The Warrior Poet (8 page)

Gaithlin never saw him move. One moment, his ice-blue
orbs were blazing threateningly, and in the next moment his mouth was on her
neck as a wildcat devours its prey. Burning lips against her tender, damp skin,
scorching her with a passion she had never imagined to exist.
 
His teeth bit into her flesh, enough to cause
pain but not enough to break the skin.
 
It was enrapturing. Dear God, he was a St. John, her family's most hated
nemesis! An evil Demon capable of nothing less than horror and pain and...
complete
, unrestrained pleasure. The Demon was consuming her
and she would let him.

Christian could scarcely believe the rashness of his
actions. It was as if something had given way, collapsing his control until
only his desire was capable of coming forth. But as his tongue sampled the
rain-sweet flesh of her neck, he was aware that she was far more delicious than
anything he had ever sampled. And he knew, doubtlessly, that he had had to have
more of the newly-discovered delicacy.
He had to take more.

He was barely aware of Gaithlin's stunned gasp, her body
as it stiffened within in the crushing enclosure of his arms. He ignored her
squirms of panic, her cries of fear, fully engulfed in the ravishment of her
neck. So involved was he in the tender white morsels her earlobes that he was
unaware when her terrified struggles turned into an overwhelming reaction to
his raging desire.

‘Treacherous are the
Crossroads;

by
which direction you
seek

May not be the
course intended.

Either path will
bring about

a
selection of
self-deliberated anguish.'

 
~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

 
Vl. IV, p. CCII

CHAPTER
FOUR
                           
                         

Hands that were
braced against Christian's chest not a moment before were suddenly around his
neck, twisting their way into his honey-blond mane. As his mouth utterly
devoured the exquisite line of her jaw, he became cognizant of her gasps, her
soft groans of pleasure and delight, and they only served to feed his furor.

For a man that was
the perpetual idealism of calm and control, he was unaware when he tumbled over
the brink of lust-induced insanity. All he knew was that he had waited for this
moment since the very first he beheld the vision in the lake, and the physical
pleasure he was receiving as a result of his lack of composure was the greatest
ecstasy he had ever experienced.

Suddenly, there was
no hatred, no St. Johns, no de Gares. There was only Christian and Gaithlin, a
man and a woman, and he intended to handle the situation accordingly. He'd
never wanted a woman so badly in his life.

Still holding her
tightly against his armored chest, he viciously tore away his right gauntlet,
then his left. Naked hands the size of a serving trencher entangled themselves
in damp blond hair, holding her captive to his desire as his heated lips moved
down her neck and across her collarbone. Delicately, smoothly, his slid her
gown from her shoulders.

Gaithlin existed in
mindless limbo as Christian's searing mouth plundered her delicate skin,
conveniently neglecting the fact that her most detested enemy appeared intent
on ravishing her. Merciful Heavens, if this was what it meant to be plundered
and ravaged, she would have been willing to submit to him long ago. If this was
his punishment, she would live for the moment when her actions warranted his
idea of a suitable reward.

She'd heard tale of
the excitement of a man's touch from the serving wenches at Winding Cross, the
ribald stories the young women were free in repeating, and she had harbored a
great curiosity of the mating aspects between a man and a woman. Knowing that
it was a mysterious, intimate, intensely private encounter, but little beyond
that.

Now, to actually
sample the reality of her curious ponderings, she realized that the servants
and soldiers had hardly paid proper homage to such action. To be kissed,
caressed, touched, fondled...

Fondled?

She was suddenly
aware of his hand on her breast, massaging her firm globe with the utmost
tenderness. Blinking away the disorientation his lustful endeavor had induced,
she gazed at the top of his honey-blond head as his mouth moved over the swell
of her ripe breasts. As one hand teased her nipple through the wet wool, the
other was intent on removing her from her garment.

Her gown was
sliding down her arms with swift, gentle action and she was suddenly aware that
his most euphoric attentions were quickly becoming far more threatening. It was
obvious that he wanted more than she was willing to give and their previous
conversation came back to her in all of its blinding force, slamming her with
the interpretation of the underlying meaning.

