When she had awoken from her dead faint, the dark young knight happened to pass into her line of sight. She had seen that the entire right side of his face was bruised. “Aye.”
“Burle did that.”
“Why?”
“Because Jory made you cry. Burle has three daughters, my lady. He is very protective of womenfolk in general.”
Carington lifted her head long enough to look back at the two knights, now through new eyes. Surprised at their chivalry to the point of being speechless, her thoughts were distracted as they came into the shadow cast by the massive keep of Prudhoe. She glanced up, straining to look around Creed so she could gain a better look. All she saw was more stone and more walls. As anxious as she was, she was also curious about the mysteries the great structure contained.
“Will ye tell me something of the people who live here?” she asked.
His dusky blue eyes moved appreciatively up the massive stone walls, lit by the bright spring sun. Rays of light filtered in through the oaks that lined the road and he was glad to be home again.
“There are Lord Richard and his wife, the Lady Anne,” he said. “They are kind and decent people. You must remember that. They have two sons, Edward, who is six years, and Gilbert, who is eight. You must mind the boys; they have a fondness for fighting and spitting and are quite spoiled. There are also two foster girls, the Lady Julia and the Lady Kristina. They are approximately sixteen or seventeen years, I think. You might find companionship with them.”
She snorted. “I am older than they are.”
“Is that so?”
“It ’tis. I have seen nineteen years.”
He fought off a smile at the haughtiness of her voice. “Then you can be an older, wiser friend.”
She snorted again, this time making a face. “Pasty-faced Sassenach lasses. I dunna know if I want to be a friend.”
He cocked an eyebrow, turning his neck slightly to make eye contact with her. “None of that. You will behave yourself.”
She matched his cocked eyebrow, ending when she backed down and returned her gaze to the looming castle. “What if they are mean to me?”
“Then you will tell me. I will deal with them.”
“So I canna even defend myself?”
He shook his head with faint regret at her combative attitude. “Cari, they’re not going to attack you. Show them how kind and intelligent a Scot really is. You are representing your people, honey. You are here as an emissary of peace. That is a very honorable and important task.”
She was still torn between reluctance and acceptance. “But what if…?” she suddenly blinked, looking up at the side of his helmed head. “What did ye call me?”
He lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully, wrestling with the horse when it threw its head. “Cari?”
“Nay.”
“What?”
“Ye called me… honey. Ye’ve called me that before.”
The horse tossed its head again and he cuffed it on the top of the head. “Have I? Forgive me for my forwardness, then. I did not mean to offend.”
She eyed him. “Ye did not,” she said. She lowered her head and looked back to the trees. “Ye may call me that if ye wish.”
A grin spread across his lips. “I wish.”
Her cheeks flushed furiously and she hid her smile by pretending to look down at herself, fussing with the dust on her scarlet surcoat. She was a mess but almost did not care. Creed’s pet name had her caring about little else.
The escort passed through an enormous gate built into the perimeter wall, spilling them out into a massive bailey. The equally massive keep was on the motte to her right, soaring a hundred feet into the blue English sky. It was bigger than anything she had ever seen. Carington was staring at it when Creed brought his horse to a halt and dismounted. He held his arms up to her.
“Come along,” he said. “They are waiting to meet you.”
She looked at him and he saw the fear, but she obediently slipped into his arms. He lowered her to the ground, his hands loitering on her waist perhaps a bit longer than necessary. Their eyes lingered on one another, appraisingly, until she offered a weak smile.
“Better to get this over with,” she said with forced bravery.
He smiled in return, collecting some items off his saddle before taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow.
“If my lady will follow me,” he said.
She would indeed follow him. She had already decided that. It no longer made any difference that Creed was a hated Sassenach; he was a kind man and quite handsome. Having experienced all that she had with him over the past two days, there was a definite attachment beginning and she no longer possessed the will to fight it.
