The Warrior Poet (7 page)

Shaken, Gaithlin sat up, blinking her eyes rapidly as
the world rocked. But she was not so muddled that she had not experienced the
full impact of his insult. "You have mentioned two traits," she mumbled,
putting a hand to her head in an attempt to stop the swaying. "Futhermore,
the same could be said for your bold assault on St. Esk."

Christian had little patience for her reminder of his
blasphemous deed. As she struggled to her knees, he yanked on his gauntlets
with a good deal of annoyance. Just as she managed to get one foot beneath her
in preparation for standing, he finished securing his gloves and grasped her
roughly by the arm.

Gaithlin gasped with the harsh and swift moment, her
deep blue eye coming to focus on those of ice-blue.
 
Gazing into the depths, her apprehension and
defiance made a bold return; but in the same breathe, the odd heat that had
filled her as his hands roved her tender torso made an unexpected reappearance.
The longer she gazed into his eyes, the stronger the warmth became.

"So... so you intend to kill me now?" she
swallowed hard, listening to the breathlessness of her sultry voice.

Christian met her gaze steadily, although his outward
facade made cover for the fiercely raging lust that threatened to devour his
control.
Good Christ, man, she's a de Gare!
Seventy years of St. John
hate refused to allow him to consider his own desires over the duty
demanded.
 
But, God help him, he was
becoming more weakened and confused by the moment.
If she
were anything other than a de Gare....

"I never said I intended to kill you," his breathless
voice matched her own.

Gaithlin swallowed hard as she listened to his husky
reply, realizing that her apprehension was fading somewhat. "Then what do
you intend to do with me if your intention is not that of murder?" she
asked.

"What I intend to do with you is none of your
concern," he replied, pulling her towards his charger. "You are my
prisoner to do with as I please."

Head throbbing and chest sore, her oddly warm thoughts
of the man vanished as Gaithlin stumbled after him. Tripping over an exposed
clod of earth, she tumbled to her knees and succeeded in dislodging Christian's
grip. With a grunt of irritation, he bent to help her stand when she suddenly
regained her feet, ramming the top of her head into his chin.

She yelped. He groaned. Hand to his jaw, he grasped
Gaithlin's arm once more. "Good Christ, wench,” he grumbled. “You are a plethora
of pain for me."

She didn't struggle against his vise-like grip as he
tugged her toward the grazing steed. Free hand on the top of her head, she
rubbed the violated area. "I am not to blame for this mishap. Had you not
handled me so brutally, I would not have fallen."

He glared at her. "Had you not shown a glimpse of
your magnificent intelligence by attempting to evade me, I would not have been
forced to brutally handle you."

She matched his glare, removing her hand from her aching
head. "Had you not violated St. Esk at the onset, none of this would have
happened."

His glare faded into an expression of complete
impassiveness. But his eyes, orbs of blue ice, were as biting as hungry wolves
in winter. "I will not hear you refer to the breached abbey again,"
his voice was deeper than a growl and by far more threatening. After a moment,
his eyebrow twitched purely for sinister effect. "Let us place the blame
where it lies
. 'Twas your misfortune to have been born a de
Gare in the first place."

They stared at each other for a moment. All of the
learned hatred, the mutual disgust at the sight and presence of a
long-cultivated enemy came to bear in spite of the natural attraction between
them. For the moment, the loathing was stronger than the interest and Gaithlin
felt the bitterness to her soul. The previous warm feelings, the confusion at
his touch, were forgotten as she turned away in repugnance.

"Damnable St. John bastard."
Her voice was barely a whisper.

Christian heard her, his own sense of family hatred
filling him. It wasn't the physical company of the woman before him as much as
it was the name she bore.
 
It was the
generations of de Gares she represented, spawning a hatred that had aged like a
powerful wine.

Above their heads, the collecting clouds could no longer
contain themselves. A soaking rain descended on man and beast alike, washing
the countryside with a violent downpour. But even the rain wasn't strong enough
to cleanse the palpable hatred between the two inhabitants of the field below.

***

Gaithlin was positive the rain had been conjured from
the bowels of Hell by her Demon captor. Her lavender woolen gown had quickly
become soaked through the driving sheets of rain and to make matters worse, the
Demon had tied her hands together as they traveled through the brutal weather.
Pressed against his armored back, her arms about his waist, she could feel the
rope chaffing her tender wrists.

The top of her head against his back, she found herself
staring at her parted thighs, embracing the Demon's huge legs as she rode
astride behind him, positioned like a man. He hadn't permitted her the more
dignified position seated in across his lap; instead, he had forced her into a
most degrading stance. Legs wide
open,
her pubic bone
against his buttocks.
 
Were she not so
completely miserable as a result of the weather, she would have been
exceedingly furious at his lack of consideration but in truth, she expected no
less from the Demon of Eden.

Soaked to the skin, frozen and ash-white, she licked her
lips every so often as beads of rain coursed over her lowered face. Head bowed
behind Christian's massive frame, she was afforded a slight amount of
protection from the stinging rain, but not enough. Not enough to offset her
misery and anguish at the direction her future had seemingly taken.

As Gaithlin wallowed silently in discomfort, Christian
was making a valiant attempt to pretend that the raging storm about them was of
no concern. Shielded in his armor, he was amply protected against the elements
and was quite content to continue on his journey. But every so often, the pair
of bound hands about his waist would twitch and he would glance in their
direction, noting the utterly colorless pallor like the hands of a corpse.

