Page 112 of Historical Hotties
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 hishorse after his brother, fading off into the soft smoky glow of the distant camp.
*
Wrapped in theheavy 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 tounfasten 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 lightning 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 grayishshade 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.”
“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 knewshe 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.”
