The Warrior Poet (10 page)

"But I suppose
your beauty makes up for the finer qualities you lack," he added, but the
expression on Gaithlin's face stopped him cold. His brows drew together
curiously. "Why do you look at me like that?"

There was a bit of
color in her cheeks; 'twas the first time he noticed. "You jest with
me."

His scowl
increased. "When did I do this?”

She smiled, bright
and beautiful.
 
"You said I
possessed beauty," she said. "How can you say that when I stand
before you wet and dirty and completely disheveled?"

He drew in a deep
breath, off-guard with the beauty of her smile. "My lady, there is no
beauty in all of England that can compare to you." He'd used the same
coaxing words before, on several women in order to gain his way. But the
identical phrase spoken to Gaithlin was God's living truth. Unnerved and
unbalanced by his compliments to her, he cleared his throat and pulled her towards
the manse. "Come along. They should have already commenced with the
evening meal and we risk being thrown the bones if we delay any longer."

The door loomed
high and heavy before them; before they reached the
stoop,
several household servants in the Howard colors of gray and yellow emerged from
the manse, intent on serving their newest arrivals. Gaithlin eyed the haughty
house servants, far removed from the simply serving wenches and old men they
employed at Winding Cross. Certainly, the servants of Forrestoak were clad in
finer garments than she even owned.

But the sight of
the well-dressed serfs was not enough to deter her from the subject at hand and
she continued to linger on their conversation a moment, even as the fanciful
employees rushed forward in their haste.

"Have you
decided what you are going to call me?" her voice was soft as she observed
the approaching horde.

He, too, was
scrutinizing the cluster of servants. "You will answer to whatever comes
forth from my lips,” he told her.

Before them, the
great manse of Forrestoak loomed and they were sucked forth into the warm,
welcoming bosom.

The interior of the
great fortified manse was very warm, the
heat of the blaze in
the foyer hitting Christian and Gaithlin in the face like
a slap. As
Christian removed his helm, Gaithlin lowered her hood, observing her
surroundings with wide-eyes; surely the halls of Heaven weren't any less grand.

A massive tapestry
hung resplendent against one wall, an intricately designed rug that depicted a
scene from the Crusades. Ignoring the hovering servants, Gaithlin wandered in
the direction of the magnificent piece, studying the mail-clad knights in
crimson tunics as their ladies fair bid them a fond farewell. Helm and
gauntlets removed, Christian moved to stand behind her, appraising the work
he'd seen before.

"King Richard
the Lion Heart is in the middle," he pointed to the center of the artwork.
The men depicted were the very heart of the St. John - de Gare Feud, he
couldn’t help but notice. "See? His brother John and advisor William
Marshall watch the king's departure from the Tower."

Gaithlin nodded,
intently studying the scene. "And that must be Berengaria," she
gestured to the delicate lady with the towering wimple. "She was
lovely."

Christian's gaze
moved from the tapestry to Gaithlin's mussed hair, dry and tousled from their
ride. He caught himself before he could compliment her beauty again, but his
superior control could not
preventing
him from putting
his hand to her disheveled hair in an ineffectual attempt to smooth it. Untidy
and weary, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Gaithlin felt his
hand; startled, she instinctively put her hand to her head and their fingers
touched, inadvertently intertwining, and Christian removed his hand from her
hair only to find her slender appendage entangled in his massive fingers. Deep
blue, almond-shaped eyes met with Nordic jewels of pure ice.

"Your hair was
out of place," he felt like a fool even suggesting his consideration in
her appearance. Yet the experience of her silken hand within the fold of his
palm was almost worth the chagrin.

But she jerked her
hand from his grip before he could further relish the feel, her cheeks flushing
a faint pink as she ran her fingers through her tangled mess. "I do believe
that everything on my person is out of place at the moment."

