“That knight,” she said haltingly. “I dunna… I dunna like him. I dunna want him tending my horse.”
Creed eyed Jory in the distance as well. “My lady, he cannot harm your horse. The horse is dead. He is simply going to dispose of the body.”
“How?”
“More than likely, he will burn he corpse.”
She sighed; he heard the soft, wistful hiss. He expected more protests but she remained silent. Just as they were turning around to resume their walk, something caught her attention and the emerald eyes flew open wide. Creed turned to see what she was looking at and they both watched as Jory relieved himself on the dead horse. He peed all over him. Carington looked accusingly at Creed, fully prepared to berate him, but the words would not come. She burst into tears instead.
“He… he peed on him,” she sobbed pitifully. “My sweet Bress. He fouled him.”
Creed sighed heavily, turning her for the camp and putting his enormous arm around her shoulder so she would not turn around again.
“I am sorry, my lady, I truly am,” he said, his voice a gentle growl. “I will take care of Jory, have no doubt. I shall avenge what he has done to your horse. Do you believe me?”
She was tucked into the curve of his torso, the plate metal of the armor jabbing her in tender places. But it was a strangely comforting position. She gazed up at him, the dusky blue eyes and square jaw. Something passed between them, a jolting flicker of warmth that almost made her forget her tears. Whatever it was came right out of those amazingly moody eyes. Lightning bolts! She thought to herself. I felt the lightning bolts!
“I-I believe ye,” she sniffled and stammered. “But my horse….”
He gave her a gentle squeeze. “I will see to him myself if it will make you feel better. For now, let us get you some food and into bed. You need to rest.”
Carington fell silent the rest of the way back to the encampment. In fact, she was singularly focused on the big knight’s arm around her shoulders and trying to figure out why she was not demanding he remove it. Prudhoe men had set up a nice little tent city near the outskirts of the small village where the knights from Gilderdale had found her. Creed took her back to the tent she had occupied the night before, a larger shelter with a large flap of an opening. The rising wind was beginning to whip it about.
He took her into the dark innards, made spooky by the strong breeze. The oilcloth fabric was cold and uninviting, but the vizier was sitting in the middle of the tent, lit and weakly sparking. Carington’s possessions lay in a neat pile near the door where someone had put them.
“It should warm up in here shortly,” he said, letting go of her the instant they entered the tent. He bent over and began to untie her bedroll. “Now would be a good time to rest before sup.”
She stood there and watched him; now that he had removed his thick arm from her, she was able to focus on his demeanor somewhat. He was acting as if nothing in the world was wrong, as if she had not run from him. He had, after all, been relatively considerate the entire time she had known him. To have run from him was to have slapped him in the face and, more than likely, destroyed his trust in her in the process. She was coming to feel guilty for a multitude of reasons.
She stood there a moment, pulling at her cold hands, watching him unroll the bedding. Her mind was beginning to work. Emotional, exhausted, the words came spilling out whether or not she wanted them to.
“If… if I insulted ye with my actions, then I am sorry,” she spoke haltingly. “Ye’ve been kind to me, Sir Knight, and I am sorry if I offended ye.”
He did not reply right away. Truth was whatever fury had held him captive for the past several hours was gone. The lady was safe and that was all that mattered, though it might have been very gratifying to spank her for her insolence. Still, it was done. And he was not a beating kind of man. Moreover, she had been punished enough for her actions by the event of her dead horse. He could not have made a greater impact on her than that.
When the bedroll was finally laid out, he stood straight and put his hands on his hips. “How I feel is of no matter. What matters is if you plan to do it again.”
She fixed him in the eye with her emerald gaze, her eyes glittering in the weak light like rare and precious stones. After a moment, she lowered her gaze, wringing her hands furiously. “Nay,” she said softly. “If I knew that my escape attempt would kill my horse, I would never have gone. I swear I wouldna have.”
Creed did not say anything; he was not sure if he believed her. Aye, he knew she was sorry how things had turned out. Frankly, he was too. But had things worked in her favor, she would not have regretted anything. At the moment, he did not trust her in the least in spite of her obvious remorse.
“Rest,” he told her, moving for the exit. “I shall see to your animal and I’ll bring back something to tend that cut.”
She had forgotten about the scratch on her neck, touching it absently when he reminded her of it. But it did not deter her from thoughts of her horse. “Bress,” she murmured, her eyes glittering with emotion. “He… he was a good horse. I was…I was hoping.…”
She trailed off, unable to finish. Creed paused. “What were you hoping, my lady?”
