Authors: Kathryn Le Veque
Marching down the
smoke-laced corridor, Quinton couldn't decide if his love for his brother went
beyond the hatred he sometimes felt for his father. Christ, if he could only
determine which was greater, mayhap he could make a rational decision regarding
Christian's situation. Certainly, if the accusations were true, he didn't want
to return his errant brother to Eden to face certain death. But his loyalties
to his family and ancestral beliefs held inherently strong against the
incursion of the de Gare woman's persuasion.
He was weak, he
knew.
Too weak to truly help his brother, too weak to truly
defy his father's convictions.
The only matter of certainty he was able
to perform at the moment was conforming to superior orders, as all good knights
were required to do.
Obeying his father's directive to ride
northward.
Northward into the
gaping jaws of Christian's future.
***
"They've launched
themselves to Scotland," Eldon's voice was grim. "Our troops are
ready and awaiting your command."
Clad in chain mail
and snug portions of plate armor that fit her voluptuous body poorly, Alicia
managed a faint nod. "How long since they've left?"
"At least an
hour and a half," Eldon replied. "It's taken that long for our spies
to return from Eden. Apparently, Quinton and Jasper St. John are leading the
company personally."
Alicia's steady
gaze met with Eldon's brown orbs for a lengthy moment before focusing on the
broadsword clutched within her hand. "If Quinton and Jasper are heading
the party, then it will make our task that much more formidable."
Sighing delicately,
she sheathed Alex's heavy sword against her thigh and squared her shoulders in
a futile attempt to bolster her sagging courage.
God, how she wished there was another way to
go about Gaithlin's rescue; facing Christian, Jasper and Quinton St. John in
battle was certainly not the most attractive prospect. But there was no other
alternative; she'd known that from the first. The only chance for the
successful reclamation of the de Gare heiress was to meet her abductors with
full force and pray that Gaithlin would be easily extracted while her captors
were occupied in battle.
It was Alicia's only
hope. One that was weakening by the moment as she pondered the prospects of
facing Jean St. John's most powerful knights within the confines of Galloway.
But she maintained the firm opinion that there was no other alternative and she
struggled to support a confident, determined attitude under her lover's intense
stare.
Forcing a weak
smile purely for Eldon's benefit, she met his scrutinizing gaze with a brave
expression. "Then the order is given, Sir Eldon. We follow Eden's party
into Galloway to rescue my daughter."
In spite of her
courageous facade, Eldon could feel her apprehension, mingling with his own.
Not only would their rescue incursion be forced to deal with the mighty Demon
of Eden, but with his powerful brother and cousin as well. It was an element
they had not fully anticipated, although the possibilities had always been
present. But neither Alicia nor Eldon honestly expected that Jean would send
his two most powerful knights into the wilds of Galloway to support the Demon's
position.
"It's a
trap," Uriah stood at the entrance to the solar, his aged face grim.
"I told you that woman is setting us up for destruction. She and Jean are
working together in this, of that I am sure."
Alicia gazed at the
older warrior, his words splintering her frail wall of bravery. "Be that
as it may, we have no other choice. Gaithlin is in trouble and she needs our
assistance."
Uriah's ancient
eyes glared at Alicia for a long moment, his expression bordering on sedition.
He simply couldn't believe that his mistress was willing to descend into the
Fires of Hell when a trap had been so obviously laid. Even if the bait was
Winding Cross' very own heiress, there were other ways to go about retrieving
their native daughter.
"Have you even
considered any other alternatives?" his voice was pleading and
condescending at the same time. "Or are you so completely convinced that
Lady Margaret is truthful that you would simply accept her word without
hesitation?"
By Alicia's side,
Eldon's brown orbs glittered dangerously at the man who had trained him since
childhood. "You will not use that tone with her, Uriah," he growled.
"Lady Alicia is doing as she sees best and it is not your duty to question
her decision."
"Someone needs
to question her!" Uriah snapped brusquely. "She's leading us all to
our deaths!"
"Then you are
free to remain behind if you feel so strongly," Alicia replied evenly
before Eldon could throttle the man. Grasping her younger lover by the arm in a
quieting gesture, her gaze remained focused on her husband's loyal knight.
"Uriah, if I felt there were any other alternatives, then I would have
gladly considered them all. But there is no other choice. We must follow Eden's
troops into the wilds of Scotland if we are to locate my daughter. And if we
die in the process, then I suppose it is the Will of God. We must trust Him to
protect us in our most vulnerable hour."
Mottle-cheeked
underneath his scratchy beard, Uriah glared at Eldon and Alicia for a long
moment before turning away in an attempt to control his anger and fear.
Alicia's calm reasoning and superior intellect always provided a relaxing
effect upon his naturally agitated demeanor; the further he pondered her words,
the more resigned he became. Whether or not he agreed with her willing trust in
a strange woman bearing the promise of assistance, it was not his place to
question his seasoned mistress. As always, he was sworn to obey.
Emitting a heavy
sigh, he slapped his helm onto his bushy head and deftly secured the stays as
he turned towards his lady. "The men are ready, m’lady," he said
quietly.
Reconciled to his fate.
"We await your
presence."
Alicia smiled
faintly, grasping her own helm from Eldon's extended hand. "Thank you,
Uriah," she replied softly. "We will delay no further. Gaithlin is
waiting."
Uriah was the last
man out of the solar.
Wondering if it would be his final
glimpse of the beloved, moss-covered room.
***
Sweetheart Abbey
was founded in 1273 by Lady Dervorgilla after her husband, John Balliol, was
killed by Robert the Bruce in the battle for the Scot throne. Gazing at the
red-walled abbey, Christian remembered his mother recitation of the sad and
poignant story of a lady so entirely devoted to her husband's memory that she
would dedicate an abbey to his honor.
