His brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” she repeated, outraged. “I mean that ye were so kind to me during our trip to Prudhoe and I surely did not imagine yer kiss this afternoon. Yet ye walked from this chamber not a minute ago as if ye wanted nothing to do with me. ’Tis not the first time ye’ve turned cold and hard on me, Creed de Reyne, and it’s making my head spin. Yer the moodiest man I’ve ever met and I want to know why.”
He just stared at her. After an eternal moment of holding her intense emerald gaze, he looked away.
“All you need know is that I am a knight sworn to protect you for your duration at Prudhoe,” he mumbled. “Nothing else matters.”
Now it was her turn to stare at him. She felt the wind go out of her, as if he had struck her with one of those powerful fists. After a moment, she climbed off his lap and moved a proper distance away from him, her heart hurting in a way that she could not begin to describe. It hurt so badly that her entire body ached.
“Then get out,” she said quietly, struggling to keep her voice from breaking. “If ye are simply a knight and I am simply a hostage, then it is not proper for ye to be here alone with me.”
He rose wearily, his gaze still averted, moving for the door. He looked as if he had just seen defeat at the hands of his mightiest enemy from the way his broad shoulders sagged. Carington stopped watching him, hearing his footfalls across the floor.
The heavy door opened and softly closed. Her heart shattered. A whimper escaped her lips and she broke for the door, throwing it open.
“Creed!” she cried.
She raced to the top of the stairs, only to run headlong into him; he could not have been more than a few steps down the flight. She did not even think; her arms went around his neck of their own accord and she pressed her lips against his with all of the passion and awakening emotion she was feeling. She knew he would shove her away, but she did not care; at the moment, her mind was only thinking of one thing; to hold the man, to feel him, before he was forever taken away from her.
But a strange thing happened; Creed did not pull back, nor did he shove her away. In fact, he seemed to be much more aggressive with their stolen kiss than she was. More than that, he was completely taking over, kissing her so hard that he drove her teeth into her soft upper lip. Carington gasped softly as he suckled away the pinpoint of blood as his tongue demanded entry into her honeyed mouth. Before she realized it, she was aloft in his arms and they were back in her borrowed chamber. The door was closing behind them and she heard the bolt lock.
She was still in his arms, held off the floor by his amazing strength as his mouth suckled her mindless. She could not form a coherent thought as he blazed a scorching trail across her cheek, down her neck and to the base of her throat. Carington held his head so tightly against her flesh that she was sure she was suffocating him.
“Creed,” she murmured into his forehead. “I’m more than a hostage to ye, am I not? Tell me that I am.”
He nodded, his lips working their way up her neck. “God help me, you are,” he muttered. “But I cannot.…”
He trailed off, his lips claiming hers once again. They were in a frenzy of passionate discovery, gently biting, suckling, acquainting themselves with the taste of one another. Whatever attraction had been present from the moment of their introduction was now raging like a fever, out of control. Creed knew, from the moment he put his lips on her, that he was lost. All of the rationalization in the world was not going to help him out of this because it was more than simple lust; there was feeling involved. Once feeling was part of the formula, there was very little he could do against it.
Somewhere in the tumult, he had bumped into a bed and stumbled back on it. Falling with Carington in his arms, she lay atop him as his mouth did wicked things to her. His enormous hands were on her head, wrapped up in her hair, holding her tightly against him and she could hardly breathe through his tender force. He stopped at one point, holding her head in his hands, staring at her perfect face with smoldering eyes. She had gazed back, wide-eyed and flushed, wondering what he was thinking. But before she could ask, he rolled over and laid her upon the bed, his mouth descending on hers with far less frenzy and far more passion.
He was sucking the life right out of her. Carington held him fast against her, feeling his massive arms wrap themselves around her small body and knowing there was nothing sweeter in this world than being enfolded in his enormous embrace. The kiss that afternoon had only been a foretaste of the joy to come. What Creed was doing now went beyond anything she could have possibly imagined.
