Authors: Kathryn Le Veque
"Where ye
been?" the lad asked.
"Yer wife ha' the meal
waitin'."
Christian continued
to stare at the water as if entranced; he looked so completely phantom-like
that he nearly blended in with the gray mist and boulders.
A
great hulking figure that had become part of the landscape, dense and unfeeling
and unseeing, wallowing in a gross confusion borne of fatigue and guilt.
It was a state that
threatened to consume him, crumbling his mind and spirit and soul. It was a few
moments before he was able to emerge from the tumultuous depths long enough to
speak.
"I have been
nowhere," he emitted a long, heavy sigh, looking up from the bubbling
stream. His eyes were dark circled from the lack of sleep as he observed the
young boy. "Are you patching the southern wall?"
Malcolm nodded,
scooping up the mud and putting it in the pot. "I am doin' a good job
without ye."
Christian watched
the lad, distracted from his misery by the sight of the scrawny young child.
Thinking how cold the mud was but noticing that it didn't seem to bother
Malcolm. Bare-footed and hardly clothed, the boy seemed to ignore the chill
morning temperature.
"Is my wife
helping you?"
"Na,"
Malcolm shook his head, shoveling more muck. "She's sick."
Christian's brow
rippled with concern. "Sick? What do you mean?"
Malcolm shrugged,
picking a few pebbles out of the mud he had collected. "She's
layin'
on the floor, cryin'. I asked her what's the matter,
but she dinna tell me. She just holds her belly and cries."
Christian rose from
the rock, swamped with uncertainty and concern. He'd spent the entire night
torn between wild fury and bleak confusion, cursing the adoration he bore the
woman who was his inherent enemy. Knowing that every moment he spent with her
was another nail in his coffin, a coffin his own father would most happily
place him in when he became aware of his heir's irrational emotions. He hated
himself for feeling increasingly torn between his blossoming love for Gaithlin
and the loyalty he was required to devote to his legacy.
It wasn't a matter
of simple betrayal any longer. He actually found himself sympathizing and
supporting the de Gare stance. Poverty and determination they had shouldered
due to the St. John incursion, unwilling to fold even though they were already
beaten.
A strength
of people who had lingered in the
bowels of devastation for years, but had managed the honor and courage to
continually withstand the pressures of the Feud.
Honor that
had thrust a woman into a man's role.
He found himself admiring de Gare
fortitude.
Good Christ, he was
in deeper trouble than he could begin to comprehend.
So he had stayed
out all night to compose his thoughts and ideals, returning to their hut well
after mid-night to collect his diary. Gaithlin had been asleep, a catch in her
breathing every so often the only indication of her emotional state. He had
paused several moments to watch her sleep, wishing he could lie beside her and
gather her in his arms. But there were things he had to reconcile before he
could return to her.
By the dim light of
the oil lamp he had scratched out three pages of text, his thoughts and
emotions and feelings as he could begin to describe them. After he had finished
the three pages of wild, undaunted confusion, he had scribed a message to his
father containing his whereabouts, the information on the Douglas link, and
asking for progress on the de Gare blackmail.
Knowing they would
be going to town come the morn, he planned to hire a boy to take the missive to
Castle Douglas to request that the message be forwarded to Eden. He had no
doubt that his Scot relatives, and Gaithlin's cousins for that matter, would
hurry the parchment to England, eager to be of service to their English cousin.
He furthermore had
no doubt that a reply would be equally rapid in return. As gloating as his
father was sure to be over the successful capture of Gaithlin de Gare, he would
be eager to inform his son of his grand progress.
A progress it was
increasingly difficult to accept. Every time he gazed at Gaithlin, he felt his
resolve weaken another notch and after pondering the quandary of Lady de Gare,
fighting admirably in her husband's stead for nearly ten years, his St. John
loyalties were faltering even further.
