Jory lifted a black eyebrow. “You should have been the first one to pee on the horse, de Reyne. She shamed you most of all by running from you. Do not take your anger out on me for your lack of control over the lady.”
It was the wrong thing to say, but strangely, Creed’s anger went no further. He was beginning to feel a good deal of contempt, and contempt ran like ice through is veins.
“Jory,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “You and I are going to come to an understanding here and now. On the battlefield, I shall defend your life as necessary because we serve together. But off the battlefield, my loyalty to you ends. I pounded you when you attacked the lady last night but I should have wrung your damnable neck. The next time I see or hear of an offense against Lady Carington, in any shape or form, you will meet with a beating the likes of which you are unlikely to fully recover from. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Jory’s smug expression was gone. “Are you threatening me? I shall go to Lord Richard if you are. He will send you back to the king so you can face off against those charges that are lodged against you.”
Creed had visions of wrapping his hands around Jory’s neck and squeezing him until his head exploded. But he kept his hands at his sides. And he kept his cool.
“One more offense and you will pay.”
“You do not frighten me, de Reyne.”
“Then that is your most grave mistake.”
With that, he turned on his heel and marched up on the men who were hauling Bress’ carcass. After a few short orders, he had the men dropping the ropes and running for shovels. They would dig a pit to fire the carcass in and be done with it. As the men began to shovel out a pit, Creed stood over the big blond animal, crossed himself, and muttered a prayer. He had, after all, promised.
Jory watched the big knight move. He was indeed afraid of him and knew that the man would not hesitate to do as he threatened. Creed de Reyne had a long standing reputation throughout England, and a flawless one, until six months ago. Now he was hiding from the crown until the issues involving him and the king’s betrothed cooled. Lord Richard and Ryton de Reyne were shielding him, protecting him like a coward.
Jory wiped at his nose, still glaring at Creed, thinking of ways he could get back at the man. He could turn him over to the king’s guard, but he would need help with that and no one at Prudhoe would help him. He could go after the Scots bitch again because in doing so, he could show how ineffective Creed was in protecting her. He would show everyone Creed’s weakness. He would make him pay.
Jory wiped his nose again, thinking hateful thoughts about Creed and concocting a thousand ways to discredit the man. If one failed, surely another would work. De Reyne would suffer in the end.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was not that she was frightened of them. On the contrary; she felt absolutely no fear. But Burle, later joined by Stanton, stood next to each other on the opposite side of the tent and just stared at her. Carington was beginning to feel as if they expected her to grow horns or burp thunder. The way they were looking at her was most strange and it was turning into a very odd standoff.
She was supposed to be resting. But she could not sleep with Burle and Stanton watching every move she made. So they ended up playing a very odd staring game, with Carington watching them and the knights watching her. Had she not been so exhausted, she might have found it humorous. But her tolerance was fading.
“Sir Knight?” she was looking straight at Burle. “What is yer name? I have forgotten.”
The big blond knight perked up from his post by the tent flap. “I am Burle, my lady.”
“And yer skinny friend?”
Burle and Stanton looked at each other. “His name is Stanton, my lady. You hit him in the face when you escaped the first time.”
Carington’s dark green eyes moved over the slender, pale knight. She was not sure if Burle’s comment was supposed to make her feel guilty, so she let it go without acknowledgement.
“Yer not very old,” she said to Stanton. “How old are ye?”
“I have seen twenty years and four, my lady,” he answered.
“Are ye married?”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Are ye, now? How grand. Do ye have children?”
“A son, my lady. And my wife is again expecting.”
“I see,” she looked back at Burle. “And ye, Sir Burle? Are ye married?”
The flabby knight nodded his head. “Aye, my lady.”
“And do ye have children also?”
“Aye, my lady. Three daughters.”
