Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Alarms went out all over the camp. The sentries sounded the cry in the damp, heavy night air; she could hear them. Her heart began to race as she pounded her way across the wet grass that had been mashed by the contingent of soldiers sent from Prudhoe Castle. She would not cooperate with their assignment. She did not want to live in an English castle as a hostage, insurance that her father would behave himself and enforce the peace from Carter Bar to Yetholm.

  She honestly thought she could outrun anyone who might attempt to chase her down, at least until she lost herself in the trees. She had always been a fast runner. But what she did not count on were the destriers in pursuit, massive war horses bred for battle. They were enormous beasts and she could hear their thunder approach. The trees were in the distance, a dark indistinguishable line too far for her to reach before the warhorses were upon her. She knew she was about to be caught. But she would not give up without a fight.

  A huge mailed hand reached down and grabbed her by the arm. Swinging her little fists, she fought and kicked as the English knight unceremoniously threw her over his lap. Though she struggled valiantly, she was no match against an armored warrior. But that did not stop her from resisting him all the way back to the camp.

  When the knight finally let her go, she tumbled to the ground and ended up on her arse. Furious green eyes, the color of emeralds, glared up at the warrior. She shook a fist at him.

  “Ye should have let me go,” she bellowed. “I will only run again.”

  The knight had his helm on, visor lifted so he could get a good look at her. From what she’d been able to gather, he was the captain of the men who held her captive. He was very tall, with dusky blue eyes and a thin blond mustache. And the look upon his face suggested he would not tolerate her rebellion.

  “Lady Carington,” he braced his gloved hand against his thigh and leaned on it. “I thought we were clear on this matter. Your father has offered you to my liege, Lord Richard d’Umfraville of Prudhoe Castle, in exchange for peace between Prudhoe and Clan Kerr. This has come after several years of bitter conflict to which I have personally witnessed. Even if you should make it home, which would be a miracle in itself, your father would simply turn you back over to us. You do not seem to understand that you have no choice.”

  The Lady Carington Kerr picked herself off the ground with as much dignity as she could muster. She knew his words were true, but still, she resisted. Yet her actions were borne of fear more than of true rebellion; she was terrified at the prospect of being a hostage. Her father had been unclear with respect to the duration of her captivity. Surrounded by strangers, enemy strangers no less, she was full of the Devil. Perhaps if she seemed nasty enough, unruly enough, they would leave her alone. It was all purely in self-defense.

  “Stay away from me, Sassenach,” she growled. “Tell your dogs to leave me be.”

  Sir Ryton de Reyne could see that he had his hands full. His lovely little hostage had been relatively quiet until just a few minutes ago when she smacked one of his knights so hard that the man was still seeing stars. Dismounting his Belgian charger, he handed the steed off to the nearest soldier and took a few steps towards her. But he made sure to stay out of arm’s length, just in case.

  “I can personally vouch for my men, my lady,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “Like you, we are simply doing as ordered. We are taking you back to Prudhoe. You alone have the power to make this a pleasant journey or an unpleasant one. Rest assured that we can play any game you like, and play it far better than you. So I would ask, for your sake, that you accept the situation for what it is. If I have to tie you up for the rest of the journey back to Prudhoe, have no doubt that I will do it.”

  Carington gazed into his dusky blue eyes, having little reservation that he meant what he said. For the first time since her mad dash to freedom, she seemed to show some uncertainty. When she did not reply right away, Ryton took the opportunity to present her to the knights surrounding them.

  “If you please, my lady,” he began casually. “I would introduce you to the knights under my command. You will be seeing much of them and proper introductions are in order. Perhaps it will make you feel more comfortable.”

  Carington took a step back from him; he had come too close and she was still skittish. Ryton indicated the man immediately to his right. “This is Sir Stanton de Witt. If you do not recognize him, you should – he is the one you tried to behead. Next to him are Burle de Tarquinus and Jory d’Eneas.”