What you see in my
eyes has nothing to do with murder.

Now, she knew what
she saw in his eyes. Merciful Heavens, she had been so foolish to challenge
him, informing him that he had managed to strip her of all dignity and respect
and that the only matter of personal import left to take was her very life.
There had been another intimate possession, one she had neglected to remember
through her anger and apprehension. A possession she valued over most all else.

She had been wrong.
Terribly wrong.
The innocence meant for her husband's
pleasure was in great danger of being forever lost and she knew, now, that it
had been his intent all along.

It had never been
his purpose to kill her.
 
He intended to
do far worse damage than mere death. And she was letting him.

The gown was
suddenly peeled away from her damp breasts, revealing the rain-cold beauties to
Christian's lust-glazed eyes. They were as magnificent as he had
remembered,
the most exquisite mounds of flesh he had ever
had the fortune to experience. Her nipples, as large as a small plum,
wordlessly screamed for his attention and he heeded the call far more harshly
than he should have. The moment his hot mouth clamped down on her swollen
nipple, Gaithlin let out a scream.

Her body was stiff
as he suckled her, wrapping his arms about her slender torso, entrapping her
breasts against his hungry mouth. Her arms were enveloped within his iron
embrace as well, and he was vaguely aware that her struggles had increased. But
it only served to excite him, for he was positive she was responding freely to
his demanded advance.

Lapping the
sweetness of her distended nipple, he hungrily moved to the other breast when a
distinct, heart-broken sob penetrated his desire. Even as his lips enclosed her
nipple, another sob broke forth and he realized she wasn't responding to him
any longer.
She was fighting him.

His head came up,
meeting deep blue orbs swimming with hot, frightened tears. Startled, his
expression washed with genuine concern; this woman had suffered a brutal
afternoon of pain and harsh encounters and physical abuse, and her bravery had
been nothing short of astounding. He was suddenly very interested to know what
had driven this tough woman to tears.

"What's the
matter?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?"

She sobbed again,
tears spilling down her cheeks and catching him with their splatter. Christian
licked the errant tear from his lip as she struggled with her composure.

"Answer me,”
he demanded gently. “What is wrong?"

Her head lolled to
the side and she shut her eyes, avoiding his gaze, avoiding his presence.
Avoiding him.
"Please... don't. I beg of you,
sire. Please... don't do this!"

His brow furrowed
faintly. "Don't do what? Don't kiss you?"

She twisted within
his grasp, struggling to break free, but he refused to release his hold.
Frustrated and bordering on panic, her eyes blazed at him. "You said you
that it was not your intention to kill me. So you intend to rob me of my
innocence in punishment for having been born a de Gare? You intend to rob me of
what is most precious to any maiden?"

He released her.
Fighting off the sobs of shame and embarrassment, Gaithlin turned away from him
and struggled to re-dress herself. Christian watched her with a good deal of
confusion and a generous measure of personal shame.

"But you...
you allowed me to kiss you, wench,” he pointed out. “You encouraged me to
continue."

"I was not
given a choice!" she threw back at him, sniffling as she pulled the damp
wool over her shoulders. "You were intent on ravishing me whether or not I
encouraged you."

He stared at her a
moment before averting his gaze, raking his fingers through his wetted blond
hair and feeling more humiliation than he could ever recall. He'd never known a
woman to refuse his advances and was quite inept in dealing with the rejection.
The advances of the Demon of Eden were never unwanted.

...
were
they?

But... it simply
wasn't true! A spark of anger flared within his chest and he turned to her once
more, watching her tears ease and her composure return. He was willing to admit
that he had lost control, but she had most definitely responded to his touch as
if she had been made for his pleasure alone. Never had a woman felt so natural
in his arms, so genuine, as if she had always been meant for him.

The longer he
stared at her, the more confused and frustrated he became. Good Christ, he
realized that above his arrogance and bafflement he was actually ashamed of
himself. He'd never been ashamed of anything in his life and the words
expressing sorrow for his actions did not come easily, especially to a de Gare.