He knew Gaithlin
believed that he was angry with her for having divulged a secret particularly
humiliating to the St. John cause, and in truth he had been angry for a time as
a St. John loyalist should have been. But as the night passed and he had come
to grips with the stunning revelation, he realized he was
more
angry
at himself for feeling a good deal of understanding towards Lady
de Gare's plight. How easily he could picture Gaithlin doing the very same
thing, as the Demon’s wife.
There was a silent
strength to the de Gares that he was only now coming to understand.
An
commendable quality he very much appreciated. It was a
quality the St. Johns seemed to lack.
Wracked with
confusion and guilt, he had spent the past few hours wondering how to apologize
to Gaithlin for his anger. Certainly, he wanted to explain his reaction, but he
was terrified that one confession might lead to another. And he had no
intention of telling her what was in his heart; frankly, he was too terrified
to fully explore his feelings himself.
So he forced the
consuming thoughts away, struggling to disregard his turmoil and confusion as
he focused on Malcolm's assessment of Gaithlin's health; he was far too
exhausted from a night of mulling over his bafflement to lend the energy to his
emotions any longer.
Book in
hand,
he leapt across the stream without effort as Malcolm
continued to dig in the mud. The little boy looked up from his work as the
massive man moved past him.
"Where're ye
goin'?" he asked.
Christian paused a
moment, eyeing the boy and noting that at closer proximity, the lad was indeed
shaking with chill. In fact, his little lips were blue and he could only
imagine that the child must be losing feeling in his hands and feet from
contact with the icy ground. In spite of his urgent concern for Gaithlin, he
managed to spare a small measure of interest to the lad's well-being.
"I am going to
see my wife," he said, his voice low.
He scrutinizing
the child a moment longer. "Do you know how to build a fire?"
Malcolm nodded.
"A flint and stone."
Christian glanced
about, noting the wet foliage and knowing the lad would be unable to find any
dry material for burning. Motioning for Malcolm to follow, he moved towards the
shelter. "I have a pile of dry wood inside the hut. I shall give you some
to build a fire with, a fire we can use outside the shelter."
Lugging the pot
half-filled with mud, Malcolm struggled behind Christian until the large man
assumed the burden easily. "What fer?" Malcolm asked.
"Washing,
eating, warmth.
Many things," Christian found himself diverted
from their conversation as they burst into the clearing and the shabby hut came
into view. "Find an appropriate spot and I shall bring you the wood after I
have seen to my wife."
"But what of
th
' mud?" Malcolm wanted to know. "Dunna ye want
me to patch
th
' wall?"
"Certainly,"
Christian's eagerness was gaining speed as they approached the shelter, more
anxious to see Gaithlin with each passing step. "You can build a fire
and
patch the wall, can you not?"
Malcolm nodded
fervently, moving with Christian to the edge of the southern wall as the
English knight set the pot of mud to the ground. Gesturing for the boy to get
to work, he forgot about the lad the very moment he moved to the shelter door.
Pausing briefly, mayhap to gain a measure of courage and strength to face his
greatest, most magnificent weakness, he pushed the door open.
True to Malcolm's
word, Gaithlin was laying on her side amongst the dried rushes of their bed,
facing away from him. As Christian's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he set his
diary quietly to the ground next to his saddle bags, his attention riveted to
Gaithlin's reclining form. Even with the slight noise he had made entering the
hut, she hadn't moved and he wondered if she was asleep. Not wanting to wake
her, he moved to peer at her face and was startled when she shifted listlessly
upon the wool.
"Malcolm?"
she said weakly. "Do you need something?"
"It's me,
Gae," he said softly.
Jolted, Gaithlin
rolled onto her back, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. She looked pale and worn
and Christian's heart tugged painfully in his chest at the sight of her;
obviously, she had spent a rough night of emotional upheaval and he was
unwilling to add to her turmoil. Her anguish, the tension between them, had
been entirely his doing with his raging and harsh words, and he silently
resolved to make immediate amends.