Her surcoat was a very proper garment, high of neck and long of sleeve. Creed wanted to taste more of her flesh in the worst possible way but the garment was restricting. It was, however, quite clingy; her round, full breasts were outlined and enhanced by the cut of the coat. He unwound one arm from her body, his big hand moving to her shoulder. As he kissed and nuzzled her, the hand moved down her arm, to her hand, and she clutched him fiercely. They held hands a moment, becoming accustomed to the feel of one another, before he let his fingers drift across her flat abdomen. Carington’s little hand followed his, fluttering atop his fingers, delighting in her first experience with a man. When his warm palm moved up her torso and closed in around a full breast, she started at the sensation.
He stopped sucking her lower lip long enough to look at her. “Did I hurt you?”
She swallowed, trying to catch her breath. “Nay,” she whispered. “’Tis just… it was unexpected.…”
He removed his hand immediately. “I did not mean to frighten you,” he said, pausing to look at her lovely face, his wits returning now that the frantic kisses had eased. “You make me feel like a weak man, Cari. I am not weak by nature.”
She reached up, timidly touching his handsome, weary face. “I wouldna knowingly weaken ye, Creed. Not for anything. Ye’re the strongest man I’ve ever met.”
He smiled faintly. “For a Sassenach?”
She grinned, biting her kiss-chaffed lip. “For any man.”
They lay there a moment, smiling at each other. He loomed over her, studying the lines of her face, the gentle curve of her neck as it descended to her shoulder. She was so flawless and perfect. And he was terrified.
“I really should get back to my post,” he said softly, brushing a stray lock of black hair from her eyes. “Will you be all right tonight?”
“I’d be better if ye stayed with me.”
He lifted an eyebrow, thinking of the deeper connotations of that. He knew she had not suggested the more carnal expectations of the statement; still, what she was suggesting was improper. On the road it was one thing to sleep in the same tent with her for protection’s sake, but now that they were at Prudhoe, there were no such allowances.
“I cannot, honey,” he said quietly. “Already, my presence here is dangerous. Surely you know that.”
She averted her gaze, toying with the cleft in his chin. “Creed?”
He was aware she was ignoring his statement. “What?”
“Why are ye so cold to me at times and so… passionate at others?”
He sighed heavily, reaching out to touch her creamy cheek. It was as soft as an infant’s. “I am sorry if it seems that way. You must understand that there is a certain demeanor I must present when we are in the presence of others. I cannot act like a besotted fool every time I look at you. But in private moments like this, I am free to show how I feel. Does that make sense?”
She was still playing with his chin; her touch felt just like heaven to him. “Are ye?”
Again, she was evading his question. “Am I what?” he asked.
“Besotted?”
He emitted a long, heavy sigh that sounded suspiciously like a growl. It was evident that he was reluctant to answer her. “What do you think?”
“If I knew, I wouldna have asked.”
The fiery little personality in her flared up, like a blaze that suddenly rears and
then just as quickly dies. He realized he liked that aspect of her very much. It was entertaining to watch her rise. Kissing her swiftly on the lips, he pushed himself off the bed and discreetly adjusted the bulge in his breeches.
“I think you already do.”
She stood up from the bed, a bit unsteadily, still flushed from their whirlwind encounter. He could see the flame in her eye even though she was smiling. “Ye’re an evasive man, Creed de Reyne. When I ask a question, I expect the courtesy of an answer.”
His reply was to whip her into his arms and kiss her again, so strongly that she was gasping for air when he finally pulled away. He grinned at her as she struggled.
“Was that enough of an answer?”
He was moving to the door, leaving her stunned and breathless. When she did not reply to his question, he paused at the door, his hand on the latch.
“Now go to bed,” he ordered softly. “I will see you on the morrow.”
