“What about her mount?” Creed asked, weary and the least bit perturbed.
Ryton yanked off the breastplate that had been restricting him for the better part of the day. He handed it off to a hovering squire.
“That big blond horse she brought with her,” he said. “I am not entirely sure she should be riding it. ’Tis a big beast with male instincts. It has been biting at everything that moves, including the destriers. It gave Stanton’s charger a nice bite on its flank. I would hate to have the spirited thing somehow gnash her before we reached Prudhoe.”
Creed blinked slowly, without patience. “What do you want me to do about it?”
Ryton shrugged, sitting heavily on the three legged stool that was shoved into the ground near the portable vizier. A very small amount of warmth radiated from it and the man held up his hands a moment, attempting to warm them.
“Let her ride with you, I suppose,” he said, running his fingers over his scalp and focusing on his brother. “But it was something we could have just as easily discussed tomorrow. You are supposed to be watching a hostage.”
“I was.”
“Who is with her now?”
“Jory.”
Ryton lifted an eyebrow. “Get back to her, Creed.”
There was something in his tone. It suddenly occurred to Creed that perhaps Jory had given him the message to get him away from their hostage. He could not believe the man was foolish enough to not only make an idiot out of him, but to attempt something against their valuable captive.
With a grunt of frustration, he marched from the tent and back across the camp. His irritation towards Jory was growing every step of the way and he sincerely hoped the man was sitting quite patiently in a corner of the tent awaiting his return. Anything else would surely be met with hostility, especially after the parting words between them.
He was still several yards away from the tent when he heard what he thought was a muffled cry. Creed broke into a dead run.
He had licked her face.
He had licked her face and now he was in the process of making an attempt to grab a body part that was not his privilege to do so. He was trying to kiss her, too, with his slobbering mouth and foul breath. Carington tried to scream but he kept putting his mouth over hers. All that was coming out of her throat were muffled grunts. He was not a big man, but he was strong. His dead weight upon her was rendering her helpless.
Carington finally got a hand free and jabbed her finger into his eye. Jory screamed but only partially rolled off of her. She tried to flip over on her stomach, struggling to crawl away from him, but she was tangled in the tartan and could not get free quickly enough. Jory was back on her in a flash, pulling her long dark hair. He yanked her head up, his face shoved into the side of her hair.
“You will not do that again,” he grunted into her ear, listening to her cry softly when he ran a tongue along her earlobe. “Relax and stop fighting, my lady. I will not hurt you; I promise.”
Carington was struggling not to succumb to hysterics. It would be so easy to burst into terrified sobs. She swung a hand back, smacking him in the forehead but doing little damage. The vizier was almost within arm’s length; she thought to grab it and throw it on him, not thinking that she might burn herself in the process. All she knew was that she had to fight. This man had foul intentions towards her and she was terrified.
Her fingers grazed the leg of the vizier but she could not get close enough to grab it. The knight had a hand underneath her, squeezing her breast. Suddenly, the weight on top of her was removed and she heard the knight shout in pain and, perhaps, fear. Full of panic, she scrambled to her feet and grabbed the nearest weapon she could find, which happened to be a small iron bar that was used to stoke the vizier. The tartan fell on the ground as she swung around to Jory, fully prepared to shove the bar right through his head. But what she saw surprised her.
Creed stood just inside the tent opening with Jory in his grasp. But it was not any grasp; he had the younger knight around the neck, lifting him up off of the ground and squeezing the life from him. Jory was trying to dislodge his grip, but it was like trying to move iron. The man’s hands weren’t budging.
Seeing Jory subdued, Carington raced to the battling men and smacked Jory on the head hard enough to knock him senseless. As Jory went limp in his grasp, Creed’s surprised focus diverted to the lady. Before he could stop her, she took another whack at Jory’s head and split his scalp.
Creed dropped Jory to the ground and grasped the lady by the hands. He yanked the iron bar from her panicked grip and tossed it aside. Half-carrying, half-dragging, he took her back over to her bedroll. The lady was furious, terrified, struggling not to cry. Her breathing was coming in sharp little pants. Creed could see how frightened she was and a small amount of guilt crept into his veins.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked gruffly.
Carington’s gaze was riveted to Jory as if afraid he would rear up and grab her again. But she tore her eyes away from the supine knight long enough to look into deep blue bottomless pools. Oddly, they eased her somewhat. “I… I dunna think so,” she sounded hoarse with fright. “But he tried. Sweet Jesus, he tried.”
“But you are well? No broken bones or injuries?”
“Nay.”
Creed’s gaze lingered on her a moment before returning his focus to Jory. As the anxiety of the moment waned, he took a deep breath for calm but continued to hold on to the lady’s hands. They were like ice. He turned back to her, noting that her exquisite face, pale with terror, was still focused on Jory. In spite of his resistance, he felt himself softening.
“He will not hurt you again,” he assured her with quiet authority. “You have my word.”
He stood up and went to Jory, now stirring slightly on the wet ground. Effortlessly, he slung the man over his shoulder and went to the tent flap, snapping orders to the sentries standing outside.
