Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Creed spurred his charcoal charger down the road for several yards, studying the soft brown earth.

  “Here,” he pointed to the road as the charger did a nervous little dance. “She came back out here.”

  Burle went over to where he was pointing, kneeling down as much as his armor would allow and studying the ground. “Aye,” he nodded. “She did indeed. It looks as if she has continued south.”

  “Then south we ride,” Ryton lifted a fist to the column of men behind him.

  Creed had already spurred his animal forward, cantering ahead of the troops, keeping his eyes alert for the big blond horse with the little lady upon it. As time passed, he was coming to wonder if they would ever find her. There was so much danger in the world, especially for a lone female. He may have been foolish enough to have given her the opportunity to escape him, but he doubted she realized what she was getting herself into when she made the foolish decision to flee.

  But one thing was for certain; either way, he was the one to blame. Christ, he felt stupid.

  The knights were closing in. Bress was fast, but he was also weary. Carington ended up heading back onto the road she had traveled, a straight and wide road that gave Bress plenty of room to pick up speed. She thought she could outrun the knights and was frankly surprised they had followed her for as long and far as they had. She had expected the drunken warriors to quickly tire of the chase. But they had not. The panic she had been so adept at keeping at bay returned with a vengeance; Bress was tiring and his gait was slowing. If the knights kept their pace, they would eventually catch her.

  The sky was darkening with dusk as they pounded along the road north. The men behind her were slowly closing. In the distance was a heavy patch of forest and in her fright, Carington directed Bress for the trees. Perhaps she could lose her pursuers in the bramble.

  She plowed into the foliage, hearing the shouts behind her. The men were gaining ground. Bress was grunting and snorting as he raced through the trees. Branches whipped back on Carington; one caught her across the neck and she put her fingers on the wound, drawing away bright red blood. She was still directing the horse northward, paralleling the road, when suddenly the forest ended and she was in a meadow, disturbing a flock of pheasants that flew up into the air. Bress startled, reared up, took a bad step and ended up falling over on her.

  Twelve hundred pounds of horseflesh pushed Carington deep into the soft, moist earth. Had the ground been hard, the fall would have most likely killed her. But the earth was very soft and the horse’s weight did nothing more than shove her down into it. By the time Bress rolled off of her, the knights were upon her.

  “See here,” one of them shouted, practically falling off his charger and making haste towards her. “You should not have run, wench. Now you have hurt yourself.”

  She was stunned but not hurt. Arms were reaching down to pull her up and she tried to yank away from them even in her shock.

  “Let me go,” she hissed, struggling. “Take yer hands off me.”

  Two of the knights had her by the arms. “By God’s Bloody Rood,” the same man who had yelled at her spoke. “She is Scots. No wonder she ran.”

  The knight on her other arm shook her roughly. “What are you doing here, girl? Spying?”

  The world was weaving and her ears were ringing, but it did not lessen her resolve to fight. “Let me go!” she shrieked.

  The first knight yanked her hard enough to snap her head back. She ended up pressed against his chest, her small, voluptuous body wedged intimately against him.

  “You are a spy, lass, admit it,” he muttered, spittle on his lips. “We know how to deal with spies.”

  Her struggles increased to panicked proportions as she struggled to pull herself away from the English dog dripping spit on her shoulder. As she twisted and pulled, she suddenly noticed in her peripheral vision that Bress was still on the ground.

  “Sweet Jesus!” she exclaimed softly, her panic for herself turning into panic for her horse. “Bress! He’s hurt!”

  The knights would not let her go. A third knight stood beside Bress, eyeing the softly groaning horse critically.

  “Broke his leg,” he said casually, hands on his hips. Then he looked to the fourth knight who had come to stand next to him. “Give me your sword so I can put this beast out of its misery.”

  Carington began to weep loudly. “Nay,” she sobbed. “My sweet Bress. Let me see him. Oh, please, let me see him.”

