
her visitor to the door. Instead, Eldon emerged from the shadows to accomplish
the duty.

Maggie eyed the
tall knight as he approached, fumbling with her fur-lined gloves. "I shall
contact you as soon as I am able, although it may take some time."

Alicia merely
nodded, too consumed with guilt and fury and nausea to acknowledge the woman in
a more polite manner. All that was of concern was the fact that Gaithlin was a
prisoner of the Demon of Eden and the mysterious visitor to Winding Cross
seemed to be the only hopeful link.

She was still
seated with her forehead resting in her palm when Eldon reentered the solar a
short time later, his brown eyes intense. Without a word, he knelt beside his
mistress and took her in his arms.

"Alicia, my
love, do not despair," he crooned tenderly. "All will be well. I
promise I shall rescue Gaithlin myself."

Buried in the crook
of his neck, Alicia's breathing came in heart-felt sobs of grief. "The
Demon has her, Eldon. Surely he has...!"

He shushed her
sternly, gently. "You will not dwell on such thoughts, for they will only
drive you mad."

"But I cannot
help myself!" she gasped, removing her face from his shielding shoulder.
"To think of her within the clutches of the Demon of Eden is surely the
worst fate a de Gare can face!"

Eldon grasped her
face tenderly, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. "Gaithlin is strong,
my lady. You must have faith in her ability to preserve her life until we can
assist her. Certainly she will not surrender to the Demon without a
fight."

Alicia stared into
his rugged features, feeling most vulnerable when she was in his arms. As if
her brave knight could right all of the wrongs her husband and his family had
managed to create.

"What if the
woman is lying?" she whispered pleadingly. "What if she has been sent
by Jean to gain our trust and lead us to ruin?"

Eldon sighed
slowly. "We can begin the discovery process by contacting St. Esk. In
fact, we are succumbing to panic before we have even verified the fact that
Gaithlin has indeed been abducted."

As if by magic, a
flicker of hope appeared in Alicia's blue eyes. "You're correct, of
course. When I received the missive from Eden, I naturally believed the message
for the simple reason that Jean St. John has never before attempted written
communication." Suddenly, a bit of color appeared in her cheeks and her
tears abruptly vanished as a seed of hope blossomed. "Ride to St. Esk,
Eldon. If Gaithlin is still there, you will return her home. And if she is gone…."

"If she is
gone, I will return with Godspeed to bring you the confirmation," he
finished for her, smiling encouragingly into her weary face. "But for the
moment, I intend to see to your needs. You are exhausted, my lady, and must be
made to rest."

Her eyes, like deep
blue diamonds, glimmered at him with all of the unrest and emotion she was
experiencing. Volatile sensations within the soul of a habitually reserved woman;
however, once the dam was breached, the torrents of feeling were stronger than
even God himself could control. She could not manage them alone.

She needed help.
She needed to be touched and comforted, assured that all would be well. Her
arms wound about Eldon's thick neck, her breathing coming in ragged drags.
"I have no desire to rest at the moment. I have a need for you, darling.
Immediately."

Eldon was an
obedient knight in every sense of the word. He took Alicia down to the floor,
his hands snaking up her gown as his calloused palms sought her ample breasts.
His lips, as gentle and nurturing as the rest of him, sought her delicate mouth
with infinite tenderness. Even as his hard shaft drove into her moist folds,
she met his fervent desire with a fervent need of her own. Feeling his force
feed her, steady her,
calm
her as only he could.

It was rare for
Alicia's emotions to surface, and they were verging on a complete explosion as
she met Eldon's passion, hating Alex with every stroke of her lover's manhood,
missing her husband with every touch from his sensitive hands.

Passion, loathing,
turmoil, fear; she experienced all of them as her gentle knight brought her to
a roaring climax on the cold stone of Alex's solar. When she gasped Eldon's
name, it was Alex she was seeing, Alex she was feeling. And when her knight's
tender kisses brought her back to the world at hand, she wondered if she would
ever be free of the chaos Alex managed to create in her soul.
Wondering if she would ever be anything other than a warring widow,
venting her confusion and passion on a lonely knight who was madly in love with
her.