“Marvelous,” Carington stood up from the small three-legged stool she had been seated on. But her warm expression vanished and fire flashed in the green eyes as she planted her hands firmly on her slender hips. “Do ye think yer wife or daughters would appreciate a strange man staring at them as you have been staring at me? What kind of manners do ye have gawking at me as ye do?”
Burle struggled not to appear off-guard by her sharp tone. “If it was for their own protection, I am sure they would understand. And we were not gawking.”
“Not gawking?” She threw up her hands. “Then what do ye call it? Ye’re staring at me as if ye’ve never seen a woman before.”
She was quite possibly yelling. Burle and Stanton were somewhat surprised, but both maintained their even disposition. Especially Burle; he was used to emotional females. He had married one.
“I apologize if you think we have been rude, my lady,” he said quietly. “That was not our intent. We only mean to keep you safe until Sir Creed returns.”
“Ye mean that you only mean to keep me in this tent until he returns,” she supplied with a hint of nastiness. “Dunna think for one minute that I dunna know what ye’re up to. You are here to keep me from running off again.”
Stanton just looked at Burle; he would let the older man provide all of the answers. “Possibly, my lady,” Burle answered.
She lifted a dark eyebrow and crossed her arms; so bullying them had not gotten her very far. She did not even know why she had done it, only that she was tired and irritated and overwrought from the events of her misguided escape. But it was a foolish reaction, in truth. She had come to discover over the past day that she was a foolish woman beneath all of the stubbornness and pride. She lowered her gaze and returned to her seat. When she spoke, it was in a more civilized tone.
“I am not planning on running again,” she said, almost wearily. “Ye dunna have to worry about that.”
“That would be a pleasant change.”
Creed spoke as he entered the tent, having heard her last sentences. His dusky blue eyes fixed on her and he realized, to his surprise, that he might actually be glad to see her. The thought was so startling that he angrily chased it away and his demeanor darkened as a result. “I heard the shouting across the field,” he said lowly, enormous fists resting on his hips. “What seems to be the problem?”
Carington stared up at him; he was sucking all of the air out of the room again. Her heart seemed to be fluttering strangely at the sight of him but she pushed the awareness aside, refusing to analyze it. Perhaps she was ill. Perhaps she was just tired. The fact that she started experiencing these strange symptoms the moment Creed entered the tent had nothing to do with it.
“No problem, m’lord,” she said, lowering her gaze. “I… I was simply coming to know my guard dogs better.”
Creed passed a glance at both knights; Stanton’s gaze was steady and wide-eyed, while Burle’s was a bit more seasoned. He and Burle had served together for years and they knew each other well. He trusted the older knight’s sense of things.
“Is all well?” he asked the man.
Burle nodded with the trained patience of one used to dealing with women. “It is, my lord.”
“Then you may go and get your supper. Send someone with the lady’s, if you will.”
Both men acknowledged his request as they left the tent. Creed removed his gloves, scratched the back of his neck
, and generally settled himself without so much as a glance to Carington the entire time. She sat on the small stool, shivering in the chill, watching every move he made. She was attempting to ascertain his mood, trying to figure out if he was still angry with her for her earlier escapade. He seemed rather glum. She had no idea why she should be concerned with his mood but she was.
“My horse,” she began hesitantly. “Did… did all go well?”
“It did.”
She did not say any more, realizing that Bress was in flames somewhere outside and not wanting to think about it. The thought made her sad again, and sadness brought another round of brimming tears. She discreetly chased them away, not wanting him to think she was weak and weepy. Carington had never been the crying sort. But the past two days had seen that particular characteristic change.
Creed was not immune to her tears; he was well aware of them. His gauntlets, breast plate and greaves ended up in a heap on the floor. As Carington sat with her back to him, he whistled low in his teeth and watched her jump at the sound. Immediately, his two squires vaulted into the tent.
“Steven,” he said to the shorter, brown-eyed lad. “Remove my armor. Make sure it is thoroughly cleaned of the sweat and grime; I do not want any rust on the plates.”
