Brides of the North: A Medieval Scottish Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Carington gazed back at Ryton, her expression open with astonishment. “The queen tried to seduce him?”

  “Aye.”

  “But… but why?”

  Ryton smiled wryly. “She saw something she wanted. When she could not have him, she made sure to ruin him.”

  Carington savored the information, digested it, before allowing herself to form a reply. As she spoke, her head wagged back and forth, slowly. “I’ve heard tale of Sassenach women of royal blood, how they lack of scruples and morals. I thought it was talk. Most of my countrymen hate the English and the French as well. Can it be that they were right?”

  Ryton nodded faintly. “With rare exception.”

  She was reluctant to give in so easily, still. “Do ye swear what ye have told me is the truth about yer brother?”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave, my lady. I would not lie to you about something like this, not even to save my brother.”

  A dark eyebrow lifted. “Then Julia lied to me.”

  “She was repeating what she had heard. She did not make it up if that is what you mean.”

  “But why would she do this?”

  Ryton looked moderately uneasy; his gaze shifted from Carington to the chapel door behind her to finally his feet.

  “Because she is fond of Creed,” he said quietly. “She is, in fact, in love with him. He does not return her adoration and for the same reason Isabella slandered him, Julia is also vengeful. Perhaps she is threatened by your beauty and by the fact that Creed has been assigned to act as your protector. In any case, ask me no more.”

  Carington understood a great deal in that grunted reply, her emerald eyes moving past Ryton and to the ward below. She could see a few servants and soldiers milling about. It suddenly occurred to her that she had believed that slanderous talk before asking Creed his side of the story. He had been honest, protective and forthright since she had met him. She had been difficult, angry and combative. Julia was a snake; she had sensed it from the first. Why she had believed the woman’s tale was a mystery. Now she felt like a fool.

  With a heavy sigh, she wiped a stray bit of hair from her face and gathered her skirt to take the steps.

  “Then it would seem I have some apologies to make to yer brother,” she said softly, taking the stairs.

  Ryton took her by the elbow, chivalrously, simply to make sure she kept her footing on the narrow stairs.

  “I am sure no apologies are necessary, my lady,” he said. “But to ensure your comfort, I shall assign you another escort while you are here at Prudhoe.”

  She stopped half way down, her emerald eyes snapping to him. “Another es…?” she stopped herself before she sounded too outraged, struggling to remain collected. “That will be unnecessary, Sir Ryton. Sir Creed and I have gotten used to one another. I dunna want to break in another shadow.”

  He heard that tone again. The same wistfulness he had heard before no matter how hard she tried to conceal it. Now he was sure he was not imagining things but, for lack of a better response at the moment, he simply nodded his head.

  “Very well, my lady,” he replied.

  They reached the bottom of the steps and headed into the bailey. The moment they turned for the keep, they could see Creed in conversation with Stanton over by the gatehouse. Stanton was still mounted on his impatient charger and Creed kept side-stepping the animal. Ryton came to a stop.

  “Wait here, my lady,” he bade her.

  Carington watched him walk towards his brother, watching further as Creed and Stanton turned to him. Ryton spoke a few words to Creed, who nodded his head and headed towards Carington, alone.

  As Carington watched him cross the dusty ward in her direction, she was aware of the butterflies in her stomach. Her breathing was coming in strange little gasps the closer he came. All she could focus on was his eyes; he had the most amazing eyes. The lightning bolts were flaring again, shooting giddy warmth deep into her heart. Before she realized it, Creed was standing in front of her.

  “Is everything well now, my lady?” he asked softly.

  She tried to remain dignified but the moment she heard his voice, she crumbled. “I am so sorry,” she whispered miserably. “I shouldna… Julia told me things and I… well, I shouldna have listened to her and I am sorry. Can ye ever forgive me for being so foolish?”

  Creed just looked at her. After a moment, he extended his elbow to her. Carington looked at it, then back to him, watching a beautiful smile spread across his lips. It was enough to undo her and she clutched his arm tightly.

  “There is nothing to forgive, my lady,” he murmured. “Are you ready to go to town now?”

  She had almost forgotten about their trip. “Do ye still want to take me?” she asked, surprised.

  He slanted her a glance. “Of course. Why not?”

  Her lovely brows drew together. “Why not? Because I have been such an imbecile. Why would ye want to have anything to do with me now?”

  He paused and turned to her, a smile playing on his lips. “Because I rather like imbeciles; especially beautiful ones.” When she blushed madly, his smile broadened and his voice lowered. “Come along, Cari. We have many wonderful things to purchase for you.”

  She was having a difficult time looking at him; his smile made her go weak in the knees. “Oh, Creed,” she sighed. “Ye are too good to me.”

  “I know.”

  Stanton, Burle and Ryton could hear her hissing insults at him. They could also hear Creed’s low laughter, even when she pinched him.

  It was a big escort for a little lady; three massive knights and twenty men at arms swooped into the town named after the castle. The berg of Prudhoe was a fairly large metropolis that was populated with almost as many Scots as English. It was a true border town that had persevered through generations of conflict.