They followed Ryton and Burle across the outer bailey with Stanton bringing up the rear. Jory was under orders to disband the escort and they could hear his high-pitched shouts above the roar of the ward. Gripping Creed’s elbow with her left hand, she brushed at her surcoat with the right. There was dust everywhere and she noticed grass stains from when she had fallen in the grass. She lamented the stains as they crossed into the inner bailey.
“My coat is so dirty,” she brushed at the green streaks. “These Sassenachs are going to think I am a filthy little pig.”
Creed glanced down at her surcoat, his gaze inevitably falling on her delicious figure. The slender torso and full, succulent breasts caught his attention but when she looked up at him, she only noticed that he was looking her in the eye.
“You have been traveling,” he said. “They understand that there is some wear that goes along with that.”
“Do I have time to change?” she asked. “A few minutes are all it would take. And I would feel so much better.”
Creed did not see anything unreasonable with that request. He turned to his brother, up ahead of him. “Ryton,” he caught the man’s attention. “The lady wishes to change her coat. It will not take long. Would you inform Lord Richard and Lady Anne that the lady will greet them once she has cleaned up from her journey?”
Ryton’s gaze moved over the lady’s clothes; she was dusty and there were grass stains on her garment, but even so, she was still the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Besides that, they were already late and he hated not being punctual.
“No need,” he replied. “She is presentable.”
“It would be the polite thing to do.”
Ryton eyed his brother, a mixture of impatience and intolerance. “Nay, Creed,” he motioned towards the great hall dead ahead. “Get her inside. They have been waiting overlong for her arrival.”
Creed did not look at her; he was busy glaring at his brother for denying a polite request. They closed in on the wide open door of Prudhoe’s great hall, a massively long structure that was built on the ground floor of the bailey. It was separate from the keep, unusual for an English bastion. Most great halls were part of the keep and well away from the open bailey.
Carington observed the carved doorway as they were swallowed up by the dark innards, descending into a place that smelled of must and rushes and smoke. It was eerie and unfamiliar, and Carington’s eyes widened at the sight.
Creed felt her hesitate. He looked down at her frightened expression, noticing that she had slowed considerably to the point of stopping. He patted the hand on his elbow.
“’Tis all right,” he assured her quietly. “These are kind people. You have nothing to fear.”
She gazed up at him, the emerald eyes full of anxiety. “Ye willna leave me?”
He shook his head, his gaze serious. “Nay. I will be with you the entire time.”
She smiled gratefully and he felt his heart skip a beat. Odd; he’d never experienced anything like that before and had no idea what to make of it. He gave her a wink and gently urged her forward.
The dark and musty foyer abruptly opened into a grand and warmly-lit hall. The ceilings were thirty feet high and a gallery spanned the upper circumference of the room. Tapestries hung on the n
orth and south sides with a massive hearth along the western wall. Fresh rushes littered the floor and, amazingly, there were no dogs about. Carington had never seen anything so enormous and struggled not to gape like an idiot. Her eyes darted about nervously, trying to keep her wits, as several people came into focus at the great long dining table beyond.
The party at the table rose as the knights and one small lady approached. Carington’s eyes fell on an older, well-dressed man, a slender well-dressed older woman, and several children. But she was not particularly interested in the children; she was focused on the adults. The man and woman drew closer to her and she could see they held non-hostile expressions. Not knowing what to think, she tried to maintain a neutral facade.
The man extended his hand. “Creed,” he did not take his eyes off of Carington as he spoke. “Will you introduce us to your charge?”
Creed took her hand off his elbow and placed it in the man’s outstretched palm. “Lord Richard d’Umfraville, meet the Lady Carington Kerr. Lady Carington, this is your liege.”
Richard was gallant without being extravagant. He placed his lips gently on her hand in a gesture of respect and, still holding her hand, turned to the lady beside him. “Lady Carington, my wife, the Lady Anne.”
Anne d’Umfraville was a dark-haired, dark-eyed lady with a handsome face. She smiled warmly at Carington and took her hand from her husband’s grip. “My lady,” she had a deep, husky voice. “Welcome to Prudhoe. We are happy to have you as our guest for a time.”