She swallowed, her wits making a slow return. It was all she could do to nod her head like an idiot. The man possessed the power to still her tongue as well as flutter her heart. When he winked at her and finally shut the door, she continued to stand there for an unknown amount of time, reliving their kiss over and over in her mind.
When sleep finally claimed her, it was deep and dreamless.
“You know that under normal circumstances I would never bring an issue like this to your attention, but I feel that I must in this case. The man is a fool and a danger, and he seriously disrupts the harmony of my knights.”
Richard had been listening to Ryton for the better part of the hour. In his private solar in Prudhoe’s thick keep, the focus of conversation was Jory d’Eneas, a sore subject for them both. But it was also a very political subject and Richard sighed heavily to Ryton’s latest tale of brutality and poor judgment. Though he was not surprised, he was nonetheless disheartened.
“What would you have me do?” Richard finally asked, weary and wanting for the comfort of his bed. “The man is the son of an ally and friend and I cannot cast him aside easily. You know this, Ryton.”
“I know it, my lord.”
“Then what would you have me do?”
“Send him back to his father. Let the earl deal with his ill-mannered bastard son, for he is only succeeding in upsetting the peace of Prudhoe. I fear that one day he will go too far and have his neck snapped by a fellow knight.”
Richard eyed Ryton, hearing the ominous tone. “Is that what is happening within your ranks? Is that why his face is so bruised?”
Ryton nodded slowly. “He attacked the hostage on our trip south. Creed dealt him a harsh blow and so did Burle.”
“Then perhaps he has learned his lesson.”
Ryton’s impatience slipped through. “He has not learned it yet, my lord. In all of the years the man has served me, he has never shown hide nor hair of an ability to take heed of a lesson taught. I am not sure why the latest incident would weigh any differently on him.”
Richard’s gaze lingered on his captain. “Then I will repeat the question; short of sending him back to his father, what would you have me do?”
Ryton’s jaw ticked; he could see that ridding himself of Jory was out of the question. It was not that his liege was weak; it was that he truly worried for the alliance implications of sending the disgraced knight home to his father. Ryton understood very well his fears, but it did not make their issue with Jory any simpler to resolve. Still, he felt some disgust that Richard was unwilling to take the chance of upsetting an ally over the reality of upsetting his entire castle.
“Perhaps you should have a word with him, threaten him with returning him to his father at the very least,” Ryton said, a measure of defeat in his voice. “Even though you have no intention of doing so, perhaps the threat will be enough for him to amend his behavior.”
Richard nodded, toying with his chalice that was long since empty of wine. Ryton watched his liege closely, for he could see that the man was thinking.
“The hostage,” Richard finally said, somewhat hesitantly. “She is something of a firebrand, is she not?”
Ryton could see their conversation about Jory was over. “She is spirited,” he sighed, knowing it would be of no use to try to continue with Jory’s punishment.
Richard stood up, stretching his lanky body. “I cannot imagine that Creed took the assignment to protect her willingly.”
“He did not. But he is the best one suited for the task. He is the only one of my knights I would trust with her.” Ryton cast his liege a sidelong glance. “You should know that Jory seems particularly interested in her. It is my suggestion that we assign Creed to protect the lady even while she is here at Prudhoe. The last thing we need is for Jory to compromise her, or worse, and have the entire Clan Kerr down around our ears.”
Richard looked at him, a mixture of disgust and impatience on his face. “She is untouchable, Ryton. Jory must understand that. I will not suffer the wrath of the Kerrs because he cannot keep control of himself.”
Ryton merely lifted an eyebrow. “Then that directive should come from you, as his liege. Let him know that if he brings a war down upon us because of his lack of control, we will make sure the Clan Kerr knows him by name. I will not defend a man who would knowingly disrupt a peace accord.”
“I will speak to him,” Richard said firmly. “God help us all if that man harms one hair on her head.”
Ryton was both pleased and surprised that his liege had actually committed to speaking with Jory. He almost always left it up to Ryton unless his captain pushed him into a corner.