  Carington looked at the knight with the huge red mark on his forehead; he was young, pale featured, with big eyes and an angular face. He nodded politely at her and she suddenly felt guilty for striking him. Next to him, Sir Burle was a very large man, older, with receding blond hair and round cheeks. He was very nearly as wide as he was tall, but she could see that with age he had mostly gone to fat. His mail jiggled when he moved. The final knight indicated was a short man with nondescript brown eyes and a head of wavy brown hair. But there was something about his eyes that unnerved her. It was like gazing into a bottomless pit.

  At this point, however, everything unnerved her. As she continued to gaze warily at the collection, the sound of hooves approached from behind and she started. Thundering down upon them was another knight, a figure that cut a massive path through the grass. He was, in fact, a massive man; Carington had seen quite a few large men in her time, being Scots, and was accustomed to big men with loud voices. But this knight was different; he seemed to take up all of the air around him, sucking it dry as he reined his fire-breathing charger to a halt and dismounted. When he flipped up his three-point visor, focusing on the group of knights and one small lady, she swore she saw lightning bolts shooting from his eyes. That was her first impression of the man. She resisted the urge to flinch and step away.

  “The perimeter guards have been calmed,” the man’s voice was so deep that it was like listening to the sound of distant thunder. His gaze barely lingered on the lady before turning back to the knight in charge. “I see you have captured the escapee.”

  Ryton nodded, still looking at the lady even as he gestured towards the enormous knight. “My lady, this is Sir Creed de Reyne,” he said. “I would suggest you make no move against him. He doesn’t like women in general and you would be taking your life in your hands. If he gives you a directive, I would strongly advise that you follow it without hesitation. In fact, that goes for any of my knights. What we do, we do for your safety and not out of some misguided sense of punishment. We are not here to harm you, but to protect you as we have been ordered to. Is that clear?”

  Carington gazed at the host of faces surrounding her. It was clear but she did not like it in the least. For the moment, however, she had no choice. She looked pointedly at the knight in command.

  “What is yer name Sir Knight?” she asked in her heavy, yet deliciously sweet, Scots burr. It would have been quite delightful had the tone not been so menacing. “Ye’ve introduced me to everyone but ye.”

  “I am Sir Ryton de Reyne, commander of Prudhoe’s army.”

  “De Reyne,” she rolled her “r” heavily, looking between Ryton and the enormous knight standing next to him. “Ye both have the same name. Are ye brothers, then?”

  Ryton nodded. “We are.”

  Carington’s gaze lingered between the men, noting a slight family resemblance. They both had the same square jaw, like a block of stone, set and hard. But the aura that radiated from Sir Ryton’s brother was a thousand times more intimidating. Carington did not like the feel, or the look, of him. There was something dark and bitter there.

  With nothing more to say and escape plans thwarted for the moment, the lady remained silent as Ryton motioned to Sir Burle to take her back to her tent. Ryton’s gaze lingered on her a moment, watching her lowered head as his men took her back to her temporary residence. Next to him, Creed had already mounted and was directing his fussing charger back to camp. Ryton vaulted onto his steed and reined his horse near his brother.


  The night was dark and foggy as they crossed the open area towards the cluster of smoking fires. There was heavy dampness in the air, coating their armor with a thin layer of water. It would need to be cleaned and dried before it rusted, keeping the squires up most of the night.

  “What do you think of her?” Ryton asked after a few moments of pensive silence.

  Creed’s dark eyes, a dusky blue color that appeared nearly black with the lack of moonlight, tracked the three knights and the one tiny lady in the distance.

  “It does not matter what I think,” he said. “We are doing as we are told. We are returning her to Prudhoe.”

  Ryton’s gaze moved from the lady to his brother; younger by thirteen months, the two of them had served most of their lives together with the exception of the past three. Creed had been commandeered by King John, having seen the man in action in d’Umfraville’s ranks and demanding his service. Creed had been honored by the king’s request and had served flawlessly up until an escort mission to France to accompany the king’s future bride, twelve-year-old Isabella of Angoulệme, back to England. That had been over six months ago. And that was when the trouble had started.

