Brides of the North: A Medieval Scottish Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Back on your mount,” he growled at Stanton. “Go find someplace to set up camp for the night.”

  The pale young knight was gone, but not without a lingering glance to the crumpled lady. As Creed stood there, struggling to formulate some manner of communication that did not come blasting out at her, Jory rode up astride his bay stallion. He gazed down at the lady, her dead horse, and snorted.

  “Serves her right for running off,” he said.

  Creed’s head snapped to him but he was already gone, digging his spurs into the side of his horse and thundering off. At Jory’s words, Carington burst into fresh tears and Creed looked down at her. The longer he watched, the more his anger tempered. Above his fury, he could see what had happened. Aye, her foolish decision had caused all of this. But he was not without empathy for the results. With a deep breath for calm, he sheathed his broadsword.

  “Are you all right?” he asked with more composure than he felt.

  She was sobbing against the horse’s golden coat. “Aye,” she wept.

  “What is that on your neck?”

  She had forgotten about the bloody scratch. She sat up, fingering the wound. “A… a tree scratched me,” she sniffled, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands.

  “Those knights did not do that?”

  She shook her head. “Nay.” Her gaze fell back on the horse and she stroked the blond neck, the pale hair of his mane. “Oh, Bress. Forgive me. I am so sorry.”

  He stood there a moment, watching her kiss the horse. Darkness was falling and he wanted to get her to the safety of the encampment. Now that he knew she was safe and uninjured, it was easier to be calm. But he was still rightly furious.

  “My lady,” he said quietly. “We must retreat to the safety of camp for the night.”

  She looked up at him, eyes welling. “I canna leave him.”

  He gazed into the emerald eyes, the deliciously sweet face, and felt himself soften. It was difficult to maintain his harsh stance when she was so grief stricken.

  “There is nothing more you can do for him,” his voice was considerably gentler. “I will have my men properly dispose of him.”

  She let his statement settle, looking back down at the dead horse. Her gaze moved to his torso, his legs, coming to rest on the broken one. Her lower lip trembled.

  “He was startled by the birds,” she said. “We came through the trees and the birds flew out of the grass. He tripped and fell on me, but I dinna know he was hurt until… until.…”

  She could not finish and a new wave of tears washed down her cheeks. As Creed stood there and debated if he should physically remove her, his brother came upon him.

  “Those knights were from Gilderdale,” he said in a low voice. “If we let the survivor live, he will return to Black Fell Castle and we will have the whole of Gilderdale down around our ears.”

  Creed flipped up his visor, scratching his chin where his hauberk was chaffing him. “It was a fair fight, Ryton. We were protecting our hostage.”

  “Gilderdale will not care. They are a war machine.”

  Creed just shook his head. “I doubt Gilderdale would attack us for revenge on a justifiable conflict.”

  “We killed one of Gilderdale’s heirs.”

  Creed’s dusky blue eyes focused on his brother; that subtle statement changed everything. “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m open to suggestion.”

  Creed drew in a long, deep breath. There was reservation in the tone. “Then I would suggest sending him back to Gilderdale. The man is a knight, and a captured one. It is not honorable or ethical to assassinate him once he has been subdued.”

  Ryton looked over at the knight in the distance. Creed followed his brother’s gaze and they both studied the short, older knight as he stood with Jory. As they mulled over the man’s future, Carington successfully calmed herself from the last barrage of tears, her gaze moving to the enemy knight several feet away. She wiped at the last of the moisture around her eyes, stood up, and moved towards the man.

  Creed and Ryton watched her with some surprise and mostly curiosity. Then they followed. By the time she reached the knight, they could hear her soft, sweet lilt against the cool evening air.

  “Ye were the one who killed my horse,” she said.

  The older knight looked at her. She could see no panic, no fear in his eyes, simply resignation. “He was in pain, my lady,” he replied quietly. “I did what was necessary.”

