Page 115 of Historical Hotties
Hovering by the vizier, struggling to calm her shaking body, Carington could hear him severely reprimanding the sentries outside, berating them for not having intervened when they heard the sounds of struggle. She heard a loud thump and a simultaneous grunt as something, or someone, was thrown to the ground. Realizing that she was indeed safe, the tears of relief came. Creed came back into the tent to find her weeping.
“What is amiss, my lady?” he went to her, concerned. “Are you injured?”
She wiped her eyes quickly, embarrassed that he had seen her tears. “Nay,” she sniffled, keeping her head lowered so that he could not see her face. “I… I am well enough. I am simply exhausted.”
He stood over her, hands on his hips, watching her lowered head. Carington hoped he would move away from her, allowing her to regain some of her composure, but he did no such thing. Much to her dismay, she heard his joints pop as he crouched beside her. A massive hand shot out and gently grasped her by the chin. Like it or not, Carington was forced to look at him.
He was studying her, curiosity and nothing more. She was such a delicate little thing, like a beautiful little doll, but somewhere deep down a fire of strength burned. He could see it. She was scared to death and still maintaining a semblance of control. A small amount of respect for the woman took hold.
“Your face looks well enough,” he had originally intended to look for bruises but found himself staring at her just because he could not help it. “On behalf of my liege, I would offer regrets for his actions. They are not indicative of our usual treatment of honorable hostages.”
Carington gazed into his dusky blue eyes, feeling a strange heat radiating from them. Not the lightning bolts she had imagined earlier, but something more intense and discreet. She did not like it and pulled away from his hand. When the hand went to rest casually by his side, she realized the man had the most enormous hands she had ever seen. One of them could swallow up most of her head.
“Ye are English,” she said quietly. “I’d expect nothing less.”
He almost smiled; it was a fair statement, at least in her eyes. He continued to gaze at her, still crouched, still watching her lowered features. “This day was supposed to bring about a new understanding between your people and mine. So far, all we understand from one another is a lack of trust and completebrutality. Do you suppose that is what your father and my liege wished for when they set about this plan?”
She wiped her nose. “Nay.”
“What did your father tell you that he wished for?”
She was reluctant to look at him, reluctant to carry on a conversation with him. But the man had just saved her from a horrible situation; perhaps she owed him a measure of courtesy.
“No more battles,” she said quietly, her gaze moving between his face and her fidgeting hands. “He has lost many a man to wars with the English, including his three brothers. He has no family left but me.”
“Then he has sacrificed much.”
“Aye.”
“Then why would you try to escape and run back to him?”
Her head snapped up, the emerald eyes narrowing. “Because… because I dunna want to be here. ’Tis not fair to pledge me to hostage. There are a number of others that could do just as well.”
“Like who?”
She was returning to her normal, belligerent demeanor. “I have six girl cousins,” she insisted. “He could have sent any one of them.”
“But it would not have had as much impact. You are a laird’s daughter. The peace contract holds far more weight with you as collateral.”
Carington’s emerald eyes flamed out and she looked to her hands again. Her expression rippled, changing from one emotion to another. “Maybe so,” she said after a moment. “But he has thrown me into a den of lions.”
“It may seem that way,” he said quietly. “But I assure you that d’Eneas is not representative of us all. There are those of us who wish peace also and would seek to protect you as the emissary of that peace. We have all lost friends and family against the Scots.”
She did not reply. She kept her head lowered, fumbling with her hands, and Creed rose from his crouching position and went back over to where his tray of food now lay scattered. As he lowered his big body to the ground, he heard a soft voice.
“Have ye?”
He paused to look at her, almost seated, and lowered himself the rest of the way. “Aye.”
“Who?”
“My younger brother.”
As she looked at him, her gaze appeared less hostile. The brittle, hard emerald eyes softened into something liquid. “When did he die?”
“Almost five years ago at Kielderhead Moor.”
She nodded in recollection. “I remember that battle,” she said softly, almost reflectively. “It went on for three days. I lost an uncle in the end.”