As Steven collected the solid pieces of armor, Creed turned to the tall blond lad beside him and held out his arms. “Pull,” he commanded softly.
James took hold of the chain mail hauberk and pulled it over his lord’s head with ease. Considering the boy had been doing it for half of his life, he was adept at the chore. By now, Carington had turned to the activity, watching the squires work around Creed. The boys were silent and efficient, skinny Sassenach lads on the brink of manhood. When James accidentally met her eye, he blushed furious and lowered his gaze. He was the first one bolting out of the tent with Steven right behind him.
“Yer squires are young,” she commented softly. “How old are they?”
Creed raked his fingers through his wavy dark hair, glancing up at her as he did so. “Steven has seen sixteen years. James has seen fifteen.”
“The tall blond lad?” she said, surprised. “He is so big. He looks much older than his age.”
Creed nodded, moving towards the vizier to see why it was not warming up as quickly as he would have liked. “He was a tall boy when he came to serve me at seven years of age. His father was Constable of York until his death a few years ago.”
“Oh,” she thought of the quiet, fatherless boy. “A pity. He seems like a good lad.”
“He is.” Creed grunted as he broke up a smoldering piece of peat with the iron bar.
Carington watched him closely, hoping a bit of pleasant conversation might lift both his mood and her spirits. She found she needed some lifting. But the way he was breaking up the peat, she wondered if pleasant conversation would do any good with him.
“Ye are a father to him, then,” she stated quietly.
Creed shook his head, slamming the door of the bronze vizier shut. “I am his liege.”
“Do ye have sons of yer own, Sir Creed?”
He did look at her, then. “Nay,” he replied. “And you may call me simply Creed.”
Somehow, Carington felt as if she had accomplished something great by just that simple sentence. She did not understand why it meant something to her, but it did. Her heart began doing the strange leaping thing again, pounding against her ribcage.
“As ye say,” she said quietly, almost shyly. “Ye… ye may call me Cari if ye wish. No one calls me Carington; ’tis too long. Father says it exhausts him to say my entire name because he runs out of breath before he can get it out of his mouth.”
Her soft sentence had an unexpected result; Creed actually smiled. Carington’s heart pounded louder at the sight of it; he had a beautiful smile that dramatically changed his face. If she thought he was handsome before, or rather tried not to think it, then the event of an unanticipated smile confirmed her observations. She could no longer deny the obvious; the man was stunning.
“’Tis his fault,” he said, rising on his massive legs. “He is the one who named you.”
Carington shook her head. “Nay, my mother did. Her family name was Carington.”
“I see,” his gaze seemed to linger on her overlong. “I like Cari better. It suits you.”
“Why would ye say that?”
He lifted those enormous shoulders, shrugging as he looked around to see if the squires had stocked the tent with something for him to sit on. “’Tis a sweet name. Petite, like you are.”
A bashful smile crossed her lips and she looked at the ground. “Kind words, Sir Knight,” she said so quietly that he almost did not hear her. “After today, I dinna expect any from ye.”
Not finding anything to sit on, he just stood there, fists on his hips as he gazed down at her. It seemed to be his favorite way to stand. “You certainly do not deserve any.”
Her head shot up, the emerald eyes flashing at him. “Ah, so now it comes. I knew ye were simply biding yer time until ye were ready to let loose on me.” She stood up, matching his fist-on-hips stance. “Well, out with it, then. Do yer worst. Ye canna make me feel any worse than I already do.”
He just looked at her. A snort suddenly bubbled up as he struggled to fight off a grin. “You are faster to rise to anger than anyone I have ever seen. Does it not exhaust you expending that much effort?”
His smirk had her unbalanced. “Do ye taunt me, then?”
He shook his head, still snorting as he turned away from her. “God, no. You would probably gouge my eyes out or rip off my ears if I did.”
Now it was her turn to struggle against a smirk. “Ye’d be lucky if that was all I did to ye.”
