Free The Warrior Poet by Kathryn Le Veque Page A

and Gaithlin's soaked body set into violent quaking
seizures, he could no longer ignore the obvious. He had to find shelter.
    A shelter that consisted of a thick
cluster of Scot pine. Even though the
rain was dripping from the leaves to the ground below, they were somewhat
protected from the driving elements and he reined his charger to a halt amongst
the damp, moldering leaves.
    The sound of the rain was soft and lulling as Christian
moved to untie Gaithlin's hands. He was fully aware of her dead weight against
his back and he wondered if she had fallen asleep. Her hands were limp and icy
as he fumbled with the rope, finally removing one of his gauntlets for improved
dexterity. Heavy and boneless, Gaithlin lay against his huge body as the
bindings fell away.
    But it was a grand performance for the benefit of the
Demon. As soon as the rope fell away, she bolted to life, shoving Christian so
hard that he was in danger of losing his seating. Leaping from the charger,
Gaithlin landed on her knees in the muddy, musty pile of compost just as
Christian lost the battle against his balance and crashed to the ground.
    Rolling to his knees, Christian was surprised to see
that Gaithlin continued to kneel on the ground, her deep blue eyes blazing at
him. Her beautiful hair was drenched, the woolen gown clinging indecently to
her magnificent body as her furious gaze beheld him. The sight of her wet
figure was almost enough of a deterrent to cause him to forget his surprise and
irritation. But not quite.
    "You will pay for that, wench," he growled,
putting his feet beneath his body to regain his stance. His helm met with the
ground as he marched towards his prey.
    "With what?" she snapped, her wet hair
whipping about her shoulders. "My health? My freedom? My dignity? Pray, what
else can you take that you have not already stolen, Demon?"
    His fury gained measure and substance. Christian had a
tendency for volatile emotions, hence the basis for his reputation and
nickname. Volatile emotions that he usually funneled into his sword, but gazing
at the wet woman before him, he wasn't the least bit willing to strike her down
in a fit of fury.   Usual outlet thwarted,
he found himself irrationally considering more damaging means. Beautiful or
not, the woman was driving him to the brink of fury-induced madness.
    "There is much more to be taken, you foolish chit.
Surely you do not intend to provoke my wrath with your senseless actions and
insipid words?"
    Gaithlin rose, slowly, and Christian found himself faced
with an unhindered view of her delectable body. Completely wet and coated with
a dusting of molding leaves, she was still the most magnificent woman he had
ever seen.
    "The only item of import left to take is my
life," she was shaking with chill and fury. "You said you weren't
going to kill me, but you obviously lied. I can see it in your eyes."
    He cocked an eyebrow. "I never lie. And what you
see in my eyes has nothing to do with murder."
    Her breathing increased at his rumbled statement; he
could see her beautiful, firm breasts heaving against the damp wool. After a
moment, she coughed softly, as if her breath had caught in her throat, and her
head slowly wagged back and forth.
    "'Tis your insanity I see, then. The St. John
madness that infects your entire family like a raging disease," she
gestured feebly at him, as if finally coming to grips with the situation.
"Look at you; you're the Demon of Eden, the fiercest knight known to these
parts. You have made a name for yourself killing and fighting and waging
blood-lust sport. And you have made a sport of hating the House of de Gare."
    He eyed her, his fury cooling in spite of the fact that
her heated words were true. "It is the way of things." He almost
looked around to see if his father was standing nearby; the words out of his
mouth were sounding more and more like Jean St. John every day.
    Gaithlin's face took on an expression of pain and
regret, of defeat and resolve. "You sound like