Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Naked as the day she was born, Carington wielded the sconce like a club and whacked him several times over the head with it. She was screaming like a banshee, praying she could do enough damage to at least get away. Jory was wallowing on the floor, trying to defend himself, but somewhere in the middle of it he got hold of the sconce and yanked it from her.

  Carington almost toppled over as he pulled it out of her grasp. Shrieking, she raced to the door and tried to open it, only to realize that it was bolted. She could hear voices on the other side and she screamed again for help. As she fumbled with the iron bolt, Jory grabbed her from behind and tossed her onto the bed.

  She hit her back on the wooden frame, momentarily stunning her. But her fight did not leave her and she put her fists up as Jory came crashing down on top of her. One fist hit his nose but he grabbed her wrists, struggling to pin her arms.

  “You little bitch,” he growled. “I am going to take my pleasure with you and then I am going to kill you.”

  Tears were threatening now that he seemed to have the upper hand but Carington refused to give up. She could hear voices on the other side of the chamber door, louder now, and she prayed that someone had run to find Creed. She had no idea where he might be. As she wrestled with Jory in an attempt to prevent him from pinning her arms, he suddenly balled a fist and cuffed her on the side of the head. Dazed, she went limp and bordered on unconsciousness.

  When she stopped resisting, Jory went in for the kill. He fumbled with his breeches, groping her tender breasts and slobbering all over her flesh. He could hear the concerned voices on the other side of the door but he ignored them; he knew no one would punish him. No one ever did. It was this false sense of security that helped feed his lust, knowing he would get away with what he was about to do. Lord Richard would surely prevent Creed from exacting any revenge. If the man wanted to keep the alliance with Jory’s father, no one would harm him.

  He lowered his breeches and roughly pulled her legs apart. Carington suddenly came to life and brought a knee up, catching him in his arousal and Jory fell back with a scream. Moderately lucid, she was preparing to leap over the bed and unbolt the door but Jory grabbed her before she could get close. She still was not recovered from the last blow when Jory began pounding her about the head again, his hands going for her throat. Carington could feel his hands tighten around her neck and she struggled to fight him off as the world began to blacken. She began to think that she was about to die when the door suddenly exploded.

  Splinters and debris were still flying through the air as Creed charged into the room like an avenging angel. Burle was right behind him. Creed was not armed but Burle was; it took Creed a half-second to see Jory with his hands wrapped around Carington’s neck and he yanked the broadsword from Burle’s grasp, driving it deep into Jory’s torso. Blood spurted as Jory collapsed with a scream.

  Carington fell to the floor, only half-conscious. She was struggling to breathe. Creed left the broadsword in Jory’s gut as he scooped his wife into his arms and moved her away from the dying knight. Grabbing the coverlet, he shielded her nakedness from the people now pushing into the tiny chamber. Chaos and the sounds of dying suddenly filled the room.

  “Cari,” he rubbed her cheeks, her neck where Jory’s fingers had left bruises. “Honey, can you hear me? Answer me!”

  She coughed as she began to come around. Her emerald eyes fluttered and struggled to open.

  “Creed?” her voice was a raspy whisper.

  Burst of fury aside, Creed came apart when he realized that he had just saved her from certain death. Had he been a minute later, it might have been another story. Tears welled in his dusky blue eyes as he stroked her face gently, attempting to bring her back to consciousness.

  “I am here, honey,” he murmured. “Look at me, sweet. Open your eyes and look at me.”

  Behind him, there was a great deal of commotion going on as Jory went through his death throes. Burle just stood over him grimly, watching the man twitch and foam. Lord Richard was there, watching with horror but making no move to help him. Out in the hall, Kristina and Lady Anne were clutching each other and weeping while Edward and Gilbert just stood in the doorway, jaws agape. Anne finally pushed into the room and made her way to Creed, obviously avoiding Jory. She could not bear to look at him.

  “Let me see her, Creed,” Anne climbed onto the bed where Creed was holding his wife. “Let me see the damage.”

  Creed could not even speak; his eyes were swimming with tears as he shifted slightly so that Anne could inspect Carington. The woman ran gentle fingers along Carington’s head and neck.

  “Look,” she stroked a temple. “She has the bruise already. And her neck is quite red but I do not feel anything broken or out of place.”

  Creed started to say something but emitted an odd noise that sounded more like a strangled sob. Anne looked at him, concerned, only to see that tears were popping out of his eyes and falling onto his wife. She could see, at that moment, that he was far more terrified than he was angry. The man had just lost his brother; now the threat against his wife had put him over the edge. Pity filled her.

  “Creed,” she murmured, putting her hand on his head. “I do not see any permanent damage. She will be all right.”

  He emitted a sob and closed his eyes, burying his face in Carington’s shoulder. As Anne gently stroked his dark hair, Carington began to grow more lucid.

  “Creed?” she blinked her eyes, coming out of a strange fog and realizing that her husband was sobbing against her. She blinked again, seeing his head on her shoulder. “What has happened? Why are ye weeping?”

