Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “So ye threaten me, do ye?” Her outrage was tempering her fear of him.

  “’Tis not a threat but a promise of things to come should you rebel.”

  Her rosebud mouth popped open in indignation. Then it shut swiftly, pressed into a thin angry line. “Just like a Sassenach. The only words out of yer mouth are those of threat and pain. Do ye know nothing else, English?”

  He did not react to her other than to pop off pieces of armor. His sword, in its sheath, ended up near his helm. “Rules must be established, lady,” he said patiently. “You have already proven yourself untrustworthy. I am simply following your lead. If you are going to act like a delinquent, I am going to treat you like one.”

  She did not want to admit he was right. In fact, she hated him for making her feel like a fool. Turning away from him, she angrily unrolled her bedding and crawled atop it, settling herself with frustrated movements.

  Creed finished stripping off his armor, alternately watching her body language and paying attention to his own. Further inspection of her showed that she was indeed a pretty little thing, with long, curling black hair and eyes the color of emeralds. She had a pert little nose and lips shaped like a bow. And she was petite, no bigger than a large child. But he knew she was no child; the Lady Carington Kerr, the only daughter of Laird Etterick, Sian Magnus Kerr of Clan Kerr, was a full nineteen years old. She was a grown woman and more than a little old for a hostage.

  His gaze lingered on her as she settled into her bedding. There was something oddly intriguing about her although he could not put his finger on it. In fact, he did not even want to think about it. His squire appeared at the tent opening, distracting him with food and drink, and Creed thankfully motioned the lad in. The boy set the tray to the floor just inside the doorway and fled. With a heavy sigh, Creed sat on the ground beside the meal and downed most of the wine before he even attempted the bread. He found he needed the drink more than he needed the sustenance. Whenever a woman was around, he needed the fortification of alcohol.

  He heard a soft sigh, glancing over and realizing that the lady had finally settled down. But he could also see that she was cold, clutching the tartan close about her and not seeing much relief from the damp cold. He turned back to his cup, ignoring her until she sat up swiftly and climbed off her bedroll. As he watched, she pulled the bedding over to the vizier and lay back down again. The red-hot furnace was against her back as she settled back down again.

  Creed gazed at her as she struggled once again to be comfortable. He could see highlights of red in her hair that were reflecting off of the light from the vizier. The nearly black color seemed to mask a rainbow of warm hues only revealed by the light. Her hands, little white things, clutched at the tartan. He found himself watching her probably more than he should have. She was cold and he wondered if he should offer to stoke the vizier more; a chivalrous man would have. But his chivalry had left him a few months ago when it had gotten him into trouble. Never again would he make the same mistake of showing kindness to a woman.

  Just as the lady’s movements lessened and she seemed to still, the tent flap opened and Jory stuck his head in. Short and compact, the young knight sought out Creed.

  “Your brother needs a word with you,” he said, eyeing the supine figure. “I shall watch the lady while you are gone.”

  Creed set his cup down and stood without hesitation. But he paused when he reached the opening.

  “You will not go near her, is that clear?” he said. “If she has been touched, harmed or harassed in any way, know that my retribution shall be swift and painful.”

  Jory’s dark eyes widened at the man who was literally more than twice his size. “I would never touch her, Creed.”

  Creed did look at him, then, lifting a knowing eyebrow. “That is not true; otherwise, I would not have felt compelled to make things plain to you.”

  He was gone, leaving Jory standing just inside the doorway with an insulted and slightly fearful expression on his face. After several moments of silently cursing Creed, he settled into a crouched position next to Creed’s half-eaten meal. Out of spite, he knocked over the remainder of the wine and snorted at his handiwork. He lingered by the doorway, watching the lady’s head as it lay partially buried beneath the colors of the hunting tartan.

  Jory d’Eneas was something of an erratic and, at times, appalling creature. Fathered by a powerful baron from a common servant, he had been sent away to foster at four years of age. Though sequestered at a noble house, he had become the victim of an older knight who had seriously abused him from the time he was very young up until he became a squire and could muster the strength to fight the man off. Though there were some that knew of the despicable abuse, no one cared enough to stop it.