  “But I asked ye not to.”

  “You would rather have the beast suffer?”

  She sniffled, studying him in the dying light. Then she shook her head, slowly. “Ye were swift with it. I saw ye.”

  “It was necessary.”

  “Where were ye going to take me? Ye and those others.”

  His faded blue eyes were fixed on her. “Most likely back to Gilderdale.”

  “And then what?”

  “You would have to ask Sir Gregory that.”

  “Who is Sir Gregory?”

  “The man who held you. He is one of Gilderdale’s sons.”

  She was almost completely calm by the time the conversation lulled. She looked over at Creed and Ryton, standing side by side. The wind was whipping up, teasing her black hair and plastering her surcoat against her curves. She had an unbelievably divine figure, a body that most men would move heaven and earth to touch. Her full breasts were bold and inviting, her waist slender and long. But she paid no mind to the gusting wind or to Jory’s hot gaze upon her silhouette. She was looking at Creed and Ryton, and both of them were looking at her face.

  “He was not like the others,” she said. “I dunna want ye to hurt him. Send him home. Please.”

  She added the final word as almost an afterthought, gazing deliberately at Creed as she did so. Ryton also looked to Creed, but Creed was looking at the lady. She was not full of fire and spark like she had been since nearly the moment he had met her. She was calmer, her manner far more pleasing. Standing in the blowing wind with her black hair swirling around her, she looked like a little doll, beautiful and perfect in every way.

  Creed broke away from his brother and went to the lady, reaching out to grasp her elbow. “I am taking the lady to camp,” he said, gently taking her arm. “Jory, see to the horse. Ryton, do what you will with this knight. But the lady has asked he be spared and I would suggest that you consider that request.”

  With that, he led Carington away, back to the tide of men in the distance. The Prudhoe escort was disassembling to the south, preparing to camp for the night. Already the smoke from cooking fires was filling the air as fire after fire was lit to ward off the coming night. Carington glanced over her shoulder to where Bress lay still and alone upon the cool grass. She could feel the tears again and she sniffled, trying to keep them at bay.

  “Have you eaten?” Creed asked as if he did not hear the sniffling.

  She shook her head. Then she nodded. “Bress and I ate earlier today. We found some blackberries and…,” she suddenly looked up at him, curiosity and trepidation in her expression. “How did ye find me?”

  He scratched the same spot on his chin that was always chaffed by his hauberk. “By tracking you. Your horse has distinct hooves.”

  She had not thought on that, although she should have. “How did ye know his hooves?”

  “From where he was standing with the other horses this morning.” He did not look at her. “Do you care to tell me why you ran?”

  “Are ye going to beat me?”

  “Not if you tell me the truth.”

  She wiped daintily at her nose; she suspected he would not beat her, anyway. He was, in fact, very calm as he asked her. He should be furious. And she should have stubbornly refused to answer him, but she could not muster the strength. Being stubborn had gotten her horse killed.

  “Because,” she said softly; he barely heard her. “I dunna want to be a prisoner.”

  “I told you that you were not going to be a prisoner. But i
f you continue to behave like this, we will have no other choice but to lock you up.”

  She did not have an answer to that. She was still thinking on Bress, the results of her actions, and she looked over her shoulder again to see Jory standing over the golden body in the distance. She came to a halt and Creed with her. He noted the concerned expression on her face.

  “That knight,” she said haltingly. “I dunna… I dunna like him. I dunna want him tending my horse.”

  Creed eyed Jory in the distance as well. “My lady, he cannot harm your horse. The horse is dead. He is simply going to dispose of the body.”

  “How?”

  “More than likely, he will burn he corpse.”

  She sighed; he heard the soft, wistful hiss. He expected more protests but she remained silent. Just as they were turning around to resume their walk, something caught her attention and the emerald eyes flew open wide. Creed turned to see what she was looking at and they both watched as Jory relieved himself on the dead horse. He peed all over him. Carington looked accusingly at Creed, fully prepared to berate him, but the words would not come. She burst into tears instead.

