Page 127 of Historical Hotties
“That would be a pleasant change.”
Creed spoke as he entered the tent, having heard her last sentences. His dusky blue eyes fixed on her and he realized, to his surprise, that he might actually be glad to see her. The thought was so startling that he angrily chased it away and his demeanor darkened as a result. “I heard the shouting across the field,” he said lowly, enormous fists resting on his hips. “What seems to be the problem?”
Carington stared up at him; he was sucking all of the air out of the room again. Her heart seemed to be fluttering strangely at the sight of him but she pushed the awareness aside, refusing to analyze it. Perhaps she was ill. Perhaps she was just tired. The fact that she started experiencing these strange symptoms the moment Creed entered the tent had nothing to do with it.
“No problem, m’lord,” she said, lowering her gaze. “I… I was simply coming to know my guard dogs better.”
Creed passed a glance at both knights; Stanton’s gaze was steady and wide-eyed, while Burle’s was a bit more seasoned. He and Burle had served together for years and they knew each other well. He trusted the older knight’s sense of things.
“Is all well?” he asked the man.
Burle nodded with the trained patience of one used to dealing with women. “It is, my lord.”
“Then you may go and get your supper. Send someone with the lady’s, if you will.”
Both men acknowledged his request as they left the tent. Creed removed his gloves, scratched the back of his neck, and generally settled himself without so much as a glance to Carington the entire time. She sat on the small stool, shivering in the chill, watching every move he made. She was attempting to ascertain his mood, trying to figure out if he was still angry with her for her earlier escapade. He seemed rather glum. She had no idea why she should be concerned with his mood but she was.
“My horse,” she began hesitantly. “Did… did all go well?”
“It did.”
She did not say any more, realizing that Bress was in flames somewhere outside and not wanting to think about it. The thought made her sad again, and sadness brought another round of brimming tears. She discreetly chased them away, not wanting him to think she was weak and weepy. Carington had never been the crying sort. But the past two days had seen that particular characteristic change.
Creed was not immune to her tears; he was well aware of them. His gauntlets, breast plate and greaves ended up in a heap on the floor. As Carington sat with her back to him, he whistled low in his teeth and watched her jump at the sound. Immediately, his two squires vaulted into the tent.
“Steven,” he said to the shorter, brown-eyed lad. “Remove my armor. Make sure it is thoroughly cleaned of the sweat and grime; I do not want any rust on the plates.”
As Steven collected the solid pieces of armor, Creed turned to the tall blond lad beside him and held out his arms. “Pull,” he commanded softly.
James took hold of the chain mail hauberk and pulled it over his lord’s head with ease. Considering the boy had been doing it for half of his life, he was adept at the chore. By now, Caringtonhad turned to the activity, watching the squires work around Creed. The boys were silent and efficient, skinny Sassenach lads on the brink of manhood. When James accidentally met her eye, he blushed furious and lowered his gaze. He was the first one bolting out of the tent with Steven right behind him.
“Yer squires are young,” she commented softly. “How old are they?”
Creed raked his fingers through his wavy dark hair, glancing up at her as he did so. “Steven has seen sixteen years. James has seen fifteen.”
“The tall blond lad?” she said, surprised. “He is so big. He looks much older than his age.”
Creed nodded, moving towards the vizier to see why it was not warming up as quickly as he would have liked. “He was a tall boy when he came to serve me at seven years of age. His father was Constable of York until his death a few years ago.”
“Oh,” she thought of the quiet, fatherless boy. “A pity. He seems like a good lad.”
“He is.” Creed grunted as he broke up a smoldering piece of peat with the iron bar.
Carington watched him closely, hoping a bit of pleasant conversation might lift both his mood and her spirits. She found she needed some lifting. But the way he was breaking up the peat, she wondered if pleasant conversation would do any good with him.
“Ye are a father to him, then,” she stated quietly.
Creed shook his head, slamming the door of the bronze vizier shut. “I am his liege.”
“Do ye have sons of yer own, Sir Creed?”
He did look at her, then. “Nay,” he replied. “And you may call me simply Creed.”
Somehow, Carington felt as if she had accomplished something great by just that simple sentence. She did notunderstand why it meant something to her, but it did. Her heart began doing the strange leaping thing again, pounding against her ribcage.
“As ye say,” she said quietly, almost shyly. “Ye… ye may call me Cari if ye wish. No one calls me Carington; ’tis too long. Father says it exhausts him to say my entire name because he runs out of breath before he can get it out of his mouth.”
Her soft sentence had an unexpected result; Creed actually smiled. Carington’s heart pounded louder at the sight of it; he had a beautiful smile that dramatically changed his face. If she thought he was handsome before, or rather tried not to think it, then the event of an unanticipated smile confirmed her observations. She could no longer deny the obvious; the man was stunning.