“Then I will send him to you immediately,” Ryton was moving for the door, not waiting to be dismissed. “And I will make sure that Creed knows that he is permanently assigned to protect the lady for the duration of her stay.”
“Can Jory not wait until tomorrow?”
“Nay, my lord, he cannot.”
Richard nodded in resignation. “Very well. Send him to me. But be quick about it. I should like to see my bed before the sun rises.”
So would I, Ryton thought dryly. The meeting with his liege had left a foul taste in his mouth; he would have liked to see Richard take a more decisive stand against Jory. The knight was difficult enough to command without strong support from their lord. As Ryton crossed the darkened bailey towards the knight’s quarters, he could see the massive outline of his brother on the wall walk.
He was a silent, deadly silhouette against the moonlit sky. Creed had willingly taken the night watch as long as he could remember; even those many years ago when he was newly knighted, Creed would volunteer to take a post deep into the night. Guardian of Darkness, the older knights used to call the powerful young knight with the intense disposition. The man who would guard the night.
Ryton made the decision to deliver Jory his orders before moving on to his brother. He could only imagine what his brother’s reaction would be.
He was not looking forward to it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carington slept well past dawn. In fact, she would have slept the entire day away had shouts from the bailey not jolted her from a heavy sleep. Yawning, stretching, she rolled over on her borrowed bed, trying to orient herself. It was a bright day beyond the lancet window. It took her a few moments to remember where she was.
She sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Gazing down at the bed, the room, she suddenly remembered Creed and the passion they had shared in this very room. His warmth filled her veins, the giddy unfamiliar thoughts flooding her. It was enough to prompt her to bolt from the bed, calling to the servants that she knew were lingering within earshot. Two pasty-faced wenches showed themselves at the door and she ordered food and a bath. She was very dirty from her trip and wanted to wash the filth from her body. Moreover, she realized she was starving; she’d hardly eaten the day before and her appetite was back with a vengeance.
In little time, a big copper tub was brought and several servants began filling it w
ith steaming water. Carington was a little stand-offish of the English servants, feeling somewhat intimidated to be alone in a great group of them without her protectors about. She kept herself busy, and away from them, by going through the satchels she had brought with her. She was aware she had only brought four garments with her, plain and serviceable, and she selected the faded yellow wool surcoat that had once belonged to her mother. Due to her father’s thrift, she had many recycled garments. In spite of its age, it was the fanciest piece she owned with red and blue flowers embroidered along the scoop neckline. She found herself hoping that Creed would like it.
When the bath was full the two pale serving women remained, huddled by the hearth and waiting to assist the lady with her bath. But Carington wanted nothing to do with the English servants and sent them away. Removing the Elder flower oil and a precious cake of calendula soap from her bags, she stripped off the dusty and soiled clothing she had both slept and traveled in and plunged into the water.
It was hot and stimulating, and she began to lather away with the calendula soap. From the top of her head to the bottom of her toes, she scrubbed herself furiously. All the while, a sweet little tune came from her lips, an old ballad that was common in her clan. When she was completely soaped, she submerged herself in the water, rinsing the lather off. Her hair was not particularly thick, but she had a lot of it, and it took several rinses to see the water run clear. When the black strands squeaked as she ran her fingers over them, she knew she was finally clean.
Never one to linger in a bath, she leapt out and collected a large square of drying linen that the servants had brought her. Still humming her happy tune, she dried off vigorously and wrapped it around her head to soak the moisture from her hair. After a sparing application of the Elder flower oil to her dry skin, she dressed in soft hose, clean linen pantalets, her spare shift and the pale yellow surcoat.
The peat in the hearth was smoking weakly. Carington stoked it vigorously, added a few more clumps of peat that were in an iron bucket near the hearth, and removed the linen from her head. The warmth of the fire began to dry her black hair into a silken mass and she ran her fish-bone comb through it, letting the heat from the fire envelope every strand.
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