The Warrior Poet (41 page)

"I suppose we
should grind the grain for the bread I promised Malcolm," he said, his
mind moving from their untouched possessions to the chores that lay ahead.
"Considering we were rightfully distracted yesterday morn, we never did
get around to preparing the necessary flour."

Deliriously happy
and content, Gaithlin snuggled against her husband's magnificent torso.
"Nay, dearest, we made love instead.
Far more
satisfying."

He grunted, a
joyful grin tugging at his lips.
"For you and I.
But I doubt Malcolm shares our opinion."

As if on cue,
Malcolm came through the trees bearing the ox on a long rope. Speaking to the
animal as if it was capable of understanding him, he led the beast to a sturdy
tree and tied him tightly. Moving forth to his chores of watering and feeding
the animal, Christian and Gaithlin watched him with a good deal of settling
contentment.

"He's a hard
worker," Christian observed with satisfaction. "He'll be a great
knight someday."

Gaithlin smiled as
she watched the young lad with the rapidly filling-in scalp. "My mother
will love him. She's always wanted a son."

Christian sighed faintly
as he watched the lad groom the ox for parasites, his thoughts turnings towards
the deeply sinister implications that had plagued him since the day he had
decided to marry Gaithlin de Gare. Now that he had finally wed his most hated
enemy, the dissenting factors seemed to be gaining strength and weight with
each passing moment. The more he held Gaithlin in his arms, the more
intoxicating his adoring emotions became. And the more desperate his anxieties
loomed.

The
Feud.
He had married her to end the hostilities, to forge a peaceful link.
But the further time progressed, the more he wondered if his motives had been
entirely reasonable.
 
Good Christ, his
father was so completely embroiled in his hatred for Alex de Gare that
Christian was more apt to believe that he would be unwilling to accept such a
peace overture than he would be agreeable to put all differences aside.

Christian knew,
factually, that Jean's in-bred loathing of the de Gare name sustained him more
than food or drink or inherent breathing ever could. Clearly, there was only
one way to determine the course his future would take; he must return to Eden
and inform his father of his action and his intentions and stand his ground as
Jean raged and cursed and ranted to the very heavens.

Yet even as he
exposed himself to the wrath that he would surely endure, it was of the utmost
importance to maintain Gaithlin's safety until such a time as she could be
carefully introduced to her new relatives.
If such a time
would ever come.

Aye, Christian knew
he must return home as soon as possible, but he was terribly reluctant to give
up the life of ease and peace that he had come to adore within the greenery of
the Galloway territory. Life was safe
here,
a blissful
utopia away from the true harshness the Feud had to offer. A protective
hideaway from the realities he would be forced to endure eventually.

Good Christ, how he
was reluctant to face those realities. How he would love to hide far away from
the brutal truth for the rest of his life. But it was not in his nature to hide
from the verity of the circumstance, no matter how easy it would be to slide
into the depths of oblivion with his new wife and adoptive son.

Truly content for
the first time in his life, Christian began to realize with sickening certainty
that there was no Paradise to be had on the face of the earth. There was never
a true balance between contentment of the soul and contentment of physical
realities. Everything in life that was desired or needed had to be struggled
for.

"What are you
thinking?" Gaithlin's sultry voice was quiet, deliciously soft.

Breaking from his
train of thought, he smiled into her beautiful face. "Nothing of
import," he lied. "Shall we grind the flour? We can use the old
pestle and stone we found buried with the other debris on the day of our
arrival."

She nodded,
allowing him to lead her across the compound towards their shelter while
against the
tree,
Malcolm picked mites off the ox's
thick skin. "Surely the village has a mill," she said as he entered
their shack in search of the necessary equipment. "Why don't we pay them
to grind our grain in to flour?"

He shrugged.
"We could, of course," he knelt before their collection of supplies
and equipment. "I purchased whole grain instead of unsifted flour because
the grain can be used a variety of ways. However, I suppose we could delegate a
good portion of the grain to be ground into flour.
Providing
we can keep it free of pests and vermin."

Gaithlin watched
him in the dimness of their hut, observing the muscles of his back flex beneath
his thin tunic as her uncharacteristically dreamy thoughts drifted to the
events of the previous day.

Their wedding night
had been a peculiar quagmire of stolen kisses and desperate lust displayed in
the midst of a common abbey room, certainly not an ideal situation for a
newlywed couple. As Malcolm slept peacefully a few feet away, Gaithlin and
Christian had lain
awake
most of the night, touching
discreetly and struggling against their powerful passion.

Christian had even
tried to recite passages of his own composition to her to further distract them
from the ardor, but his literary talents had the opposite effect and only
served to excite his wife further. Although he abruptly realized he had a
powerful erotic tool in Gaithlin's regard for his scholarly skill, it was with
painful irony that he shut his mouth in favor of easing her passionate fire.
Even when she begged for more, he refused to utter a sound and cursed himself
for his damnable sense of self-control. Exceedingly misplaced on his wedding
night, he mused bitterly.

Somewhere during
the darkened hours, however, Gaithlin had eventually given up on her heated
discomfort and drifted off into a fitful sleep. In spite of the three other
occupants of the common room and Malcolm's resting form nearby, she had nonetheless
awoken before dawn to Christian's mouth on her breast, stoking her dormant
fires into instant blaze beneath the mounds of fur and woolens.

So
much for her husband's superior sense of self-control.
Biting of her
groans of pleasure, she had struggled to keep silent as his wicked mouth lapped
her tender nipples while his thick fingers tenderly explored between her legs.
Gaithlin had stifled her screams on the musty wool as he probed her with two
fingers, stroking in and out of her glistening flesh as his teeth nibbled her
tender breasts.

