Page 129 of Historical Hotties
Though he could not bring himself to tell her, by his expression, she knew something was wrong. Creed went to collect the plates with the meat on them, taking them outside the tent. Carington could hear soft conversation as he spoke to his men outside, perhaps his squires. She did not know. All she knew was that he had looked rather disgusted about something.
They finished their bread and cheese in silence.
*
Later that night,Carington lay on her bedroll staring at the tent wall. She knew that Creed was behind her, sitting propped against a post, his moody gaze fixated on the glowing vizier just as it had been for the past hour. He just sat and stared as if deep in thought. She was convinced she had said something to upset him.
It was too bad. The situation had been so pleasant until their meal had been served. Then he became sullen and quiet. She wanted to ask him what the matter was but she did not have the nerve. She did not know the man; it was frankly none of her business.
The vizier was not doing a very good job of warding off the chill and she only had her tartan for warmth. A chill ran through her as she lay there, staring at the faint light flicker off the tent wall.
“Sir Creed?” she rolled over onto her back, looking at him across the vizier. “Do ye suppose there are any blankets or furs about? I’m a wee bit cold.”
His moody gaze turned to her. “It is just Creed.”
He was on his feet and moving for the tent opening. Outside, there were four sentries and he sent one of them scrounging for covers. He stood there, waiting for the man to return, as Carington tried to huddle down for warmth. The night was growing colder and unless she wanted to sit on the vizier, the little furnace did not have the power to stave off the chill. Just as she actually dozed off, the sentry returned with a riding cloak, the only cover he could find.
It was rough and dirty, but there was warmth to it. Creed took it from the man and closed the tent flap, trying to seal up the gap so that he could keep whatever warmth there was inside the tent. When he had fussed with it enough so that there was some barrier, he went over to Carington.
She lay still with her eyes closed. The top of her dark head and her eyes were all he could see above the faded tartan. He stood there a moment, gazing down at her dark head, wondering why he was feeling so much angst and confusion. It seemed to all center around her; fury at Jory for his imagined vendetta against her, puzzlement because in spite of everything, he felt a certain interest in the petite little lady. As calm as he was, she was equally fiery. As big as he was, she was equally small. He told her not to do something, so she would therefore do it anyway. But she had proven herself humorous and, at times, most amiable. Christ, he could not believe he was entertaining such dangerous thoughts.
Kneeling, he placed the cloak over her, tucking it in about her small body and trying not to wake her. His big fingers tucked it under her legs, his gaze moving up her delicious figure. And that was another thing; the woman had a body that men would kill to taste. As beautiful as her face was, it was her figure that set her apart from the rest. He had noticed it today in the gray surcoat that clung to every crevice, every curve. She was almost surreal in her perfection. Unfortunately, others had noticed it, too. He’d seen Jory’s face. It was another suspicion to add to his concern and his sense of protectiveness grew.
He moved away from her with the intention of retreating to his spot near the post. Just as he did so, she suddenly sat bolt upright on the bedroll, emitting a low, teeth-chattering groan.
“Is there no warmth to be found this night?”
Her teeth were rattling as she fumbled with the tartan. Her small hands shot out and she put them up against the vizier in desperation. But as quickly as she touched it, she immediately drew away with a yelp. The bronze was sizzling. Creed was moving back in her direction.
“You will burn your hands if you do that,” he admonished.
She looked truly miserable; her entire body was shaking. “But I am freezing,” she insisted. “If it will only make me warm, I will gladly scorch my hands.”
He instinctively reached out to grasp her fingers, feeling that they were indeed icy. “I do not believe you would be happy with the long-term results of that,” he said, enfolding both of her hands in great warm palms. “Allowing a Sassenach to warm your hands is probably the lesser of the evils.”
The moment he grasped her fingers, she tried to snatch them away. That lasted about a half a second. When she realized that his hands were indeed quite warm, she forgot about her hatred, fear, pride, or anything else that might have fed her resistance and gave in to his grasp completely. In fact, she buried both of her hands in his heated palms.
“Ye’re like a roaring blaze,” she closed her eyes as his heat began to draw the cold from her fingers, causing a prickling feeling. “How is it ye’re not freezing like I am?”
He was fully aware that they were much closer, for propriety’s sake, than they should be. “A body this size gives off a great deal of heat,” he replied evenly. “You do not have much flesh on your bones to warm you as I do.”
She lifted a dark eyebrow at him. “I am not scrawny if that’s what ye mean.”
He pursed his lips at her. “Do you always assume I am inferring something negative about you? I simply meant that I am a good deal bigger than you are and, consequently, I give off more heat than you do.”
She eyed him, realizing that he was probably right. She did assume everything he said was an insult to her, yet he had never truly outright insulted her. She backed down. “My apologies, then,” she said, feeling her hands spring back to life within his warm grip. “I wouldna want to insult the only Sassenach that has come to my aid.”
But the silence that fell after that was uncomfortable, as she could sense his gaze upon her but did not know what to say. Her cheeks were growing warm, though she had no idea why. When her heart started its funny little jig again, she silently pulled her hands from his grasp and reclaimed her tartan about her. The cloak, however, was not as easy to manage and she struggled with it, trying to wrap it around the tartan. It was dusty and dirt flew up in her face, making her sneeze.
Suddenly, the cloak took on a life of its own and wrapped itself tightly around her. More than that, there were arms holding the cloak firm; powerful, enormous arms. It took Carington a moment to realize that Creed had bound her up in the cloak and proceeded to pull her into his massive embrace. She stiffened in shock.
“What are ye doing?” she gasped.
“Being practical,” he said, shifting her board-stiff body into a comfortable position so her pointy elbows were not jabbing him in the gut. “You are cold; I am warm. Since the vizier is not doing its job of heating you adequately, I am offering my services. Would you rather freeze to death?”
She was still mortified, stunned, but the moment she felt his heat against her arms and back she could feel herself relenting. She could feel his warmth through the material, and it was evil and comforting at the same time. She should be punching him in the nose for his forwardness. But she could not muster the will.
“Of course I wouldna,” she tried to sound outraged but did not do a very good job. “But ye… like this. Andmelike this. It isna proper!”
