kept so neatly groomed about his face
as if he placed concern in his appearance. In fact, his hair was quite
beautiful and she found herself gazing at it curiously as he focused his
attention on their surroundings. Her eyes moved from his hair to his chiseled
features, fine and straight and intelligent, and she could catch a glimpse of
the remarkable color of his eyes. Eyes of pure ice.
Even if she didn't know who he was, as he had
imperiously announced, it was obvious that the knight before her was wise and
seasoned. Her initial terror with her abduction had faded somewhat, leaving her
drained and weary and deeply perplexed; whereas she should have maintained a
rightful fear, she simply couldn't muster the energy at the moment. He was far
too beautiful to be frightening, and her puzzlement won over her apprehension
for the moment.
"I have never seen you before," she said after
a lengthy pause. "Why would you assume that I know you?"
He continued to take in their surroundings for a moment.
When he turned to her, she could read a palpable degree of dread in his
expression and her bafflement grew.
"You're a de Gare. You should know a St. John on
sight."
Her brows drew together and, as his statement settled,
her eyes widened to bulbous proportions. Christian watched her closely as the
color drained from her cheeks.
"You... you are a St. John?" She took a step
backward, slamming against the charger, who responded by swinging his great
head around to snap at her. Never one to back down from a fight, Gaithlin shoved
her fist into the soft velvet of his nose. As the horse lurched away, sneezing
and snorting, she put several feet of distance between herself and Christian.
Hatred and panic ran a desperate race in her mind as she
stared back at the man who represented several lifetimes of intense hatred. She
could scarcely believe that the St. Johns had managed to locate her in spite of
her mother's precautions and she silently cursed God for his favoritism of the
enemy. God had welcomed her into the bosom of the convent only to deliver the
unsuspecting refugee into the arms of the very nemesis she sought to escape.
Gaithlin was loathed to realize that tears were very
near the surface, tears of frustration and fear and anger. But she would not display her emotions; in
fact, it went far against her nature to display anything other than complete
restraint and impassiveness. As her mother was reserved in nature, so was she.
"Who told you where I was?" she demanded.
"Does it matter? I have you and that is the only
factor of import."
Previous thoughts of his male beauty were forgotten as
Gaithlin's terror returned in one hearty blow, overshadowing the fury of coming
face to face with a St. John. She continued to back away from Christian,
positive he was determined to murder her. But her sense of self-preservation
was strong as she struggled against her panic; strong enough to warrant
refuting an enemy twice her size.
"You will not kill me without a fight, St. John
bastard,” she hissed .
“I shall resist you 'til the end!"
She had succeeded in moving well away from him and he
casually sought to regain lost ground; should she decide to outrun him, he
would be at a distinct disadvantage in a hundred pounds of armor and mail. The
pure weight resting on his massive boots dug small crevices into the damp
English soil as he carefully advanced.
"I never said I was going to kill you."
"Then why have you abducted me?" she continued
to back away from him, her anxiety growing by the moment.
Christian could see that she was backing herself down a
small incline; at the bottom lay a small stream, pristine and noisy. The sound
of the water reminded him of the very first time he had ever witnessed Gaithlin
de Gare, caressing the still waters of the pond as if fondling a lover. Erotically skimming her body over the surface as if responding to
its touch. Good Christ, how he wished he had been the water at that
moment; truth was that he
as if he placed concern in his appearance. In fact, his hair was quite
beautiful and she found herself gazing at it curiously as he focused his
attention on their surroundings. Her eyes moved from his hair to his chiseled
features, fine and straight and intelligent, and she could catch a glimpse of
the remarkable color of his eyes. Eyes of pure ice.
Even if she didn't know who he was, as he had
imperiously announced, it was obvious that the knight before her was wise and
seasoned. Her initial terror with her abduction had faded somewhat, leaving her
drained and weary and deeply perplexed; whereas she should have maintained a
rightful fear, she simply couldn't muster the energy at the moment. He was far
too beautiful to be frightening, and her puzzlement won over her apprehension
for the moment.
"I have never seen you before," she said after
a lengthy pause. "Why would you assume that I know you?"
He continued to take in their surroundings for a moment.
When he turned to her, she could read a palpable degree of dread in his
expression and her bafflement grew.
"You're a de Gare. You should know a St. John on
sight."
Her brows drew together and, as his statement settled,
her eyes widened to bulbous proportions. Christian watched her closely as the
color drained from her cheeks.
"You... you are a St. John?" She took a step
backward, slamming against the charger, who responded by swinging his great
head around to snap at her. Never one to back down from a fight, Gaithlin shoved
her fist into the soft velvet of his nose. As the horse lurched away, sneezing
and snorting, she put several feet of distance between herself and Christian.
Hatred and panic ran a desperate race in her mind as she
stared back at the man who represented several lifetimes of intense hatred. She
could scarcely believe that the St. Johns had managed to locate her in spite of
her mother's precautions and she silently cursed God for his favoritism of the
enemy. God had welcomed her into the bosom of the convent only to deliver the
unsuspecting refugee into the arms of the very nemesis she sought to escape.
Gaithlin was loathed to realize that tears were very
near the surface, tears of frustration and fear and anger. But she would not display her emotions; in
fact, it went far against her nature to display anything other than complete
restraint and impassiveness. As her mother was reserved in nature, so was she.
"Who told you where I was?" she demanded.
"Does it matter? I have you and that is the only
factor of import."
Previous thoughts of his male beauty were forgotten as
Gaithlin's terror returned in one hearty blow, overshadowing the fury of coming
face to face with a St. John. She continued to back away from Christian,
positive he was determined to murder her. But her sense of self-preservation
was strong as she struggled against her panic; strong enough to warrant
refuting an enemy twice her size.
"You will not kill me without a fight, St. John
bastard,” she hissed .
“I shall resist you 'til the end!"
She had succeeded in moving well away from him and he
casually sought to regain lost ground; should she decide to outrun him, he
would be at a distinct disadvantage in a hundred pounds of armor and mail. The
pure weight resting on his massive boots dug small crevices into the damp
English soil as he carefully advanced.
"I never said I was going to kill you."
"Then why have you abducted me?" she continued
to back away from him, her anxiety growing by the moment.
Christian could see that she was backing herself down a
small incline; at the bottom lay a small stream, pristine and noisy. The sound
of the water reminded him of the very first time he had ever witnessed Gaithlin
de Gare, caressing the still waters of the pond as if fondling a lover. Erotically skimming her body over the surface as if responding to
its touch. Good Christ, how he wished he had been the water at that
moment; truth was that he
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