The Warrior Poet (39 page)

His eyebrows rose
in astonishment at her titillating request. For a woman who had been untouched
and completely naive until the introduction of the Demon, her inherent
qualities of erotica amazed him. As if she knew, instinctively, how to drive
him mad with want.

"What do you
know of wicked intentions?" he growled, his breathing gaining pace as he
watched her lick his mailed finger. "Good Christ, Gae, don't put your
tongue on that. Put it where it will do the most good."

Although her
giggles were fading, her smile was fixed and decidedly sultry. "And where
would that be, sire?"

He cocked an
eyebrow. "Do I have to tell you? Use your imagination."

She matched his
cocked eyebrow, a thoughtful gesture, and Christian watched with mounting
desire as she decided lifted her lips to meet his own. Feasting on her mouth,
tasting her honeyed essence, he abruptly pulled away with a painful groan.

"Don't do this
to me," he
rasped,
his mailed fingers in her
silken hair. "This armor is most restrictive for a man in my present
state."

She gazed
seductively at him, licking the taste of him from her lips. "I do not
understand. What state is that?"

His features
twisted drolly.
"A most swollen state.
Engorged, even.
Rigid and hard for the
want of you."

Naive though she
might be, a glimmer of understanding appeared in her eye. Although she had
scarcely had a chance to view Christian's throbbing manhood as he repeatedly
claimed her earlier that day, she understood through sheer factual inference
that his condition was acute beneath his ungiving armor. As she had come to
realize over the past several days, a man's organ began grossly swollen when
his desire was aroused and observing his uncomfortable face, she began to
giggle again. Only this time, it was a gesture of delight and adulation.

"You... you
would take me again?
Now?"

He rolled his eyes
sardonically.
"Good Christ, woman, what a foolish
question."
Pretending to ignore her flushed, eager expression, he
struggled to focus on Malcolm. "Well? Have the priests not answered
yet?"

Turning away from
the massive door, Malcolm's hand was still feverishly working the knocker.
"Not yet. Should I open
th
' door meself?"

Christian shook his
head, wincing ticklishly when Gaithlin thrust her finger playfully into his
open visor, brushing his ear. Attempting desperately to ignore his heated
condition, he moved towards the ancient door with Gaithlin still clinging to
his torso, fully intent on pounding out a response from the negligent priests.
The sooner he wed the searing bit of flesh lodged against his body, the sooner
he could do with her as he pleased.

Fortunately for the
both of them, their wait was proceeding towards a definitive end. Just as
Christian raised his mailed hand against the aged oak, the door suddenly
shifted and popped as the bolt from the other side was released.
 
Giving the impending priest a wide berth, he
took a step back and pulled Malcolm with him as they wait with mounting
anticipation to announce their presence.

"The last time
you stood before an abbey door, the situation was quite different,"
Gaithlin whispered as another noisy bolt was thrown, muffled by the thick wood.

His eyes on the
door, Christian nodded faintly. "Quite. But I most assuredly do not regret
my actions."

Smiling with delirious
contentment, Gaithlin laid her head against his cold armor. "Nor do
I
, my dearest Demon."

He fought off a
grin, quelling it completely as the foreboding door slowly creaked open.
Suddenly, the dim archway was filled by a fat priest a few inches taller than
Malcolm himself. The man's head shorn respectfully and clad in coarse brown
wool, his gaze was wide and curious on the three individuals converging on his
front stoop. Before Christian could politely introduce their purpose, Malcolm
stood boldly before the round monk and openly scrutinized him.

"Are ye
th
' priest?" he demanded. Before the man could answer,
Malcolm pointed imperiously at Christian and Gaithlin. "They need tae be
married!"

Shocked, Gaithlin
moved forward to firmly pull Malcolm aside as Christian cleared his throat
loudly. "My apologies," he said, moving into the spot recently
occupied by Malcolm the Brazen. "You must forgive the impudent nature of a
young boy."

The priest's
expression had gone from curious to
baffled
as he
gazed up at the massive English knight. "I... he is your son,
m'lord?"

"Nay,"
Christian replied.

"Aye,"
Gaithlin countered at the same moment.

As the priest's
brow furrowed, Christian cast Gaithlin an exasperated look. She met his gaze
evenly, staunchly, and his jaw ticked with acute irritation. Sighing heavily,
he returned his attention to the priest in a fervent attempt to clarify the
matter.

"He... he is
my adoptive son.
Our
adoptive son," he gestured weakly towards
Gaithlin, who was clutching Malcolm protectively. "And he is entirely
correct. My lady and I wish to be married."

The priest's brow lifted
in confusion. "He is the adoptive son of the two of you, yet you are not
married?"

Good Christ
, Christian
muttered inwardly. The situation was rapidly deteriorating and he sought to
gain a firm handle before it spiraled further out of control. "The lad is
an orphan whom my betrothed and I have adopted," he explained, musing
drolly that Malcolm had, more likely, adopted
them.
"And to
complete our proper family unit, the lady and I should like to be married
immediately. Who may I speak with regarding such transactions?"

The priest eyed the
trio, his expression returning to its original curious guise. Somewhat in
better understanding of the situation, he stood aside and motioned the small
group forward. "Inside, if you will. Leave all weapons at the door."

Christian's
broadsword was strapped to his saddle, but he obediently removed a small dagger
from the fold between his breastplate and shoulder protection and handed it to
Malcolm, who eagerly returned the weapon to the arsenal attached to the war
saddle. Christian cast a final glanced over his stocked saddle as Malcolm
returned from replacing the weapon, knowing that his great white charger would
prevent anyone from looting his possessions. Without further hesitation, he
followed Gaithlin and Malcolm into the cool, musty interior.