Cradled
protectively in her lover's arms, she didn't know what she was feeling any
longer; she had to force herself away from the agitation that threatened to
consume her. The guilt, the hatred, the passion... she could no longer
rationally ponder the self-induced strife. The only subject worth her mental
energies was the fact that her Gaithlin was in the hands of the enemy.

 
For the sake of her husband, she had taken up
his fight. But her daughter's life was not worth the legend of the de Gare
honor. She hoped Alex would not hate her overly for being weak enough to love
her child more than the family's honor.

~The ascension of true adoration

 
comes
from the maturing of the Soul.~

 
~Chronicles of
Christian St. John

 
Vl. VI, p. XXVI

CHAPTER
NINE

Christian had never
seen a child eat so much. He gave up attempting to caution the boy early on and
spent the remainder of the meal in fear that the lad would explode before his
very eyes. As the three of them consumed a lentil soup with bits of dried pork
and carrot, he'd never before witnessed such abject hunger.

Starving or no,
however, the delightful flavor of the stew proved to magnify the appetite.
Masterfully prepared by Gaithlin, Christian was immensely pleased with her
culinary talents. With little more than salt and a handful of rosemary and
thyme to season the soup, it was a thick hearty meal that he literally gulped.

Considering he had
repeatedly chided Laird Malcolm for the very same table manners he himself was
displaying, neither he nor the lad gave thought to his hypocrisy in light of
their satisfying meal. Seated with Gaithlin several feet away from Christian,
the lad consumed three bowls of the stuff as Gaithlin matched him spoonful for
spoonful.

Even after
Christian had eaten his fill, he continued to watch Gaithlin and the starving
orphan at a distance, pondering the pathetic state of their meager pasts and
experiencing a good deal of compassion. An odd emotion, he mused, considering
he had never had any use for it. But it was a sensation he had readily come to
associate with Gaithlin, and now the boy.

Laird Malcolm lay
on the grass in a miserable heap, his bowl discarded beside him. Christian rose
from his seat on an upended stump, making his way toward the two figures
beneath the cluster of trees and wondering if he shouldn't poke holes in the
boy to relieve the pressure on his bloated stomach. Instead, he put his hands
on his hips in a stern gesture as he eyed the two gluttons.

"You are
dangerously close to bursting, Malcolm," he growled, although it was done
lightly. When the boy nodded weakly, he looked to Gaithlin. "How could you
allow him to do this? He will become ill."

Seated on the lush
grass, Gaithlin rose on her long legs and collected Malcolm's bowl within her
own. "He hasn't eaten in two days," she murmured as she moved past
him. "I could hardly demand he control himself."

Christian cast
her a
long glance as she walked towards the splintering
shack, returning his attention to the dozing lad with a good deal less
harshness. "Which is more reason not to allow him to stuff himself,"
he muttered. "His body is unused to such amounts of food."

Gaithlin heard him
but she did not reply, instead, remembering her own frequent bouts with hunger
and knowing well the desperation and discomfort. Christian's words were
correct, but they were spoken from his head and not his heart; obviously, the
man had never known a day of hardship in his life and she resented his
prosperity. Resenting the fact that every misfortune she had ever faced had
been a direct result of his family's influence.

But she refused to
dwell on the familiar bitterness, instead, focusing on the
work
that await
her inside the shelter. The shack was warm and fragrant from
the bubbling
stew,
a meal she estimated from
experience would be able to last them for two or three days. Earlier, after
preparing the ingredients and watching the soup bubble to a hearty finish, she
had taken the time to clean out the interior of their shelter as best she
could.

The massive
cast-iron pot left in the crumbling hearth had been cleaned and put to
use,
and the old table and chair had been placed outside for
Christian's attention. Clearing out the remains of the rodent's nest in the
second smaller room, she had collected other debris from the dirt floors until
they were less cluttered.