  “He… he peed on him,” she sobbed pitifully. “My sweet Bress. He fouled him.”

  Creed sighed heavily, turning her for the camp and putting his enormous arm around her shoulder so she would not turn around again.

  “I am sorry, my lady, I truly am,” he said, his voice a gentle growl. “I will take care of Jory, have no doubt. I shall avenge what he has done to your horse. Do you believe me?”

  She was tucked into the curve of his torso, the plate metal of the armor jabbing her in tender places. But it was a strangely comforting position. She gazed up at him, the dusky blue eyes and square jaw. Something passed between them, a jolting flicker of warmth that almost made her forget her tears. Whatever it was came right out of those amazingly moody eyes. Lightning bolts! She thought to herself. I felt the lightning bolts!

  “I-I believe ye,” she sniffled and stammered. “But my horse….”

  He gave her a gentle squeeze. “I will see to him myself if it will make you feel better. For now, let us get you some food and into bed. You need to rest.”

  Carington fell silent the rest of the way back to the encampment. In fact, she was singularly focused on the big knight’s arm around her shoulders and trying to figure out why she was not demanding he remove it. Prudhoe men had set up a nice little tent city near the outskirts of the small village where the knights from Gilderdale had found her. Creed took her back to the tent she had occupied the night before, a larger shelter with a large flap of an opening. The rising wind was beginning to whip it about.

  He took her into the dark innards, made spooky by the strong breeze. The oilcloth fabric was cold and uninviting, but the vizier was sitting in the middle of the tent, lit and weakly sparking. Carington’s possessions lay in a neat pile near the door where someone had put them.

  “It should warm up in here shortly,” he said, letting go of her the instant they entered the tent. He bent over and began to untie her bedroll. “Now would be a good time to rest before sup.”

  She stood there and watched him; now that he had removed his thick arm from her, she was able to focus on his demeanor somewhat. He was acting as if nothing in the world was wrong, as if she had not run from him. He had, after all, been relatively considerate the entire time she had known him. To have run from him was to have slapped him in the face and, more than likely, destroyed his trust in her in the process. She was coming to feel guilty for a multitude of reasons.

  She stood there a moment, pulling at her cold hands, watching him unroll the bedding. Her mind was beginning to work. Emotional, exhausted, the words came spilling out whether or not she wanted them to.

  “If… if I insulted ye with my actions, then I am sorry,” she spoke haltingly. “Ye’ve been kind to me, Sir Knight, and I am sorry if I offended ye.”

  He did not reply right away. Truth was whatever fury had held him captive for the past several hours was gone. The lady was safe and that was all that mattered, though it might have been very gratifying to spank her for her insolence. Still, it was done. And he was not a beating kind of man. Moreover, she had been punished enough for her actions by the event of her dead horse. He could not have made a greater impact on her than that.

  When the bedroll was finally laid out, he stood straight and put his hands on his hips. “How I feel is of no matter. What matters is if you plan to do it again.”

  She fixed him in the eye with her emerald gaze, her eyes glittering in the weak light like rare and precious stones. After a moment, she lowered her gaze, wringing her hands furiously. “Nay,” she said softly. “If I knew that my escape attempt would kill my horse, I would never have gone. I swear I wouldna have.”

  Creed did not say anything; he was not sure if he believed her. Aye, he knew she was sorry how things had turned out. Frankly, he was too. But had things worked in her favor, she would not have regretted anything. At the moment, he did not trust her in the least in spite of her obvious remorse.

  “Rest,” he told her, moving for the exit. “I shall see to your animal and I’ll bring back something to tend that cut.”

  She had forgotten about the scratch on her neck, touching it absently when he reminded her of it. But it did not deter her from thoughts of her horse. “Bress,” she murmured, her eyes glittering with emotion. “He… he was a good horse. I was…I was hoping.…”

  She trailed off, unable to finish. Creed paused. “What were you hoping, my lady?”

