The Warrior Poet (33 page)

When he was nearly upon them, Gaithlin and Malcolm held
their breath as Christian leveled the crossbow, aiming for the dog-man who was
intently shredding the sod covering from the northern wall. The bow held as
steady as stone and Gaithlin continued to observe the scene, not at all sure
that Christian was determined not to harm less-fortunate male. Although he had
stated that he had no intention to murder, he could have very well changed his
mind as he made his way towards the destructive, sub-human people.

Anxiety rising, Gaithlin knew she could not stand by
while the Demon carried out a seemingly mortal threat. Mayhap the dog-people
would be reasonable if only she was able to speak with them; after all, she and
Christian had not made the attempt to converse with the somewhat-canine natives
of the Wood. And she could not allow Christian to kill the pair without making
an effort at some type of communication.

Rising swiftly to her feet, she grasped a startled
Malcolm by the hand and thrust herself forward through the underbrush. As
calmly and as pleasantly as she could manage, she smiled brightly and waved her
hand in greeting.

"Salutations!" she called evenly.
"I...!"

The dog-people swung on her, startled into a soaring
crest of giddy fear. Barking furiously, they looked as if they had been scared
out of their minds; they tripped and scrambled and bashed into each other in
their haste to leave. Gaithlin tried to calm them with words of supplication
and reason, but they clearly ignored her pleas. As the harried woman took
flight into the thick bramble, the male attempted to follow suit but was
quickly thwarted by a massive, armored body.

Christian emerged from the thicket, crossbow in one hand
and the captive dog-man in the other. As his prisoner howled and thrashed, he
cast the man a most curious glance before turning his attention to Gaithlin.

Crossing the length of the clearing, she was practically
running with Malcolm in tow. Her lovely face was etched with concern.

"Do not hurt him!" she commanded softly.
"Christian, you are breaking his arm!"

"I am doing nothing of the kind," Christian
said calmly, cocking a blond eyebrow at her. "Why, may I ask, did you
reveal yourself before I had a chance to act?"

"Because I was afraid you were going to kill
them," she said frankly, watching the man twist and yelp with a distinct
sense of dismay. "Now that you have captured him, what do you plan to
do?"

The man was terribly skinny and
disheveled,
a pathetic little mouse in Christian's mighty trap. Gnashing his teeth, it was
apparent he was attempting to bite the English warrior and Christian held the
man at arm's length as he watched him foam and twitch.

"What would you suggest I do?" he asked.

Gaithlin looked to him, surprised he would ask her
opinion. The omnipotent Demon did not require suggestions or council, and
certainly not from a woman.
A de Gare.
Flattered, not to mention strangely empowered by his regard for her
convictions, she thought carefully as she eyed the thrashing human.

"Tie him up until he calms," she said.
"Then, mayhap we will be able to reason with him."

He nodded faintly, thoughtfully. "That is logical.
Were I to release him now, he would flee in terror, yet his seemingly natural
instincts to steal and pillage would be undaunted in the least. Although
properly frightened, he would indeed return and I refuse to rebuild my shelter
only to find it torn down again sometime in the future," he began to move
across the clearing with his thrashing captive in hand as Gaithlin and Malcolm
followed closely. "I must make him understand that I will not tolerate his
incursions and if I have to tie him to a tree and pound my message deep into
his dim-witted skull, then so be it."

Tying the dog-man to the tree, however, proved to be a
chore of enormous proportions. Even though the man was skinny and
frail-looking, he was sly and wily and on more than one occasion nearly escaped
Christian's grasp. After the second such near-attempt, Christian's patience
waned and he decided it would be best if he held the man in place while Gaithlin
secured the bindings.

Working as an efficient team, Christian used brute
strength to hold the man against a youthful Scot Pine while Gaithlin firmly
tied the prisoner to the trunk. Malcolm hovered beside Gaithlin, informing her
where to place the rope and exactly how tightly to secure the ties as Christian
spent his time avoiding flying spit and thrashing feet.