  His head came up, fixed on her. “Because… hell, because I thought Jory had killed you.” He stroked her dark head with a trembling hand. “How do you feel? Are you all right?”

  She was feeling much better than she was just a few seconds before. The world was righting itself although her head hurt tremendously. She put a hand to her skull. “I am all right,” she said softly, not wanting him to know how weak and achy she felt. He did not look as if he could take any more bad news and she put her hand on his face to wipe away the tears. “I am fine, English. Nothing to worry over.”

  He emitted a heavy sigh and kissed her gently a couple of times. Then he sat up, taking her with him. “What in the hell happened? How did Jory end up in here?”

  She looked over to the corner of the chamber, seeing Burle, Lord Richard and now Stanton and Galen standing over a crumpled form. The latter two knights had heard the commotion way out in the outer bailey and had come armed for battle.

  “I dunna know,” she said honestly, her head lying against Creed’s massive shoulder. “I was asleep when suddenly he was upon me. He told me to cooperate or he would kill me.”

  Creed’s gaze moved to Jory for the first time since he had delivered the death blow. Blood was pooling underneath him and the man was clearly dead. His anger was beginning to return.

  “Damn him,” he growled. “God damn him to hell.”

  Richard looked up from Jory’s still form, his face pale as he focused on Carington. He took a few halting steps in her direction.

  “Did he hurt you, Lady de Reyne?” he asked.

  Carington felt a flash of pleasure at hearing her new title but she was too exhausted and hurt to acknowledge it. “He beat me well enough,” she replied weakly. “But ’tis nothing I willna recover from.”

  Richard looked sick. “Perhaps I should call a physic. There is a fine physic in Newcastle; ’tis not too far from here.”

  Carington tried to shake her head, struggling to sit up in her husband’s embrace. “Nay,” she said with more strength. “No physic. I will be fine. I just need to rest.”

  Richard nodded regretfully, passing a lingering glance at Jory’s still form. “Get him out of here,” he told Burle.

  The knights heaved Jory’s body off the floor and Burle took him over one of his big shoulders. Creed could not even muster the will to look at the corpse as they remo
ved it from the room. Had he not been more concerned with Carington at the moment, he would have taken much delight in defiling the body. For all of the anger and anguish he was feeling, he would have liked nothing better than to gore the man a thousand times over and call it justice. So it was best that he not look at all.

  When the knights had left with a trail of blood behind them, Creed tucked the coverlet in tighter around Carington and continued to rock her gently. Anne remained seated on the bed behind him, her gentle hand on Carington’s forehead to give what comfort she could. Kristina stood in the doorway, sobbing.

  “Is… is she all right, my lord?” the pale blond asked timidly.

  Carington heard her friend and her head came up, her emerald eyes focusing on her. She smiled wearily.

  “I am all right,” she said. “Dunna stand there; come in here and sit with me a while.”

  Kristina moved reluctantly into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling bravely through her tears. Carington moved an arm out from beneath the coverlet and extended her hand to the young girl. Kristina clutched it eagerly.

  “I believe ye are more talented than ye know,” she said softly.

  Kristina sniffled, looking confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Yer card game; did it not predict death and chaos?”

  She had meant it as a joke but Kristina’s eyes opened wide as she remembered her predictions. “I am going to burn all of my cards,” she suddenly burst into tears. “I never want to play with them again.”

  By this time, Creed’s head had come up from where it had been resting on top of Carington’s dark head.

  “What cards?” he asked.

  Carington squeezed Kristina’s hand. “My friend has magic cards that divine the future. She told my fortune yesterday and, so far, everything has come true.”

  Creed smiled faintly, noting that Kristina seemed truly despondent. “Cards do not foretell the future, my lady,” he assured her. “I would not worry overly.”

  They continued to sit in silence for a few moments, each to their own thoughts; Kristina of her foreboding cards, Creed of how close he came to losing his wife, Carington of going back to sleep, Anne of how tenderly Creed held his wife, and Richard of how he was going to tell Jory’s father that his son had been killed. No matter that it had been in the course of a brutal crime and clearly Jory deserved what he received, the fact remained that Jory’s father, Baron Hawthorn, was going to take issue with it. Richard wondered on the repercussions.

  Richard finally went to the bed, patting his wife on the shoulder. “Leave them to rest,” he instructed quietly. “They have had enough excitement for one day.”

  With a final stroke to Carington’s head, Anne rose from the bed and took Kristina in hand as they quit the chamber. Richard followed, his gaze lingering on the horrific state of the room and wondering if any more horrors await them; in the past two days, Prudhoe had seen its fill.

  “I will send Burle back up to you,” he told Creed softly. “He will be outside your door should you require anything.”

  Creed simply nodded, hearing the door shut softly behind him. When they were finally alone, he fixed on her.

  “Tell me the truth,” he murmured. “How badly did he hurt you?”

  She sighed faintly. “He beat me around the head and shoulders, but he dinna do any real damage.”

  “That is not what I meant.”

  She gazed at him, realizing what he meant by the expression on his face, and she fought off a blush. “He dinna do what ye are asking,” she replied in a whisper. “He tried, but he dinna do it.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing, I swear to ye.”

