The Warrior Poet (5 page)

"She left Eden a week ago for Grayburn
Fortress," one of the men practically groaned after the lengthy pause,
still lingering on the previous revelation. "She and Lady Carolyn Howard
are the best of friends."

"The Lady Carolyn is another high-bred
trollop," the dirty soldier said firmly. He liked to believe he knew
everything about everybody. "She's spent too much time in France, learning
their lustful secrets. Maggie probably went to Grayburn to discover more of Carolyn's
methods to use against Sir Christian."

The sergeant shook his head slowly as they entered a
particularly dense collection of trees. "Maggie already knows all there is
to know about pleasuring a man. She went to Grayburn to fornicate with Kelvin
Howard."

"But Sir Kelvin doesn't live at his father's
castle," the dirty soldier said, appalled that he had not been the first
to hear of the relationship between Kelvin and Maggie. "He resides at
Forrestoak."

The sergeant cast him a knowing glance.
"A half a day from Grayburn.
I have heard Maggie spends
the majority of her visits to Carolyn at Kelvin's manor."

 
'Twas of no
concern for a man to be unfaithful to his betrothed, but it was an entirely
different matter if the woman was indulging in acts of betrayal. The
conversation came to an uneasy, thoughtful end as the horses thundered down the
deserted thoroughfare, each man pondering his private, if not amorous,
thoughts
.
 

Eden beckoned nearly two hours away and the company made
haste with their message of victory. With Sir Christian guarding the wench, she
was as captive as Lucifer in Hades and already they could smell the panic soon
to infiltrate Alex de Gare's soul.
A panic that would lead
him to his own demise.

'The first I gazed into her eyes...

Heaven glimpsed!

And then I beheld the battle for my soul

and
knew that I was no more.'

~ Chronicles of Christian St. John

Vl. IV, p. LIV

CHAPTER THREE

Christian knew his way to Scotland only too well. His
memory had always been an amazing source of talent; with one glance at a
missive, he could recall the entire message to the letter. When instructions or
names were relayed into his conscious, he could remember to the very last
detail. He never forgot a name or a face, and he never required a second
explanation or request. His memory was like a vise as it sank intelligent teeth
into the smallest of facts, never to let go.

The road north of Carlisle was dusty and vacant, being
slightly past the nooning hour. He had been riding well over two hours with his
unconscious burden
who
, he suspected, had been lucid
for quite some time. But she had elected to remain still, draped over the
armored saddle in a most uncomfortable position, and Christian realized that he
would find himself in possession of a wildcat the moment her head cleared
completely and she saw her way to resist his control.

Bracing for that eventuality, he skirted the edge of the
bustling city and headed through wooded Cumbrian territory en route to the
Borders. He was on Howard land, a large and prestigious northern family
alongside the Northumberland Percys and the Border Grays. The Percys had long
been considered Kings of the North and the St. Johns had always been loyal
supporters whilst their mortal enemy, the de Gares, had always managed to align
themselves with the more prominent families of Southern England.

The outskirts of the Holy North Woods could be seen in
the distance and Christian slowed his charger to a jaunty trot, purposely
bouncing his captive to see if she would be prone to displaying any signs of
life. He was well aware of her conscious state, for her breathing had increased
within the past half-hour, and he was determined to release her from her state
of silence so he could berate her for her defiance at the abbey.

The harder the horse bounced, the more frustrated he
became with her lack of response. With thinly-veiled patience, he waited. But
his tolerance would not last indefinitely; brushing against his abdomen were her
hips, her wool-covered buttocks gracefully saluting the sky as she folded
neatly over his saddle.

He eyed her buttocks, thinking that if she would not
respond to the horse's jostling trot, she would most definitely respond to the
stinging palm of his hand. In fact, he was sure of it. And the action was not
far in coming.

He bided his time.

***

In spite of the fact that the destrier's gait was intent
on cracking several ribs, Gaithlin was not about to reveal her lucidity. The
very last she remembered, she had been in engaged in mortal combat with several
soldiers who had breached the sanctuary of the abbey.

She'd not been able to catch a glimpse of their colors
as they bore down upon the front door of the convent, and truthfully had no
idea who would be intent upon violating tiny St. Esk. For all she knew, they
were marauding bandits or thieves come to confiscate what wealth they could
from God's holy house.