  Consequently, Jory grew up with a twisted sense of morals and an even more twisted view of the world. He was a strong fighter and had moments of sanity in which one might think he was a decent human being, but for the most part, Jory was a man that bore watching. He came to serve Richard d’Umfraville because Jory’s father, Baron Hawthorn, had begged it of d’Umfraville. Not wanting to upset his old friend, Lord Richard had agreed.

  Even now, as Jory watched the lady sleep, Creed’s threat had little effect on him. True, he was frightened of the man, but it would not prevent him from ultimately doing as he pleased. As the vizier glowed softly and the night outside quivered with the soft sounds of the evening, Jory took a few slow steps in the lady’s direction. To an outside observer, it would have looked like a predator stalking prey. To Jory, it was simply a normal approach. His dark eyes glittered as he closed in on her.

  Carington was not asleep; she had heard Jory entered the tent and heard the subsequent conversation between him and Creed. In fact, as she lay buried beneath the tartan, she was wide awake, her senses attuned to any movement in the tent. She could hear footsteps approaching. When the grass near her head softly gave way, she bolted up so fast that she tipped the red-hot vizier onto its side, spilling the coals to the damp earth.

  Jory was no more than a foot away from her as she rolled to her feet. She clutched the tartan to her, backing away from the knight still in slow pursuit.

  “Stay away from me, Sassenach dog,” she hissed. “If you come anywhere near me, ye’ll regret the day ye were born.”

  Jory smiled. Then he came to a halt. After a moment’s deliberation, sizing the lady up, he laughed softly and put up his hands.

  “You need not worry over me, my lady,” he said, turning away and looking for a place to sit in the small, cramped quarters. “I was simply checking to see if you were adequately resting. However, since you are awake, I can see that you are not. You really should be, you know. We are departing in a few hours.”

  There is something disturbing about him, Carington thought as she watched his mannerisms. She did not reply but continued to stand several feet away, coiled like a spring. Jory glanced at her as he plopped down at the edge of her bedroll to avoid sitting on the smashed grass beneath his feet.

  “You may return to sleep, my lady, truly,” he said, now toying with a blade of grass by his boot. “I will not threaten you.”

  Carington did not move. She continued to stand there, eyeing him. His back was to her. Suddenly, a light appeared in the emerald eyes, something of brilliance and bad judgment. She was closer to the tent flap than he was. Moreover, his back was to her. He probably would not even see her leave until it was too late. Very slowly, she took a step in the direction of the tent flap. Then she took another. But Jory suddenly threw himself at her before she could bolt from the tent and the battle was on.

  He had a good hold of her, but Carington was a fighter. She hissed and scratched like a cat, battling the knight for all she was worth. In the course of their struggle, she tripped over the long tartan and fell onto her back, taking Jory with her.

  He landed on top of her, listening to her grunt, imagining in his sick mind that they were pants of pleasure. It had been a long time since he ha
d heard such things. He trapped her with his legs, holding her arms fast, watching her porcelain-like face contort with struggle.

  “My lady,” he breathed, his face very close to hers. “Why do you fight so? There is nothing of the English that should frighten you so.”

  Not only was she angry, but now she was terrified. Her second escape attempt was thwarted before it began, and now apparently with far more ghastly consequences. She was too small to battle with him, too small to give him a good fight. His weight was smashing her.

  “Get off me, ye foul beast,” she grunted. “Take yer hands from me.”

  Jory was not even struggling with her anymore; he simply lay on top of her, feeling her squirm beneath him. It was horrendously exciting.

  “Nay, lady,” his tone contained both menace and seduction. “You have been caught at escape again. You must be punished.”

  “Ye’ll not lay a hand on me,” her struggles increased. “Get… off!”