As the sun sank low in the deepening colors of the
pristine Scot sky, Gaithlin finished securing the male to the sturdy young
tree. Able to release his hold, Christian studied her handiwork with a critical
eye.

"A fine knot, my lady," he said with genuine
approval. "Our captive will be unable to break free for months to come.
Good Christ, I shall be lucky if I can cut the man free
myself
."

Gaithlin smiled modestly, glancing at the beaming young
boy by her side. "Malcolm helped," she said quietly, moving her shy
gaze from Christian's admiring stare to the wagon and ox bordering the
clearing. "Now, we should really store our supplies before night falls.
Malcolm, come and assist me."

The eager lad moved immediately to comply with her
orders, dashing across the clearing in tattered but clean clothing and boots
that were a bit too large for his feet. Gaithlin took a step to follow when a
massive gauntlet suddenly reached out, snatching her arm with fierce
tenderness.

She knew what was coming before she felt the warmth of
his delicious lips, having been the recipient of his spontaneous kisses many a
time. With a smile and full cooperation, she pressed herself against his
armored chest and delightfully accepted his searing kiss.

Gaithlin was rapidly becoming upswept in his heat when
Malcolm shouted something from the wagon, distracting both of her and Christian
from their mounting passion. Breathing heavily and with grunts of
disappointment, they somehow managed to
disengaged
their lips as their vision sought the small, animated figure at the edge of the
trees.

"What did he say?" Gaithlin swallowed,
attempting to regain her crumbling control.

"Does it matter?" Christian's lips moved along
her cheek, his breath hot and forceful in her ear.

It would be so easy to give in to his desire. Gaithlin
closed her eyes as shivers of erotica cavorted down her spine, turning her
knees to water. But Malcolm shouted again and she caught the gist of the
message, breaking her from her most delicious, desired experience.

"He needs help with the ox," she whispered,
avoiding Christian's lips when they attempted to capture her mouth. "Not
now, Christian.
 
We must help
Malcolm."

With a heavy sigh writ of remorse and resignation,
Christian removed his lips from Gaithlin's jaw and released her arm. Her cheeks
mottled with blush, she held his gaze a long, entirely passion-filled moment.

"Later, you say?" he repeated, his voice hoarse
with lust. "Is that a promise?"

Ever so coyly, she smiled and lowered her gaze. Adult
games were coming far easier to her these days, in practice with Christian's
delightfully experienced presence. Beyond the passion and the blinding lust
that seemed to be able to dictate her very actions as a result of his physical
onslaught, there was far more of an emotional foreplay that they were coming
deeply to know.

A slender finger flirtatiously traced the square line of
his granite jaw, her flushed face glowing with the warmth they so obvious
shared. Her faintly-curved lips broadened with offering.

"Not a promise, sire.
An
invitation."

His eyebrows
rose
faintly, a
delicious smile playing on his lips. "An invitation?" he took her in
his arms once more, ignoring Malcolm's shouts of frustration. "My lady, I
would respond to that invitation immediately. I am your willing servant, any
time or anywhere.
Any way, for that matter."

One hand around his neck and the other toying with his
shoulder-length hair, Gaithlin averted her eyes coquettishly. "Our shelter
will be sufficient.
After Malcolm sleeps."

A gentle frown creased his brow. "Malcolm is to
sleep with us? I believe I mentioned it would be wise not to force our company
and customs upon him. Mayhap he doesn't wish to sleep with us. Mayhap he is
perfectly content in the Wood."

She met his frown. "What you mean to say is that we
will not be free to do as we please with Malcolm bedded a few feet away,"
she shook her head at him, a knowing smile on her lips. "How selfish,
Christian. You think only of yourself."

With feigned upset, Christian released her from his
embrace and scowled. "As is my right
. '
Tis
my
shelter and
my
goods, and I shall act however I please. If I want to
sleep alone with the woman I intend to marry, then so be it."