  The first knight ignored her plea, bending down to throw her over his shoulder. He was a younger man with blond eyebrows, short of stature but evidently strong. Carington fought and kicked him with every ounce of strength she possessed, trying to aim for his neck. But he wore armor and the helm protected tender spots.

  As he carried her back towards his horse, she caught a glimpse of Bress on the ground, lifting his head as if trying to see where his mistress was. Sobs of grief overcame sobs of terror; she reached out as if to touch the horse, now laying crippled on the ground. She could see a bloodied right rear leg, near the ankle, and the stiff appearance of something that did not look natural jutting out of his leg. It was a bone, and she squeezed her eyes shut at the sight.

  Weak with sorrow and agony, she still struggled with the knight who carried her back to his horse.

  “Please,” she begged through her tears. “Please let me go to my horse. Please let me comfort him.”

  The knight slapped her lightly on the buttocks. “’Tis just a horse, lady. He does not need you.”

  The ring of a broadsword being unsheathed caught her attention. She could see the two knights over by Bress; one of them held his broadsword by the hilt, pointing downward as if to ram it into the ground. But he was aiming at Bress’ heaving chest. Carington screamed at the top of her lungs as the knight plunged the sword into the soft golden flesh of her beloved steed. Bress twitched and then fell still. But Carington kept screaming.

  She struggled weakly with the knight, devastated at the death of her adored horse, devastated that she was being abducted. Her decision to flee the English from Prudhoe had cost too much. It had been stupid, foolish, and ill advised. She knew that now. Slave or no, she would have been better off with the men from Prudhoe and Bress would still be alive.

  The knight was trying to load her onto his charger but she was not a willing burden. As he gave her a good shove to get her up on the horse, a thin wail pierced the air, rapidly growing louder until ending in a dull thudding noise a few feet from the charger. Startled, Carington looked to see a long Welsh arrow protruding out of the ground. Another wail and another arrow buried itself deep in the earth a few feet to her left.

  The knight dropped her from his horse and shouted to his comrades to gather their weapons. As Carington fell to her knees and struggled to crawl away, she caught sight of chargers racing towards them from the road beyond. Great hooves threw up clods of moist earth, the thunder from the destriers filling the air with power.

  She recognized Creed’s big charcoal steed leading the pack. Finding her feet, she had two thoughts; to reach Bress and to stay alive. She did not even think about the punishment she might be facing at the hands of Creed de Reyne. There was a good deal of shouting going on around her as she finally reached her horse, falling beside him in the soft, wet grass. He was still warm. Throwing her arms around his neck and laying her head on his face, she closed her eyes to the sounds of death all around her. Grief consumed her and tears started anew, almost uncaring that she was surrounded by danger.

  It did not take long for the sounds of the battle to wane. Four knights against the force that Creed had brought was hardly much of an opposition. She felt a hand on her arm, a soft male voice in her ear.

  “My lady?” Stanton was standing over her, his sword drawn to ward off any fighting that might come into proximity. “Are you all right, my lady?”

  She opened her eyes, looking up at him even as she continued to lie on her horse. She could not even speak. But she did
nod, once. Stanton had her by the arm, his angular face laced with concern.

  “Please, my lady,” he pulled gently. “You must get up. We must get you to safety.”

  She shook her head, holding the horse tighter. “Nay,” she wept softly. “I canna leave him.”

  Stanton’s pale eyes moved over the horse, seeing the chest wound, the leg. “Did they do this?”

  She continued to sob as if her heart was broken. “They chased me and my horse fell.”

  “Did they kill your horse?”

  “His leg was broken.”

  Stanton did not ask anything more. His eyes were up, looking for Ryton or Creed. He spied both of them standing several yards away, interrogating the only enemy knight left alive. The other three had been dispatched and were being hauled away by Prudhoe men. He finally saw Creed break away and head towards them, his massive broadsword still in his hand and his visor lowered. Even though the battle was done, he was still in full battle mode. And Stanton knew, from the atmosphere of their trek south, that his mood was as dark as the coming night.