  Ryton knew his brother did not want anything to do with another escort mission. He’d known it from the start. But his brother was back in the service of d’Umfraville and they had their orders.

  “You are not going to like what I have to say,” Ryton said quietly.

  Creed would not look at his brother. “Then do not say it.”

  “I must,” he said. “You are the only one capable of handling this girl until we reach Prudhoe. You are the calmest of my men and by far the most astute. You are the only one.…”

  “Do not even think it,” Creed rumbled threateningly, his gaze moving over the camp, the distant trees, anywhere but to his brother who was also his commander. “I do not want anything to do with her.”

  “You are the only one I can trust with this,” Ryton spoke louder so his brother would understand that he did not have a choice. “She has already attacked Stanton; he is young and strong, but I fear he may be swayed by her tears. Burle is not fast enough to corral her should she escape him, and I would not trust Jory with the task simply because I would not trust him with an unescorted, or unprotected, female. He has got a foul streak in him, Creed. You know this.”

  Creed rolled his eyes, fighting off the inevitable. He yanked his destrier to a halt. “This is the last thing I need,” he snapped at his brother, hoping the man would be swayed by a vicious tone. “With everything that happened on the trip from France with that… that girl, the last thing I need is to have charge of another. If you are so worried about her, you take the duty.”

  “I cannot,” Ryton said steadily. “I must be available to command. I need you to do this, Creed. This is not a request.”

  Creed just stared at him. He could not believe what he was hearing. After a moment, he just shook his head. “Why would you ask this of me?”

  “Because you are a knight, the best this land has ever seen. What happened with the king’s betrothed was not your fault. You need to understand that.”

  Creed’s angry stance faded somewhat. After a small, painful moment of holding his brother’s gaze, he looked away. “It does not matter if it was my fault or not. What is done is done.”

  Ryton knew the story well. He was also well aware that their liege had whisked Creed away from London under the cover of darkness to avoid the king’s wrath. Creed was, in essence, a wanted man. Wanted by the king who believed the lies of a spurned young girl, which is why he wanted nothing to do with another female. His reaction was understandable.

  “We both know that the truth shall be known someday,” Ryton lowered his voice, not wanting to sound too harsh. “You rejected the advances of an indiscreet young girl who, just to spite you, told the king that you had deflowered her. The truth was that she had been bedded, by many, long before you ever met her. Everyone knows that. Isabella of Angoulệme is a foul, deceitful child who will one day sit upon the throne of England. She is as hated as her husband. You must have faith that this, too, shall pass, and your honor and reputation will one day be restored to you. But until then, you are under my command and you will continue to perform as an honorable knight. Is that understood?”

  They had hardly discussed the taboo subject of the Isabella occurrence, mostly because Creed refused to. It made it difficult for Ryton to help his brother deal with it, although he had tried. But now he saw the opportunity to tell his younger brother exactly what he thought of the situation, clearly and without Creed attempting to shut him up. He had to know that what happened with Isabella had not been his fault. He could not let the incident ruin his life.

  Reluctantly, Creed cast his brother a sidelong glance; he adored his older, wiser brother, a voice of reason when the world was in chaos. His world had been in chaos for six months. Only Ryton had helped him keep his sanity and he did not want to disappoint him. He knew the man spoke the truth, even when he would be happy to pretend otherwise.

  He drew in a long, deep breath. “It is,” he responded quietly. “What are my orders, then?”

  Ryton spurred his charger forward. Creed followed. “You are to keep her with you at all times,” Ryton said. “She is to remain safe, whole and unmolested. If tragedy befalls her, it will seriously jeopardize this peace we are trying so hard to achieve with her father. You must see this task through, Creed. It is important.”

