The Warrior Poet (9 page)

His eyebrows rose
as if the thought had never occurred to him. "You do not
like
it?"

She slanted him a
long gaze. "You asked me not to address you as a bastard, and I graciously
complied. I will ask you not to call me wench."

He stared at her a
moment longer, wondering why her quietly uttered request sounded suspiciously
like a demand. But she was correct; he had asked her not to refer to him in a
derogatory manner and in spite of their heated exchange at the time, she had
obeyed his command.

It began to occur
to Christian that the de Gare woman responded in kind when handled rationally.
Since she had been willing to comply with his request not to address him as a
blackguard, he was inclined to react in the same manner. He was, after all, a
chivalrous knight bound by his brotherhood vows to respect and nurture the
fairer sex.
Even a de Gare.

"Very
well," his voice was quiet. "I will not address you by the term if
you find it offensive."

She gazed at him in
the fading light, her shivers of chill having returned since Christian's heated
body was no longer providing her with his searing warmth. Even when she looked
away, pale and cold now that the blazing lust between them was doused, he
continued to stare at her and wondered why he was so utterly preoccupied with
her.

He would have been
content to stand and gaze at her all night, lost to his puzzling thoughts, but
she quaked violently and began rubbing her arms again to stay warm and he was
jolted from his thoughts by her misery.

"I shall build
a fire," he mumbled, glancing at the wet ground and knowing a fire would
be unable to compete with the wet foliage. Several possibilities crossed his
mind, but he found himself focusing on one particular thought; he was
traversing Howard lands. Three miles to the north and west sat the mighty
fortified manor of Kelvin Howard, a childhood friend. He'd not seen Kelvin in
ten years but he knew for a fact that the man would gladly put him up for the
night.

Christian's gaze
moved to Gaithlin again, shivering uncontrollably on the rotted stump and
startled himself with the idea of gathering her against him purely for warmth.
The very thought was foolish for two very logical reasons; she would probably
accuse him of attempting to rape her again and, more than likely, he would be
unable to control his lusty urges were she nestled against him. Therefore, her
accusation would be true.

"I know of a
manor not far from here where we could spend the night," his rich,
beautiful voice was low. "I will take you there on two conditions, my
lady; that you swear you will not attempt to escape, nor will you inform anyone
of your true relationship to me."

So cold that her
lips were blue, Gaithlin met his serious gaze. The thought of spending the
night in a soft bed, warm and dry, was infinitely appealing, but the natural
urge to resist a St. John was a powerful force to be reckoned with. Deep within
her heart, she saw her situation for what it was; she was his captive. There
was no escape. But the foolish, less rational portion of her personality was
not so easily subdued. How could she give in to a St. John with so weak a
struggle?

"My lady?” he
asked. “Do you comprehend me?"

She did.
Too well.
Averting her gaze, she nodded feebly.
"Aye," she whispered. "I understand."

"Do I have
your word of honor?"

She cocked an
eyebrow, meeting his inquisitive gaze. "Would you believe a de Gare?"

"I will the
first time. If you break your word, I shall never trust you again."

Fair enough. A
violent seizure of chill embraced her and she hugged herself fiercely, waiting
for the quaking to stop. Christian watched her as impassively as he could,
again fighting off the strong urge to warm her chilled body. He turned and
marched across the wet compost towards his charger. As the horse tore up a bush
of plump green leaves, he dug into his saddlebags. Drawing forth a heavy black
cloak of wool and fleece, he returned to his shivering captive.

"Here."

He swung the
massive cloak about her shoulders, wrapping
her
 
in
the yards of fabric as well as a
mother swaddling a babe. Too cold and too tired to protest, Gaithlin allowed
herself to be buffeted back and forth by the power of his gruff concerns.

When she was
wrapped as tightly as a newborn infant, he pulled her to her feet and silently
returned the mummy-like form to the feeding destrier. Without a word, he lifted
her effortlessly onto the saddle and retrieved his helm before mounting. This
time, he sat behind her.

Gaithlin grunted
when he shifted in the saddle, pulling her across his hard thighs. But she was
far more comfortable than she had been all day; wrapped in his deliciously warm
cloak, her blood was warming and her shivers fading. Christian pulled her
against his chest with one arm and positioned his helm with the other,
gathering his reins when his head protection was secured.
 
As he prepared to spur his charger on, her
soft voice stopped him.

"Aren't you
going to tie my hands?" her voice was muffled within the folds of his
cloak.

He glanced at her,
noting the faint gleam in her eye. "Should I?"

To his surprise,
she actually grinned and he was enchanted; as beautiful as her mouth was in
repose, her smile changed her face dramatically. Christian found himself
staring at her mouth as his horse trampled its way out of the underbrush.

"You have
wrapped me so tightly that I do not believe tying my hands to be necessary,"
she said.

He grunted
,
his only response as his charger regained his footing on
the muddy road. The rain was pounding harder than before as the clouds above
darkened with impending nightfall. Within the hour they would be at Kelvin
Howard's manor and Christian found himself looking forward to the evening
ahead. Good food, wine, warmth... he ignored the fact that he was looking
forward to an evening attempting to become acquainted with his mortal enemy.

They hadn't
traveled a quarter mile when Christian felt his mummified captive go limp
against him. Casting
her a
lingering glance, her
peaceful, pale face slumbered wearily beneath the hood of his cloak and he
shifted her gently to better cradle her against his chest. With a lengthy sigh,
one of contentment and pensive reflection for the future, Christian would have
been content to hold the black-shrouded figure for the rest of his natural
life.

