Tower."
Gaithlin nodded,
intently studying the scene. "And that must be Berengaria," she
gestured to the delicate lady with the towering wimple. "She was
lovely."
Christian's gaze
moved from the tapestry to Gaithlin's mussed hair, dry and tousled from their
ride. He caught himself before he could compliment her beauty again, but his
superior control could not preventing him from putting
his hand to her disheveled hair in an ineffectual attempt to smooth it. Untidy
and weary, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Gaithlin felt his
hand; startled, she instinctively put her hand to her head and their fingers
touched, inadvertently intertwining, and Christian removed his hand from her
hair only to find her slender appendage entangled in his massive fingers. Deep
blue, almond-shaped eyes met with Nordic jewels of pure ice.
"Your hair was
out of place," he felt like a fool even suggesting his consideration in
her appearance. Yet the experience of her silken hand within the fold of his
palm was almost worth the chagrin.
But she jerked her
hand from his grip before he could further relish the feel, her cheeks flushing
a faint pink as she ran her fingers through her tangled mess. "I do believe
that everything on my person is out of place at the moment."
Sounds of the
gallery wafted on the warm, fragrant air and Gaithlin turned her attention in
the direction of the grand room. She could catch a glimpse of a page now and
again, young boys running about to serve the knights and master. As a fat
wolfhound wandered from the rounded Norman archway, she suddenly found herself
extremely apprehensive to attend a formal meal in her unkempt state.
Although she
shouldn't have given her image a second thought in lieu of the fact that it
would be St. John allies she would be sharing a meal with, the same innocent
girl who was so desperately confused over Christian's presence was equally
excited and eager to eat her first meal outside of the walls of Winding Cross.
With the exception of the meager feasts St. Esk had to offer, she spent her
entire life supping from the worn oak table in the thinly furnished gallery of
her ancestral home.
Listening to the
gentle music and soft laughter emitting from the smoke-hazed room, she found
herself wanting to know how the wealthy and affluent lived.
Christian was
unaware of her dilemma as he motioned to a well-dressed steward with a
bowl-shaped haircut. After a few muttered phrases to the little man, in which
he mentioned words to the effect that his company was to be a surprise to
Kelvin, he cast a lingering glance at Gaithlin. She tore her eyes away from the
gallery entrance long enough to meet his gaze, her expression steady. After a
lengthy moment of staring into the deep blue depths, Christian pursed his lips.
"I suppose I
should offer you my arm so that we may enter the gallery as a companionable
pair," he said with a hint of disgust. But the aversion in his tone was
forced; as if he was required by the nature of their relationship to offer a
customary show of distaste.
Even Gaithlin
sensed that he was not entirely repulsed by the thought of her company on his
arm. Odd , she thought, that she too was not entirely repulsed by the
idea of accepting his escort. But she would play the Disgust Game as well, so
he would not note the fact that she was more comfortable with his suggestion
than she should have been.
"Since when
have a St. John and a de Gare been companionable?"
Christian's intense
eyes gazed at her a moment before meeting the tapestry behind her. "Since
before the days of that man," he tilted his head in King Richard's
direction. "Once, the two families were quite companionable."
She turned to
glance at the intricate needlework, large enough to cover two beds with ease.
Pondering the king and his Crusaders for a moment, she shrugged and turned
away. "One would have been led to believe that we began the Feud the day
Lucifer split from the Heavenly
Gaithlin nodded,
intently studying the scene. "And that must be Berengaria," she
gestured to the delicate lady with the towering wimple. "She was
lovely."
Christian's gaze
moved from the tapestry to Gaithlin's mussed hair, dry and tousled from their
ride. He caught himself before he could compliment her beauty again, but his
superior control could not preventing him from putting
his hand to her disheveled hair in an ineffectual attempt to smooth it. Untidy
and weary, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Gaithlin felt his
hand; startled, she instinctively put her hand to her head and their fingers
touched, inadvertently intertwining, and Christian removed his hand from her
hair only to find her slender appendage entangled in his massive fingers. Deep
blue, almond-shaped eyes met with Nordic jewels of pure ice.
"Your hair was
out of place," he felt like a fool even suggesting his consideration in
her appearance. Yet the experience of her silken hand within the fold of his
palm was almost worth the chagrin.
But she jerked her
hand from his grip before he could further relish the feel, her cheeks flushing
a faint pink as she ran her fingers through her tangled mess. "I do believe
that everything on my person is out of place at the moment."
Sounds of the
gallery wafted on the warm, fragrant air and Gaithlin turned her attention in
the direction of the grand room. She could catch a glimpse of a page now and
again, young boys running about to serve the knights and master. As a fat
wolfhound wandered from the rounded Norman archway, she suddenly found herself
extremely apprehensive to attend a formal meal in her unkempt state.
Although she
shouldn't have given her image a second thought in lieu of the fact that it
would be St. John allies she would be sharing a meal with, the same innocent
girl who was so desperately confused over Christian's presence was equally
excited and eager to eat her first meal outside of the walls of Winding Cross.
With the exception of the meager feasts St. Esk had to offer, she spent her
entire life supping from the worn oak table in the thinly furnished gallery of
her ancestral home.
Listening to the
gentle music and soft laughter emitting from the smoke-hazed room, she found
herself wanting to know how the wealthy and affluent lived.
Christian was
unaware of her dilemma as he motioned to a well-dressed steward with a
bowl-shaped haircut. After a few muttered phrases to the little man, in which
he mentioned words to the effect that his company was to be a surprise to
Kelvin, he cast a lingering glance at Gaithlin. She tore her eyes away from the
gallery entrance long enough to meet his gaze, her expression steady. After a
lengthy moment of staring into the deep blue depths, Christian pursed his lips.
"I suppose I
should offer you my arm so that we may enter the gallery as a companionable
pair," he said with a hint of disgust. But the aversion in his tone was
forced; as if he was required by the nature of their relationship to offer a
customary show of distaste.
Even Gaithlin
sensed that he was not entirely repulsed by the thought of her company on his
arm. Odd , she thought, that she too was not entirely repulsed by the
idea of accepting his escort. But she would play the Disgust Game as well, so
he would not note the fact that she was more comfortable with his suggestion
than she should have been.
"Since when
have a St. John and a de Gare been companionable?"
Christian's intense
eyes gazed at her a moment before meeting the tapestry behind her. "Since
before the days of that man," he tilted his head in King Richard's
direction. "Once, the two families were quite companionable."
She turned to
glance at the intricate needlework, large enough to cover two beds with ease.
Pondering the king and his Crusaders for a moment, she shrugged and turned
away. "One would have been led to believe that we began the Feud the day
Lucifer split from the Heavenly
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