  Creed was nearly on top of them when Stanton spoke.

  “Those knights chased her and the horse broke his leg in the process,” he said, hoping that Creed would take some pity on her before letting loose his punishment. “She is unharmed.”

  For a man whose entire reputation was based on an unflappable demeanor, the full-blown fury Creed was feeling in his veins was uncharacteristic. He paused next to the big blond horse, watching the lady weep quietly over the beast. It was difficult to isolate why, exactly, he was angry; at the lady for escaping, at himself for feeling like a fool, or at the knights for making an attempt against her. But he realized, above all else, that he was angry because he felt fear. He was unused to fear in any form.

  “Back on your mount,” he growled at Stanton. “Go find someplace to set up camp for the night.”

  The pale young knight was gone, but not without a lingering glance to the crumpled lady. As Creed stood there, struggling to formulate some manner of communication that did not come blasting out at her, Jory rode up astride his bay stallion. He gazed down at the lady, her dead horse, and snorted.

  “Serves her right for running off,” he said.

  Creed’s head snapped to him but he was already gone, digging his spurs into the side of his horse and thundering off. At Jory’s words, Carington burst into fresh tears and Creed looked down at her. The longer he watched, the more his anger tempered. Above his fury, he could see what had happened. Aye, her foolish decision had caused all of this. But he was not without empathy for the results. With a deep breath for calm, he sheathed his broadsword.

  “Are you all right?” he asked with more composure than he felt.

  She was sobbing against the horse’s golden coat. “Aye,” she wept.

  “What is that on your neck?”

  She had forgotten about the bloody scratch. She sat up, fingering the wound. “A… a tree scratched me,” she sniffled, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands.

  “Those knights did not do that?”

  She shook her head. “Nay.” Her gaze fell back on the horse and she stroked the blond neck, the pale hair of his mane. “Oh, Bress. Forgive me. I am so sorry.”

  He stood there a moment, watching her kiss the horse. Darkness was falling and he wanted to get her to the safety of the encampment. Now that he knew she was safe and uninjured, it was easier to be calm. But he was still rightly furious.

  “My lady,” he said quietly. “We must retreat to the safety of camp for the night.”

  She looked up at him, eyes welling. “I canna leave him.”

  He gazed into the emerald eyes, the deliciously sweet face, and felt himself soften. It was difficult to maintain his harsh stance when she was so grief stricken.

  “There is nothing more you can do for him,” his voice was considerably gentler. “I will have my men properly dispose of him.”

  She let his statement settle, looking back down at the dead horse. Her gaze moved to his torso, his legs, coming to rest on the broken one. Her lower lip trembled.

  “He was startled by the birds,” she said. “We came through the trees and the birds flew out of the grass. He tripped and fell on me, but I dinna know he was hurt until… until.…”

  She could not finish and a new wave of tears washed down her cheeks. As Creed stood there and debated if he should physically remove her, his brother came upon him.

  “Those knights were from Gilderdale,” he said in a low voice. “If we let the survivor live, he will return to Black Fell Castle and we will have the whole of Gilderdale down around our ears.”

  Creed flipped up his visor, scratching his chin where his hauberk was chaffing him. “It was a fair fight, Ryton. We were protecting our hostage.”

  “Gilderdale will not care. They are a war machine.”

  Creed just shook his head. “I doubt Gilderdale would attack us for revenge on a justifiable conflict.”

  “We killed one of Gilderdale’s heirs.”

  Creed’s dusky blue eyes focused on his brother; that subtle statement changed everything. “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m open to suggestion.”

  Creed drew in a long, deep breath. There was reservation in the tone. “Then I would suggest sending him back to Gilderdale. The man is a knight, and a captured one. It is not honorable or ethical to assassinate him once he has been subdued.”