A pair of ashen hands that were
attached to a thoroughly chilled body.
As he felt himself relenting in the face of his barbaric cruelty, he would
remind himself of his prisoner's identity and his resolve would making a bold
return. It was an odd mental struggle that went on mile after mile, and when
the sun began to set and Gaithlin's soaked body set into violent quaking
seizures, he could no longer ignore the obvious. He had to find shelter.

A shelter that consisted of a thick
cluster of Scot pine.
Even though the
rain was dripping from the leaves to the ground below, they were somewhat
protected from the driving elements and he reined his charger to a halt amongst
the damp, moldering leaves.

The sound of the rain was soft and lulling as Christian
moved to untie Gaithlin's hands. He was fully aware of her dead weight against
his back and he wondered if she had fallen asleep. Her hands were limp and icy
as he fumbled with the rope, finally removing one of his gauntlets for improved
dexterity. Heavy and boneless, Gaithlin lay against his huge body as the
bindings fell away.

But it was a grand performance for the benefit of the
Demon. As soon as the rope fell away, she bolted to life, shoving Christian so
hard that he was in danger of losing his seating. Leaping from the charger,
Gaithlin landed on her knees in the muddy, musty pile of compost just as
Christian lost the battle against his balance and crashed to the ground.

Rolling to his knees, Christian was surprised to see
that Gaithlin continued to kneel on the ground, her deep blue eyes blazing at
him. Her beautiful hair was drenched, the woolen gown clinging indecently to
her magnificent body as her furious gaze beheld him. The sight of her wet
figure was almost enough of a deterrent to cause him to forget his surprise and
irritation.
But not quite.

"You will pay for that, wench," he growled,
putting his feet beneath his body to regain his stance. His helm met with the
ground as he marched towards his prey.

"With what?" she snapped, her wet hair
whipping about her shoulders.
"My health?
My freedom?
My dignity?
Pray, what
else can you take that you have not already stolen, Demon?"

His fury gained measure and substance. Christian had a
tendency for volatile emotions, hence the basis for his reputation and
nickname. Volatile emotions that he usually funneled into his sword, but gazing
at the wet woman before him, he wasn't the least bit willing to strike her down
in a fit of fury.
 
Usual outlet thwarted,
he found himself irrationally considering more damaging means. Beautiful or
not, the woman was driving him to the brink of fury-induced madness.

"There is much more to be taken, you foolish chit.
Surely you do not intend to provoke my wrath with your senseless actions and
insipid words?"

Gaithlin rose, slowly, and Christian found himself faced
with an unhindered view of her delectable body. Completely wet and coated with
a dusting of molding leaves, she was still the most magnificent woman he had
ever seen.

"The only item of import left to take is my
life," she was shaking with chill and fury. "You said you weren't
going to kill me, but you obviously lied. I can see it in your eyes."

He cocked an eyebrow. "I never lie. And what you
see in my eyes has nothing to do with murder."

Her breathing increased at his rumbled statement; he
could see her beautiful, firm breasts heaving against the damp wool. After a
moment, she coughed softly, as if her breath had caught in her throat, and her
head slowly wagged back and forth.

"'Tis your insanity I see, then. The St. John
madness that infects your entire family like a raging disease," she
gestured feebly at him, as if finally coming to grips with the situation.
"Look at you; you're the Demon of Eden, the fiercest knight known to these
parts. You have made a name for yourself killing and fighting and waging
blood-lust sport. And you have made a sport of hating the House of de Gare."

He eyed her, his fury cooling in spite of the fact that
her heated words were true. "It is the way of things." He almost
looked around to see if his father was standing nearby; the words out of his
mouth were sounding more and more like Jean St. John every day.

Gaithlin's face took on an expression of pain and
regret, of defeat and resolve. "You sound like my parents," she
whispered, her gaze trailing down his massive body to the arsenal of weapons
decorating his waist. With a resigned shrug, she gestured to his ammunition.
"Well, give me a weapon then. I suppose we should battle to the death as
all of our ancestors have done.
As we shall do."

He cocked an eyebrow, nearly amused by her unmistakably
droll comment. "I told you I was not going to kill you."

She returned the facial expression. "But I may kill
you. Will you not defend yourself?"

"I already have."

She maintained her countenance, bordering on arrogance.
"And you have so far proven to be an unworthy adversary. I push you and
you fall, I bump you and you grunt with pain. For a man with a formidable
reputation, Demon, you certainly are a weakling."

He was on her in two strides, his angry dark face an
inch
from her own
. Gaithlin suddenly found herself
clutched in the mightiest embrace she had ever experienced; gasping with
surprise and a certain measure of apprehension, she braced her hands against
his chest as if to push him away. He was as immovable as a mountain.

"I am indeed a formidable adversary, wench, but I
will not prove my point against a weaker, smaller de Gare. I told you that you
would regret your actions, and I meant it."

Lips quivering with shock and fright, Gaithlin met his
ice-blue orbs steadily. The heat that had ignited earlier that day when he had
so gently probed her for injury suddenly rekindled with searing intensity.
She'd never been this close to a man; any man, and certainly not a St. John.

Yet family hatred didn't seem to matter overly at the
moment. Gaithlin was only aware of the fact that she was gazing into the face
of the most beautiful man she had ever seen, his musky maleness filling her
nostrils, assaulting her ingenuous emotions. The odd warmth erupted into a
roaring blaze and her entire body began to shake, rippling like the waves of
the sea in rapid succession.

"I... I am not afraid of you," she breathed,
gasping softly when his grip tightened. "Do what you will, Demon. I shall
never beg for mercy."

Christian heard her quietly-uttered defiance, feeling
the familiar anger it roused. But the fury was quelled by desire
of
 
unbelievable
proportions. With Gaithlin's luscious body within his embrace, nothing else
existed in the world.