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.
Inside the small tent, Carington was also preparing for the trip ahead. The tartan was folded neatly on the ground and she was in the process of washing some of the dust from her curvaceous body. It was cold in the tent, made bearable by the steaming water the boy had brought her. She had a surcoat of gray wool laid out with a soft white-wool sheath that went beneath it. Her family was not one of wealth or glory, so she owned no pretty belts or jewelry. She came from a functional, warring clan and such things were considered unnecessary. .
But she did own soap and oil, which she used in concert with the warm water to bathe her tired body. She scrubbed her face vigorously and ran a comb through her nearly-black hair. To keep it neat, she wove it into a single thick braid, draping it over one shoulder. The oil she had brought with her was extracted from Elder flower and had a sweet, slightly spicy scent. It was perhaps the only luxury her frugal father had allowed because her skin often became so dry in the winter time that it bled. The Elder oil helped tremendously and she rubbed it sparingly into her skin.
The surcoat and sheath were long of sleeve, of good quality and durable. She dressed in the garments, pulling on woolen pantalets and finally heavy hose, which were the only pair she owned. Sturdy leather boots went on her feet; her father did not believe in wasting money on frivolous slippers. Rubbing some oil on her rosebud-shaped lips, she quickly repacked everything and emerged from the tent.
She ran right into Creed.
“I am ready to leave,” she had both her satchels in her hand. “May I collect my horse now?”
He gazed down at her, momentarily startled by her appearance; she was scrubbed and groomed, appearing completely different from the disheveled creature he had associated with since yesterday. Somewhere in his mind, his inherent male instincts told him that she was an exquisite beauty; sweet face, striking coloring, and a body that was as round and pleasing as any he had ever seen. Better, in fact. Though short of stature, she had full breasts and a narrow torso that put all other women to shame.
He had to make a conscious effort not to gape at her. But the logical male instincts were stronger that the lustful ones. So was his sense of self protection. He refused to allow himself to entertain a pleasant thought where it pertained to her. She was a hostage; nothing more.
“There is some trepidation about your horse, my lady,” he said, his enormous arms folded across his chest. “We have concern that it is a violent horse, something a young lady should not be riding.”
She appeared genuinely surprised. “Bress? I have raised him since he foaled. He is not a violent horse.”
“He has already caused quite a few problems with the other horses.”
Her emerald eyes flashed. “’Tis because they are Sassenach horses,” she spat. “He smells the enemy and reacts in kind. He knows they want to kill him.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Horses do not know if they are English or Scots.”
“But they know if they are enemies.”
“That may well be, but the commander feels that it would be best if you rode with me.”
Her reaction was not pleasing; she scowled deeply as if he had just suggested something horribly offensive. “I am not a bairn in need of constant attention. I have been riding longer than I have been walking. I can ride better than ye.”
He almost smiled at her indignation. “Perhaps. But with your horse reacting badly to the chargers, his behavior could be out of the ordinary. The last thing we need is for the horse to throw and injure you. It would be in your best interest to ride with me.”
Her pretty mouth pressed into a thin, angry line. “Dunna believe for one moment that I dunna know what ye’re up to. Ye’re trying to keep me caged by denying me the right to travel on my own horse.”
Creed was coming to realize that she flared faster than any woman alive. But if he possessed one particular personality trait above all else, it was that he was a calm man. The world could explode around him and murder could be rampant in the streets, but still, he would be calm and collected. He had never been known to lose his temper, even when all of the madness with Isabella was going on. He had simply remained collected and struggled to deal with it. In fact, he blamed that particular trait for getting him into trouble in the first place; he’d been calm when the girl-child who would be queen tried to seduce him. He had been calmer still when he had refused her. Nothing could have upset the girl more.
It would therefore stand to reason that he was wary of flaring women. He did not trust them. But he remained characteristically cool as she grew more agitated.
“We are simply concerned for your safety, my lady,” he said evenly. “It would be safer for you to ride with me.”
“I willna do it.”
“You have no choice.”
“If I refuse?”
“Then I shall tie you up and you can ride in the back of the provisions wagon.”
She glared at him for several long seconds before throwing her satchels to the ground. They ended up at Creed’s feet. Her little fists worked as if she was contemplating going to fisticuffs against him; Creed was so surprised by her body language that he very nearly laughed. In fact, it was a struggle not to grin. He did not think she would take that reaction too well.
But she did not strike him. She did, however, continued to clench and unclench her fists. When she spoke, it was through clenched teeth.
“If ye willna let me ride my horse, then at least ye’ll let me see to him to make sure he’s all right,” she said. “Take me to him.”
He was unfazed by her anger, laboring not to crack a smile. “Polite requests will be granted. Demands will be ignored.”
His calm statement only made her madder. Her fist-clenching grew more furious and her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of red. Creed had to bite his cheek to keep from erupting in laughter.
