Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Somewhere towards the end of his speech she stopped struggling, gazing up at him with those liquid emerald eyes. But there was still fire in the depths.

  “I willna surrender if that is what ye are asking,” she said defiantly.

  “That is not what I am asking. Do you not see that I am trying to help you?”

  She did. He had been trying to help her since nearly the moment they had met. But she did not want his help. She hated him and everything about him.

  “Let me go,” she said through gritted teeth.

  He did, immediately. Carington rubbed her wrist where he had squeezed, glaring daggers at him. Creed merely gazed back with his customary cool.

  “You will answer my question. Do you understand that proper behavior will gain you far more than resistance?”

  “I understand that ye are trying to subdue me.”

  “Are you so dense? No one said anything about subdue.”

  “Dunna call me dense, Sassenach,” she snapped. “Ye are trying to force me into submission by taking my horse and my freedom.”

  “Your freedom has already been taken. What do you think a hostage is?”

  Her ranting came to an abrupt halt. She stared up at him, still rubbing the wrist, but her expression was morphing from one of fury into one of realization. The emerald eyes begin to waver; the lower lip, to tremble. He had her and they both knew it.

  But it was not in Carington’s nature to so easily yield. There was much Scots in her, much fight. She had inherited the intrinsic sense of loathing for the English and those who would seek to take away the liberty that every Scots believed was their inherent right. No man should rule over another; race should only rule over the same race. The English believed they were more civilized and, therefore, more intelligent to administer over their brothers to the north. Carington, her father, and her father’s fathers, believed they were quite capable on their own. They did not need any interference.

  “I hate ye, Sassenach,” it all came out as a blurted, passionate whisper. “I’ll hate ye until I die.”

  He was unmoved. “That is your choice. But in spite of that, I am still your shadow and will do what is necessary to ensure both your safety and your suitable manners. You will behave, my lady, or my retribution shall be swift. I’ll not have you striking out at everyone who upsets you, for clearly, that is a frequent occurrence. Is that clear?”

  She looked away, rubbing her wrist and struggling not to weep. She was so mad that she was verging on tears. But she was also feeling an extreme measure of defeat. At the moment, there was nothing left for her to do but relent. She was not so foolish that she did not realize that. But she was not giving up entirely.

  “May I please see to my horse?”

  She asked so softly that he almost did not hear her. As the squires began to collapse the tent behind them, Creed held out his hand to her and she understood the gesture to walk with him. When he reached to take her elbow, purely as a courtesy, she deliberately pulled away. She did not want the knight touching her. She did not want to show any capitulation to the man whose directives she would be forced to comply with. She hated him. She would hate him forever.

  Some of the horses were being tended by the time they reached the make-shift area where the horses were tethered. The sky was lightening to a pale gray, enough so that Carington could see the blond head of her tall horse back in the herd. Without a word to Creed, she ducked under the roped barrier and wove her way among the horses, occasionally slapping a big horse butt that got in her way. When she came to within a few feet of Bress, she clucked to him softly, calling his name. The horse’s ears perked in her direction and he nickered softly.

  Carington and the monstrous horse came together in an affectionate clash. Creed stood a few feet away, watching her hug and kiss the big golden head. The horse nibbled on her arm and flapped its big lips at her face when she tried to kiss it. It was actually quite touching to watch, if he were to admit it. He could see just by the way she handled the animal that she was very much in love with it. Without all of the resistance and fight, he could sense that she was a sweet and compassionate woman. He began to have some doubt as to whether or not he should forbid her from riding the animal; she had indeed ridden it yesterday with no ill effects. Perhaps his brother’s concerns were overrated.

  As he mulled over his thoughts, Carington proceeded to inspect every inch of the horse. When she was sure the animal was unharmed, she turned to Creed.

  “Has he been fed yet?” she asked. “I would like to feed him myself.”

  Creed looked around to the few soldiers milling about, men who usually tended the horses on a long march. “I doubt it,” he said. “Stay here a moment. I’ll see about procuring him some food.”

  She watched him as he wandered off into the lifting fog, studying his confident gait. To see a rear view only confirmed that he did indeed have the widest shoulders she had ever seen. He also cut a very pleasing shape with a narrow waist, tight buttocks and thick legs. But just as those warm thoughts rolled across her mind, she angrily chased them away. She hated the man. She refused to think him attractive to look at.

  Bress’ eyes were half-lidded as she stroked the blond face. He had an even white blaze down his face that was distinctive and lovely. As she petted the horse, a thought suddenly occurred to her and she found herself seeking out Creed’s location; he was a good distance from her, speaking with a soldier. A quick glance back at Bress showed the horse with a halter and lead rope only; no saddle or bridle to make for easier riding. But no matter; she had ridden him with just a halter many a time. She was comfortable with it. And Creed was too far away to give immediate chase.