"I apologize
if I frightened you,” he said gruffly. “It was not my intent."

Sniffling loudly,
she squared her shoulders and faced him. "Pray, what was your intent? To
degrade me, humiliate me, force your hated enemy to bow to your superior
strength and will so you could return to Eden and boast of your conquest over
the de Gare heiress? Is that what you intended, Demon?"

He sighed,
annoyance joining his other emotions. "If my goal was to humiliate or
degrade you, I would have done so by now," the flicker of an armored
gauntlet amongst the leaves caught his attention and he bent down, retrieving
his hastily-discarded gloves. "And as for returning to Eden, I do not
expect to return home for some time."

Her gaze cooled,
her eyes smoking with curiosity. She had asked him at the onset what he
intended to do with her and he had rebuffed her request. Suddenly, she saw an
opportunity to seek her answer.

"Why
not?"

"Because
I will be with you."

"You are not
taking me to Eden?"

"Nay."

"Then where
are we going?"

He glanced at her
as he secured his left gauntlet. "Does it matter?"

She nodded, slowly,
trying to keep her manner calm. She was not so naive that she did not notice he
responded more easily to her when she was rational and collected. "It
does. I should like to know where I am to spend the remainder of my life."

He cocked an
eyebrow. "Who is to say you are going to spend the rest of your life a
captive?"

She held his gaze a
moment before looking away, wandering to a rotted stump amongst the overgrowth.
The moment she planted her damp bottom upon the wood, she realized her fatigue
was great and her shoulders sagged with resignation and sorrow.

"Henri St.
John captured my grandfather twenty years ago and held him captive," her
voice was faint. "We never saw him again."

Christian well remembered
the capture of Glenn de Gare. Although he had been fostering at Ludlow at the
time, being a lad of eleven, he would never forget the triumphant missive he
received from his father announcing the capture of their greatest de Gare
enemy.
A man who had been sentenced to the vault of Eden and
who had died in the nauseating hole less than a year later.

His rotted corpse
was still chained to the walls of the lower level, a grisly trophy for the St.
Johns to savor. In fact, his father still spoke to the cadaver now and again to
announce St. John victories. But gazing at Gaithlin's lowered head, Christian
was unwilling to divulge the fate of her grandfather. As a loyal St. John, he
should have been pleased to announce the fact; but as the heir to Eden, weary
of a foolish ancestral war, he was reluctant to be a party to her pain.

"Surely you
are not old enough to remember your grandfather," he said quietly, hoping
to divert the subject.

She shrugged,
rubbing her arms for warmth as the rain in the canopy increased. "I was
two years old when he was captured. I remember images of the man, his gentle
voice, but naught else."

Christian cocked an
eyebrow. "You are twenty years and two? Good Christ, wench; how is it that
you are so old and unmarried?"

Sharply, her head
came up and he saw a flash of fury in the beautiful blue depths. "No one
wants to marry a woman whose only dowry is a seventy-year-old feud and a
battered fortress."

Abruptly, she
averted her gaze, hoping he would allow the subject to rest. She didn't like
speaking on her married state, knowing she was far too old and too poor to be
considered a viable marriage prospect. The seventy-year war with Eden had not
only left the de Gares laced with hatred and bitterness, but it had left them
poverty-bound as well. No one wanted a destitute heiress.

Depressed with her
gloomy thoughts, she could feel his stare against her back. An inquisitive,
piercing
stare
that annoyed and unnerved at the same
time. Emotions on the surface as a result of their exchange, she found herself
lingering on a particular issue that had seen well to vex her from the start. A
degrading mention he continued to utilize, a term she considered offensive.
Strange how above all her other concerns, one particular subject would come
into focus.

Moving away from
the topic of her dowry and marriage prospects, she shifted the subject to the
center of her annoyance. "There is something else I would like to say.”

“Say it.”

“Do not call me
wench. I do not like it."