  Her last word was punctuated by bringing a knee up, aiming for the male groin. She made weak contact, enough to cause Jory to transform from one twisted emotion to the next with blinding speed.

  “Unwise, lady,” he squeezed her wrists so tightly that she let out a squeal of pain. “If you are going to play with unfair tactics, then so shall I.”

  Horrified, swiftly slipping into panic, Carington had no idea what he meant. But she quickly found out.

  Creed stood in his brother’s tent watching Ryton remove a few pieces of armor so he could obtain a moderate amount of comfort when he lay down to rest. Creed was still not pleased with his orders and, consequently, with his brother at the moment. He sighed heavily, standing half-in and half-out of the tent.

  “What is it?” he demanded quietly.

  Ryton glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Jory said you wanted to speak with me.”

  Ryton’s hand paused on a leather fastener near his arm, his brow furrowed. “Speak with you? I did not.” He resumed working on the fastener. “But Jory and I were speaking just a few moments ago. I asked him to remind me to speak to you about the lady’s mount. But it could just as well wait until tomorrow. It was not necessary to send for you.”

  “What about her mount?” Creed asked, weary and the least bit perturbed.

  Ryton yanked off the breastplate that had been restricting him for the better part of the day. He handed it off to a hovering squire.

  “That big blond horse she brought with her,” he said. “I am not entirely sure she should be riding it. ’Tis a big beast with male instincts. It has been biting at everything that moves, including the destriers. It gave Stanton’s charger a nice bite on its flank. I would hate to have the spirited thing somehow gnash her before we reached Prudhoe.”

  Creed blinked slowly, without patience. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  Ryton shrugged, sitting heavily on the three legged stool that was shoved into the ground near the portable vizier. A very small amount of warmth radiated from it and the man held up his hands a moment, attempting to warm them.

  “Let her ride with you, I suppose,” he said, running his fingers over his scalp and focusing on his brother. “But it was something we could have just as easily discussed tomorrow. You are supposed to be watching a hostage.”

  “I was.”

  “Who is with her now?”

  “Jory.”

  Ryton lifted an eyebrow. “Get back to her, Creed.”

  There was something in his tone. It suddenly occurred to Creed that perhaps Jory had given him the message to get him away from their hostage. He could not believe the man was foolish enough to not only make an idiot out of him, but to attempt something against their valuable captive.

  With a grunt of frustration, he marched from the tent and back across the camp. His irritation towards Jory was growing every step of the way and he sincerely hoped the man was sitting quite patiently in a corner of the tent awaiting his return. Anything else would surely be met with hostility, especially after the parting words between them.

  He was still several yards away from the tent when he heard what he thought was a muffled cry. Creed broke into a dead run.

  He had licked her face.

  He had licked her face and now he was in the process of making an attempt to grab a body part that was not his privilege to do so. He was trying to kiss her, too, with his slobbering mouth and foul breath. Carington tried to scream but he kept putting his mouth over hers. All that was coming out of her throat were muffled grunts. He was not a big man, but he was strong. His dead weight upon her was rendering her helpless.

  Carington finally got a hand free and jabbed her finger into his eye. Jory screamed but only partially rolled off of her. She tried to flip over on her stomach, struggling to crawl away from him, but she was tangled in the tartan and could not get free quickly enough. Jory was back on her in a flash, pulling her long dark hair. He yanked her head up, his face shoved into the side of her hair.

  “You will not do that again,” he grunted into her ear, listening to her cry softly when he ran a tongue along her earlobe. “Relax and stop fighting, my lady. I will not hurt you; I promise.”

  Carington was struggling not to succumb to hysterics. It would be so easy to burst into terrified sobs. She swung a hand back, smacking him in the forehead but doing little damage. The vizier was almost within arm’s length; she thought to grab it and throw it on him, not thinking that she might burn herself in the process. All she knew was that she had to fight. This man had foul intentions towards her and she was terrified.