“I’ll not beg ye,” she seethed.
“Since when is a polite request begging?”
Her little jaw ticked furiously, the emerald eyes blazing at him. They just stared at each other. Creed could feel the heat from her gaze, all of the pent up anger and frustration and fear that she was feeling. He could also see that she was not used to being denied her wishes. As a laird’s daughter, she most always got her way. It was difficult for her to comprehend that things were going to change.
“I want to see my horse,” she said with forced politeness.
“Please?”
Her lips twitched. “Ye arrogant swine, I’ll not have ye teaching me how to ask a question. I already asked. I want to see my horse!”
He could not help it; he did smile. And he snorted for good measure. Carington saw the laughter and it lit a fire within her the likes of which she’d rarely experienced. He was laughing at her. Her little hand came up, opened palmed, prepared to slap him across his supercilious cheek. But Creed saw the movement and he blocked her strike before she could make contact. He held her wrist in a vice-like grip, all of the humor gone from his expression.
“That,” he said slowly, “would have been a stupid move on your part.”
She tried to yank her hand away but he would not let go. “Release me,” she grunted, struggling. “Ye’re hurting me.”
He did not let go. “I will not release you unless you promise me that you will not attempt to strike me again.”
She grunted and struggled, trying to peel his fingers away, but they would not budge. Creed tightened his grip, not enough to h
urt but enough to get her attention. His dusky blue eyes focused on her.
“Listen to me and listen well, lady,” he lowered his voice into something deep and hazardous. “We have been attempting to explain to you for the better part of two days that you are a hostage for a reason. Your father and Lord Richard have made this so. All of the fighting, screaming, slapping and biting in the world will not change this. You cannot resist and you cannot refuse. And your time with us will be what you make of it; if you are disagreeable and violent, you will be met in kind. If you are pleasant and cooperative, it will make your stay far more agreeable. You might even come to enjoy the experience, as it is Lord Richard’s and Lady Anne’s intention to treat you like an honored guest. Do you comprehend?”
Somewhere towards the end of his speech she stopped struggling, gazing up at him with those liquid emerald eyes. But there was still fire in the depths.
“I willna surrender if that is what ye are asking,” she said defiantly.
“That is not what I am asking. Do you not see that I am trying to help you?”
She did. He had been trying to help her since nearly the moment they had met. But she did not want his help. She hated him and everything about him.
“Let me go,” she said through gritted teeth.
He did, immediately. Carington rubbed her wrist where he had squeezed, glaring daggers at him. Creed merely gazed back with his customary cool.
“You will answer my question. Do you understand that proper behavior will gain you far more than resistance?”
“I understand that ye are trying to subdue me.”
“Are you so dense? No one said anything about subdue.”
“Dunna call me dense, Sassenach,” she snapped. “Ye are trying to force me into submission by taking my horse and my freedom.”
“Your freedom has already been taken. What do you think a hostage is?”
Her ranting came to an abrupt halt. She stared up at him, still rubbing the wrist, but her expression was morphing from one of fury into one of realization. The emerald eyes begin to waver; the lower lip, to tremble. He had her and they both knew it.
But it was not in Carington’s nature to so easily yield. There was much Scots in her, much fight. She had inherited the intrinsic sense of loathing for the English and those who would seek to take away the liberty that every Scots believed was their inherent right. No man should rule over another; race should only rule over the same race. The English believed they were more civilized and, therefore, more intelligent to administer over their brothers to the north. Carington, her father, and her father’s fathers, believed they were quite capable on their own. They did not need any interference.
“I hate ye, Sassenach,” it all came out as a blurted, passionate whisper. “I’ll hate ye until I die.”
He was unmoved. “That is your choice. But in spite of that, I am still your shadow and will do what is necessary to ensure both your safety and your suitable manners. You will behave, my lady, or my retribution shall be swift. I’ll not have you striking out at everyone who upsets you, for clearly, that is a frequent occurrence. Is that clear?”
She looked away, rubbing her wrist and struggling not to weep. She was so mad that she was verging on tears. But she was also feeling an extreme measure of defeat. At the moment, there was nothing left for her to do but relent. She was not so foolish that she did not realize that. But she was not giving up entirely.
“May I please see to my horse?”
She asked so softly that he almost did not hear her. As the squires began to collapse the tent behind them, Creed held out his hand to her and she understood the gesture to walk with him. When he reached to take her elbow, purely as a courtesy, she deliberately pulled away. She did not want the knight touching her. She did not want to show any capitulation to the man whose directives she would be forced to comply with. She hated him. She would hate him forever.
Some of the horses were being tended by the time they reached the make-shift area where the horses were tethered. The sky was lightening to a pale gray, enough so that Carington could see the blond head of her tall horse back in the herd. Without a word to Creed, she ducked under the roped barrier and wove her way among the horses, occasionally slapping a big horse butt that got in her way. When she came to within a few feet of Bress, she clucked to him softly, calling his name. The horse’s ears perked in her direction and he nickered softly.