"Malcolm can sleep in the alcove." Still
grinning, Gaithlin turned away from him. "The small room is perfect for
him."

Hands on hips, Christian's scowl turned genuine.
"Did you not hear a word I said? If I want to sleep in
my
shack,
alone with you, then that is the way of things."

Moving across the clearing, Gaithlin glanced over her
shoulder with a tolerant, entirely superior expression. "I heard
you."

He watched her as she winked at him, a gesture
reminiscent of himself, and continued to make her way toward the stymied young
lad as he struggled with the stubborn ox.

Without the benefit of further argument and
supplication, Christian realized with resignation that the shack was indeed
large enough for the three of them. Gaithlin had made her wishes known, a
nd the Demon, naturally, would comply.

'The Heart is a slave to the Soul's desires.

 
And the Soul is a
vicious master.'

 
~Chronicles of
Christian St. John

Vl. VIII, p. LI

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Rougham
Castle

Scotland

"God's
Holy Blood.
When's th' last ye contacted th' St. John?"

"I have ne'er
contacted them. They dunna want tae hae any to do
wi
'
the Douglas."

"But Da knew
Henri and Jean, din' he?"

Across the table
from his broad, dark-haired brother, Roger Douglas nodded slowly. "He knew
'em. But
th
' St. John are an arrogant lot. They dunna
like tae be reminded o' their Scot ties even though we all share
th
' same great-grandsire."

Mac Douglas stamped
his big feet on the worn stone floor. Snorting with sarcasm and disbelief, he
turned away from his older brother. "So
th
' young
St. John pup demands we deliver 'is message."

Roger stared at the
tightly-secured vellum placed before him, sealed twice with the St. John signet
in a muddle of cheap tallow and fat. "He asked my permission to lodge
wi'in Galloway for reasons he dinna elaborate upon. More importantly,
th
' messenger said th' missive was in urgent need of being
delivered tae Eden and not tae be delayed."

Mac snorted again,
shaking his head with the irony of it all. "Beggin' yer sanction one
moment and making' demands th' next. The pup is givin'
ye
orders, Rake."

"He's makin' a
request o’ his kin."

Mac's mirth fled as
he eyed his fair-haired brother; exceedingly tall and intelligent, he had ruled
the Clan Douglas for nearly five years. Unassuming and somewhat mild in
character for a Scots, he was an extremely steady force behind an otherwise
volatile clan and the respect gained from his family and allies alike was a
powerful, preserving bond.

"Th' St. Johns
were allied to us long ago, when Uncle Nolan's daughter married inta their
midst. Ye be foolin' yerself tae believe
th
' St. Johns
still hold true tae that alliance." Eyeing the missive lying still upon
the table, he turned away in disapproval. "I say burn it. Show
th
' St. John ye canna be used at their convenience, when
they alone decide th' time is right to remember their Scot brethren."

Roger sighed,
raking his fingers through his bright blond hair as he continued to stare at
the source of their argument. Mac was correct, of course; the St. John had
ignored the Scot ties for decades, instead choosing to vent their attention and
monies on a long-standing English war that had occupied the vast majority of
their focus. Clearly, Roger remembered on several occasions when his father had
made attempt to strengthen the allied link with his English cousins. And,
clearly, Roger remembered the distinct rejection.

The St. Johns
were
not to be bothered with the barbaric, less-cultured
Scots.
A rejection that stung true, even now.

Gazing at the
yellowed parchment, it wasn't the first time Roger realized he and his father
thought a good deal alike. Angus Douglas had been mild-mannered for a Scot as
well, eager to maintain peace and build family strengths. Staring at the
missive before him, Roger was aware that he too would like nothing better than
to re-establish ties with their distant English cousins.

Not for monetary
purposes, to be sure. But simply for the fact that the St. Johns
were
family, and family was supposed to be united. Not ignored
and abandoned like a simpleton relative.