In faith, he had
not considered marrying in the Dumfries abbey simply because he was hopeful to
find a cloister or monastery closer to their Galloway encampment. Although it
had taken over six hours for them to reach the lovely little church, Christian
realized that Sweetheart Abbey, or
Dulce
Cor
as it was known locally, was indeed the perfect place to seal their
union.
He and Gaithlin
drew in the sight of the gentle Norman structure with a mixture of awe and
excitement, listening to Malcolm's endless commentary of the view of the Firth
of Solway lingering in the distance. The hills were lush with the green
ambience of early fall, casting a delightfully pristine aura over the landscape
and Gaithlin dismounted the snappish charger with her gaze riveted to the
brilliant scenery, slapping distractedly at the animal when it gnashed its
teeth in her direction.
"It's
lovely," she murmured, hearing the creak of Christian's armor as he
dismounted behind her. "After the story you told me regarding its legacy,
'tis a perfect place to marry."
Moving to dislodge
his purse from his saddlebags, Christian gave the red structure a long glance.
"'Twas said that Lady Dervorgilla kept her husband's embalmed heart close
to her, always. When she died, both she and Lord Balliol's heart were interred
beneath the floor of the sanctuary.
Together for all
eternity."
Gaithlin tore her
eyes away from the structure long enough to cast Christian a look of pure,
unrestrained warmth. "A perfect place, sire," she repeated for his
ears alone.
"A perfect place for us."
As Christian and
Gaithlin predictably lost themselves in the midst of tender, meaningful gazes,
Malcolm leapt eagerly off the rear of the charger. Having ridden happily behind
the English warlord and his lady all the way from their wooded encampment, he
was oblivious to the passionate aura surrounding him. Clad in the new tunic
that Gaithlin has basted together, he was wildly excited with his very first
trip out of Galloway.
Appearing
reasonably clean and healthy, the joyful young lad was most anxious to be witness
to a ceremony, as Christian had explained vaguely, that was a mere formality;
although he and Gaithlin were man and wife in mind and body and spirit, the
church was nonetheless required to legalize the arrangement.
Fortunately,
Malcolm had been neither judgmental nor remotely knowledgeable regarding the
matters Christian had attempted to explain. The only factor of importance to
him was a new tunic and the prospect of a journey that would take him out of
the dank, moldering recesses of his native Wood. To a young boy whose life had
drastically changed over the past few days, he was eager to sample all he could
of this wonderful new world.
Even now, Malcolm
bristled with acceptance and pride as Christian moved past him, placing a giant
mailed glove on his skinny shoulder as he made way towards his pink-cheeked
betrothed.
"I
agree," he said softly in response to her tender declaration, removing his
hand from Malcolm's shoulder in lieu of pulling Gaithlin into his armored
embrace.
"A perfect place for you and me to create a new
beginning for both Eden and Winding Cross."
She smiled happily,
relishing his tender kisses and laughing softly when his raised visor bumped
her forehead. "I do believe I am kissing more of the helm that your
flesh."
He returned her
smile, fully content to indulge in the sweetly passionate kisses that had
become an integral part of their daily existence. Since initiating Gaithlin
into the tender powers of the sexual realm that morn, there lingered an added
element of such gripping intensity that he couldn't begin to describe. Knowing
only that he was physically linked to Gaithlin in a way he had never before
experienced, a link more powerful than generations of St. John loyalty or the
threat of death.
Which might not be
out of the realm of possibility when his father discovered what he had done;
gazing up at the aptly-named abbey, the reality of his decision weighed more
heavily than ever before. But he refused to linger on the negative factors of
the situation, choosing to focus instead on the joy of his selected
circumstance.
And it
was
a joy; he
would make his father understand just how deeply the joy forged.
Even if it killed them
both.
Releasing Gaithlin
from his embrace, he enclosed her hand within one mighty fist and clasped Malcolm
with the other. "Then, if we are ready to proceed, I believe we have an
appointment with destiny."
Completely happy
and utterly content within the grasp of her powerful Demon, Gaithlin dreamily
followed him across the mossy stone walkway towards the main entrance to the
abbey. She was only aware of the warmth of the vanishing sun, the twittering of
the birds as they prepared to nest for the night. All other thoughts but the
knowledge that she and Christian were to finally become man and wife were unimportant
flotsam in her mind. Not Feud nor family nor the inherent danger they were
about to face was able to disturb her euphoric state. Nothing was of more
import than her forbidden love.
The entrance to the
abbey was marked by a tall, worn oaken door that had fallen victim to years of
harsh elements. As Christian allowed Malcolm to announce their presence with
the heavy iron knocker, Gaithlin leaned happily into the curve of the knight's
torso.
"What if they
deny us?" she whispered, a smile playing on her lips and not at all
concerned with the answer to her question. She had become quite adept at the
adult game of flirting, escaping the boundaries of her usually reserved nature,
and she greatly enjoyed practicing her new talents on Christian. "What if
they chase us away? What if they draw and quarter us when they realize we have
indulged in the marriage bed before the actual ceremony?"
He shushed her
sternly as she giggled, though there was a distinct curve to his lips.
"Quiet, foolish woman.
Do you mean to give us
away?"
She nodded as her
giggling grew uncontrollable. "We're terribly wicked, Christian. We should
be married by Devil-worshipping Druids rather than God-fearing priests."
He put his hand
over her mouth, struggling with his own snickers as Malcolm worked the iron
knocker vigorously. "Be still before I take you over my knee,” he
commanded softly.
Her silly laughter
continued to bubble forth as she kissed the mailed gauntlet that covered her
mouth with amorous fervor. "Do take me over your knee, Christian. Be
wicked to me."