“That may be, but I doubt we will have any peace here at Prudhoe.”
The blurted statement came from Jory, entering the room from the bailey with his saddlebags slung over his shoulder. He let the heavy bags plummet to the floor just inside the door. Only Ryton was looking at the knight; everyone else was focused on their drink.
“Why do you say that?” Ryton asked, though he did not really care what the man had to say.
Jory snorted, making his way over the table where the alcohol was. He had a smug expression on his face; but, then again, he always seemed to have some manner of exaggerated swagger. It was one of the characteristics that made him truly unlikable. The question hung in the air as Jory reached for a cup.
“If we do not have trouble with the Scots, we could have it with the king,” Jory made sure he was standing next to Creed as he poured his wine. “We have some traveling merchants staying here for the night.”
Ryton lifted an eyebrow. “So? What does that have to do with the king?”
Jory took a long, satisfying swallow, making sure to draw out the answer. “I heard some gossip from the travelers,” he said, taking another drink. “Most interesting news.”
Ryton’s patience was at an end. “What in the hell did you hear?”
Jory was enjoying the moment. He gazed at the wine in his cup, casually, swirling the dregs. “Rumor has it that Queen Isabella is pregnant,” he said, hoping the statement had as much impact as he thought it would. “Six months pregnant, that is. Of course, she and the king were only married a few months ago, so she conceived this child well before they were wed. On the trip from France, in fact, as rumor would have it.”
Creed did not react but Burle slammed his cup to the table and bolted to his feet. “Do you want another beating, d’Eneas?” he jabbed a finger at the shorter, smaller knight. “I would be happy to shut your mouth permanently.”
Ryton held up a hand to calm the knight, watching as he angrily sank back into his chair. He gazed steadily at Jory.
“Did you really hear that?” he asked slowly. “Or are we again privy to your lies and assumptions?”
Jory grinned, a hatefully confident gesture. “It could be only gossip, but the merchant’s guards were quite free with the information. It seems that all of London is in an uproar because if it and I would suspect the king is not entirely happy, either.”
Ryton looked at his brother for the first time to see how he was reacting. “Lies, all of it,” he looked away from Creed’s emotionless face and back to his cup. “Who is to say the king is not the father? There is no proof otherwise.”
“No proof except for the gossip that the queen had a knightly lover in France. Rumor has it that the Church is now getting involved. We certainly cannot have a bastard heir to England’s throne, can we? I am told the Church is starting an investigation.”
“Then that is the king’s fault for marrying a whore.”
No one had much to say to that. Jory took another long drink of his wine. “No one would know that better than Creed. He was one of her escorts from France, after all. I would imagine he would be one of the first people the Church will interview.”
Burle tensed again but a glance from Ryton stopped him. He wondered just how far Jory was going to go before Burle snapped and there would be no stopping him. Or, worse still, if Creed snapped. His brother was so powerful that he could break Jory’s neck and not even raise a sweat. He had never seen Creed lose his control, but there was always a first time for everything, especially when dealing with so sensitive an issue.
“I suggest you drop the subject, d’Eneas,” Ryton said quietly. “No one cares about your foolish prattle. If you want to gossip, go congregate with the serving women. They are the only ones who would care what you say.”
Jory drained his cup and poured another. He made sure to walk away from the table before he spoke again. “I did not mean to imply that Creed would have first-hand knowledge of the queen’s activities. Of course he’s innocent. Creed is a fine, upstanding and chivalrous knight. But since he was charged with our lovely hostage, the truth will be known about his knightly character if she turns up pregnant, too.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Burle and Stanton were up, charging at Jory. Cups went flying and chairs were toppled. But Creed shot to his feet, grabbing Burle before the man could get past him. Burle, in turn, grabbed Stanton before the man could get too far. Only Ryton was not holding on to someone or, in turn, being held by someone. But he was on his feet and he was focused on Jory. He moved past his brother, his dusky blue eyes riveted on his knight. The mood of the room was no longer relaxed; it was deeply brittle as Ryton faced off against his subordinate.
“I will say this one time, d’Eneas, so make sure you understand me clearly,” his voice was low, controlled. “You will not repeat what you heard from the merchant’s guards and you will never again say what you did about my brother. Should any rumors or other slander get started around here, you will be the first one I come for and I can promise that you will not like my reaction. Do you comprehend me?”
Some of Jory’s smugness faded as he gazed into Ryton’s tense face; he could see serious implications in the glare. After a moment, he shrugged weakly. “I do,” he said. “I meant nothing by it. I was simply… thinking aloud. Just the thoughts of a tired man.”
By this time, Creed had let go of Burle and was heading from the room. Ryton watched his brother quit the common room and disappear into the darkness of the bailey beyond. Had he not been Jory’s commander, he would have throttled the man. Instead, he followed his brother out into the black night without another word in Jory’s direction. He was more concerned for his brother at the moment than an idiot knight.
Stanton and Burle were slower to disband; Stanton moved back to the table, glaring daggers at Jory, while Burle still stood where Creed had stopped him. Jory gazed into the knight’s fat face, his smile fading completely. Of all the knights, he knew that Burle was the one that would mostly likely move against him. His head was still swollen from the beating he had received earlier.