With belly full and
determination fed, Gaithlin fully intended to spend the rest of the day on making
her new home livable. In faith, she felt a distinct sense of excitement knowing
that she and Christian would be spending an unknown span of time sequestered in
the deep woods. Thoughts of escape, of captivity, were miles away as she
focused on the facts of the situation.

The most prominent
point was the fact that she could not escape from the Demon of Eden. She had
tried and, being a relatively reasonable woman, was resigned to the knowledge
that there was no eluding the man. And the second point of the matter was that
she no longer had any desire to escape him. She was coming to like the
situation in ways she could not begin to describe, only knowing that she was
actually happy for the very first time in her life. Happy with the Demon

She believed herself
wicked for never wanting to leave him. Aye, she had no interest in his marriage
proposal, but she was rapidly coming to realize that life with Eden's Demon was
not such a horrible thing. Certainly nothing like the miserable bondage that
she had envisioned; he was kind and gentle, and during those times when he had
kissed her, surely there was nothing more pleasurable on earth.

Lost to her
thoughts, she was startled when Christian entered the hut, his gaze riveted to
her. "Malcolm and I are going to the stream to see if we can locate
suitable mud to patch these walls,” he said.

She wiped her hands
on Carolyn Howard's fine gown. "Malcolm was sleeping last I saw him,"
she frowned accusingly. "Did you wake him?"

"Nay, I did
not wake him," his tone bordered on mocking. "He cannot sleep with
his stomach so full and I require his knowledge of this area to assist me in
locating a clay-based mud. I am going to plaster the walls with the
stuff."

She glanced about,
nothing the profusion of sunlight streaming in through the aged wood and
crumbling mud. Nodding, she turned away from him. "Allow me to change into
my worn gown and I shall assist you."

He almost protested
but thought better; she was exceedingly strong for a woman and obviously not
afraid of hard work. Although his chivalrous personality staunchly refused to
allow a woman to do manual labor, the more reasonable portion of his mind
realized that he might very well require her help.

"Very
well," his voice was quiet. "But do hurry. I have forced Malcolm to
his feet and I tend to believe he will not stand idle much longer."

She nodded again,
listening to the ancient door close awkwardly behind her. Stripping off the
fine gown of yellow satin, she donned the gray woolen gown she had been
abducted in.

The stream Malcolm
had indicated earlier was a large, shallow river that bubbled and sang as it
coursed over boulders of cloudy granite. Gaithlin stood on the bank, absorbing
the peaceful scene as Malcolm led Christian up the shore, pointing to various
depressions of pooling water.

Since discovering
Christian had access to unlimited food, Malcolm seemed to be a good deal less
hostile towards the massive Englishman. Still, he remained distinctly wary.
Christian seemed to do most of the talking as the young boy pointed and
grunted, sparing one-word answers and little else. Gaithlin watched and
listened, smelling the moldering dampness that the stream had to offer and
thinking Scotland to be a lovely, serene place.

"Laird
Malcolm, are there any lakes about?" she asked over the roar of the
simmering stream.

On the opposite
side of the brook, several yards upstream, Christian was the first to answer.
"If I recall correctly, this small river ends in a fairly large
pond."

Gaithlin cocked an
eyebrow, as Malcolm looked surprised as well. "You have a detailed
knowledge of this area?" she asked.

He shrugged, thinking
that he would be able to steal a glimpse of her nude body frolicking about in
the water if he pointed her in the direction of a lake.

"Enough to
remember there was a shack in the middle of Galloway Forest, lodged deep into
Laird Malcolm's territory," he said, casting the boy a glance.
"Enough to recall that there is a small village not far from here. Am I
correct?"

The lad nodded, his
brow furrowed. "When were ye here, Englishman?"

"When I was a
boy, younger than you," he leapt across the brook in one long stride,
continuing his examination of the soil. "Tell me about the village Cree.
Has it grown from more than one small avenue and a few businesses?"

Malcolm rubbed his
bloated belly, thinking. "There are more than a few merchants
. 'Tis a busy place."