Reaching out, Roger
grasped the parchment in his large palm, observing the careful seal. Mac was
probably right; he should burn it in a fit of anger. How dare the St. John ask
for assistance when they had spent the past several decades ignoring their
northern
relatives.
But as he inspected the missive,
Roger realized that the future hope of re-establishing communication was lodged
within the fold of his palm; mayhap if he were to comply with the request, the
St. John would be view it as a favor well done. Then, mayhap, there would be
hope for future bonding.

"Send Robert
tae me," his voice was soft, knowing that his compliance to the St. John
request was already the recipient of his brother's strenuous objection. Yet
before Mac could voice his opposition, Roger put up a stern hand. "Not a
word, Macky. We must prove tae
th
' St. John that we
are still a gracious ally in spite o' their rejection. Mayhap they'll not be
willin' tae spurn us so readily if they realize our forgiveness o' their
English pride."

 
Mac stared at his older brother for a lengthy
moment, biting off his words of refusal and disagreement. Roger was laird,
after all; mayhap it befitted his position to possess the grace that others did
not. Mac, for one, was still in favor of burning the missive and sending the
ashes back to the St. John pup. But out of respect for his brother, he would
not voice his disparity.

"As
ye say, Rake.
Wha's
th
' lad's name?" he
finally asked, sounding particularly belligerent in spite of his obedient
manner.

"Wha'
lad?"

"Th'
St. John pup."

Roger sighed,
setting the missive to the table once more. "Christian."

Mac nodded, eyeing
the offensive parchment one last time. "Th' lad has a nickname, I am told.
A fearsome warrior."

With popping
joints, Roger rose from his chair in a decidedly weary gesture. "Th'
Demon, he's referred tae. And yer callin'
th
' man a
lad when he's older than ye."

Mac shrugged. Every
man was 'lad' to him. "So we do
th
' Demon a
favor. Question bein', will he do us one in return?"

"I am not
askin' for favors returned. I am simply obeyin' his request tae forward his
missive tae Eden."

"But
yer hopin' for a favorable response from Jean St. John.
A thanks, me
thinks. An' a regrowth of
th
' alliance."

Roger lifted his
shoulders. "Only good can come out of passin'
th
'
missive on tae Eden," he said quietly. Casting a final glance at the
parchment, his expression was particularly pensive. "Th' St. Johns are'na
the only Sassenach allies we hae. Long ago, we were linked tae the
Northumberland House of Percy."

Mac thought a
moment. "The house Calandra Douglas married intae?"

Roger nodded.
"After
th
' laird got 'er wi' child."

Mac nodded in
recollection. "Alan publicly disavowed her after that."

"But he ne'er
forgot 'her, bein' his favorite daughter," Roger pondered the distinct
shame his family had once suffered, the darker alliance that bound them to the
great Northumberland House of Gray. A link that had been forgotten almost the
moment it had been forged. After a moment, he disregarded the distantly
distressing train of thought in favor of more immediate concerns. "Out
wi
' ye, little brother. Send Robert tae me."

"I can take
th
' missive tae Eden," Mac said with resignation in his
voice. "There's nae need
tae
send young Robbie."

"Robbie's a
better rider and a faster thinker than ye," Roger insulted his brother,
good-naturedly accomplished. "Move yer hide. Th' Demon's missive must be
delivered."

Insulted in
addition to having his objections quelled, Mac quit the room in a mild fit.
Roger listened to the fading boot-falls, wondering if his hopes would be
fulfilled in the deliverance of Christian St. John's imperative missive.
Wondering if, finally, the House of St. John would give the Douglas
their notice.

He didn't know why
he was so concerned with their approval. Mayhap because he had inherited the
strong Douglas trait of family closeness; ties above all else, blood stronger
than life itself. Mayhap he would succeed where his grandfather and father had
failed. Maybe he would re-establish the St. John bond.