“What?” he said to Burle’s menacing stare. “I apologized. What more do you want?”
Burle did not say anything; he started to turn away but thought better of it. Stanton heard a loud smack followed by a heavy grunt. Something hit the floor hard. Burle joined the table and reclaimed his cup as if nothing in the world was amiss and Stanton did not turn around to see the source of the loud grunt; he knew for a fact that Jory was lying on the floor behind him in a muddled state of unconsciousness.
Outside, Ryton caught up to Creed just as the man was mounting the wooden steps that led into the keep. He put his big hand on his brother’s arm, stopping the man before he could get away from him.
“Creed,” he said quietly. “Do not let d’Eneas’ ramblings get to you. He is a bitter little man with a bitter little mind. I would not believe everything he says.”
Creed’s face was emotionless. The ghostly moon’s glow gave him a stark, phantom-like appearance as he loomed on the steps above his brother. “He is still angry with me for preventing him from taking advantage of our hostage,” he snorted softly. “I should have strangled him and left his body for the wolves. It would have saved us much grief.”
Ryton nodded in agreement; there was no disputing that bit of wisdom. “Nonetheless, I intend to talk to Richard about him now. I will no longer tolerate his disruptive presence in my ranks.”
Creed lifted an eyebrow. “He is a baron’s son.”
“A baron’s bastard son.”
“Even so, you have been asked to treat him differently from the rest of us because of his father’s relationship with Lord Richard.”
Ryton cast his brother a resolute look. “That may be, but I will not allow him to continue to antagonize you like this. He seems to have a special interest in goading you and that is not healthy for any of us. He only succeeds in provoking Burle and I fear the day when he actually incites you beyond
reason. It would be like trying to stop a mad bull.”
Creed simply lifted his massive shoulders, his gaze moving across the quieting bailey. “He will tire of the game eventually as long as I do not react to him.”
Ryton just shook his head. “Creed, you’re a saint,” he slapped his brother across the shoulder affectionately. His gaze, too, moved over the ward, watching the soldiers on patrol as the night deepened. “I suppose I should find out what those merchants really told him. If there really is trouble brewing, we will want to know.”
Creed just nodded, faintly, as if he did not particularly care. “I am going to check on the lady before taking my usual night watch,” he said quietly, turning up the stairs. “I will see you upon the morrow.”
Ryton watched his brother lumber up the stairs, sensing depression in the man’s manner even though he professed otherwise. Jory’s words had indeed weighed heavily on him.
“Take a weapon with you to protect yourself in case she gets out of hand,” he jested, attempting to lighten the mood. “And watch out for flying torch butts. Remember what happened to Stanton.”
Creed snorted in the darkness; Ryton could hear him. Without another word, the men parted ways and went about their duties for the night.
Carington decided right away that she would not sleep in the bed by the window. It was probably sabotaged so she made a firm decision to sleep in one of the other beds. The night was cool and she changed from her surcoat into a sleeping shift. Alone for the first time since leaving Wether Fair, she felt disoriented and homesick. Wrapping up in her dusty tartan for familiar comfort, she lay on either Julia or Kristina’s clean linens.
As tired as she was, sleep would not come. She ended up lying on the strange bed, sobbing into a pillow that was not hers and wishing with all her heart she could go home again. When an owl in one of the massive oak trees near the walls hooted, she started at the sound. Everything was unfamiliar and frightening.
But she was exhausted and her lids eventually grew heavy in spite of her nerves. Just as she was drifting off into a fitful doze, a soft knock sounded at the door. Instantly and nervously awake, she sat upright in bed.
“Who comes?” she demanded with more courage than she felt.
“’Tis me, my lady,” came a deep male voice. “Creed.”
She jumped off the bed and ran to the door. Throwing open the panel she was faced with the weary man and his shadowed, beautiful face. His dusky blue eyes gazed intently at her although he had yet to change expression. He was, as usual, calm and emotionless.
But Carington did not care if he did not look glad to see her. She was certainly glad to see him. “Creed,” she half-gasped, half-exclaimed. “’Tis good to see a friendly face. I was feeling as if the whole world had abandoned me.”
“Nay, lady, you are not abandoned.”
“Did ye come to watch over me tonight?”
He had yet to make a move to enter the chamber; he continued to stand, quite properly, in the landing. “I will be watching over the entire castle from my post on the wall,” he said. “But I wanted to make sure you were settled for the night. Do you require anything?”
She did not know why her heart sank at his words. Her resistance to the emotionless façade, the coolness, lasted only a few seconds. He sounded detached, politely inquisitive without being truly warm. Not at all like the passionate man who had kissed her this afternoon. Rather than become cold with him with the posture of self-preservation, she grew depressed.
“Nay,” she shook her head and lowered her gaze. “I dunna require anything. But thanks for asking just the same.”
She started to close the door but he put his hand up, blocking it. Curiously, she looked up into his tired face. “Is there something else?” she asked, not particularly caring but hoping that there was.