The foyer of the
abbey was dim, lit by fatty candles and torches soaked in oil. The heavy smell
of mold and smoke emitted from the very walls as the fat brother led them down
a short corridor and into a broader common room. Indicating his visitors to sit
upon the rough wooden stools that furnished the barren room, he abruptly
disappeared into the shadows.

Perched stiffly
upon a leaning stool, Gaithlin glanced about the dingy surroundings with open
curiosity. "I expected an abbey to be better appointed."

Christian's gaze
roved the bare walls, the swept floor. "They will be amply fortified to
furnish their rooms when I pay handsomely for our ceremony." He suddenly
glanced at her over his shoulder, his expression bordering abruptly on
intolerance. "Which brings me to a subject you
have
refused to discuss since leaving our shelter. I shall go broke if we have to
replace all of the possessions left behind should your dog-people decide to
raid our camp while we're gone."

Gaithlin averted
her gaze deliberately. "They'll not steal anything, Christian. They
understand that we mean them no harm and I believe I have won the man's
loyalty."

He shook his head,
his jaw ticking as he once again thought on the argument they had shared before
setting forth on the road to the abbey. After the amazing pinnacles of passion
they had achieved that morn, the bitter exchange had been most unexpected.
 
"I cannot believe I allowed you to
convince me not to load the wagon and bring all of our possessions with us. The
dog-man didn't understand one word you said; what leads you to believe that our
camp will remain untouched by his raiding habits?"

She continued to
stare at the floor, feeling like a scolded child. How could she explain her
trust in a couple who had so far proven to be sly and destructive? Even though
she knew he hadn't understood her attempts at reasoning, still, an inner sense
had convinced her that the dog-man and his equally undomesticated wife realize
that the cozy, organized encampment was off-limits to their usual escapades.
'Twas a feeling she had, and a foolish one at that.

"If you were
so convinced that I was wrong, then why did you do as I asked?" she
countered quietly. "I did not force you."

He rolled his eyes
in a weary gesture. "Nay, you did not physically force me, but you
certainly made it clear that I was to be given little choice."

His gaze lingered
on her lowered head a moment, his heart softening at her rebuked mannerisms.
Good Christ, he shouldn't be reprimanding her for his own weakness; in faith,
he hadn't been brutally forced to bend to her will. He had given in without a
struggle.

Sighing, he turned
away from her lest he find himself begging forgiveness for succumbing to her
will. The situation was past and there was no reclaiming the decision made;
still, he was annoyed that he had weakened against her demands so easily, even
when he knew better. Certainly, she had that effect on him.

"You'd better hope
our possessions are still intact upon our return," he grunted in a weak
show of male supremacy. "If there is even one solitary item missing, I
shall hire you out as a slave and cook until you have repaid the stolen
worth."

Her head came up
from the stone, knowing he was jesting with her. Certainly, she did not expect
to be witness to an apology or admission of guilt, but his vague attempt at
humor was his way of saving his pride. She knew he had bowed to her demands;
and he was fully cognizant of the fact as well.

A faint smile
creased her lips.
"As you say, my dearest."

He grunted again,
refusing to look at her. With the subject of the dog-thieves' questionable
loyalties aired and settled, irritated though he might be with his weakness
towards Gaithlin's requests, he forced his attention to the approaching
ceremony. The flabby brother was certainly taking his time in seeking the
proper authority and Christian's irritation shifted focus, mounting towards the
unfortunate priest instead of lingering on his own fallibility.

Fortunately, their
wait was coming to a close. As Malcolm explored the shadowed recesses of the musty
room, faint footsteps were heard approaching from the distant corridor and
Christian focused on the mouth of the hall, waiting impatiently for the
incoming parties. Malcolm scurried to Gaithlin's protective presence, somewhat
fearful of the spooky sounds and smells of the dim place as the footfalls drew
near.

Abruptly, the fat
monk and a taller, more slender man emerged from the smoky-hazed corridor.
Christian fixed his intimidating gaze on the taller man, assuming he was the
figure of superiority.

"I am Father
Hardey, the Deacon of Dulce Cor," the taller brother said, his voice soft
and high-pitched. "I understand you wish to be wed?"

Christian was
unwilling to traverse the negotiation that usually accompanied such requests.
Impulsive weddings were considered foolish and unwise by the church, preferring
instead to indulge in lavish, well-planned affairs where both parties were
well-known and spiritually established. But Christian knew that money spoke
volumes to the people of the cloth; their vows of poverty were not as
stringently adhered to as they would hope to pretend. And as he had undoubtedly
proven at St. Esk, money could even purchase the life of his most vicious foe.

"We do,"
Christian held up a leather purse containing a good deal of money. He shook it
once, demonstrating the sheer weight of the bulky package. "I believe this
shall accommodate your services."

Both priests eyed
the pouch of coins. After a moment's hesitation, the taller priest moved
forward to gingerly accept Christian's offering. Gaithlin and Malcolm observed
apprehensively as the priest opened the purse, expertly scanning the contents.
With a faint nod, he re-secured the pouch and returned his attention to the
English knight.

"Follow
me."

Gaithlin leapt up
from her stool, nearly tripping over her feet in her haste to respond to the
priest's beckon. Christian reached out to steady her, gripping her arm tightly
as Malcolm managed to wedge himself between them, verging on apprehension. The
dark abbey with its sharp smells and strange sounds was becoming increasingly
frightening and he had no intention of being separated, literally, from
Christian or Gaithlin. Although still an adventure for the bright young lad, he
had been far more comfortable on the approaching journey amongst the familiar
woods and meadows. This place scared him.

"The money is
also meant to purchase a meal and board for the night," Christian said as
they followed the priest into a wide corridor off the common room. "We
have made a long journey this day and will need to rest before our return on
the morrow."