  Ryton looked over at the knight in the distance. Creed followed his brother’s gaze and they both studied the short, older knight as he stood with Jory. As they mulled over the man’s future, Carington successfully calmed herself from the last barrage of tears, her gaze moving to the enemy knight several feet away. She wiped at the last of the moisture around her eyes, stood up, and moved towards the man.

  Creed and Ryton watched her with some surprise and mostly curiosity. Then they followed. By the time she reached the knight, they could hear her soft, sweet lilt against the cool evening air.

  “Ye were the one who killed my horse,” she said.

  The older knight looked at her. She could see no panic, no fear in his eyes, simply resignation. “He was in pain, my lady,” he replied quietly. “I did what was necessary.”

  “But I asked ye not to.”

  “You would rather have the beast suffer?”

  She sniffled, studying him in the dying light. Then she shook her head, slowly. “Ye were swift with it. I saw ye.”

  “It was necessary.”

  “Where were ye going to take me? Ye and those others.”

  His faded blue eyes were fixed on her. “Most likely back to Gilderdale.”

  “And then what?”

  “You would have to ask Sir Gregory that.”

  “Who is Sir Gregory?”

  “The man who held you. He is one of Gilderdale’s sons.”

  She was almost completely calm by the time the conversation lulled. She looked over at Creed and Ryton, standing side by side. The wind was whipping up, teasing her black hair and plastering her surcoat against her curves. She had an unbelievably divine figure, a body that most men would move heaven and earth to touch. Her full breasts were bold and inviting, her waist slender and long. But she paid no mind to the gusting wind or to Jory’s hot gaze upon her silhouette. She was looking at Creed and Ryton, and both of them were looking at her face.

  “He was not like the others,” she said. “I dunna want ye to hurt him. Send him home. Please.”

  She added the final word as almost an afterthought, gazing deliberately at Creed as she did so. Ryton also looked to Creed, but Creed was looking at the lady. She was not full of fire and spark like she had been since nearly the moment he had met her. She was calmer, her manner far more pleasing. Standing in the blowing wind with her black hair swirling around her, she looked like a little doll, beautiful and perfect in every way.

  Creed broke away from his brother and went to the lady, reaching out to grasp her elbow. “I am t
aking the lady to camp,” he said, gently taking her arm. “Jory, see to the horse. Ryton, do what you will with this knight. But the lady has asked he be spared and I would suggest that you consider that request.”

  With that, he led Carington away, back to the tide of men in the distance. The Prudhoe escort was disassembling to the south, preparing to camp for the night. Already the smoke from cooking fires was filling the air as fire after fire was lit to ward off the coming night. Carington glanced over her shoulder to where Bress lay still and alone upon the cool grass. She could feel the tears again and she sniffled, trying to keep them at bay.

  “Have you eaten?” Creed asked as if he did not hear the sniffling.

  She shook her head. Then she nodded. “Bress and I ate earlier today. We found some blackberries and…,” she suddenly looked up at him, curiosity and trepidation in her expression. “How did ye find me?”

  He scratched the same spot on his chin that was always chaffed by his hauberk. “By tracking you. Your horse has distinct hooves.”

  She had not thought on that, although she should have. “How did ye know his hooves?”

  “From where he was standing with the other horses this morning.” He did not look at her. “Do you care to tell me why you ran?”

  “Are ye going to beat me?”

  “Not if you tell me the truth.”

  She wiped daintily at her nose; she suspected he would not beat her, anyway. He was, in fact, very calm as he asked her. He should be furious. And she should have stubbornly refused to answer him, but she could not muster the strength. Being stubborn had gotten her horse killed.

  “Because,” she said softly; he barely heard her. “I dunna want to be a prisoner.”

  “I told you that you were not going to be a prisoner. But if you continue to behave like this, we will have no other choice but to lock you up.”

  She did not have an answer to that. She was still thinking on Bress, the results of her actions, and she looked over her shoulder again to see Jory standing over the golden body in the distance. She came to a halt and Creed with her. He noted the concerned expression on her face.