Sounds of the
gallery wafted on the warm, fragrant air and Gaithlin turned her attention in
the direction of the grand room. She could catch a glimpse of a page now and
again, young boys running about to serve the knights and master. As a fat
wolfhound wandered from the rounded Norman archway, she suddenly found herself
extremely apprehensive to attend a formal meal in her unkempt state.

Although she
shouldn't have given her image a second thought in lieu of the fact that it
would be St. John allies she would be sharing a meal with, the same innocent
girl who was so desperately confused over Christian's presence was equally
excited and eager to eat her first meal outside of the walls of Winding Cross.
With the exception of the meager feasts St. Esk had to offer, she spent her
entire life supping from the worn oak table in the thinly furnished gallery of
her ancestral home.

Listening to the
gentle music and soft laughter emitting from the smoke-hazed room, she found
herself wanting to know how the wealthy and affluent lived.

Christian was
unaware of her dilemma as he motioned to a well-dressed steward with a
bowl-shaped haircut. After a few muttered phrases to the little man, in which
he mentioned words to the effect that his company was to be a surprise to
Kelvin, he cast a lingering glance at Gaithlin. She tore her eyes away from the
gallery entrance long enough to meet his gaze, her expression steady. After a
lengthy moment of staring into the deep blue depths, Christian pursed his lips.

"I suppose I
should offer you my arm so that we may enter the gallery as a companionable
pair," he said with a hint of disgust. But the aversion in his tone was
forced; as if he was required by the nature of their relationship to offer a
customary show of distaste.

Even Gaithlin
sensed that he was not entirely repulsed by the thought of her company on his
arm.
Odd
, she thought, that she too was not entirely repulsed by the
idea of accepting his escort. But she would play the Disgust Game as well, so
he would not note the fact that she was more comfortable with his suggestion
than she should have been.

"Since when
have a St. John and a de Gare been companionable?"

Christian's intense
eyes gazed at her a moment before meeting the tapestry behind her. "Since
before the days of that man," he tilted his head in King Richard's
direction. "Once, the two families were quite companionable."

She turned to
glance at the intricate needlework, large enough to cover two beds with ease.
Pondering the king and his Crusaders for a moment, she shrugged and turned
away. "One would have been led to believe that we began the Feud the day
Lucifer split from the Heavenly Horde."

Christian's gaze
lingered on her a moment, the familiar feelings of waste and foolishness coming
to bear as he pondered the state of their families' relations. More than ever,
he believed the Feud to be a senseless attempt to maintain the family honor.
Two families sentenced to live and die by a grossly distended argument that had
lurched out of control until the true sense of righteousness had been lost.

The noise level in
the gallery increased, breaking Christian from his thoughts as a pair of dogs
appeared in the doorway, fighting over a large bone. Without another word on
the Feud that had been a part of their mutual existence since before their
birth, he extended his arm to Gaithlin and she placed her slender hand on his
forearm.

As he led her
toward the warm, hazy room, he caught her rapid movements as she attempted to
make herself more presentable from the corner of his eye. They were the frantic
actions from a woman who had spent the entire afternoon being battered or
abused, one way or the other.

"Stop your
fretting," he growled. "Your worries are for naught."

Smoothing at her
hair, Gaithlin's wide eyes met with the soaring gallery as they emerged through
the doorway. "I look like a street urchin."

He cocked an
eyebrow, casting
her an
intolerant glance as the heat
and cooking smells from the grand hall assaulted them both. "You are
acceptable enough," placing his free hand over hers in a most
companionable gesture, she suddenly found herself pulled tight against his
torso. "Remember to address me as My Dearest. Do you comprehend?"

She sighed with
frustration. "I am not daft, Dem... I mean, my dearest. You have already
informed me of the role I am to play and I shall not disappoint you."

His eyes on the
large table at the far end of the cavernous hall, he raised a threatening
eyebrow purely for Gaithlin's benefit. "You'd better not."

Gaithlin would have
scowled at him had the sharp smell of burnt meat and dog feces not embraced her
like a glove. Wrinkling her nose at the pungent aroma, she allowed Christian to
lead her through the smoke and pages and various inhabitants of the hall in
their advance to the head table.