Hovering by the vizier, struggling to calm her shaking body, Carington could hear him severely reprimanding the sentries outside, berating them for not having intervened when they heard the sounds of struggle. She heard a loud thump and a simultaneous grunt as something, or someone, was thrown to the ground. Realizing that she was indeed safe, the tears of relief came. Creed came back into the tent to find her weeping.
“What is amiss, my lady?” he went to her, concerned. “Are you injured?”
She wiped her eyes quickly, embarrassed that he had seen her tears. “Nay,” she sniffled, keeping her head lowered so that he could not see her face. “I… I am well enough. I am simply exhausted.”
He stood over her, hands on his hips, watching her lowered head. Carington hoped he would move away from her, allowing her to regain some of her composure, but he did no such thing. Much to her dismay, she heard his joints pop as he crouched beside her. A massive hand shot out and gently grasped her by the chin. Like it or not, Carington was forced to look at him.
He was studying her, curiosity and nothing more. She was such a delicate little thing, like a beautiful little doll, but somewhere deep down a fire of strength burned. He could see it. She was scared to death and still maintaining a semblance of control. A small amount of respect for the woman took hold.
“Your face looks well enough,” he had originally intended to look for bruises but found himself staring at her just because he could not help it. “On behalf of my liege, I would offer regrets for his actions. They are not indicative of our usual treatment of honorable hostages.”
Carington gazed into his dusky blue eyes, feeling a strange heat radiating from them. Not the lightning bolts she had imagined earlier, but something more intense and discreet. She did not like it and pulled away from his hand. When the hand went to rest casually by his side, she realized the man had the most enormous hands she had ever seen. One of them could swallow up most of her head.
“Ye are English,” she said quietly. “I’d expect nothing less.”
He almost smiled; it was a fair statement,
at least in her eyes. He continued to gaze at her, still crouched, still watching her lowered features. “This day was supposed to bring about a new understanding between your people and mine. So far, all we understand from one another is a lack of trust and complete brutality. Do you suppose that is what your father and my liege wished for when they set about this plan?”
She wiped her nose. “Nay.”
“What did your father tell you that he wished for?”
She was reluctant to look at him, reluctant to carry on a conversation with him. But the man had just saved her from a horrible situation; perhaps she owed him a measure of courtesy.
“No more battles,” she said quietly, her gaze moving between his face and her fidgeting hands. “He has lost many a man to wars with the English, including his three brothers. He has no family left but me.”
“Then he has sacrificed much.”
“Aye.”
“Then why would you try to escape and run back to him?”
Her head snapped up, the emerald eyes narrowing. “Because… because I dunna want to be here. ’Tis not fair to pledge me to hostage. There are a number of others that could do just as well.”
“Like who?”
She was returning to her normal, belligerent demeanor. “I have six girl cousins,” she insisted. “He could have sent any one of them.”
“But it would not have had as much impact. You are a laird’s daughter. The peace contract holds far more weight with you as collateral.”
Carington’s emerald eyes flamed out and she looked to her hands again. Her expression rippled, changing from one emotion to another. “Maybe so,” she said after a moment. “But he has thrown me into a den of lions.”
“It may seem that way,” he said quietly. “But I assure you that d’Eneas is not representative of us all. There are those of us who wish peace also and would seek to protect you as the emissary of that peace. We have all lost friends and family against the Scots.”
She did not reply. She kept her head lowered, fumbling with her hands, and Creed rose from his crouching position and went back over to where his tray of food now lay scattered. As he lowered his big body to the ground, he heard a soft voice.
“Have ye?”
He paused to look at her, almost seated, and lowered himself the rest of the way. “Aye.”
“Who?”
“My younger brother.”
As she looked at him, her gaze appeared less hostile. The brittle, hard emerald eyes softened into something liquid. “When did he die?”
“Almost five years ago at Kielderhead Moor.”
She nodded in recollection. “I remember that battle,” she said softly, almost reflectively. “It went on for three days. I lost an uncle in the end.”
He righted the tipped cup and pitcher, realizing there was nothing left of the wine. “Then it seems we both have a need for peace. I only have one brother left and I do not wish to see him perish in a foolish border skirmish.”
She nodded, somehow feeling not quite so hostile against the knight. But her guard was still up. Her tartan lay a few feet away and she rose on weary legs, claiming it once again. She wrapped it tightly around her, making her way back to the bedroll. She had no idea that Creed was watching every move she made.
“If I ask a question, will you answer me honestly?” he asked.
She paused, her deep green eyes focused on him. “Aye.”
“What did Jory do to you?”
She blinked as if she had to think on an answer. But she had promised him an honest one. “Nothing that canna be forgotten,” she said faintly. But she knew that was not what he wanted to hear. “He tried to kiss me and he squeezed something that he had no right to squeeze. But other than that, I canna say he did anything that I willna recover from.”