She was back to wringing her hands. She almost did not tell him, waving him off, but she took a deep breath for courage. “I was hoping ye could say a prayer for him,” she finally said. “He was my friend.”
Praying over a horse. Creed’s first reaction was to snort at the foolishness of the request, but he could see by her expression how serious she was. He should not have felt such pity for her, but he did.
“If that will comfort you.”
“It would.” He turned from her but she called to him again. “Sir Knight?”
He stopped, hand on the tent flap. “My lady?”
She took a timid step towards him, emerald eyes riveted to moody, dusky blue. “Could I come with ye? I would like to be with him while you… when you….”
She trailed off, hoping he could read her mind and know what she meant. She could not even bring herself to say it. Creed wondered if she had the stomach to watch it; for her own sake, he doubted it.
He shook his head. “My lady, you should remember your horse as he was, strong and beautiful and whole. I would not want your last memory of him to be a stiffening carcass going up in flames.”
Her face paled, at both the description and the denial, but she remarkably held her tongue.
She watched him walk from the tent, the big man with the enormous hands. She wondered if she could repair whatever trust she had damaged, but in the same thought, she wondered if she might not make another attempt. It simply was not in her nature to surrender, no matter how foolish or tragic the results.
As Creed quit the tent, he spied Burle immediately. The fat knight was several feet away, driving stakes into the ground to secure another tent. Creed called to him and the man made his way over to him, his armor jiggling on his fat rolls. His thinning blond hair was standing up in wispy strands, blowing lightly in the breeze. It looked like a crown of feathers.
“My lord?” he asked politely.
Creed gestured to the tent. “Stay with her. Do not let her out of your sight. I am going to see to her horse.”
Burle nodded. “Would you have me inside or outside?”
Creed thought a moment; though he was sure the lady would prefer to rest alone, he would admit he felt better having her escort by her side. Especially Burle; the man was as strong as ten men, but due to his flab he could not outrun an infant. At least if he was next to her, he would have a chance of grabbing her before she got away from him.
“Inside,” he threw a thumb back at the tent.
Burle nodded shortly and the bear of a man went to the tent, disappearing inside. Fighting off a smirk at the thought of the lady’s reaction when she saw the big knight seated beside her like a watchdog, Creed headed off in the direction of the dead horse.
By the time Creed reached the carcas
s, Jory had commandeered a few men at arms to haul the animal to an area where they could get a good fire going. Four men had tied ropes to the horse and were dragging it towards the road where there was more dirt and less wet grass. As he approached Jory, he realized that his anger, so recently fled, was returning at the sight of him. On behalf of the lady, he was outraged.
“I would have a word with you, d’Eneas.”
The young knight with the brown eyes gazed at him warily. “What would that be?”
“Privately.”
“You can say whatever you have to say right here.”
Though Creed was beckoning him out of the hearing range of the men, Jory was not obeying. Irritation growing, Creed stood next to him, easily twice his size and several times his strength, and breathed down into his pale, sweaty face.
“I saw you relieve yourself on this animal,” he rumbled. “What’s more, the lady saw you. Would you care to give me a reason for your display before I take your head off?”
Jory was intimidated by him, that much was clear. Still, he put up a weak front. “Why are you so concerned about a dead animal?” he asked, almost flippantly. “’Tis just a dead beast that belonged to that Scots wench. Why do you care so much about it?”
Creed’s jaw ticked, never a good sign. “Perhaps no one ever explained to you the rights and wrongs of proper conduct. It is right to treat a hostage as a guest, no matter what her lineage. It is wrong to show such disregard to her, and the living in general, by befouling an object that meant something to someone. Why is it so difficult for you to conduct yourself with restraint and common sense?”
Jory lifted a black eyebrow. “You should have been the first one to pee on the horse, de Reyne. She shamed you most of all by running from you. Do not take your anger out on me for your lack of control over the lady.”
It was the wrong thing to say, but strangely, Creed’s anger went no further. He was beginning to feel a good deal of contempt, and contempt ran like ice through is veins.
“Jory,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “You and I are going to come to an understanding here and now. On the battlefield, I shall defend your life as necessary because we serve together. But off the battlefield, my loyalty to you ends. I pounded you when you attacked the lady last night but I should have wrung your damnable neck. The next time I see or hear of an offense against Lady Carington, in any shape or form, you will meet with a beating the likes of which you are unlikely to fully recover from. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Jory’s smug expression was gone. “Are you threatening me? I shall go to Lord Richard if you are. He will send you back to the king so you can face off against those charges that are lodged against you.”