  Creed knew that there was a seamstress located on the second avenue of merchants, next to the main thoroughfare. It was a woman from the Teutonic region who did a good deal of sewing for Lady Anne. He took the entire party to the woman’s shop, clogging up the avenue with men and horses. As the dust kicked up with their cluttered presence, Creed dismounted his charger and moved to the small carriage that contained Carington.

  She was practically hanging out of the window, inspecting her surroundings with some fear but mostly awe. Creed opened the cab door and held out a hand to her. He did not have a chance to say a word before she was bubbling over with excitement.

  “’Tis such a big town,” she exclaimed softly as she put her hand in his. “I dinna know it would be so big. I saw a few Scots when we entered; did ye see them, English? They wore Douglas tartan. My da has been allied with the Douglas clan for many years. They married one of his sisters.”

  She was prattling. Creed fought off a smile as he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and took her to the seamstress’ shop. Even then, she continued to chatter like a magpie.

  “Do ye suppose they know of my da’s alliance with Lord Richard?” she suddenly noticed the shop before he could answer. “Look at all of the fabric; I have never seen fabric like this before.”

  He directed her into the crowded, dark hut. It was made from stone with only a couple of very small windows for light and ventilation. And it was stuffed to the rafters with fabrics and notions. Carington looked around in awe, tripping on her own feet because she was not paying attention to where she was going. Creed steadied her as a small, round woman approached from the rear of the shop.

  The woman snapped herself in half in a brusque bow. Carington instinctively recoiled with equal swiftness because the gesture had been so abrupt. The corner of Creed’s mouth twitched as Carington scowled at the woman as if the salute had been something challenging.

  “My lord,” the woman said in a heavy Teutonic accent. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  Creed knew the woman vaguely; they recognized each other from the times he had escorted Anne and Richard into town. The woman was Anne’s favorite seamstress.
He indicated Carington.

  “Lady Anne would like to commission several gowns for her honored guest, the Lady Carington,” he replied. “I have been asked to engage your services.”

  The woman turned her pale blue eyes to Carington appraisingly. Her gaze moved to the old garment she wore, perhaps noting the deteriorated condition. There was distain in her expression, quickly gone. Carington felt self-conscious as the woman mentally dissected her.

  “Such a lovely lady,” the woman said after a moment. “I could make garments for her that would outshine the sun. She would look magnificent.”

  “Which is why Lady Anne would entrust this task to you,” Creed replied. “Do what you must in order to accomplish it. Meanwhile, Lady Anne was hoping you would have a few garments that were already made that we could take with us until the commissioned garments were completed.”

  The woman reached out and took Carington gently by the arm. She continued to scrutinize her, turning her around so she could see the width of her buttocks and the breadth of her torso. Carington’s emerald eyes fixed on Creed as the woman very nearly manhandled her. Creed gazed back steadily, reassuringly. When the woman put her hands on Carington’s waist to measure it, Carington tensed and balled up a fist. She felt the woman was becoming a bit too familiar with her. But Creed shook his head at her and she reluctantly relaxed. She relaxed further when he winked at her.

  Finished with her measurements, the woman spoke. “I have three or four garments that I will prepare for you to take with you today,” she said. “How many gowns did Lady Anne wish to commission?”

  Creed crossed his massive arms and braced his legs apart thoughtfully. “At least five. You will include undergarments and accessories, of course.”

  “Of course,” the woman agreed. “Any preference in color or fabric?”

  Creed’s eyes found Carington’s; he gazed into the emerald depths, feeling an odd liquid warmth spread across his chest. It was a delightful, unfamiliar sensation. The longer he gazed at her, the stronger the feeling became.

  “Rich colors,” he told the woman, realizing he sounded gentle as he said it. He could not help it. “As you said, she is a beautiful woman. I will trust you to enhance that beauty.”

  Carington smiled at him, her eyes riveted to his dusky blue orbs. She could feel her cheeks flushing as the intensity of his eyes reached out to grab her. There was an incredibly strong pull between them, something that she had noticed from the beginning of their association but had fought desperately to suppress. Within the past couple of days, her resistance to it had fled entirely. The sweet looks, the stolen kisses, his kindness to her even when she had been horrid had worked their magic. And whatever misunderstanding had occurred back at Prudhoe Castle had somehow strengthened what she was feeling for the man; she knew that she indeed felt something. She just was not sure what it was yet.

  As the two of them gazed steadily at each other, the woman ran her hands across Carington’s shoulders one last time before finally releasing her.

  “Give me an hour and I shall have something prepared for her,” she said.

  Creed nodded his thanks and took Carington by the arm, gently escorting her to the door. Once outside in the cool sunshine, she turned to him.

  “What do we do for an hour?” she asked as she looked at him, shading her eyes from the sun.

  His gaze was steady upon her, his handsome face framed by the lifted visor and mail hauberk. He put his hands on his hips.

  “I am sure we can find something.”

  “Like what?”

