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. And me like this. It isna proper!”
“Proper or not, it is nonetheless warm. Are you going to argue with me all night or do you intend to accept it, shut up, and go to sleep?”
She twisted her neck back to look at him; his face was hovering over her left shoulder, his dusky blue eyes holding nothing lascivious or indecent. In fact, he looked rather neutral about the whole thing and for some reason, she was disappointed. Nay, not disappointed, but certainly she had thought he would treat her more than just a bit of furniture. He might as well have been holding a chair for all of the warmth she saw in his eyes. What had she expected?
Frustrated at her foolish thoughts, she struggled to remain neutral as well. “I willna refuse ye if ye are so determined to help me,” she mumbled, turning around so she would not have to look at him. “I will sleep now.”
Creed did not reply. With her gathered in his arms, he lay on his left side and took her with him. She was still stiff as he shifted her around to find a comfortable position, but gradually, she began to relax. The initial awkward moments were fading as comfort set in. She settled back against him, wriggling her bum in an effort to get closer to his heat,
and he had to close his eyes against the sweetness of it. He had seen the shape of that particular part of her body and it was round and perfect. Now it was brushing against his groin, although there were several layers of fabric in between them. He had to close his eyes, focus on something else, or all would be lost.
He did not know what possessed him to wrap himself around her in the first place, only that she was so cold that her face was pale and her nose was red. He gave off heat like a bonfire. His instincts took over, whether chivalrous instincts or just plain male instincts, he did not know. But now that he had her in his arms, he was sorely regretting it and sorely pleased with it all at the same time.
She sighed in his embrace, a sound of utter contentment. He could feel her body relax and her breathing grow even. Creed lay there with his eyes wide open, staring into the darkness, totally unable to rest. He was taut with the sensations he was experiencing. He knew she was asleep when she rolled back towards him, wedging herself even more intimately against his body. She was half on her back, half on her left side, the side of her head up against his chin.
The black hair licked at him and he could smell the very faint scent of Elder flower in his nostrils. Christ, if she was not a sweet little thing. Slowly, he rubbed his stubbled cheek against the black head, just once, feeling the silken strands against his skin. It had been so long since he had felt anything even remotely feminine that he was almost giddy with it. But he dare not do more. He should not have even done that.
As the night progressed, he could feel himself gradually relaxing. It was hard not to find comfort with her soft little body against him. He was not aware when he finally drifted off to sleep, but when he awoke a few hours later, his first realization was that Carington was now facing him, pressed up against him as far as she could go, and his arms were wrapped tightly around her. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he wondered if he had not unknowingly orchestrated the death-embrace they seemed to be positioned in. His logical mind was thinking one thing but his body was apparently thinking another. She was warm, soft and wonderful, and his male impulse, even in sleep, had acted naturally. Her face was in his neck, her hot breath against his skin.
Hating himself, allowing a stolen moment to enjoy the sensation, he tightened his grip and drifted back off to sleep again.
Carington awoke at dawn to find herself quite alone by the cold vizier.
CHAPTER FIVE
Without a horse, she had been given the choice of riding with Creed or in the wagon. Because Creed had disappeared before she had awoken and when he returned seemed distant and cold, she chose the wagon. It was not the most comfortable of rides, but it was better than sitting with someone who clearly disliked her.
The escort moved out at dawn, heading south. Carington overheard Ryton say that they should arrive by the nooning meal. With that awareness, her nervousness began to take root. She had no idea what to expect or what her escorts would tell Lord Richard of her behavior. She was back to feeling alone, frightened and defiant. She did not even have Bress to bring comfort. Without Creed’s kind support as the only Sassenach who seemed willing to tolerate her, she was retreating into her shell.
Creed rode slightly behind the wagon, just close enough to keep an eye on her but not close enough so that he had to talk to her. Perched beside the soldier driving the team, Carington ignored him just as he was ignoring her. She was not about to show him just how troubled she really was. Ryton was up at the head of the column, Stanton and Burle in relatively close proximity to the front of the wagon, but Jory was nowhere to be found. As the column rode for one solid hour in silence, then two, the morning around them brightened as the landscape flattened out somewhat. Carington had never been this far south before and turned her attention to the lands beyond.
Clad in a soft linen shift and a scarlet surcoat that was striking against her dark coloring, she was enjoying the weak warmth of the sun. Her dusty tartan was folded neatly beside her on the wagon seat. Her long, curling dark hair was pulled back away from her face, secured at the back of her head with a butterfly-shaped pin her father had given her and her lips were coated with the Elder flower oil, giving the slightly-pink lips a glossy sheen. She was unaware that there was not one man in the escort that did not think she was delightful to look at, including and especially Creed.
