Page 206 of Historical Hotties
De La Londe nodded wearily, as if all of his strength had suddenly left him. “It is,” he replied quietly. “There were six of us who went on that mission; you, me, de Wolfe, de Russe, St. John and Wellesbourne. All of us, to some degree, have been punished by the king for his wife’s pregnancy. Wellesbourne even had his lands confiscated. But we would not condemn you; none of us would. The more the king threatened, the more we stood united.”
“But you have come to arrest me,” Creed pointed out softly.
De La Londe’s pain was evident. “I stood with the rest until the king abducted my wife. Then I had no choice.”
Creed continued to stare at the man, horrified. He suddenly looked to Galen, standing several feet away and still clutching Carington.
“Bring the priest to me immediately.”
The knight let go of Carington and went off in search of Massimo. As he did so, Creed’s gaze suddenly fell on his wife and for the first time since his arrival to Prudhoe, he allowed himself to focus on her. He had been afraid to before; afraid that he would lose control and turn into a raving lunatic. But now, with the situation somewhat in his control, he allowed himself todrink in the sight of her. It was more, and better, than he could have ever hoped for. And with that realization, the dam he was struggling to hold back suddenly burst.
She was dressed in the delicious yellow lamb’s wool, looking more beautiful than he had remembered. His heart began to do strange things against his ribs and a lump formed in his throat. He lost his composure altogether and went to her, capturing her roughly against him and listening to her soft sobs in his ear. It sounded like heaven.
There were tears in his eyes as he whispered against her ear. “Massimo told me that you… the birth….”
Carington held him tightly around the neck, a death grip she never intended to release. “I am fine, English,” she wept softly. “Now that ye are with me, I am fine.”
The tears in his eyes spilled over onto her hair. “Are you sure? Massimo said….”
She could feel the wetness from his tears and hastened to reassure him. “I am sure,” she pulled back to kiss the small amount of flesh that was exposed by his lifted faceplate. “’Tis true that I was sick for a time, but I feel better every day.”
He just looked at her, tears on his face and his lower lip quivering. She shushed him softly, wiping the moisture off his face with a free hand. She knew there was a dual reason for his tears; one reason he could hardly bring himself to voice and another one he’d not yet managed to express. There was still the unspoken matter of the baby. She would not let him torture himself so over it.
“There will be more bairns for us,” she murmured, strongly endeavoring to compose herself since he was showing such unbridled emotion. “The physic said so. What happened… ’twas just a tragedy, English. ’Twas nobody’s fault and there was nothing ye could have done had ye been here. Ye mustn’t blame yerself.”
He nodded as if he agreed with her but she knew, deep down, that he did not. He would shoulder the undeserved guilt. “I am sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry I was not there for you during that time. I am sorry I was unable to comfort you.”
She shushed him again, gently, kissing him and tasting his tears on her lips. “Her name was Dera de Reyne and Lady Anne buried her in the cathedral in Prudhoe,” she told him. “Someday… someday we will go and visit her.”
He nodded, his tears welling again but he fought them. He held her close once more, simply glad that she was alive. Truthfully, he had no idea what he would find when he had arrived at Prudhoe. To see his wife wrestling in the bailey with de La Londe had not been among the possibilities in his mind.
“I am simply grateful to God that you are healing,” he said softly. “Your health is the most important thing in the world to me.”
She patted him on the armored shoulder. “I told ye; I am fine,” she repeated bravely, pulling back from him enough to look in his face. “But what about de La Londe? What are ye going to do?”
He took a long, deep breath, his gaze scanning the bailey for Massimo. The priest was not hard to spot as he emerged from behind some horses and began heading towards him. Galen was a few feet behind him, following.
Beside her husband, Carington was not watching the priest or Galen; she was looking at all of the men Creed had brought with him. It was an awesome sight. She leaned into her husband, pressing herself tight against him as if fearful of the sheer numbers. Rows upon rows of men in tartans and armor. Until this moment, she’d hardly given notice.
“All of these men, English,” she murmured in wonder. “Where did they come from?”
He gave her a gentle squeeze. “The English are from Hexham,” he told her. “The rest… well, you will have to ask your father where they came from. He is the one who raised them.”
She smiled faintly. “I recognize the Scots,” she said. “I see Maxwell and Graham tartan. But where is my Da?”
“He is outside the walls, somewhere.” He focused on the priest as the man drew close and his gentle mood vanished as he addressed him. “Why did you not tell me that the king had punished the knights who had accompanied me to France? De La Londe just told me that the king has wreaked havoc with them in his anger over Isabella’s pregnancy.”
Massimo held his ground. “Because I was attempting to protect you,” he said. “Had I told you the truth, you would have ridden to London and gotten yourself killed.”
Creed’s brow furrowed angrily. “So you withheld the truth? By what right do you make such a decision for me?”
“Because you would have condemned yourself.”
“I will not let my friends take the king’s wrath in my stead.”
Massimo gazed at him a moment before shaking his head. “So now you know. What do you intend to do about it?”
Creed threw out his hands in frustration. “I cannot allow Denys’ wife to be used as a threat.”
