Yet the fortress of Winding Cross had been
built for fortification and protection, explaining why the St. Johns had never
been able to breach her walls. Year after year of raids and skirmishes and
fighting had failed to determine a decisive winner; Eden may have been more
powerful, but Winding Cross was laden with tenacious fighters unwilling to
concede defeat.
Back and forth the struggle went until Gaithlin assumed
that all young women were as sheltered and isolated as she was. Other than a
stolen jaunt outside of the walls to swim or walk, experiencing a degree of
freedom she considered a stolen ration of Heaven, her entire life had been
spent within the moldering dark stones of her native fortress. She never
realized her loneliness, however, for her sequestered continuance was the only
means of existence she had ever known. Certainly, there was nothing else in
life than one's family and household, and the need to hate the St. Johns. She'd
never known any other way.
Even now, she cursed the St. Johns as the mighty charger
plodded over the dusty, rocky road. It was because of the St. Johns she had
been forced to seek sanctuary at St. Esk; catching rumor that none other than
the fabled Demon of Eden had returned from the Welsh border for the specific
task of quelling the House of de Gare once and for all, Gaithlin's mother had
been forced into a desperate move.
The woman had been fighting in her husband's stead for
nearly ten years, a fact that even the St. Johns were not aware of, and she had
battled against them long enough to realize that the return of Eden's heir was not
an asset to the well-being of Winding Cross. Suspecting that her husband's beloved fortress might very well indeed
meet its end at the hand of the mighty Demon, she had been dealt little choice
in sending her daughter to the small convent of St. Esk in hopes of preserving
her young life.
As her ribs cracked and her stomach lurched, Gaithlin
cursed the St. Johns for her predicament. Had the rumors of their imminent
attack not spooked her normally-collected mother, she would not have been
forced into religious sequestration. And she would not, at this very moment, be
a prisoner of those unscrupulous enough to sack an abbey.
The horse stumbled and recovered harshly, causing
Gaithlin to grunt as her body was slammed brutally against the saddle. From
hanging upside-down, her heart was already pounding in her ears and with the
added violent motions, she wondered if the next step
in her discomfort wouldn't be to experience the embarrassment of vomiting up
her breakfast.
"Do you think me for a fool, wench? I know you are
alert."
Gaithlin briefly considered ignoring her captor;
however, from the tone of his voice she was able to deduce that he was already
grossly irritated with her. Unwilling to provoke him further until she could
discern her situation, she sighed with resignation.
"I do not know you. How would I
know if you were foolish or not?"
Christian reined the destrier off the road, down an
embankment into a cluster of trees. The warm September air infiltrated the
canopy without the slightest hint of autumn as he dismounted, electrified with
the anticipation of coming face to face with his captive. In faith, he'd not
yet been able to catch a glimpse of her sure-to-be monstrous features for the
simple fact that her long hair had obscured her from view.
But now, watching her struggle to right herself on the
charger in preparation for dismounting, he could scarcely contain his curiosity
and apprehension. Finally, he was to gaze upon the visage of Hell.
Gaithlin was aware that he was standing behind her, an
enormously large man from the very size of the legs that she had become
acquainted with. Up-righting herself on the saddle, she groaned softly as the
world spun recklessly and her temples throbbed with ache, grasping hold of the
saddle as best she could to keep herself from slithering to the ground. But her
strength wasn't enough against her
built for fortification and protection, explaining why the St. Johns had never
been able to breach her walls. Year after year of raids and skirmishes and
fighting had failed to determine a decisive winner; Eden may have been more
powerful, but Winding Cross was laden with tenacious fighters unwilling to
concede defeat.
Back and forth the struggle went until Gaithlin assumed
that all young women were as sheltered and isolated as she was. Other than a
stolen jaunt outside of the walls to swim or walk, experiencing a degree of
freedom she considered a stolen ration of Heaven, her entire life had been
spent within the moldering dark stones of her native fortress. She never
realized her loneliness, however, for her sequestered continuance was the only
means of existence she had ever known. Certainly, there was nothing else in
life than one's family and household, and the need to hate the St. Johns. She'd
never known any other way.
Even now, she cursed the St. Johns as the mighty charger
plodded over the dusty, rocky road. It was because of the St. Johns she had
been forced to seek sanctuary at St. Esk; catching rumor that none other than
the fabled Demon of Eden had returned from the Welsh border for the specific
task of quelling the House of de Gare once and for all, Gaithlin's mother had
been forced into a desperate move.
The woman had been fighting in her husband's stead for
nearly ten years, a fact that even the St. Johns were not aware of, and she had
battled against them long enough to realize that the return of Eden's heir was not
an asset to the well-being of Winding Cross. Suspecting that her husband's beloved fortress might very well indeed
meet its end at the hand of the mighty Demon, she had been dealt little choice
in sending her daughter to the small convent of St. Esk in hopes of preserving
her young life.
As her ribs cracked and her stomach lurched, Gaithlin
cursed the St. Johns for her predicament. Had the rumors of their imminent
attack not spooked her normally-collected mother, she would not have been
forced into religious sequestration. And she would not, at this very moment, be
a prisoner of those unscrupulous enough to sack an abbey.
The horse stumbled and recovered harshly, causing
Gaithlin to grunt as her body was slammed brutally against the saddle. From
hanging upside-down, her heart was already pounding in her ears and with the
added violent motions, she wondered if the next step
in her discomfort wouldn't be to experience the embarrassment of vomiting up
her breakfast.
"Do you think me for a fool, wench? I know you are
alert."
Gaithlin briefly considered ignoring her captor;
however, from the tone of his voice she was able to deduce that he was already
grossly irritated with her. Unwilling to provoke him further until she could
discern her situation, she sighed with resignation.
"I do not know you. How would I
know if you were foolish or not?"
Christian reined the destrier off the road, down an
embankment into a cluster of trees. The warm September air infiltrated the
canopy without the slightest hint of autumn as he dismounted, electrified with
the anticipation of coming face to face with his captive. In faith, he'd not
yet been able to catch a glimpse of her sure-to-be monstrous features for the
simple fact that her long hair had obscured her from view.
But now, watching her struggle to right herself on the
charger in preparation for dismounting, he could scarcely contain his curiosity
and apprehension. Finally, he was to gaze upon the visage of Hell.
Gaithlin was aware that he was standing behind her, an
enormously large man from the very size of the legs that she had become
acquainted with. Up-righting herself on the saddle, she groaned softly as the
world spun recklessly and her temples throbbed with ache, grasping hold of the
saddle as best she could to keep herself from slithering to the ground. But her
strength wasn't enough against her
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