Aye, he was riding behind her, but it was mostly for self-protection. He had been both disappointed and glad when she had chosen to ride in the wagon. He had never slept so well as he had with her in his arms and the knowledge confused him greatly. He did not want to be her protector in the first place and was angry at himself for being glad that he was. It was stupid. He was stupid. As he watched the back of her dark head, lost in thought, he was caught off guard when Jory suddenly rode up beside the wagon.
The young knight was in fine form that morning, seemingly happier than he had been in a long time. He flipped up his three-point visor as he focused his unwanted attention on Carington.
“My lady looks well today,” his brown eyes glittered as he spoke to her. “Did you sleep well?”
Creed could see Carington stiffen, turning to Jory with great contempt in her manner. “Well enough,” she replied in a clipped tone.
Creed spurred his charger forward, closer to the wagon, as Jory continued. “And your sup,” Jory went on. “Did you enjoy that as well?”
She looked at him, wondering why he looked so pleased with himself. She had no idea why the man was even talking to her after two hours of total silence.
“It was fine,” she said as she turned away from him.
By this time, Creed was on the opposite side of the wagon, turning up his visor and glaring daggers at Jory.
“Leave the lady alone, d’Eneas,” he growled threateningly.
The brown-eyed knight lifted an eyebrow. “Why? I am doing nothing harmful. I merely asked how her supper was.”
“You will keep silent and move back to your post.”
Jory’s smug expression faded. “You are not my commander, de Reyne.” He refocused on the lady. “You have Creed to thank for the evening’s meal, you know. Without him, we would not have had such a feast.”
Stanton and Burle turned around to see what was transpiring; they both knew what had happened, well after the fact, and were disgusted with Jory’s underhanded actions. Creed had sought them out that morning just after dawn to find out what they had known about it. Neither man had been aware that the lady’s dead horse had been on the menu; their squires had brought them supper and they had not questioned the lads as to what it was. Upon questioning the boys, the squires proceeded to inform the knights that Sir Jory had instructed them to feed the army from the smoldering horse. He had, in fact, cut the meat himself.
The normally very calm and very cool Creed had been mad enough to kill after that. Only his brother’s intervention and promise of punishment from Lord Richard had kept him from snapping Jory’s neck. The knights had vowed not to say anything to the lady, for obvious reasons. But Jory had not been a part of that vow.
Much to Creed’s horror, Jory was apparently intent on letting the lady in on his sick little joke. Not a word all morning and suddenly the man was running amuck at the mouth. Before Creed could issue another threat to him, Carington replied to Jory’s statement.
“What feast?” she inquired, looking first to Jory and then to Creed. “What feast does he mean?”
Creed met her inquisitive gaze. “The bread and cheese, I am sure,” he said quietly, mostly because he did not want Jory to hear him and contradict him. “I did nothing more than bring it to you. I would hardly call that a feast.”
“He is much too modest,” Jory had indeed heard him, now gleefully shouting it out for all to hear. “He cooked your horse for all of us. We feasted on your tough Scottish steed last night. Did you not recognize the flavor?”
Carington looked to the foolish young knight as he spoke the words, not truly understanding him for a few moments. But as the words settled and be
came understood, Carington’s emerald eyes flew open so wide that they nearly popped from their sockets. Horrified, her hands flew to her mouth and she looked to Creed with an expression of panicked accusation. His dusky blue eyes were steady and intense.
“My lady,” he began, feeling as if he was about to stem a mighty flood with a toy shovel. He could see the chaos in her eyes. “’Tis not as he makes it sound. It was.…”
She screamed with horror. Before Creed could grab her, she was bolting off of the wagon, landing on her bum just behind his charger, and scrambling to her feet. As she screamed again and ran off, he reined his charger around and tore off after her. Together they plunged into the bramble, one after the other. What Creed did not see was Burle rein his horse in Jory’s direction and slug the knight so hard in the face that he toppled off and cracked his head on the side of the wagon. At the moment, Creed was only concerned with a hysterical young lady.
Carington was crying uncontrollably, running full bore like a crazy woman. Creed leapt off his charger, caught her around the torso, and they both tumbled into the tall grass. Once he had her on the ground, he could feel her supple body start to heave. With his arms around her, she proceeded to vomit up everything she had eaten over the past day and then some. Even when there was nothing left, she still continued to retch. Creed just held her.
“’Tis all right, Cari,” he murmured. His helm was bumping against her heaving head and he tossed it off, hearing it land several feet away. “’Tis all right, honey. Just relax. Relax and breathe.”
She heard his words, soft and soothing, but she could not do as he asked. She was ill, verging on a faint. Horrified beyond description, she went limp against him. The heaving had stopped for the moment but still the tears came. Creed sighed heavily with great regret, and held her tightly against him.
Brides of the North: A Medieval Scottish Romance Bundle Page 8