  Creed sighed heavily again, but this time, it was with resignation. “Very well,” he said. “I shall endeavor to fulfill my orders.”

  “I know you will.”

  Ryton watched his brother canter off towards the camp. He knew how hard this was for him. But he also knew the man had to resume his life as if nothing had haunted him for the past several months. Creed was too good, too skilled and valuable, to lose to something as unfair as vicious rumors and untruths. Now the man had to face his fear, unfortunately, in the form of a very spirited, and potentially naughty, young hostage. Creed was jumping back into the fire.

  Truth be told, Ryton felt sorry for him. But he also knew he was the best man for the job. With a pensive sigh, he spurred his horse after his brother, fading off into the soft smoky glow of the distant camp.

  Wrapped in the heavy Kerr tartan, its colors of brown and yellow and green blending into a web of earthy colors, Carington sat before the small bronze vizier that had been lit to bring her a small measure of heat in this damp and foggy cold. Her knees were hugged up against her chest, huddling for warmth, as she listened to the soft conversation of the knights outside her tent. The camp was quieting for the most part as the men prepared for sleep.

  She glanced around her small tent; there was a bedroll her father had sent along and two massive satchels that held all of her worldly possessions. From sitting on the ground, her hands and feet were freezing, even with the heavy fabric wrapped around her and the vizier blazing gently. The defiance she had felt earlier was fading into despair. She struggled not to let it claim her completely but it was a losing battle. When tears of misery threatened, she angrily fought them off. The English hounds were not going to see her weep. She would not let them see just how despondent she was.

  Exhaustion was claiming her as well. It was tiring maintaining such a level of resistance. She had yawned several times while lost in her dark reflections and she glanced at the bedroll more than once, thinking on claiming a few hours of sleep before she was forced to travel again. It would be wise to rest; only then would she be able to resume the energy necessary to maintain her defiance.

  She scooted across the ground towards the bedroll, her feet touching the wet and freezing grass. It was beginning to seep through her tartan as well. Stiff, cold hands reached out to unfasten the ties on the roll. As she fumbled with the strips of leather, the tent flap suddenly moved aside and an enormous figure entered her tent.

  Startled, Carington looked up into the face of the knight who had launched lig
htning bolts from his eyes. On her knees as he stood before her in all of his domineering glory, she instinctively clutched the tartan more closely against her chest as if the fabric would magically protect her from his particular brand of intimidation. Her emerald eyes gazed warily at him.

  “What do ye want, English?” She made a good show of sounding brave.

  Creed did not reply at first; he was looking down at her, studying her, wondering how on earth he found himself in nearly the same situation he had faced six months ago. Granted, this charge was far more pleasing to look at, beautiful if he really thought about it, but the fact remained that he was sequestered with another foolish female. He could hardly believe his luck.

  “I am to be your shadow, my lady,” he said with some disgust in his tone. “I am your protection.”

  Her emerald eyes widened. “Protection? Do I need protection?”

  “A figure of speech. You are to be my charge.”

  Reaching up, he pulled off his helm and tossed it irritably in the direction of the tent opening. It landed with a thud. Carington continued to stare up at him, now faced with the full view of the colossal knight; not only was he wide, but he was tall as well. He was not particularly young, nor was he particularly old. He had a sort of ageless male quality, an ambience of wisdom and hardness that came with years of service.

  She had only been able to see part of his face before. Now she could see that the square jaw housed full, masculine lips and a straight nose. His hair was very dark, with gentle waves through it, and the eyes that shot lightning bolts now appeared a grayish shade of blue. It occurred to her that the man was profoundly handsome but she angrily chased the thought away. She did not want to think such things about a hated Sassenach.

  “I can take care of myself,” she said with more courage than she felt. “I dunna need ye.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said, raking his fingers wearily through his dark hair. “But I am here nonetheless. And think not to get any brilliant ideas about running off again. You would not like my reaction.”