Carington and the monstrous horse came together in an affectionate clash. Creed stood a few feet away, watching her hug and kiss the big golden head. The horse nibbled on her arm and flapped its big lips at her face when she tried to kiss it. It was actually quite touching to watch, if he were to admit it. He could see just by the way she handled the animal that she was very much in love with it. Without all of the resistance and fight, he could sense that she was a sweet and compassionate woman. He began to have some doubt as to whether or not he should forbid her from riding the animal; she had indeed ridden it yesterday with no ill effects. Perhaps his brother’s concerns were overrated.
As he mulled over his thoughts, Carington proceeded to inspect every inch of the horse. When she was sure the animal was unharmed, she turned to Creed.
“Has he been fed yet?” she asked. “I would like to feed him myself.”
Creed looked around to the few soldiers milling about, men who usually tended the horses on a long march. “I doubt it,” he said. “Stay here a moment. I’ll see about procuring him some food.”
She watched him as he wandered off into the lifting fog, studying his confident gait. To see a rear view only confirmed that he did indeed have the widest shoulders she had ever seen. He also cut a very pleasing shape with a narrow waist, tight buttocks and thick legs. But just as those warm thoughts rolled across her mind, she angrily chased them away. She hated the man. She refused to think him attractive to look at.
Bress’ eyes were half-lidded as she stroked the blond face. He had an even white blaze down his face that was distinctive and lovely. As she petted the horse, a thought suddenly occurred to her and she found herself seeking out Creed’s location; he was a good distance from her, speaking with a soldier. A quick glance back at Bress showed the horse with a halter and lead rope only; no saddle or bridle to make for easier riding. But no matter; she had ridden him with just a halter many a time. She was comfortable with it. And Creed was too far away to give immediate chase.
Carefully, and with one eye still on Creed, she looped the lead rope over Bress’ neck and secured it to the other side of the halter to create make-shift reins. Bress was the fastest horse she had ever seen. She knew the fat destriers would be unable to keep pace with him. Aye, she had decided not to run, once. But she had changed her mind, now that she saw what the Sassenachs truly had in mind for her: complete submission and utter humiliation. She would not be a hostage; she would be a prisoner. And the big beast Creed de Reyne would take great pleasure in her surrender.
The last Creed saw of Carington, she and her golden horse made a graceful jump over a rope barricade and were disappearing into the awakening dawn.
She could not go home. Carington knew that; she knew that her father would only turn her back over to the Sassenachs and they would probably beat her for her insolence, so she knew right away that she could not return to Wether Fair. That meant she had to flee far enough to be able to start a new life for herself, far from peace treaties and English knights and Scots barons. It was a foolish and desperate thought, but she was foolish and desperate at the moment. She did not want to be a token for peace. She did not want to be a prisoner. She wanted; nay, needed to be free.
Bress was swift; he covered several miles within the first hour. The morning fog had lifted slightly, but it was still cold and wet. In little time she had made it to a larger town far to the south, although she was not exactly sure why she was heading south. More than likely because Creed and his brotherhood of devils would expect her to head for home, so they would turn northward to search fo
r her. She would fool them and go south.
A few hours into her flight, Bress was showing signs of exhaustion. She slowed the horse and directed him off the road, into a cluster of trees to shield them from the highway. The animal was sweating and foaming, so she began to walk him through the thick bramble to cool him off. He tried to munch on the clusters of wet grass but she pulled him up, wanting to cool him before he ate.
The fog had almost completely cleared as they emerged from the bramble into a lovely green meadow with rocky crags in the distance. Some of the peaks had a white cap of snow. She had a fairly good sense of direction and knew she was heading to the southeast, but she had no idea if there were any towns nearby or what she would do when night fell.
She would have to feed and shelter herself, which she was confident she could do. Being the only child of a warlord, her father had taught her a few things he had hoped to teach a son. He had taken her hunting on occasion and she knew how to catch small game. She also knew how to identify edible plants for the lean times when meat was unavailable. Thanks to the cook at Wether Fair, she also knew how to prepare items like bread and ale. She was quite good at making ale and, thanks to her father she was quite good at drinking it, too. She wished she had some if only for the warmth it would provide.
Carington glanced up at the sky; it was late morning, possibly mid-day, and she was famished. Bress needed to eat and rest also. Wandering across the green grass of an early spring season, she could hear water in the distance. She followed the trickling sound, across the meadow, through a thicket, and emerged on the other side. A small stream cut right through the pasture and she allowed Bress to drink heavily now that he was sufficiently cooled. When he was finished with his water, he went to work on the thick grass that lined the stream and she tethered him to a bush so that he would not run off. With the horse munching happily, she could focus on herself.
Brides of the North: A Medieval Scottish Romance Bundle Page 4