  Her fingers grazed the leg of the vizier but she could not get close enough to grab it. The knight had a hand underneath her, squeezing her breast. Suddenly, the weight on top of her was removed and she heard the knight shout in pain and, perhaps, fear. Full of panic, she scrambled to her feet and grabbed the nearest weapon she could find, which happened to be a small iron bar that was used to stoke the vizier. The tartan fell on the ground as she swung around to Jory, fully prepared to shove the bar right through his head. But what she saw surprised her.

  Creed stood just inside the tent opening with Jory in his grasp. But it was not any grasp; he had the younger knight around the neck, lifting him up off of the ground and squeezing the life from him. Jory was trying to dislodge his grip, but it was like trying to move iron. The man’s hands weren’t budging.

  Seeing Jory subdued, Carington raced to the battling men and smacked Jory on the head hard enough to knock him senseless. As Jory went limp in his grasp, Creed’s surprised focus diverted to the lady. Before he could stop her, she took another whack at Jory’s head and split his scalp.

  Creed dropped Jory to the ground and grasped the lady by the hands. He yanked the iron bar from her panicked grip and tossed it aside. Half-carrying, half-dragging, he took her back over to her bedroll. The lady was furious, terrified, struggling not to cry. Her breathing was coming in sharp little pants. Creed could see how frightened she was and a small amount of guilt crept into his veins.

  “Did he hurt you?” he asked gruffly.

  Carington’s gaze was riveted to Jory as if afraid he would rear up and grab her again. But she tore her eyes away from the supine knight long enough to look into deep blue bottomless pools. Oddly, they eased her somewhat. “I… I dunna think so,” she sounded hoarse with fright. “But he tried. Sweet Jesus, he tried.”

  “But you are well? No broken bones or injuries?”

  “Nay.”

  Creed’s gaze lingered on her a moment before returning his focus to Jory. As the anxiety of the moment waned, he took a deep breath for calm but continued to hold on to the lady’s hands. They were like ice. He turned back to her, noting that her exquisite face, pale with terror, was still focused on Jory. In spite of his resistance, he felt himself softening.

  “He will not hurt you again,” he assured her with quiet authority. “You have my word.”

  He stood up and went to Jory, now stirring slightly on the w
et ground. Effortlessly, he slung the man over his shoulder and went to the tent flap, snapping orders to the sentries standing outside.

  Hovering by the vizier, struggling to calm her shaking body, Carington could hear him severely reprimanding the sentries outside, berating them for not having intervened when they heard the sounds of struggle. She heard a loud thump and a simultaneous grunt as something, or someone, was thrown to the ground. Realizing that she was indeed safe, the tears of relief came. Creed came back into the tent to find her weeping.

  “What is amiss, my lady?” he went to her, concerned. “Are you injured?”

  She wiped her eyes quickly, embarrassed that he had seen her tears. “Nay,” she sniffled, keeping her head lowered so that he could not see her face. “I… I am well enough. I am simply exhausted.”

  He stood over her, hands on his hips, watching her lowered head. Carington hoped he would move away from her, allowing her to regain some of her composure, but he did no such thing. Much to her dismay, she heard his joints pop as he crouched beside her. A massive hand shot out and gently grasped her by the chin. Like it or not, Carington was forced to look at him.

  He was studying her, curiosity and nothing more. She was such a delicate little thing, like a beautiful little doll, but somewhere deep down a fire of strength burned. He could see it. She was scared to death and still maintaining a semblance of control. A small amount of respect for the woman took hold.

  “Your face looks well enough,” he had originally intended to look for bruises but found himself staring at her just because he could not help it. “On behalf of my liege, I would offer regrets for his actions. They are not indicative of our usual treatment of honorable hostages.”

  Carington gazed into his dusky blue eyes, feeling a strange heat radiating from them. Not the lightning bolts she had imagined earlier, but something more intense and discreet. She did not like it and pulled away from his hand. When the hand went to rest casually by his side, she realized the man had the most enormous hands she had ever seen. One of them could swallow up most of her head.