He had no idea, of
course, that the information contained within the yellowed folds would be
enough to send Jean St. John into a hatred-induced vortex that would threaten
to devour the very fabric of stability shared by the North. Had Roger known the
extent of his actions, he would have taken Mac's advice to burn the parchment
without a trace of remain.

***

Gaithlin awoke,
cold and alone, to the snorting bray of the ox. Directly across from her pallet
of rushes and illuminated by the gray light of morning, Malcolm slept quite
soundly huddled in a ball upon the icy dirt floor. The bed she had prepared for
him of excess fabric and fresh rushes the night before had been ignored in lieu
of his natural sleeping arrangements.

She watched the bald
little lad as he sniffled and shivered in his slumber, thinking he would have
indeed been happier sleeping in accustomed surroundings as Christian had
suggested. Yet, because she had demanded the lad sleep with them, he had
obediently complied. Observing Malcolm as he wriggled and twitched upon the
damp earth, she was forced to admit that, mayhap, she had been wrong. He didn't
seem any more content within the confines of their shelter than he did outside
in the harsh elements.

Sighing with resignation,
she decided to allow Malcolm to sleep wherever he desired and to the Devil with
her petty, motherly demands. After all, she had always been prone to a good
deal of fret and was chagrined to realize she had, mayhap, overreacted to the
boy's situation. Indeed, mayhap he was fine without her interference.

Since Christian had
vacated their bed, there was no point in dozing away the last few darkened
moments before the breaking sun signaled the commencement of a new day.
Gaithlin rolled wearily into a sitting position, gazing at the vacated length
of wool that Christian usually occupied. Her fingers lingered over the fabric a
moment as she pondered their sleeping arrangements; over the past several days,
she had come to relish his heat in the chill early morning, snuggling close to
him and listening to his grunts of lustful frustration.

His agreement to
refrain from claiming her 'dowry' until they were properly wed was proving thus
far to be an extreme test of his willpower; Gaithlin had been admirably proud
of his restraint until she realized that her newly-learned passion within the
arms of the Demon was a consuming force. Suddenly, she found herself greatly in
need of her own self-employed willpower, a concept that baffled and thrilled
her at the same time.

The more he touched
and fondled, the more she wanted him to claim her in every sense of the word.
Although purely virgin in the literal sense, she had a basic knowledge of
coupling and mating rituals and was not entirely ignorant of what, exactly, her
body was craving. Still, there was an aura of mystery and fear surrounding her
uncontrollable needs and as of last eve, she found herself wondering if her
demands to deliver the dowry on the day of their wedding to be an entirely wise
decision. She realized that wanted it as badly as he did.

Gaithlin had never
been one to daydream of love or endless devotion. All that had existed in her
dream world was the fervent hope that, someday, she would be rescued from her
impoverish plight. There was no time for silly dreams of adoration that were
unlikely to become reality within the realm of her destitute situation, and
being an inherently reasonable woman, she was unwilling to torture herself with
the impossibilities.

Until
now.
With every word from Christian's mouth, she found herself relishing
each distinct sound. With every glance from his piercing blue eyes, she found
herself quaking with emotion and glee. And with every touch from his massively
gentle hands, she found herself willing to surrender all that she was.

Love.
An
interesting concept; a fool's dream of fleeting emotions.
At least, that
was how her father had described love. Her mother had mostly refused to answer
the inquisitive questions of adoration from a young girl's curious mind. In her
younger days, Gaithlin had wondered why her mother was so evasive when it came
to the discussion love and emotion, knowing how desperately her mother had
loved her father. But as she grew older, she began to realize that Alicia's
refusal to deliberate sentiment was a protective mechanism; as if she had come
to realize that love was a foolish emotion when it was not returned in kind.

Alex de Gare had
never loved his wife. He had loved the Feud, the de Gare legacy, and all items
pertaining hereto. When Alicia de Norville had married the strapping young
Alex, she firmly believed she could convince the man that loving her was far
more rewarding than the passion he held for his tumultuous heritage.