Creed had visions of wrapping his hands around Jory’s neck and squeezing him until his head exploded. But he kept his hands at his sides. And he kept his cool.
“One more offense and you will pay.”
“You do not frighten me, de Reyne.”
“Then that is your most grave mistake.”
With that, he turned on his heel and marched up on the men who were hauling Bress’ carcass. After a few short orders, he had the men dropping the ropes and running for shovels. They would dig a pit to fire the carcass in and be done with it. As the men began to shovel out a pit, Creed stood over the big blond animal, crossed himself, and muttered a prayer. He had, after all, promised.
Jory watched the big knight move. He was indeed afraid of him and knew that the man would not hesitate to do as he threatened. Creed de Reyne had a long standing reputation throughout England, and a flawless one, until six months ago. Now he was hiding from the crown until the issues involving him and the king’s betrothed cooled. Lord Richard and Ryton de Reyne were shielding him, protecting him like a coward.
Jory wiped at his nose, still glaring at Creed, thinking of ways he could get back at the man. He could turn him over to the king’s guard, but he would need help with that and no one at Prudhoe would help him. He could go after the Scots bitch again because in doing so, he could show how ineffective Creed was in protecting her. He would show everyone Creed’s weakness. He would make him pay.
Jory wiped his nose again, thinking hateful thoughts about Creed and concocting a thousand ways to discredit the man. If one failed, surely another would work. De Reyne would suffer in the end.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was not that she was frightened of them. On the contrary; she felt absolutely no fear. But Burle, later joined by Stanton, stood next to each other on the opposite side of the tent and just stared at her. Carington was beginning to feel as if they expected her to grow horns or burp thunder. The way they were looking at her was most strange and it was turning into a very odd standoff.
She was supposed to be resting. But she could not sleep with Burle and Stanton watching every move she made. So they ended up playing a very odd staring game, with Carington watching them and the knights watching her. Had she not been so exhausted, she might have found it humorous. But her tolerance was fading.
“Sir Knight?” she was looking straight at Burle. “What is yer name? I have forgotten.”
The big blond knight perked up from his post by the tent flap. “I am Burle, my lady.”
“And yer skinny friend?”
Burle and Stanton looked at each other. “His name is Stanton, my lady. You hit him in the face when you escaped the first time.”
Carington’s dark green eyes moved over the slender, pale knight. She was not sure if Burle’s comment was supposed to make her feel guilty, so she let it go without acknowledgement.
“Yer not very old,” she said to Stanton. “How old are ye?”
“I have seen twenty years and four, my lady,” he answered.
“Are ye married?”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Are ye, now? How grand. Do ye have children?”
“A son, my lady. And my wife is again expecting.”
“I see,” she looked back at Burle. “And ye, Sir Burle? Are ye married?”
The flabby knight nodded his head. “Aye, my lady.”
“And do ye have children also?”
“Aye, my lady. Three daughters.”
“Marvelous,” Carington stood up from the small three-legged stool she had been seated on. But her warm expression vanished and fire flashed in the green eyes as she planted her hands firmly on her slender hips. “Do ye think yer wife or daughters would appreciate a strange man staring at them as you have been staring at me? What kind of manners do ye have gawking at me as ye do?”
Burle struggled not to appear off-guard by her sharp tone. “If it was for their own protection, I am sure they would understand. And we were not gawking.”
“Not gawking?” She threw up her hands. “Then what do ye call it? Ye’re staring at me as if ye’ve never seen a woman before.”
She was quite possibly yelling. Burle and Stanton were somewhat surprised, but both maintained their even disposition. Especially Burle; he was used to emotional females. He had married one.
“I apologize if you think we have been rude, my lady,” he said quietly. “That was not our intent. We only mean to keep you safe until Sir Creed returns.”
“Ye mean that you only mean to keep me in this tent until he returns,” she supplied with a hint of nastiness. “Dunna think for one minute that I dunna know what ye’re up to. You are here to keep me from running off again.”
Stanton just looked at Burle; he would let the older man provide all of the answers. “Possibly, my lady,” Burle answered.
She lifted a dark eyebrow and crossed her arms; so bullying them had not gotten her very far. She did not even know why she had done it, only that she was tired and irritated and overwrought from the events of her misguided escape. But it was a foolish reaction, in truth. She had come to discover over the past day that she was a foolish woman beneath all of the stubbornness and pride. She lowered her gaze and returned to her seat. When she spoke, it was in a more civilized tone.
“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?”
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