Even though Creed had told her they were kind people, still, she did not expect it. Off-guard, she dipped a brief curtsey for the lady. “My lady,” she looked at Richard. “My lord, I am pleased to be here. Thank ye for yer kind welcome.”
Over by the table, the children suddenly came alive. Carington looked over to see two young ladies and two small boys, all in varied degrees of giggles. The youngest boy crawled onto the bench, leapt up onto the table, and stomped is feet.
“Papa,” he pointed at Carington. “She talks funny!”
The children burst out into loud laughter and Carington’s cheeks flushed a dull red. Richard did not react, but Anne cast them all a nasty look.
“She is from Scotland, lad,” Richard said patiently. “All Scots talk this way.”
“But it’s funny!”
“It is their way and you will not laugh at her. Do you understand?”
The giggles muted but did not die altogether. Carington cast a sidelong glance at the little boy, who caught her eye and stuck his tongue out at her.
“That must be Edward,” she said quietly, though Richard and Anne heard her. When they turned to her curiously, she hastened to explain. “Sir Creed told me that ye had two sons and that the youngest was Edward.”
“Indeed,” Richard said proudly. “His brother Gilbert is eight.”
A glance to the older boy showed him picking his nose. Carington lifted an eyebrow at his bad manners and the child ripped his finger from his nose and pointed at her with it.
“Papa,” he marched over to them. “I do not like the way she looked at me. It was disresponsible.”
Richard’s proud stance seemed to waver. “You mean disrespectful, Gilbert.”
The boy continued to point the boogered finger at her. “I want her whipped.”
“Whipped!” Anne grabbed her son by the shoulder and turned him back towards the table. “You and your brother sit down and remain silent. Another word and I will blister your backside.”
“But, Mama, she is our enemy,” Gilbert tried to point out to her. “She is our prisoner. Is that not what Papa said?”
“Nay,” Anne said firmly, shoving her son onto the bench seat. “She is our guest.”
“But Papa said.…”
“I do not want to hear any more. You will remain quiet or you will go to bed. Is that clear?”
Gilbert was not happy with his mother but he obeyed. Anne practically yanked Edward off the table and planted him next to his brother. The younger boy whined and she slapped a hand over his mouth, turning to Carington and the rest of the knights with a forced smile.
“If everyone will sit, we will commence with the meal.”
Carington immediately sought out Creed but Richard was there, taking her hand and leading her towards the table. As he directed her to sit, she was aware of the two young women standing on the other side of the table. When she met the girls’ eyes, they gazed back at her with a mixture of distain and curiosity. She did the only thing she could do; she smiled weakly.
“Ladies,” she said as she took her seat.
Richard sat down next to her. “Lady Carington, this is the Lady Julia le Tourneau,” he indicated the shorter girl with light-brown hair, “and the Lady Kristina Summerlin. Ladies, you will greet our guest with graciousness.”
The girls dipped into a practiced curtsey. There was no warmth to the gesture; they were simply doing as they were told. But the taller blond girl at least appeared civil; the brown-haired lass was glaring. Carington’s neutral expression faded and she glared back.
Creed was suddenly on her right, sitting beside her and collecting an earthenware pitcher of watered ale. He poured her a measure himself but when she looked at him with a grateful smile, he gazed back at her quite unemotionally. The moody gaze with the lightning bolt eyes had returned. It was like a dagger to her heart and the smile died on her lips. In a room full of strangers, he had been her only hope of familiarity and he had failed her. She looked down at her trencher.
The young ladies and the boys sat across from them. Anne sat on the opposite side of Richard, chatting pleasantly as the meal was served. Ryton, Burle and Stanton were seated at the end of the long table, mostly keeping to themselves. Glancing up from her trencher of roast beef and boiled carrots, Carington noticed the other knights sitting far away. She suspected that Creed was upset with her because he was sitting beside her, as if she had expected him to. Perhaps he would rather sit with his comrades.
“Ye should go sit with your knights,” she said to him, very quietly.