  By this time, Burle and Stanton had come to stand next to them. Burle was smiling at the lady while Stanton looked curiously between the four of them. But Creed only had eyes for Carington.

  “More shopping, perhaps?” he suggested. “There is a merchant on the street behind us that carries all manner of goods from around the world. He has many mysterious things in his shop.”

  Carington’s emerald eyes brightened. “He does? Can we go and see?”

  He held out his elbow to her and she took it gladly. As they began to walk down the street, Burle and Stanton followed. The rest of the escort was not far behind. A breeze blew gently, scattering leaves in their path as they proceeded down the wide dirt avenue. It also carried cooking smells and Carington sniffed the air, looking around to see where the delightful smells were coming from. Creed noticed her distraction and realized what she was looking for; he smelled it, too.

  They ended up at the food stall of a man selling roast pork and delectable little cakes with a filling of custard. Not usually a hearty eater, Carington gorged herself on the succulent pork and ate at least four of the little cakes with the custard. Creed did not eat anything but Burle and Stanton did; they, too, stuffed themselves on the pork. Creed was more interested in watching Carington eat as he had never seen her eat before; realizing she had eaten very little on their trip to Prudhoe, it was good to see her appetite return. Thoughts of the roasted horse aside, thank goodness, she seemed quite content licking the grease off her fingers and sucking the custard out of the cake.

  But there was a negative side to all of the unrestrained eating. She was mid-way through her fifth custard cake when she suddenly stopped chewing, burped most unladylike, and set the cake aside. Creed noticed that she looked a little pale.

  “What is wrong?” he cocked his head. “Do not tell me that you have finally eaten your fill?”

  He was teasing her gently but she was in no mood for it. She burped again, covering her mouth and looking at him apologetically.

  “I dunna feel very well,” she said, embarrassed.

  He fought off a grin. “I am not surprised with the amount of food you put away.”

  “But I was hungry,” she looked at the cake as if she wished she could finish it. “I have never had treats such as this. They were delicious.”

  “There will be ample opportunity to have more.”

  She burped again, only this time she covered her mouth discreetly. Creed grinned at her.

  “So,” his gaze moved out over the avenue. “Where would you like to go now, my lady? Shall we find an apothecary and purchase something to soothe your over-taxed stomach?”

  She scowled at him although it was without force. “Ye’re not funny in the least, Creed de Reyne.”

  “Aye, I am. And there is a name for people like you.”

  Her scowl grew more forceful. “And what is that?”

  “I believe they are called gluttons.”

  This time, she shook a fist at him. “When I am feeling better, ye’re going to regret yer words.”

  “I apologize, then. I take it all back.”

  “’Tis too late; ye’re a marked man.”

  He laughed then. “God help me,” he sobered, his dusky blue eyes glimmering at her. “I will make it up to you. Shall we proceed to the shop I told you of earlier?”

  “Not now,” she shook her head, putting her hand on her belly. “I would like to sit down if ye dunna mind.”

  With a snort, he took her hand and led her back to the carriage. He put his hands on her slender waist to lift her up, but she groaned and batted at his hands. He stood back, smirking, as she climbed in slowly by herself and sat down with a heavy sigh.

  “I do hope you feel better,” he said quietly.

  She rubbed her belly. “Can we bring some of those custard cakes back with us?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Are you serious? You are about to explode as it is.”

  “But I will be fine by the evening meal. Please?”

  He gazed at her a moment before nodding his head in resignation. “As you wish.”

  “Thanks to ye.”

  With a wink, he headed back in the direction of the food vendor. Burle and Stanton were still there, shoving down the last of their custard cakes. Creed ordered the cakes from the vendor, adding a measure of pork for himself. All of the eating around him had succeeding in making him hungry. By the time the vendor brought his food, Burle and
Stanton had finished and the three of them stood around talking quietly while Creed devoured a massive portion of pork. Just as he neared the end of his meal, Stanton’s pale gaze suddenly fixated on something behind Creed and he saw the knight move for his broadsword.

  It was an instinctive reaction that they all go for their weapons. Creed had his broadsword unsheathed before he turned around, preparing to defend himself. His gaze fell upon several knights about a dozen yards away. They were mingling with the crowd of shoppers, men dressed in armor and weapons and looking out of place. After a split second of uncertainty, Creed sheathed his sword and turned back to his food.

  “Hexham,” he said. “Those are de Rochefort’s men.”

  Burle squinted at the bodies in the distance, also putting away his sword. Stanton, however, stood there with his sword in hand as he studied the heavily armed men.

  “I have not seen Galen Burleson in months,” he finally said, being the last to sheath his sword. “The last time I was in town, I heard that Hexham Castle was going through something of an upheaval. They lost their captain to Newcastle and several men followed him.”

  The knights from Hexham had spotted the men from Prudhoe; at least four were making their way towards them. Creed picked up what was left of his pork and shoved it into his mouth just as the men from Hexham joined them. Greetings went all around as the men began ordering pork and ale. One man even scavenged Carington’s half-eaten custard cake. What had been a quiet meal suddenly turned into a loud party.