She was so consumed
with the atmosphere and sights about her that she failed to notice the change
of expression on Christian's face. From expectation to suspicion to disbelief,
the very next she was aware her escort had come to a complete halt and his
entire body went rigid with rage and astonishment.

For certain,
surprise did not seem to encompass the depths of his reaction. The dishonor of
his pride was evident in naked proportions.

‘Betrayal is a repulsive philosophy;

 
unless
,
of course,

 
it
is committed with the Purest

of
Intent."

~Chronicles of Christian St. John

Vl. V, pg. XXII

CHAPTER
FIVE

"Maggie!"

Dogs scattered as
ladies shrieked their fearful reaction to the booming shout. The musicians on
the balcony above the gallery came to an unharmonious ending as the entire hall
came to a startled halt. Gaithlin, her eyes wide, gazed at Christian in
complete surprise.

He was looking
directly at the head table and before Gaithlin could draw another breath, he
was marching for the long, cluttered slab of wood, his expression nothing short
of lethal. In the very center of the feasting table, an auburn-haired man and a
lovely dark-haired woman had been sitting conspicuously close; at the sight of
Christian, they peeled apart faster than the human eye could comprehend and
made great haste to put distance between themselves and the Demon of Eden.

"What are you
doing here?" Christian was focused on the raven-hair lady. When she stared
at him with the expression of a frightened doe, he jabbed a massive finger at
her. "Answer me, Maggie, or God help me, I shall not be merciful in my
punishment. What are you doing here?"

The Lady Margaret
du Bois could scarcely believe the vision before her. Bottomless brown eyes
stared at her betrothed with a huge degree of shock as she struggled to force a
reply from her dry lips. But as she wrestled with her fear and astonishment,
her gaze came to rest on the disheveled woman in the dark cloak and her
expression took on a distinct shade of indignant fury.

"Who is
she
?" ignoring Christian's demand
completely, she imperiously indicated Gaithlin.

Although cornered
in his own right by being discovered with an unknown female companion,
Christian refused to allow his trapped fiancée to change the subject. Ignoring
Gaithlin completely, he moved toward Maggie, toppling a chair in his haste. A
wounded dog yapped its way into the shadows as Christian focused on his
intended.

"Damnation,
Maggie, answer me,” he demanded. “What are you doing with Howard? I thought you
were visiting Carolyn."

Swallowing hard,
Maggie tore her eyes off Gaithlin to focus on the ice-blue orbs of her
betrothed. "I... I am,” she insisted. “Carolyn is here, darling. We have
been here for two days, visiting her brother."

Christian's jaw
ticked. "From the affection between you and Kelvin, I would say you were
doing more than visiting."

For
the first time, his gaze moved to his friend; standing tall and lanky at the
opposite end of the table, Christian gesture the man to him with a crooked
finger.
A slow, deliberate gesture.
With a good deal
of reluctance and fear, Kelvin complied.

The entire room was
deathly silent as the lord of Forrestoak approached his lover's betrothed.
Tensions rose to explosive proportions, biting into every occupant of the hall
as if their very lives were at stake. Certainly, with the Demon of Eden verging
on a rage, the likelihood of a bloodless conclusion was slim.

Coming within arm's
range of his seething friend, Kelvin smiled weakly. "Greetings, Christian.
What a... surprise to see you. I have not seen you in years."

Christian's face
was like stone, the veins on his neck throbbing. "Did you know that Maggie
is betrothed to me?"

Kelvin, a handsome
man with bright green eyes, licked his lips and forced a brave smile.
"Of course.
The entire province knows," he
gestured to the table. "We were sharing a meal, nothing more. Please, sit
and
We
shall..."

Christian was
suddenly in the man's face, his voice as low as God's mighty rumble. "If I
know you, you have shared more than a meal with her. And if I know Maggie,
which I do, she was a willing party," his gaze lingering on his fiancé and
her lover, he turned away in a gesture of complete, utter aversion.