It was a peculiar
satisfaction that seemed to infect them both. As the wind howled and the rain
came down in buckets, the Lady Gaithlin de Gare had never slept so peacefully
in her entire life.

Shielded
in the arms of the enemy.

 
***

Forrestoak Manor
was a massive fortified structure encompassing enough square footage to have
made an adequate castle. Made of stone that had developed a deep green color
for the moss that grew upon its surface, it was nestled deep within the heart
of the surrounding trees.

Christian
recollected coming here on a few occasions as a child while the place was still
being built, listening to Lord Howard boast at the greatness of the structure
intended for his only son. While Jean had been mildly impressed by his ally's
fortune and expansion, inspecting the fortress at Lord Howard's insistence,
Christian and Kelvin had run amuck in the surrounding woods, chasing down
rabbits and fox.

Christian smiled as
he remembered those days. He and Kelvin had always been particularly
companionable, even as youths, fostering for opposing households. They had met
occasionally at tournaments, stealing away from their duties to peruse the
activities and pilfer apples. Aye, he liked Kelvin and was looking forward to
seeing the man once again.
 
Ten years was
a very long time to remain distant.

The massive double
gate loomed ahead and Christian could see the sentries on the narrow walls. As
he announced himself to the shouted query, Gaithlin was startled awake by his
booming voice.

"Where are
we?" she bolted upright, smacking her head against the side of his helm.

Although he hadn't
been injured in the least by her reflexive action, he instinctively winced on
her behalf and attempted to remove the hood of the cloak to see if she drew
blood. But Gaithlin would have no part of his mothering; batting his hands
away, she rubbed the violated spot.

"I asked where
we are, Demon."

He eyed her, his
concern for her injury fading. "Do not call me Demon. I do not like
it."

She heard her own
words and ceased to massage the growing lump on her head. Rubbing the sleep
from her eyes, she cocked a saucy eyebrow. Since childhood, she had awoken from
sleep to a disagreeable mood and today, unfortunately, was to be no exception.

"Then what
would you have me call you?" she asked.

He matched her
raised-eyebrow expression, noting her cross disposition with a degree of
disapproval. But as he gazed at her, a shout on the wall came back to him and
the giant gates began to swing open. Christian tore his eyes away from her,
focusing on the gate.

"My
Dearest," he rumbled. "For tonight, you shall call me My
Dearest."

Gaithlin's mouth opened
in outrage.
"My Dearest?
I think not,
De...!"

He clapped a
massive hand over her mouth, spurring his charger through the gates. Although
his expression was intentionally tender, his tone was deadly. "You are my
lover and will address me as My Dearest in front of my close ally. If you
choose not to assume the charade, I will turn about this instant and you can
spend the remainder of your night tied to a tree."

Eyes wide, Gaithlin
had no doubt that his threat was sincere. Even as her natural urge advised
complete defiance, an inner sense somehow managed to suggest that she might
come to like such a thing. That addressing the Demon of Eden by a term of
endearment wasn't as completely horrible as she would have liked to believe.

A peculiar inner
struggle commenced at his subtle command. She didn't want to call him My
Dearest, or Sweetling, or any other expression of affection. At least, the
defiant de Gare within her soul was staunchly resistant to such an idea. But
the isolated, naive young lady was not entirely unwilling.

"My
Dearest?" she repeated, mumbling through his gloved fingers. When he
removed his hand and fixed her with a heady, no-nonsense glare, she sighed in
resignation.
"My Dearest."

The corner of his
lip twitched with a smile. "That was not so hard, was it
?
'
Twill
become
easier with time."

"I don't
intend to call you My Dearest for the rest of my life."

"If I demand
it, you will."

His manner wasn't
quite so severe and Gaithlin was surprised to realize it bordered on amusement.
"Is that so?" she felt her own sense of humor take hold. "And
what do you intend to call me if I must address you by a sickening term of
sentiment?"

He raised an
eyebrow as they rode into the well-kept bailey of Forrestoak. He deliberately
avoided her piercing gaze as his eyes perused their surroundings. "I have
yet to decide.
Certainly something nauseating."

She pursed her lips
wryly and turned away, curious of their environment. "I dare not ask
again," she mumbled, clutching his black cloak about her weary body.

Several soldiers
rushed to greet them. Between the bedraggled lady wrapped in the over-sized
cloak and the auspicious presence of the Demon of Eden, there was a good deal
of respectful chatter and attention. Christian dismounted into a nest of
excited soldiers, pulling Gaithlin off with him. Arm about her shoulders
tightly, he ignored the common rabble of fighting men and made his way toward
the green-tinged manor.

Gaithlin felt his
arm around her, torn between relishing the new experience and wanting to pull
away from him.
He's a St. John, no matter how willing you are to forget the
fact!
She was only too well aware of the message her nagging conscience was
intent on constantly informing her. She didn't need to be reminded that she
hated him.

It would have been
simple to allow herself to slip into the realm of depressing thought as she
once again pondered her predicament, but stumbling over Christian's lengthy
robe distracted her from impending doom. In fact, she tripped twice on their
trek across the bailey. The third time she stumbled, Christian came to an
irritated halt.

"Is something
the matter?" he demanded.

She shook her head
weakly. "You're cloak is too long," she replied, then added with
malicious sweetness: "My Dearest."

He raised an
eyebrow at her mocking tone. "Grace certainly isn't one of your strong
points, is it? You stumble more than any woman I have ever had the misfortune
to witness."

He was correct;
grace had never been one of her strong points, being long-legged and rather
tall for a woman, and she averted her gaze with embarrassment. Christian felt
himself softening somewhat at her humiliation and a faint smile tugged at his
lips.