The Warrior Poet (28 page)

Moreover, it was an
extremely natural affliction that would guarantee him an heir and he somehow
felt a part of her malady. The matters of the previous evening, the rage and
tears and shock, were forgotten as he focused on Gaithlin's delicate state.

"Can I do
anything?" he asked, a gentle hand touching her shoulder.

Gaithlin shook her
head, wishing he would leave her alone with her pain, but also finding a great
deal of comfort in his concern and company. "Nothing, Christian. Why don't
you help Malcolm with the wall?"

He frowned, looking
to his saddle bags and wondering if there was something amongst the herbs and
medicaments he brought that could ease her ache. "I have brought a poppy
mixture for pain. Would that help?"

She shrugged.
"I don't know. Poppy elixirs are expensive and we never had the money to
spare."

Immediately, he
moved to his satchels and began to rummage about with a sense of purpose.
Removing several items from the larger of the bags, he fumbled about in the
bottom until he came across a leather pouch. Removing the brown purse, he rose
on his long legs and collected a wooden cup.

Opening the
splintered door, he called for Malcolm and the filthy child immediately
appeared, covered with a fresh coating of grayish mud. Sending the lad to the
brook to fill the cup, he waited impatiently for the child's return.

Panting and flushed
in the misty morn, Malcolm had spilled nearly half of the contents from the cup
with his eager actions and hurried pace by the time he returned to Christian.
Casting the boy a wink of gratitude, Christian ducked into the hut once more
and shut the door. Sprinkling a bit of powder into the cup, he offered it to
Gaithlin.

Gaithlin's
embarrassment was faded, replaced by a genuine humor in Christian's nearly
fearful manner. As if she was going to erupt at any moment. Accepting the cup
and downing the contents, she lay back down upon the musty wool in the fervent
hope that the expensive poppy potion would do some good. In faith, she was
exhausted and weary from the constant crampy ache and eager to be done with it.

Even if her pain
had
made Christian forget his anger. For
that, she was almost thankful for the cursed throbbing. Moreover, distracting
her from her current physical state was the fact that he had professed his
foolishness for having left their shelter last night and she was deeply
perplexed by the assumption of guilt. He had been rightfully angry with the
divulgence of Alex de Gare's death and had been justified in his reaction.
Gaithlin had never faulted him his fury.

But his odd
statement of personal assumption gnawed at her and as the poppy potion flushed
her veins with a warm lethargy, she struggled to keep her eyes open.

"Why did you
say what you did?" she asked, losing the battle against the powerful opiate.

Seated next to her
on the rushes, he reached out to stroke her hair. "What is that?"

"That you were
foolish to have left in the first," she repeated, her voice faint.
"What did you mean?"

His hand stopped
stroking, coming to rest on the top of her head. "That should be
obvious," he resumed stroking. "I should not have left with such
anger and confusion between us. I should have remained and rationally
confronted your information."

She sighed, her
ache lessening somewhat as the drug went to work. "You were right to
become angry," she whispered. "I was determined not to inform you of
my father's passing and my mother's quest to bear arms. Had my foolish tongue
not slipped, you still would not know the truth."

He understood her
reasoning too well. "I know," he said softly, watching the colors of
her hair glimmer in the weak light. "You were simply protecting your
family, Gae. I would have done the same."

Her eyes came open,
unfocused from the potency of the medicine. "What now, Christian? You must
tell your father."

He didn't say
anything for a moment, his hand moving from her hair to her arm. "How do
you feel?" he asked, obviously changing the subject.

 
She sighed wearily, her eyes closing.
"Eased and exceedingly tired," she said softly. "You did not
answer my question."

He caressed her
arm, rubbing gently at her shoulder. "Is there anything else I can do to
ease your pain?"

Mind fogged with
the potion, Gaithlin had difficulty holding a thought and it was an easy matter
to divert her attention. "My mother used to rub my lower back," she
said after a moment, thinking on the painful curse both she and her mother had
shared. After a moment, she remembered that he had again failed to answer her
question and struggled to maintain her lucidity as she demanded a reply.
"When are you going to tell your father of my father's death?"

He shifted behind
her, stretching his big body out on the rushes. Propping himself up on one
elbow, she could feel his strong, gentle hand massaging the small of her back
with infinite care. "Then if your mother stroked your back, I shall do the
same."

His expert massage
threatened to put her to sleep immediately, but she struggled with the last
shards of consciousness to obtain her answer. "Answer me, Christian. I
demand it."

"You do?"
he raised his eyebrows in gentle disapproval, rubbing her delicious torso
tenderly. "I do not know if I appreciate your imperial demands. But,
considering your diminished mental state, I will forgive you. As for my father,
he will know when I decide to tell him and not a moment sooner."

She shrugged
faintly, groaning softly with the delight of his attentions. He smiled,
studying her relaxed features in the dimness. Her beautiful face, calm and
peaceful as the poppy elixir worked its magic, reminded him of a prose he had
composed during the night, a verse that somehow helped him express his emotions.
When she sighed again in contentment, he lay down beside her completely and
continued to massage her cramping back.

"I wrote
something for you last night," he said softly, his alert eyes staring into
the dimness of the shelter.

"You
did?" she was barely audible. "What?"

"A bit of
prose," he said softly. "You may read it when you are feeling
better."

She didn't reply. But
then she rolled onto her back, her beautiful face gazing up at him in the soft
illumination. Her half-lidded eyes were struggling against the force of the
opiate concoction.