  She was back to wringing her hands. She almost did not tell him, waving him off, but she took a deep breath for courage. “I was hoping ye could say a prayer for him,” she finally said. “He was my friend.”

  Praying over a horse. Creed’s first reaction was to snort at the foolishness of the request, but he could see by her expression how serious she was. He should not have felt such pity for her, but he did.

  “If that will comfort you.”

  “It would.” He turned from her but she called to him again. “Sir Knight?”

  He stopped, hand on the tent flap. “My lady?”

  She took a timid step towards him, emerald eyes riveted to moody, dusky blue. “Could I come with ye? I would like to be with him while you… when you….”

  She trailed off, hoping he could read her mind and know what she meant. She could not even bring herself to say it. Creed wondered if she had the stomach to watch it; for her own sake, he doubted it.

  He shook his head. “My lady, you should remember your horse as he was, strong and beautiful and whole. I would not want your last memory of him to be a stiffening carcass going up in flames.”

  Her face paled, at both the description and the denial, but she remarkably held her tongue.

  She watched him walk from the tent, the big man with the enormous hands. She wondered if she could repair whatever trust she had damaged, but in the same thought, she wondered if she might not make another attempt. It simply was not in her nature to surrender, no matter how foolish or tragic the results.

  As Creed quit the tent, he spied Burle immediately. The fat knight was several feet away, driving stakes into the ground to secure another tent. Creed called to him and the man made his way over to him, his armor jiggling on his fat rolls. His thinning blond hair was standing up in wispy strands, blowing lightly in the breeze. It looked like a crown of feathers.

  “My lord?” he asked politely.

  Creed gestured to the tent. “Stay with her. Do not let her out of your sight. I am going to see to her horse.”

  Burle nodded. “Would you have me inside or outside?”

  Creed thought a moment; though he was sure the lady would prefer to rest alone, he would admit he felt better having her escort by her side. Especially Burle; the man was as strong as ten men, but due to his flab he could not outrun an infant. At least if he was next to her, he would have a chance of grabbing her before she got away from him.

&n
bsp; “Inside,” he threw a thumb back at the tent.

  Burle nodded shortly and the bear of a man went to the tent, disappearing inside. Fighting off a smirk at the thought of the lady’s reaction when she saw the big knight seated beside her like a watchdog, Creed headed off in the direction of the dead horse.

  By the time Creed reached the carcass, Jory had commandeered a few men at arms to haul the animal to an area where they could get a good fire going. Four men had tied ropes to the horse and were dragging it towards the road where there was more dirt and less wet grass. As he approached Jory, he realized that his anger, so recently fled, was returning at the sight of him. On behalf of the lady, he was outraged.

  “I would have a word with you, d’Eneas.”

  The young knight with the brown eyes gazed at him warily. “What would that be?”

  “Privately.”

  “You can say whatever you have to say right here.”

  Though Creed was beckoning him out of the hearing range of the men, Jory was not obeying. Irritation growing, Creed stood next to him, easily twice his size and several times his strength, and breathed down into his pale, sweaty face.

  “I saw you relieve yourself on this animal,” he rumbled. “What’s more, the lady saw you. Would you care to give me a reason for your display before I take your head off?”

  Jory was intimidated by him, that much was clear. Still, he put up a weak front. “Why are you so concerned about a dead animal?” he asked, almost flippantly. “’Tis just a dead beast that belonged to that Scots wench. Why do you care so much about it?”

  Creed’s jaw ticked, never a good sign. “Perhaps no one ever explained to you the rights and wrongs of proper conduct. It is right to treat a hostage as a guest, no matter what her lineage. It is wrong to show such disregard to her, and the living in general, by befouling an object that meant something to someone. Why is it so difficult for you to conduct yourself with restraint and common sense?”