Free The Warrior Poet by Kathryn Le Veque

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