"I cannot
read, Christian," she said, unashamed.

He wasn't
surprised; very few ladies could read. Touching her cheek, he smiled faintly.
"Then I shall teach you."

"But that will
take time," she slurred, her eyes blinking slowly. "Please read your
prose to me. I want to hear it now."

Nodding faintly, he
pulled her into his arms, continuing his massage as she snuggled against him.
The night of fury and turmoil was forgotten by the both of them as they relaxed
into a most natural state, enfolded within the company of each other's arms.

As Gaithlin
struggled against the force of the elixir, Christian thought on the ponderings
and poetry he had scribed the night before, effortlessly isolating the gentle
verse he had written specifically for Gaithlin.

"'Beauty
bewareth comes the passion

of
rough tides and
blissful dreams.

 
To ever haunt the beauty of the passion;

into
the night, she
surely hides.'"

His prosaic passage
was met with silence and he thought she had fallen asleep. With a faint smile,
he kissed her delicious hair and felt his own fatigue clutching at him, the
result of a sleepless and turbulent night. No longer willing to wage battle
with his exhaustion, he closed his eyes against the comfort of their bed.

"It's
beautiful,” she breathed. “What does it mean?"

He scarcely heard
the muttered question. His eyes remained closed as he answered. "It means
that you are the beauty of my passion. And it means that you and I will not
have a perfect life together."

"And you fear
that I may run?" Her head suddenly came up, her sleepy eyes focusing on
him in the darkness. "I would never run from your passion, Christian. I
have never run from anything in my life."

His hand came up,
tenderly touching her cheek. "You have not a cowardly bone in your body.
But you may want to escape the turmoil in spite of your bravery. 'Twould be a
natural instinct."

She shook her head,
a slender finger tracing the squareness of his jaw. "An instinct I would
reject. I have spent a mere seven days with you and already I cannot imagine
being separated from you, as if we belong together."

"We do,"
he said without hesitation, his heart soaring to hear his own thoughts echoed
in her sultry voice. He'd always known she reflected his own feelings to a
certain extent, but he was unsure that her own sensations ran as deeply as his
did. He'd known he loved her since the first he had ever seen her; mayhap, in
time, she would come to love him as well. Hearing her tender words and
experiencing her gentle actions, he was greatly encouraged.

Gaithlin smiled,
her thumbs stroking his stubbled cheek as she studied his features intently.
"Strange that we do.
We are supposed to hate each
other."

"I could never
hate you."

"Nor
could I.

He drank in her
beautiful face even as she continued to scrutinize him, almost thoughtfully in
spite of her drug-hazed mind. After a moment, he cupped her gently behind the
neck and pulled her to his lips for a tender kiss. Good Christ, there was so
much he wanted to tell her. So much he was still unable to voice.
Mayhap in time....

"Sleep
now," he
said,
his voice hoarse. "We shall
go to town on the morrow."

Too tired to
protest or question his reasoning, she snuggled into the curve of his mighty
torso, never more content in her entire life. Even as she contemplated the
magic of his delicious company, another fleeting thought came to mind as the
sleep of Morpheus attempted once more to claim her.

"What about
Malcolm?" she yawned.

"He's a job to
do," he replied. "He'll be busy most of the day."

Forgetting the wood
he had promised the lad, Christian drifted off to sleep without thought to the
missive he had intended to send his father this day, or the supplies they were
in need of purchasing. All that mattered was that all was right between he and
Gaithlin again, a comfort and warmth between them that he could not begin to
describe in words. All he knew was that he needed the satisfaction as badly as
he needed to eat and breathe. He needed the comfort.

He needed her.

***

Gaithlin slept the
rest of the day and on into the evening. Christian had awoken after several
hours of restful sleep, listening to the soft sounds of Malcolm as the lad
continued to patch the walls. Gaithlin was dead weight against him, breathing
heavily in her drug-induced sleep and after watching her peaceful expression
longer than he could recall, Christian tenderly disengaged himself from her
heated body.

Tucking his cloak
about her tightly, he kissed her gently on the forehead, listening to her sighs
of contentment. With a smile on his lips, he quit the shelter with several
splintered logs in his arms, intent on aiding the neglected young lad.

The fog had lifted,
leaving the day bright and clear. Malcolm had finished the southern wall and
was busily working on the eastern barrier when Christian emerged from the
shack. With a few words between them, Malcolm showed him the best spot to lodge
a hefty bonfire and proceeded to light the bundle of dried wood as Christian
stood over him and supervised.

It took several
tries and Malcolm was rapidly succumbing to acute embarrassment, but Christian
aided him to make it appear as if the boy's efforts had culminated after all.
Admiring the English warlord more by the minute, Malcolm had been eager to
assist Christian in setting up a tripod over the open flame. Made of three long
pieces of damp wood, Christian secured the implement for holding pots with a
long strip of hide.

With the campfire
prepared, the two men proceeded to finish coating the shack with the clay-like
mud. Once Christian delved into the task, the project was completed quickly and
using the pick-axe from his arsenal of war implements, he and Malcolm began to
dig up several long sections of sod to complete the walls of the house.

It was hard, dirty
work that progressed into the night. By the time they covered two walls and the
roof with the damp, heavy sod, they were both famished and fatigued. Christian
had ducked into the hut with the intention of confiscating the remainder of the
lentil soup and wedges of cheese he had brought with him, noting with humor
that all of their racket throughout the day had failed to rouse Gaithlin.
Gathering his supplies, he quit the shack silently.