  He swallowed hard; she saw it. There was an enormous amount of relief in his manner.

  “Will you at least allow me to inspect you for injury?” he asked gently.

  She shifted in his arms, moving away from him so that she was in the middle of the bed. She opened up the coverlet, letting it fall. Her soft, thoroughly delicious body was revealed in the weak morning light.

  “Look all ye wish,” she told him. “I know you dunna believe me when I say that I will be all right. Look and see that I have no broken bones or bloody wounds.”

  His concerned expression was turning lusty as he gazed upon her perfect breasts and narrow waist. True, she looked well enough except for the red welts around her neck and the lump on her head. She also looked extremely enticing.

  “Are you sure?”

  She pursed her lips at him irritably and he knew, in that gesture, that she was indeed going to be all right. The sass, the spark, was still there.

  “How many times are ye going to ask me the same question?”

  He smiled at her, reaching out to collect the coverlet and wrap it back around her body. Like a babe in swaddling, he took her gently in his arms and lay down with her on the bed.

  His lips were against her forehead as he held her close. He kept reliving over in his mind how close he came to losing her, thanking God that he had been in time to prevent it.

  “I am so sorry this happened,” he murmured against her head. “Had I had any idea that Jory would have tried something like this, I would have taken much greater steps to protect you.”

  She was exhausted, her lids heavy and sleep beckoning. “’Twas not yer fault, English,” she replied. “Ye would have had to read his mind in order to know what he was thinking.”

  “Still,” he muttered, “I should have been here.”

  She sighed contentedly against him, snuggling close. “Yer here now.”

  “I will always be here, I swear it.”

  She fell asleep with a smile on her lips.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Late November 1200 A.D.

  Creed was having a very difficult time that morning. He had been privy to hysterics, weeping, fury and pouting. There was a tempest going on around him and nothing he could say would make a difference. Still, he continued trying. All the while, he could hear Carington in their bower, alternately cursing and crying. She was a mess.

  “Honey,” he called gently, struggling to be patient. “My dearest, sweetest love, I told you that we would go to town today to visit Rita. Surely she has something lovely and delightful that will fit you.”

  Two months ago, they had moved into a small cottage that was built into the inner wall of Prudhoe near the great hall. Richard had ordered the cottage constructed when Creed had made the ecstatic announcement that his wife was pregnant. Until that time, they had remained in the tiny room on the fourth floor of Prudhoe’s keep but with a baby on the way, they would quickly outgrow the space. Anne had been most insistent that Prudhoe’s commander and his wife should have their own home with their growing brood and Richard had agreed.

  So the cottage with three rooms was built just for Creed. Carington had been thrilled. But at the moment, in the bedchamber with the big, new bed that had given her so much delight, she was furious because her surcoats had reached the point where they would no longer fit. At nearly seven months pregnant, she was already large with child and growing larger by the day.

  But it was the way of things and in spite of Carington’s pregnancy-induced mood swings life was very good these days. Creed had gotten to the point where he simply did not think about the pending trials he was still waiting to face. No information had been exchanged to any regard; of his marriage, Jory’s death, or the queen. Prudhoe had kept to itself and hadn’t let the rest of the world in. Creed’s life was here and now, and he was happy awaiting the birth of his first child. It was all he could focus on. He would deal with everything else when the time came.

  As he stood in the main chamber of their cottage, Carington came huffing into the room with her arms full of garments. She dropped them on the table near the hearth.

  “I canna fit into any of these,” she raged. “Nothing fits anymore. I have grown as fat as a pig.”

  Creed gazed at his wife who, he thought, had never looked more
beautiful. Her lovely face was rosy, her delicious body round and ripe with a gently swollen middle section. He adored making love to her this way.

  “You are a goddess divine,” he smiled at her.

  Her emerald eyes flashed and her lip went into a pout. He could see more tears approaching.

  “Will ye take these to Rita and ask her to amend them?” she sniffled.

  “I told you I would. Do you want to go?”

  She shook her head, wiping at her eyes. “Nay,” she squeaked.

  He went to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Why not?”

  She began to weep again, falling forward against him as he swallowed her up in his massive embrace. He rocked her gently, fighting off a smile. She was an emotional wreck these days as the pregnancy wreaked havoc with her thoughts.

  “Because I dunna feel well,” she wept. “Nothing fits me properly and my belly aches.”

  “All right, love, do not trouble yourself,” he rubbed her back, her arms gently. “I will go into town and deliver these to the seamstress. Shall I get you some custard cakes while I am there?”

  She nodded, wiping at her eyes. “I want a dozen of them. And mind ye dunna forget to go to the merchant with the spice cakes. I would have some of them as well.”

  His grin broke through; she ate nothing but sweets these days and then would cry because she was not fitting into any of her clothes. In truth, he was quite enjoying it because she was animated and humorous when she was not raging with the change of the hour. He kissed the top of her head and let her go.

  “Then if I am to go into town, I must get my armor together and collect my horse,” he said. “Is there anything else you want?”

  “Nay.”

  “Are you sure you do not want to go?”