His dusky blue eyes glimmered in the weak light of the hearth. “Nothing else.” He suddenly pushed his way inside, closing the door quietly behind him. Carington just looked at him, trying to gauge his mood. The man was moodier than anyone she had ever known; sweet and warm one moment, quiet and morose the next.
“Then what?” she asked.
He did not say anything as he paced the room, inspecting the beds, the window covering, finally coming to rest on the hearth when he seemed satisfied with his observations. It was a quiet night, a gentle breeze blowing from the north. In the light of the fire, he faced her.
“Aside from the enfants horribles, what did you think of your first day at Prudhoe?” he asked quietly.
She blinked, pulling the tartan more closely about her as the breeze picked up through the oilcloth. “I canna say, exactly. ’Twas an interesting day to say the least.”
“I would imagine so.” He eyed her. “Why are you wearing the tartan? This room has an abundance of warm and soft coverlets.”
She looked down at the dirty material wrapped around her body. “None of those things belong to me,” she said. “This is mine.”
“It is also very dirty.”
She shrugged, her gaze coming up to meet his. “Perhaps. But I would rather sleep on dirty Tartan than clean Sassenach finery.”
He nodded faintly, studying the way the light flickered off her dark hair. He was not sure what more he had to say to her; in fact, he did not really know why he had come at all. He knew she was safe, so other than giving himself another opportunity to see her, there was no reason for him to be here. He should not have come. It was only indulging the foolish sentiment he was coming to feel for her.
“As long as you do not require anything,” he said quietly, turning for the door. “I shall go about my duties.”
But she was not going to let him go so easily. He was the one bright spot in an otherwise miserable situation and she was eager to cling to that brightness, even if he was moody and cold at times. “Creed,” she said, stopping him in his tracks. When he looked at her inquisitively, she fought off a blush. “I… do ye have to go? Can ye not stay and talk awhile?”
He sighed faintly; she heard him. “I am expected at my post, my lady,” he said. “And you should be sleeping.”
“Please, Creed?”
He gazed at her, feeling himself relent and knowing that he should not. His control had snapped earlier in the day when he had kissed her. Now, in the quiet of the night with no one to disturb them, a similar loss of control would not be healthy. He could not guarantee that he would not go further than simply kissing her. With her sweet face and marvelously delicious figure, his male drives would overwhelm him. He had to resist. For both their sakes, he had to be strong. He closed his eyes to block out the temptation and turned away from her.
“Go to bed, Cari. I will see you on the morrow.” He closed the door in her face before she could say a word.
Carington stood, staring at the door, a hollow feeling filling her. The only person that had shown her any kindness had effectively shut her down. It was like a stab to her heart and tears sprang to her eyes. Before she could stop herself, she was sobbing. Creed had only served to reinforce the fact that she was alone, unwanted, cast aside… a hostage. A stranger in a strange land. The loneliness made her cry harder, the loss of Bress finding its way back into her thoughts as if to drive home the point. There was no one left for her.
Black, desolate feelings filled her exhausted mind. Perhaps she should simply throw herself from the window and be done with the pain. She could think of no other way to ease it. She was still standing at the door, weeping, when it suddenly flew open. She was too close and the heavy oak panel smacked her in the forehead, sending her falling backwards onto her bum. Startled, she looked up to see Creed descending on her.
“Honey, I am so sorry,” he pulled her to her feet. “Are you all right? I did not mean to hit you.”
Carington threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him. Her forehead was fine, if not slightly stinging, but if it would keep him with her she would give him the opportunity to feel sorry for her.
“It… it hurt
s,” she sobbed.
Feeling like a lout, Creed swept her effortlessly into his arms and carried her over to the bed by the lancet window. Carington held tightly to his neck, her head on his shoulder. She was not about to let him go. When he sat on the mattress, it was with her in his lap. He held her like a baby.
He let her weep a moment. “Let me see what I have done,” he said softly, pulling back to look at her. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting the red welt on her forehead. He sighed. “I have done a good job of bruising your head. I am truly sorry, honey. It was an accident.”
She gazed up at him, her eyes like liquid emeralds as water filled them. “Why did ye come back?”
The dusky blue gaze was steady, unrevealing. Why had he come back? Should he tell her the truth; because he heard her crying and her tears had destroyed his resolve? He was not sure that she should know that. Moreover, he did not want to admit it. After a moment, he simply lifted his big shoulders.
“It is of no matter,” he said softly. “What matters now is that you are going to have a lump on her head that I am responsible for. Lady Anne will have my hide.”
Carington shook her head, wiping away the last of her sniffles. “I will tell her I smacked it on the wardrobe. Ye needna’ worry.”
“That is noble but unnecessary. I will take responsibility for my actions.”
She was still looking at him, studying his masculine features. He was so cool, so professional, his calm demeanor interspersed with moments of genuine warmth. It was beginning to wear on her. She was not very good at controlling her mouth or her emotions, especially given the fact that she had just come off of a crying jag.
“May I ask ye a question?”
“Aye.”
“Why are ye so cold to me one moment and so warm the next?”
Brides of the North Page 12