Christian digested
the information, still studying the dirt. "Excellent. Considering I need
to purchase a few supplies, it should suit my needs admirably."

"Supplies?"
Malcolm cocked his
head as if he had never heard of such a thing. "What supplies would tha'
be?"

"Food stuffs
mostly," he eyed Gaithlin. "And if there is a cobbler, my wife could
use a new pair of shoes."

As Gaithlin stared
at him in surprise, Malcolm was awed. "Ye have money fer this?" he
asked.

Christian tore his
eyes away from Gaithlin's astonished gaze, cracking a smile at the lad's
incredulity. "I do."

Malcolm continued
to stare at him, his young mind wracked with the wonder of wealth. Considering
he had none, the concept was as elusive as the theory of regular meals.
"How did ye come by
th
' wealth?"

Christian shrugged.
"Looting, pillaging, stealing from the poor."

Malcolm believed
him even as Gaithlin fought off a reproachful grin. "Ye're a thief?"

"Indeed,"
Christian looked serious, casting another long glance at Gaithlin. "My
wife will confirm my tale. I simply steal what I want."

Malcolm's wide
green eyes focused on the beautiful woman. But Gaithlin's attention was
entirely on Christian, recollecting her abduction from St. Esk as his jesting
words rang true. When he smiled enticingly, a beautiful gesture, she realized
his train of thought matched her own.

 
I simply steal what I want.

After a moment, she
nodded quite sincerely and looked away. "He does indeed steal. I know this
for fact."

Malcolm couldn't
decide whether to be horrified or supportive of his deeds. He continued to gaze
at Gaithlin as Christian retraced his steps along the bank, moving towards his
exquisite, willowy captive as a preying animal stalks its quarry.

"I... I need
wealth," he said, looking hesitant and eager at the same time. "Can I
learn tae steal like Sir Christian?"

Incensed, Gaithlin
opened her mouth to fully recant Christian's outrageous lie. But the moment she
moved to do so, warm arms wound about her slender body, enveloping her with
fierce tenderness. Before she could protest, Christian's probing lips and hot
breath danced over the delicate flesh of her neck, sending ripples of
excitement coursing down her spine.

Instead of
vigorously contesting his bold action, she found herself giggling as his teeth
nibbled her tender shoulder. Struggling to maintain her focus and her outrage
in the face of his seductive onslaught, she weakly attempted to pull away from
him.
Very weakly.

"Not in front
of Malcolm, Christian," she murmured feebly, her gaze still resting on the
wide-eyed young lad. "Did you hear what he said? He wants to be a thief,
like you."

"I heard
him," he mumbled, his face pressed against her delectable neck. "If
he is fortunate enough to obtain such booty as I have in my arms, I would
applaud his intent."

Gasping weakly, her
struggle to pull away from him increased. "You will not encourage this.
Tell him the truth immediately. Tell him what you
really
are."

Sighing heavily,
Christian forced himself away from her delicious skin. Chin resting on
Gaithlin's shoulder, his seduction-hazed expression focused on Malcolm.

"I am not a
thief. I am a warlord." Returning to Gaithlin's flesh, he growled.
"There. Satisfied?"

Before Gaithlin
could reply, Malcolm leapt to the forefront of the conversation. "Ye're a
warlord?" he gasped. Obviously, being a warlord was far better than being
a lowly thief and his little cheeks were ripe with the color of excitement.
"Do ye fight for
th
' king?"

Gaithlin was slowly
collapsing against him and Christian was having difficulty focusing on anything
other than her responsive body. Good Christ, she was so unbelievable sensitive
to his passion, as if she knew exactly how to obey his silently lustful commands
with her voracious reaction. As if she knew exactly what the Demon needed
without the benefit of words.

In fact, he
completely forgot about the small boy as his mouth attached to her tender
earlobe. Gaithlin gasped with pleasure and he was about to bring his hands up
to grasp her breasts when an insistent tugging distracted him. Reeling back to
the world at hand, his flushed, panting face met with an eager, youthful
expression.