"You're mad,
Christian," Kelvin pleaded loudly. "We have done nothing but..!"

Christian came to
an abrupt halt, returning his gaze to the lord of Forrestoak. His eyes were
like razor-edged splinters of ice. "Do you take me for a fool, Kelvin? Why
would you deny the obvious in lieu of accepting responsibility for your actions
as a true man would?"

The heir to the Forrestoak
met Christian's blazing orbs as steadily as he could manage. To say that he had
been surprised by the man's appearance would have been a gross understatement;
he found himself praying that he was somehow having a nightmare, tossing and
turning on his feathered mattress after a night of too much sex and rich foods.
 
If it was a dream, he realized that now
would be a very good time to awaken. The dream was very quickly becoming his
worst nightmare.

He actually
blinked, hoping to clear his eyes and mind. But Christian's image reappeared,
as menacing as ever, and he was painfully aware that the man before him was no
dream. It was t
he Demon in the flesh.

Reclaiming the
brave smile that had faded somewhat, he simply shook his head in a vague
gesture. Lie or no, he was unwilling to admit the fact that he had been happily
bedding Christian's intended for the better part of two days.

"Certainly you
are no fool, my friend,” he said. “You are a wise, reasoning man, and you will
believe me when I say that nothing has gone on between Lady Margaret and
myself
. She and my sister are simply here to pay me a
visit."

Christian's
expression transformed from a taut gesture to one of repugnance and disgrace.
He knew Kelvin was lying to save his hide; the entire room was aware of his
unavailing attempt.
Disgusted with the man's lack of honor,
his head wagged back and forth in a gesture of complete loathing.

"You lying
bastard," he growled, not without a hint of remorse. "You must think
very little me."

Kelvin struggled to
maintain his front. "I think a great deal of you, my friend, a great
deal," he insisted, his voice oddly strained. "Please, let us not
argue over this misunderstanding. There is a good deal of food and drink to be
had."

Christian continued
to stare at him, a pitiful wretch of a liar. In truth, there was nothing more
to say and he was certainly in no position to cast the first stone, entering
the room as he had with Gaithlin on his arm. He had been privy to the rumors
regarding Marble-Head Maggie and Kelvin Howard for some time, though she had
denied his query for truth vigorously. Although he didn't believe her for an
instant, he never asked again.
Even when the rumors thickened.

But seeing the
tangible proof before his eyes sickened him. It wasn't the humiliation of
betrayal that turned his stomach; Maggie did as she pleased and he was well
aware of the reality. The fact that he had been made a fool of in front of a room
full of vassals and allies planted a considerable dent into his enormous
arrogance.

"Christian,"
Maggie's voice was pleading, sweet. "Truly, darling, there is nothing to
be angry over. Carolyn is here and we have been hunting all day with Kelvin. My
presence here is certainly not what you are thinking."

Gaithlin eyed
Christian apprehensively as he turned away from both Maggie and Kelvin, making
his way toward her with slow, deliberate steps. From the gist of the
conversation, she came to understand that the lovely raven-haired woman was to
be Christian's wife, and Christian was understandably grieved with the
unexpected surprise awaiting him at Forrestoak.

Somewhat
embarrassed in her own right that she and Christian had stumbled onto a secret
indiscretion, she was nonetheless startled by a fierce protectiveness she felt
for the Demon of Eden. Merciful Heavens, she had no idea why she should feel
any sort of sheltering instinct for the hated St. John heir; regardless of her
life-long convictions, however, she felt a good deal of pity for her captor and
an abundance of condemnation for his trampy betrothed.

Christian, for his
part, was doing an excellent job of controlling his fury in spite of the
shocking circumstances. Even as he ignored Maggie's plea, the dark-haired woman
leapt off the dais in an attempt to purse him.

"Listen to me,
Christian, and stop being foolish," she ordered weakly.
 