He picked up his chalice. “Yet I am not.”
She lowered her head to her trencher. “I dunna need ye, Sassenach. Go and sit with yer men.”
He was not looking at her, either; his gaze was moving across the table at the two foster girls and the young boys, who were collectively staring at Carington as if beholding a strange and terrible creature. He could sense a storm coming and he wanted to be at her side to fend off the inclement weather. Moreover, he realized that he simply wanted to sit next to her.
“Eat your meal, my lady,” he said steadily, taking a long drink.
His tone was cool. Carington felt tears sting her eyes, having no idea why he was being so moody with her. It had been a long and difficult day and he had been her only source of comfort. Now her source was turning on her. She felt disoriented, sad and furious all at the same time. He told her to eat her meal, but she set her knife down and refused to take another bite.
Creed noticed right away when she stopped eating. But he continued to devour his food, watching the wolf pack across the table for any sign that they were about to strike. Although they were children, they could still cause a good deal of misery for her. She did not need the added emotional stress of unruly and jealous children.
Jory entered the hall when the meal was about half over, taking a seat on the other side of Stanton and harassing a serving wench for his trencher. Richard saw him come in, eyed the man as he crossed the room, and spoke to him just as he collected his food.
“Jory,” he said casually. “What has happened to your face?”
Jory’s brown eyes came up, looking at Burle, who glowered back at him. He lowered his head back to his trencher. “I fell off my horse, my lord.”
Richard had known Jory a long time. He knew it was not the truth but he did not press. He left the discipline of the knights to Ryton and if Ryton had dispensed brutal justice to an offense, so be it. Jory undoubtedly deserved
it. He turned his attention back to Carington.
“Did you enjoy your trip, my lady?” he asked pleasantly.
Jolted from her morose thoughts, she sat straight and faced him. “Aye, m’lord,” she replied. “I… I have never been this far south before.”
Across the table, the children tittered and pink crept into Carington’s cheeks. Richard pretended he did not hear anything. “We are quite happy to introduce you to Prudhoe and the surrounding country,” he said. “I am sure you will find the English people very warm and friendly.”
She smiled weakly. “I am sure, m’lord. The Scots people are also warm and friendly, in spite of what the English may think of them.”
Edward suddenly burst out with loud laughter, spraying food all over the table. “Papa, she talks funny again!”
Carington dropped her face straight down, staring into her lap, as Anne leapt into the conversation. “Edward, another word and you shall leave this table,” she said sternly.
Little Edward was a genuinely cute child but he was, as most occupants of Prudhoe believed, a monster in disguise. He looked at his mother with wide-eyed innocence. “Mama, can we teach her to talk like us?”
“You cannot teach a Scot anything,” Gilbert snapped from his other side. “Besides, she is too old.”
“She is not too old,” Anne stressed to her eldest. “Gilbert, you will be polite to our guest or you will join your brother in his punishment.”
“But I was not being rude, Mama. I have heard Papa say many times that Scots are dense.” His gaze drifted to Carington. “She is older than Julia and Kristina. And she is shorter. Is she married?”
Carington had about all she could take. They were speaking of her as if she were not sitting right in front of them, hurling insults with no rebuke. Her head snapped up and she focused on the ill-mannered child.
“I am not married, Master Gilbert,” she said, tension in her voice evident. “And I am indeed older than yer pasty-faced companions. I am also far better mannered than the lot of you, so shut yer yap before I drive nails through yer lips to close them.”
She was practically yelling when she finished and the reaction to her speech took various courses; Richard sprayed his ale all over the table, Anne’s jaw dropped, Kristina and Julia yelped as if they had been mortally insulted. Strangely, Gilbert and Edward were actually silenced; their eyes were as wide as the heavens as they stared at the venom-tongued Scot. For a split second, no one moved, including Creed. The shock was too great. Then, the boys suddenly leapt to their feet and began screaming at Carington. She responded by shaking her fist at them and threatening to jump over the table.
Border Brides Page 44