  Carefully, and with one eye still on Creed, she looped the lead rope over Bress’ neck and secured it to the other side of the halter to create make-shift reins. Bress was the fastest horse she had ever seen. She knew the fat destriers would be unable to keep pace with him. Aye, she had decided not to run, once. But she had changed her mind, now that she saw what the Sassenachs truly had in mind for her: complete submission and utter humiliation. She would not be a hostage; she would be a prisoner. And the big beast Creed de Reyne would take great pleasure in her surrender.

  The last Creed saw of Carington, she and her golden horse made a graceful jump over a rope barricade and were disappearing into the awakening dawn.

  She could not go home. Carington knew that; she knew that her father would only turn her back over to the Sassenachs and they would probably beat her for her insolence, so she knew right away that she could not return to Wether Fair. That meant she had to flee far enough to be able to start a new life for herself, far from peace treaties and English knights and Scots barons. It was a foolish and desperate thought, but she was foolish and desperate at the moment. She did not want to be a token for peace. She did not want to be a prisoner. She wanted; nay, needed to be free.

  Bress was swift; he covered several miles within the first hour. The morning fog had lifted slightly, but it was still cold and wet. In little time she had made it to a larger town far to the south, although she was not exactly sure why she was heading south. More than likely because Creed and his brotherhood of devils would expect her to head for home, so they would turn northward to search for her. She would fool them and go south.

  A few hours into her flight, Bress was showing signs of exhaustion. She slowed the horse and directed him off the road, into a cluster of trees to shield them from the highway. The animal was sweating and foaming, so she began to walk him through the thick bramble to cool him off. He tried to munch on the clusters of wet grass but she pulled him up, wanting to cool him before he ate.

  The fog had almost completely cleared as they emerged from the bramble into a lovely green meadow with rocky crags in the distance. Some of the peaks had a white cap of snow. She had a fairly good sense of direction and knew she was heading to the southeast, but she had no idea if there were any towns nearby or what she would do when night fell.

&nb
sp; She would have to feed and shelter herself, which she was confident she could do. Being the only child of a warlord, her father had taught her a few things he had hoped to teach a son. He had taken her hunting on occasion and she knew how to catch small game. She also knew how to identify edible plants for the lean times when meat was unavailable. Thanks to the cook at Wether Fair, she also knew how to prepare items like bread and ale. She was quite good at making ale and, thanks to her father she was quite good at drinking it, too. She wished she had some if only for the warmth it would provide.

  Carington glanced up at the sky; it was late morning, possibly mid-day, and she was famished. Bress needed to eat and rest also. Wandering across the green grass of an early spring season, she could hear water in the distance. She followed the trickling sound, across the meadow, through a thicket, and emerged on the other side. A small stream cut right through the pasture and she allowed Bress to drink heavily now that he was sufficiently cooled. When he was finished with his water, he went to work on the thick grass that lined the stream and she tethered him to a bush so that he would not run off. With the horse munching happily, she could focus on herself.

  She needed food. The thicket was not too far away and she retraced her steps, entering the dark, cool trees and hoping to find some edible foliage. Off to her right, on the outskirts of the trees, was a huge cluster of dandelions. She went to the patch, collecting as much as she could and using the length of her surcoat as a basket.

  With a large amount of greens in the folds of her garment, she continued to search for edible plants. She found some dill weed growing wild and collected a good measure. She fingered through a section of the foliage, coming across a blackberry bush that was bursting with fruit. Thrilled, she harvested as much as she could carry. What she could not eat, Bress would. The horse had a sweet tooth. Laden with her harvest, she emerged from the thicket and made her way back to her gobbling horse.

  Sitting beside the stream, she washed her meal and ate until she was stuffed. Bress ate the dandelion heads; she ate the delicious leaves. The horse did not want the dill weed, but he munched the blackberries that turned his horse-lips purple. She tried to turn her back on him and gobble down her berries so he would not eat them, but he would bang at her with his big horse head and shove her around until she handed over the goods. In the end, he ate more than she did, but both were satisfied.

  Sated, Carington’s thoughts began to turn towards the coming night. She had to either find shelter or make it, and she was not entirely sure that staying in this spot was a good idea. She had already given Creed and his evil comrades the opportunity to catch up with her, but it could not have been helped. She decided that she needed to continue on and find shelter as it became necessary. If she thought about it, she had some measure of anxiety since fleeing the English; she was fearful of what would happen if they caught her, fearful of what would happen if someone else caught her. Her flight was foolish and she knew it. But she had to keep going.

  Bress was rolling around in the grass when she finally stood up. He seemed particularly happy. Grinning at his antics, she collected his lead rope and coaxed him to his feet. He stood up and shook himself like a wet dog. Pulling the horse along with her, she retraced her steps back out to the road.

  The wind was picking up slightly, blowing her black hair about. Shielding her eyes from the weak mid-day sun, she gazed to the north and finally to the south, seeing not a soul in either direction. Mounting Bress, which was no easy feat considering how tall the animal was, she gathered her make-shift reins and began to trot southward along the road.