His eager attentions
had proved to be too much for the eager new groom. He was far too overcome with
his own insidious passion and regardless of their potential audience, was
determined to make love to his new wife. Removing his experienced fingers, he
had mounted her silently under the mounds of material, praying he would be able
to control his vocal passions as he drove into her quivering flesh as
discreetly as he could manage.

In faith, there was
a distinctly measure of excitement in making love to his wife in front of a
host of sleeping travelers. Almost as if he was taunting the odds of discovery,
enough to add an explicit measure of erotic thrill to their actions. Turning
onto his side, he had pulled Gaithlin's leg over his hip so that they were
lying
side-by side as he continued his measured thrusts.
Between the giggles of their wicked endeavor and the pants of their inherently
lusty natures, both Christian and his new wife found their release within a
matter of a few short moments. And Malcolm, as with the rest of the room, had
slept through it.

Gazing at her
husband's rich honey-blond head as he rummaged through their possessions,
Gaithlin could help but smile at the thought of their marriage and subsequent wedding
night. Of everything she ever imagined her union to be, it had thus far proven
to be beyond the scope of her wildest dreams.

"We were
terribly wicked last night," she knelt beside him, her cheek on his
shoulder and her fingers in his hair. "What do you suppose Lady
Dervorgilla would have said to our tryst in the common room of her abbey?"

Christian snorted
humorously as he located the mortar. "As if she has never done such a
thing before," he said patronizingly. "Surely she did not expect that
I would wait to claim my wife until I had quit the walls of her pristine
abbey."

Gaithlin laughed
softly, watching his silken hair as it poured through her fingers. He was so
incredibly handsome. With a gentle sigh, she continued to play with his
beautiful locks in the weak light. "Are you happy, Christian?"

He nodded as he
came across the pestle. "Happier than I have ever been. And you?"

She sighed again,
dreamily, as she continued to rake her fingers through his hair. "I have
never known true happiness in my entire life. Now that I have come to know the
feeling, I don't ever want to be without it."

He put the large
flat stone and pestle to the floor, turning to pull his wife into his arms.
Seated on his bottom, she straddled his lap with the greatest of pleasure and
contentment.

"You won't
ever be without it," he promised softly, watching her exquisite features
as she toyed with his hair. "And I promise that you will never be without
me."

Fingering his
silken locks, she met his ice-blue gaze.
"But what of
the Feud?
You said that you planned to return immediately after our
wedding to inform your father of your actions," sighing pensively, she
wound her arms possessively around his thick neck. "I am frightened,
Christian. Frightened of what he might do to you in his anger."

Thoughts and
suspicions Christian had been wrestling with for days. But he could not allow
her to see the true extent of his concern; for her own sake, she had to believe
that the situation was not as bad as Christian believed it to be.

"You mustn't
worry," he forced a smile. "My father will see reason.
As will your mother."

She lifted an
eyebrow. "I have inherited my stubborn nature from my mother. Mayhap she
won't be reasonable after all."

He made a face.
"Good Christ, if she is anything like you, then I have no doubt that I
shall have to beat her into submission." When Gaithlin laughed softly in
agreement, he kissed her beautiful teeth impulsively. "Not to worry,
honey. I shall return you to Winding Cross before making my trek back to Eden
to tell my father what I have done. You will be safe within the walls of your
own keep while I force my father to come to reason."

Her smile faded as
she gazed wistfully into his magnificent face.
"But what
if he doesn't come to reason, Christian.
What then?"

His smile faded as
well. "Then we shall flee to a safe haven. Some place where the St. Johns
and the de Gares can never harm us again."

As the uncertain
future became a bit clearer, Gaithlin seemed to relax somewhat. It was obvious
that she trusted him implicitly and for that, he was deeply grateful. He needed
the support of her trust.

"As you
say," she said, pulling his face into the crook of her neck. Although her
body conveyed nothing but calm, resigned trust, the expression illuminated by
the weak light was distinctly apprehensive. Even if Christian was convinced
that there was naught to worry over, she couldn't seem to help her deep-rooted
apprehension. "Mayhap we shall return to Scotland to live. I love it
here."

He squeezed her
tightly, smelling her delicious skin and savoring the feel of her exquisite
body against him. Straddled over his thighs and groin, it was inevitable that
her position should wreak a measure of distracting eroticism into his
preoccupied mind and he growled softly, running a huge hand down her torso as
his concerns and anxieties faded for the moment. Grazing the side of her breast
with his tender touch, he moved down her waist and began to fumble with her
skirts.

She melted against
his touch, succumbing to him instantly. He managed to maneuver his way amongst
the yards of fabric and drag his palm up her long, silken thigh in search of
his truer goal. Focusing on the wet heat beckoning his eager fingers, Christian
sank his teeth deep into his wife's neck when she groaned softly in response to
his probing touch.

"Merciful
Heavens, Christian," she moaned weakly as his fingers stroked her
mindless. "Will it always be like this? Will each touch always be as
magnificent as the first?"

Lips
on her neck, his thrust two fingers deep into her honeyed sheath.
"Always,
my sweetest Gae.
It will become better with time."

Her hips moved
against him with her usual aggression, unhindered and unimpeded within the
embrace of her husband's loving touch. Moaning deep with her sultry, seductive
tonality, she threaded desperate fingers through his long hair. "Speak to
me, Christian," she breathed. "Let me hear more of your delicious
words."

He could scarcely
breathe much less recite something he had written. Knowing how much his
intellectual words inflamed her, however, he struggled to recall some of his
more potent works to further enhance her lusty pleasure. God only knew
,
she was already enhancing his.