The possibility that they were seasoned St. John
soldiers sent to sniff out the unmistakable aroma of a de Gare had never
occurred to her; she assumed, at the abbey, she would be safe from those who
would seek to harm her. But from the active noise transpiring on the moist lawn
of the convent, there were those not even the sanctity of the church could
repel.

Certainly, it was not out of the realm of possibility.
In the northern wilds far away from the organization of London, quite a bit of sacrilege
and lawlessness took place without an over amount of surprise or fanfare. It
was simply the way of the chaotic northern territories and Gaithlin had grown
used to the anarchy. In fact, she had been a part of it.

Whether or not England's crown was, at the moment,
relatively peaceful, she had never known a moment’s reprieve from warfare.
Since she was old enough to recall, the St. Johns had been waging battle on her
ancestral home and she had grown accustom to the constant raids, the death, and
the destruction.

Never sent to away from her native fortress to foster
for fear of falling into St. John hands, Gaithlin had lived an extremely
sheltered life within the confines of Winding Cross. Her father had been
terrified that his only child would somehow become fodder for his most hated
enemy and had therefore sentenced his daughter to a life of utter friendlessness
and isolation. With only her mother and a few servants for companionship,
Gaithlin de Gare had lived a short life of unending, complete solitude all
because of the St. Johns.

Eden was a large barony, far larger than Winding Cross
and understandably more powerful. Yet the fortress of Winding Cross had been
built for fortification and protection, explaining why the St. Johns had never
been able to breach her walls. Year after year of raids and skirmishes and
fighting had failed to determine a decisive winner; Eden may have been more
powerful, but Winding Cross was laden with tenacious fighters unwilling to
concede defeat.

Back and forth the struggle went until Gaithlin assumed
that all young women were as sheltered and isolated as she was. Other than a
stolen jaunt outside of the walls to swim or walk, experiencing a degree of
freedom she considered a stolen ration of Heaven, her entire life had been
spent within the moldering dark stones of her native fortress. She never
realized her loneliness, however, for her sequestered continuance was the only
means of existence she had ever known. Certainly, there was nothing else in
life than one's family and household, and the need to hate the St. Johns. She'd
never known any other way.

Even now, she cursed the St. Johns as the mighty charger
plodded over the dusty, rocky road. It was because of the St. Johns she had
been forced to seek sanctuary at St. Esk; catching rumor that none other than
the fabled Demon of Eden had returned from the Welsh border for the specific
task of quelling the House of de Gare once and for all, Gaithlin's mother had
been forced into a desperate move.

The woman had been fighting in her husband's stead for
nearly ten years, a fact that even the St. Johns were not aware of, and she had
battled against them long enough to realize that the return of Eden's heir was not
an asset to the well-being of Winding Cross.
 
Suspecting that her husband's beloved fortress might very well indeed
meet its end at the hand of the mighty Demon, she had been dealt little choice
in sending her daughter to the small convent of St. Esk in hopes of preserving
her young life.

As her ribs cracked and her stomach lurched, Gaithlin
cursed the St. Johns for her predicament. Had the rumors of their imminent
attack not spooked her normally-collected mother, she would not have been
forced into religious sequestration. And she would not, at this very moment, be
a prisoner of those unscrupulous enough to sack an abbey.

The horse stumbled and recovered harshly, causing
Gaithlin to grunt as her body was slammed brutally against the saddle. From
hanging upside-down, her heart was already pounding in her ears and with the
added violent
motions,
she wondered if the next step
in her discomfort wouldn't be to experience the embarrassment of vomiting up
her breakfast.

"Do you think me for a fool, wench? I know you are
alert."

Gaithlin briefly considered ignoring her captor;
however, from the tone of his voice she was able to deduce that he was already
grossly irritated with her. Unwilling to provoke him further until she could
discern her situation, she sighed with resignation.

"I do not know you.
How would I
know if you were foolish or not?"

Christian reined the destrier off the road, down an
embankment into a cluster of trees. The warm September air infiltrated the
canopy without the slightest hint of autumn as he dismounted, electrified with
the anticipation of coming face to face with his captive. In faith, he'd not
yet been able to catch a glimpse of her sure-to-be monstrous features for the
simple fact that her long hair had obscured her from view.