But the moment her gaze rest on Gaithlin's
beautiful face, her expression turned threatening. "But you, it would seem,
are in the position to answer my questions as well. Who is your bedraggled
slave?"

To Christian's
surprise, Gaithlin remained silent in the face of Maggie's insult. The heat
from the gallery had returned the color to her lovely cheeks, but the hazard
simmering within the deep blue eyes was nothing short of deadly and Christian
found himself more than willing to defend her.

In fact, being
sharp of wit, he saw how he could turn the situation to his advantage. Having
caught Maggie in the throes of indiscretion with a lover, he would measure
her a
hefty dose of the same humiliation.

"A
cousin," he lied deliberately, relishing the fact that he was lying to the
bitch he was supposed to marry.
"On my mother's
side."

Maggie knew he was
fabricating a story to cover the fact that he, too, had been caught with his
lover. But she'd never seen the girl before and was understandably curious;
Christian's lovers were too innumerable to count and his tastes usually ran to
high-bred widows or skilled, youthful whores. The tall woman swathed in black
did not meet his usual criteria.

The fact that her
intended husband took lovers had never bothered her; in fact, she too had
unnatural appetites for sex. Christian was a beautiful man with a muscular,
sculpted body she took great delight in, and she could hardly have expected a
man of his reputation and aggressive personality to remain faithful to one
solitary woman.

In faith, the only
link between them was a physical attraction and the fact that they had
betrothed when Maggie was six and Christian, sixteen.
Little
emotion, virtually no attachment, and certainly no love.
They were
resigned to the fact that they would live out their lives as man and wife and
determined to exploit their unwed status until the very moment their vows bound
them.

But the fact
remained that she had never truly come into contact with one of Christian's
women and was surprised to realize her jealousy. And the fact that her intended
seemed to be taking great delight in flaunting his affair angered her further.

"I see,"
she replied coolly to his falsehood. "What is her name? Or can she speak
for herself?"

Christian looked to
Gaithlin, who was gazing steadily at Maggie. She knew, instinctively, that he
would allow her to reply to the catty inquiry. He expected no less.

"The
Lady Gaithlin."
Her sultry voice was seductive, erotic.

Maggie cocked a
delicate eyebrow, moving closer as to better inspect Christian's whore.
"The Lady Gaithlin
what?"

"De
Blanc," Christian answered for her, evenly. "My mother's sister married
Suffolk de Blanc. The Lady Gaithlin is her only child."

Maggie continued to
stare at Gaithlin. The tension between the two women was brittle enough to
shatter at the slightest provocation, building to deafening dimensions as if to
explode the walls of the very room. "I thought your aunt was childless,
Christian."

Christian crossed
his arms, unwilling to be interrogated by his unfaithful betrothed. "Are
you accusing me of falsehood?"

"Not at
all," Maggie replied smoothly, her gaze raking over Gaithlin in a most
depreciating manner. "However, she is pitifully clothed for a relation to
the House of St. John. Where are her trunks so that I might help her dress
properly?"

"Lost,"
Gaithlin replied before Christian could answer. "Thieves, you know."

Maggie cast
her a
dubious, mocking expression. "Thieves managed to
steal your valuables with the Demon of Eden as your escort?
Shocking."

Gaithlin's
simmering annoyance with the woman's haughty demeanor blossomed into an irritation
of loathing proportions.
 
“Although he
managed to do a good deal of damage, even my dear cousin was relatively subdued
by the fifty bandits who set upon us. But it was a magnificent fight." The
corner of her lips twitched in a surprisingly erotic gesture. "There was a
good deal of blood.
Red.
Sticky.
Salty-tasting blood."

Christian nearly
choked, his gaze riveted to Gaithlin as her incredible eyes twinkled mischievously.
 
The atmosphere between her and Maggie had
flourished in unexpected directions and Christian received the distinct impression
that Gaithlin was not so sheltered and naive as he had supposed. There was
something in her tone, not to mention her words....