He turned to look at her, a full-blown grin on his face. “I have no doubt, Lady Cari. No doubt whatsoever.”
They just grinned at each other, her with a furrowed brow as if she were trying to be stern about it and him with an open expression. It was the first moment of levity they had experienced between them and it was an agreeable one.
“And it’s just Cari, not Lady Cari,” she told him for good measure. “Lady Cari sounds like a disease and I dunna like it.”
He burst out in laughter, his big body shaking with mirth. Carington watched him laugh, enchanted by the straight white teeth and deep dimples that carved big ruts down each cheek. “Christ, you are a spitfire.” He was at the tent flap with the intention on searching for the person or persons bringing their meal, but his gaze lingered on her instead of the encampment beyond. “Very well, my lady. Just Cari.”
She nodded shortly at him as if she had just won a great argument. The smile was still on her lips as she resumed her stool and he tore his gaze away from her long enough to search for their errant meal. He spied his squires across the camp, hands laden as they headed in his direction. He lowered the tent flap and turned back to her.
“I hope you are hungry,” he said. “It looks as if my squires are bringing quite a feast.”
“I am,” she said, suddenly quite famished. “I could eat a horse.”
James and Steven entered the tent carrying trays of steaming food; hunks of meat, bread, and a large slab of white cheese. Creed had the boys set the trays on the bedroll, next to Carington, and they did so with quiet efficiency. As they quit the tent, Carington took a large piece of meat for herself and bit into it with gusto.
Creed lowered his big body down on the bedroll, reaching for another large slab of meat. It was steamy, almost undercooked, but he did not care. He was starving. But the moment he took a bite and sampled the tough, gamey flavor, his chewing came to a halt. He stared at the meat. Carington noticed his puzzled expression.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it not to yer liking?”
He did not say a word, but a flicker of something very disturbing ignited deep in his mind. He put his hand on her wrist, lowering the meat from her mouth.
“Do not eat that,” he said quietly. “Eat the br
ead and cheese. I shall return.”
Confusion swept her as she looked down at the meat. “It seems all right,” she suddenly looked stricken. “Do ye think someone has poisoned it?”
He shook his head, rising on his big legs and making his way to the tent flap. “Eat the bread,” he repeated.
“What on earth is the matter?” she licked her fingers of the meat’s grease. “The meat tastes fine. ’Tis venison, is it not?” She licked her fingers again, a puzzled look crossing her fine features. “But it does not have such a strong flavor. And it ’tis a bit tough. What kind of meat is it?”
He paused at the tent flap, unable to say what he was thinking. I could eat a horse. Her words echoed horribly in his head. Across the compound, the distant pyre of Bress was burning and he could see, even at a distance, what had happened. His stomach rolled.
Fresh meat was cooking. The soldiers saw no reason to hunt or cook anything else. Horsemeat was tough, but it was not inedible. They would not let Bress go to waste. They were soldiers, hard and bred, and knew when to take advantage of a feast. Then his eyes narrowed, for walking across the encampment was Jory with a massive wooden trencher of meat in his hand. He saw Creed, several yards away, and his brown eyes lit up. He grinned, popped a piece of meat in his mouth, and continued along his way.
Creed’s jaw began to tick; had he possessed any less control, he would have throttled the man there and now. But to do so would more than likely let the lady in on the dark secret. For now, he had to let it go, but the veins in his temples throbbed something fierce. It suddenly occurred to him that he knew who butchered the burning horse and it further occurred to him that his brother probably had not known. Ryton would have never allowed it. But now it was too late to do anything about it.
Though he could not bring himself to tell her, by his expression, she knew something was wrong. Creed went to collect the plates with the meat on them, taking them outside the tent. Carington could hear soft conversation as he spoke to his men outside, perhaps his squires. She did not know. All she knew was that he had looked rather disgusted about something.
Brides of the North: A Medieval Scottish Romance Bundle Page 7