But now, watching her struggle to right herself on the
charger in preparation for dismounting, he could scarcely contain his curiosity
and apprehension. Finally, he was to gaze upon the visage of Hell.

Gaithlin was aware that he was standing behind her, an
enormously large man from the very size of the legs that she had become
acquainted with. Up-righting herself on the saddle, she groaned softly as the
world spun recklessly and her temples throbbed with ache, grasping hold of the
saddle as best she could to keep herself from slithering to the ground. But her
strength wasn't enough against her discomfort, and with a yelp she plummeted
off the destrier to the hard earth below.

Christian watched her fall without moving a muscle to
lend aid. Wild masses of silken blond hair covered her from the top of her head
to her buttocks as she wrestled with the unruly strands in an attempt to push
them from her face. She was obviously shaken and ill, but he maintained his
callous attitude as she struggled to compose herself.

"Lady Gaithlin de Gare," his voice rumbled
like thunder. "You are now my captive and the slightest show of resistance
will be forcefully met. Do you comprehend me?"

Swallowing the bile in her throat from
fear as much as from her aching head, Gaithlin ceased her attempts to rise to
her feet.
Seated on her bottom beside the
massive legs of the great white destrier, she swept the remains of her
disorderly mane aside.

"Who are you?" she asked.

He still couldn't see her face; she was looking to the
ground and his irritation suddenly spiked. "Look at me when I speak to
you, wench. Your bestial de Gare manners will not be tolerated."

Sharply, her head came up and Christian found himself
gazing into huge, almond-shaped eyes of the most amazing blue.
Deep, rich, captivating blue.
The blue
of the pond.

It took him a moment to realize the verity of what his
disbelieving mind was attempting to convey. He heard his breath escape in a
sharp, forceful blow; the longer he gazed into the enchanting eyes and utterly
beautiful face, the more difficult it became for him to catch his breath.

The cruelty of Fate was almost more than he could grasp
and found himself struggling against the perfect memories of her magnificent
body, her graceful movements,
the
pure femininity of
her presence as she had displayed her aura within the privacy of the isolated
lake. Never had he met with such perfection. But the fact remained that she was
a de Gare.

Life was a wicked thing, indeed.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Christian heard her voice, sultry and seductive
regardless of her apprehension. Good Christ, even her voice was beautiful.
Forcing himself to overcome his incredulity, he struggled to retain a measure
of his authoritarian disposition without completely losing his composure.

"I have never met a de Gare before," he
finally said. It was the truth.

She blinked in puzzlement and he could literally see the
thick lashes fan against her cheeks. "What do you know of the de Gares?
And how do you know who I am?"

He stared at her; he'd been unable to keep from staring
at her from the very moment he laid eyes upon her. Small cracks appeared in his
hard facade, weakening him, causing him to shake with the internal struggle
they encouraged. He didn't want to weaken in the face of a hated de Gare; he
had to maintain the superiority, to maintain the loathing. But the longer he
gazed into her beauty, the deeper the cracks bled.

With his last ounce of resistance, he closed his eyes
against her and turned away, attempting to focus on something other her than
her in order to restore his sanity. He'd been aware of her identity for less
than five minutes; already, he knew he was destined for trouble. The moment he
realized that an indefinite length of sequestration with her was actually an
appealing thought was the moment he realized he was well along the path to his
own destruction.

"I know a good deal about the de Gares," he
said, praying his voice did not give away his shock. "And you, wench, do
indeed know who I am, of that I have no doubt."

Although her head was still throbbing, the world had
righted itself somewhat and Gaithlin labored to her feet. Straightening her
heavy woolen gown, the color of lavender, she allowed her gaze to rove the
massive knight; he was a good deal taller than she was, a remarkable feat
considering she was quite tall for a woman.

His hair was the color of honey with streaks of gold
laced throughout as it tumbled its way to his shoulders and she found it odd
that his hair, for its length, should be kept so neatly groomed about his face
as if he placed concern in his appearance. In fact, his hair was quite
beautiful and she found herself gazing at it curiously as he focused his
attention on their surroundings. Her eyes moved from his hair to his chiseled
features, fine and straight and intelligent, and she could catch a glimpse of
the remarkable color of his eyes.
Eyes of pure ice.