Creed simply nodded, his gaze lingering on her as she finally settled down and pulled the tartan tightly around her. After a moment, he rose and went to the vizier, tipped in the battle between the lady and Jory, and righted it. The embers in the ground were burned out but there were still a few inside the bowl that were glowing. He went in search of the bar that he had stripped from the lady after she had hit Jory and, upon finding it, stoked the dying peat of the vizier into a small flame. As he hung the bar on the side of the vizier, Carington rolled onto her back and looked up at him.
“Thanks to ye,” she said softly.
Creed’s gaze lingered on her but he did nothing more than nod his head. When he woke up a few hours later, she was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
She did not want to be here. So why was not she running?
The Sassenach knight was asleep, sitting up, in her tent. She had just left him there, his eyes closed and sleeping like the dead. Carington did not think she had slept at all, listening to the sounds of the night beyond the tent and seriously wondering why she was not making another attempt to flee her captors. Perhaps it was because Sir Creed had made a good deal of sense to her. Perhaps it was because he had proven that he was not out to kill her. She was not particularly sure; for whatever reason, she was swept with reluctance every time she thought she might try to run again. And the reluctance was making her muddled.
Creed de Reyne. He was not what she had expected from a Sassenach knight. When his eyes weren’t verging on a lightning display, they seemed rather calm and wise. His manner had been very soothing when it was warranted and his words held a great deal of perception. Although he still sucked out all of the air around him with his very presence, she found he was not as fearsome as she had originally thought.
The dawn around her was a dark gray, lightening to shades of silver with the rising of the sun. It was incredibly damp and cold as she pulled the tartan more closely around her. She stood just outside of her tent, staring into the bleak moors and dark forests beyond.
She thought back to the size of Creed’s hand when he had forced her to look at him; she had never seen hands so enormous. And although he was not as tall as his brother the commander, he was as wide as an old oak tree. Massive width through his shoulders and chest yet narrow in the waist. His arms were as large as tree branches, ending up in those colossal hands. Aye, he was a big man with a striking face. If she was so inclined to think such a thing about Sassenachs, she might even think him handsome. But she was not ready to go that far yet. She was still in the bosom of the enemy, surrounded by hostiles, and she hated all of them just as they hated her.
The camp was stirring as men began to rise and pack up their gear for the trip home. Prudhoe Castle was nearly three days from her home of Wether Fair. This was the dawn of the second day and she was not particularly looking forward to one more, marching to her dismal future in the heart of a rival army.
In the distance she could hear the horses nickering as men moved into their midst to feed them. One of those horses belonged to her, a tall golden warm blood that her father had given her. His name was Bress, which meant “beautiful” in the Gaelic. She had raised the horse from a tiny colt, watching it grow into a magnificent stallion with a thick neck and muscled hind quarters. She loved the horse as if it were her child and the horse responded to her in kind. She was concerned for the animal, listening to the whinnying of horses grow increasingly urgent. She hoped he was being fed and that he was behaving himself. With Bress, it was hard to tell.
Carington wanted to go to where the horses were tethered, but she thought it might look as if she was trying to escape again. So she stood there, gazing off into the fog, hoping her horse was being adequately cared for. She did not know how she could have possibly considered leaving him behind last night when she’d tried to flee. She was far too fond of him.
A body was suddenly standing next to her and she flinched with surprise, looking up to see Creed’s sharp eyes gazing off across the fog and moors. He looked sleepy but alert. She stared at him a good long while before he finally looked down at her.
“You are up early,” he said. “Is anything amiss?”
She sho
ok her head. “I… I couldna sleep. I came outside to see the morning.”
“Did you sleep at all?”
Again, she shook her head. “I dunna think so.”
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Then this will be an exhausting day for you.”
She lifted her slender shoulders and looked away. “It is of no matter.”
He watched her lowered head a moment before emitting a piercing whistle. Carington jumped at the shrill sound as a lad came running in their direction from a group of smaller tents. The boy was very tall, very skinny and blond, perhaps around fifteen years of age. He went straight to Creed.
“My lord?” the boy asked breathlessly.
Creed jerked his head in the direction of the tent behind them. “Gather my things for travel. Bring the lady a meal and some warm water.”
The young man fled. Carington watched him disappear into the tent, recognizing him from the previous evening when he had brought Creed his meal. “Who is that?”
Creed’s gaze lingered over the foggy encampment a moment longer. “My squire,” he said shortly. Then he looked at her. “If you wish to wash and eat before we leave, now would be the time.”
She went silently back to the tent, tartan still wrapped tightly around her. She was freezing. Creed watched her a moment, truthfully very thankful that he had found her standing just outside the tent. He thought she had fled again and his heart was still racing because of it. But she had surprised him by remaining firm.
He followed her only as far as the tent flap. James, his squire, emerged from the tent with his arms full of armor and mail and raced back in the direction he had come from. As Creed stood sentry outside the tent, watching the increased activity of the camp, another boy with short brown hair and enormous brown eyes appeared shortly with an iron pot of steaming water hanging off one arm and a covered tray in both hands. Creed flipped back the tent flap and allowed the lad entrance. When the youth quit the tent less than a minute later, Creed resumed his post, his mind moving to the trip ahead.