  This was lush country with moors and crags about the landscape. After an hour of riding, she crested a small hill and spied a village in the distance. She could see ribbons of gray smoke rising from a few chimneys, signaling the approach of dusk and the coming evening meal. Night still fell early, even in the spring, and she made haste to the town to find someplace to sleep for the night. She hoped to find a stable or something similar for both her and the horse. Without money, she had little choice in lodgings.

  Carington was careful to stay out of sight when she entered the small berg. There was a large tavern near the outskirts and she could hear the laughing and shouting coming forth from the mortar and wood structure. She paused in the shadows, watching the activity, wishing she had money to pay for such a place. She was coming to long for warmth and descent food.

  For the first time since fleeing, she was beginning to feel some doubt. She was no longer sure her decision had been the wisest, but she supposed it was better than being a slave. Turning away from the laughter and smells of cooking meat, she reined Bress back in the direction she had come. She had seen a couple of outbuildings near the edge of the town that would do quite nicely if no one was using them. They had looked old and unstable, but it did not matter; shelter was shelter and she was in no position to be choosey.

  Suddenly, laughter and shouting burst from the inn as several knights spilled into the avenue. They were very drunk and very happy. With minor curiosity, Carington turned to glance at them as Bress plodded back down the avenue. She did not think anything of them until one of the men looked in her direction and shouted.

  “Hey!” he bellowed. “You, wench! Where are you going? Come back here!”

  Panic flared in her chest. It was the attention she had feared and she cursed herself for being stupid enough to have walked right into it. Digging her booted heels into Bress’ golden sides, she roared off into the dusk. Behind her, the knights attempted to drunkenly mount their chargers. But even intoxicated, they were experienced riders and took off after her. Carington could hear the thunder of hooves behind her.

  The chase was on.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Creed knew they would never outrun her.

  The best they could hope for was tracking her horse and the animal had left distinct hoof prints in the dirt where the horses had been tethered for the night. Burle was a master tracker and had kept them on a steady path most of the morning. Surprisingly, she had continued south. He had been positive that she would have turned for home. But instead, she continued deep into English territory. It did not make much sense. But, then again, nothing about the woman did.

  The entire Prudhoe escort was mounted and following within minutes of the lady’s escape. Ryton did not scold him, although Creed could tell by his brother’s expression that he was displeased. He had, in fact, put Creed in charge of her to avoid this. But she had escaped him. Stanton, in spite of being smacked in the skull by the lady, had fared better. The more Ryton stewed about it as they rode south, the more irritated he became.

  “You had time to talk to her,” he said to his brother. “Where do you think she will go?”

  Creed shrugged his shoulders. “We spoke of trifling things. One thing I do not profess to do is read women’s minds.”

  “You should have kept a better eye on her.”

  Creed did not respond; he would not explain himself to his brother when Ryton already knew that Creed’s knightly skills were beyond question. What happened was unexpected, yet in hindsight, Creed supposed he should not have left the lady standing alone with her horse. Truth was he had not given it much thought until he caught a glimpse of the big golden horse leaping over a barrier with its dark haired mistress. Then he’d just felt frustration. Frustration, with help from his brother’s remark that was now growing into anger.

  Stanton cantered beside Creed on his big brown charger. The young knight had seemed particularly concerned with the matter of the escapee; in fact, he’d seemed concerned for the lady the moment they had collected her from Wether Fair. Were the man not married with a young child, one might have taken his concern for romantic interest. But Ryton knew, as did Creed, that it was just infatuation. She was a pretty girl and he was naturally fascinated. Stanton just did not have it in him to be devious or deceptive.

  “Should we check the woods, Creed?” he asked, his visor flipped up and his angular face flush
ed. “Perhaps she has gone into hiding?”

  Burle was up ahead, aboard his fat gray charger, riding on the side of the road and studying the ground. “Burle has her scent,” Creed told him. “We will wait for his opinion.”

  “Perhaps you should have put someone else to guard her, Ryton,” Jory’s voice floated up from behind them, over the thunder of the hooves. “Your brother does not seem to have much luck with women.”

  It was a deliberate dig, vengeance for the beating Creed had dealt him the night before. Jory had a loose mouth but was no good at backing up his assertions. Ryton did not bother turning around.

  “Another word and I send you on to Prudhoe alone,” he said steadily. “After what you did last night to the lady, you are lucky that you are still in my corps. The baron will know about your actions towards the hostage, Jory. I have no use for degenerates such as you.”

  Had anyone else said it, Jory would have snapped back. But Ryton was his commander and he wisely kept his mouth shut. But it did not prevent him from feeling as if, somehow, he had been the one who had been slighted.

  Burle suddenly threw up a hand and everyone came to a halt. Creed, Ryton and the other knights rode up to him, watching the man point off to the east; there was an enormous meadow, as far as the eye could see, with snow-topped peaks in the distance. The land was lush and green from an early spring.

  Burle got off his charger and following the hoof prints that veered off the road. “She went off into the meadow.”

  All eyes moved to the landscape beyond. “There is virtually no cover,” Ryton said. “If she was still in the meadow, we would see her.”