The time for
turbulence had passed into the dawn of a new morning. Clearly, it didn't matter
any longer. Nothing did.
But Gaithlin wasn't
feeling his sense of resolution. Her gaze was wide on him, a palpable longing
evident in her eyes. "You... you're back," she stammered, unsure of
how to react to him. Should she express gladness?
Reserve?
An undeniable loathing to match his own?
Christian could
read her uncertainty and he smiled faintly, grasping her hand. Bringing it to
his lips, his kissed the palm softly. "I was foolish to have left in the
first," he said quietly, more concerned with her obvious health that last
eve's argument. "Malcolm says you are feeling ill. What's wrong?"
Surprised and
off-guard by his declaration of truce, the focus shifted to Gaithlin's
condition and she was immediately embarrassed with his question. Certainly, she
could not tell him her true ailment and she instinctively averted her gaze.
"My... my stomach hurts." It was the truth for the most part.
His brow furrowed
and he touched her forehead, her cheeks. "You are not feverish," he
said. "But you are very pale. Where does it hurt?"
Her cheeks flushed
as he watched, desperately attempting to avoid his concerned gaze. "My
stomach," she repeated, feeling another surge of the cramps. Closing her
eyes, she grunted softly as the pain pulsed and then died. "I shall... I
shall be fine, truly."
Christian watched
her expression, hearing her soft grunt of pain, and his distress mounted.
"Gae, if you're ill, then you must tell me. We shall seek a physic and...."
She cut him off
sharply, her humiliation increasing by the second. It became apparent he would
not be content to absorb a simple explanation. "Please, Christian... I
shall be fine."
"But you're
obviously in pain," he pointed out, growing increasingly agitated at her
evasiveness. "I demand you allow me to seek a physic."
"Nay,"
she reached out, grasping his hand. Reluctantly meeting his darkened
expression, she smiled weakly. "A physic is not necessary, I assure
you."
He
frowned,
completely convinced that she was hiding a serious
affliction from him. "Tell me what the matter is or I shall retrieve a
physic this instant."
Gaithlin sighed;
clearly, she was uncomfortable discussing her menses with anyone, much less her
captor. In fact, the entire idea horrified her. But her rational sense agreed
that he was a mature male and certainly had knowledge of the workings of the
female body. If she were to confess, she doubted he would be overly surprised
or offended.
Even if she herself would be certain to die from
embarrassment.
Was nothing sacred within the Demon's presence?
"All women
suffer with stomach pains from time to time," she said finally, her voice
soft. Even as she spoke, her cheeks flushed brightly. "Unfortunately, I
seem to have more pain than others and there is nothing to do but allow it to
pass."
"Pains?
What pains? From
whence do they happen?"
Gaithlin rolled her
eyes in exasperation and extreme mortification. Merciful Heavens, did she have
to give him a demonstration to make him understand? "Stomach pains,
Christian," she fixed him in the eye firmly, resolutely. "
Womanly
stomach
pains."
He stared at her a
moment, his brow still furrowed. Then, as realization dawned, his expression
relaxed into one of understanding and remorse. It was obvious that she had
delivered an answer he was unprepared for and he struggled not to appear too
dismayed with the result his bullying tactics had brought him.
"Oh...
Gae," he swallowed, looking nearly as embarrassed as she was. "I am
sorry. I didn't... I thought you were truly ill 'else I would not have…."
She smiled, finding
an ease to her humiliation in his chagrin. "I realize that," she
said, turning on her side once more to avoid his flustered expression. "I
shall be fine. I simply need to rest."
He nodded
instantly, feeling like a fool for having pressed her into a very personal
confession. But as he gazed at her shapely backside, he also felt a distinct urge
to help her through her pain. Female afflictions were mysterious and awesome,
striking wonder and fear into the hearts of all men. The secretive matters of
feminine reproduction were to be respected and honored, and Christian's
attitude was of no exception.