Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Sitting on her bed, which seemed the least bit hard now that she was actually resting upon it, she continued to comb her nearly dry hair, all the while watching Julia and Kristina dress. Julia called in a couple of the serving wenches, who were cinching her up in a girdle, while Kristina dressed silently and alone. Kristina’s clothes were fashionable while Julia’s were quite expensive and lavish.

  Carington looked down at herself in her mother’s surcoat, thinking she looked sorely out of place among the finely dressed Sassenach ladies. She was coming to feel slightly embarrassed for her appearance but she would not let on. She would act as if she did not care they had fine clothes while she looked like a worn-out peasant.

  When her hair was finally dry, Carington pulled the front of it away from her face and secured it on the back of her head with the brass butterfly clasp that had once belonged to her mother. Her dark hair had a natural wave to it and curled down her back, glistening like strands of satin. Some Elder flower oil went on her dry lips. She had no idea that, even for her simplicity, she absolutely outshined every woman in the room.

  Julia and Kristina finished dressing while Carington pretended to fuss with her satchels. She probably should have unpacked into one of the wardrobes, but she was not going to lower herself to ask either girl for guidance or assistance. She would just as well keep everything in her bags. When the young women were finished dressing and primping, Julia was the first one out of the door without a word. Kristina, however, paused to speak.

  “We should go now,” she said to Carington. “Lady Anne will scold us if we are late.”

  Carington rose and obediently followed Kristina from the chamber. They descended the narrow spiral stairs to the second floor and took a larger spiral staircase to the first floor. The door was open to the bailey and Carington followed her roommates out into the dusty ward. It was only the second time she had been outside any of the Prudhoe structures; she lagged behind as she peered up at the walls, over to the buttery, and back over towards the stables. She found it fascinating and full of activity, much different from her stark and barren home of Wether Fair.

  Prudhoe was a massive place, full of soldiers and peasants, and more than once she almost collided with someone when she did not pay attention to where she was going. She did not even know where the chapel was, keeping her eye on Kristina’s blue surcoat as they crossed the bustling ward. She trailed the blue garment to the outer bailey in the midst of the organized chaos that seemed to pulse through Prudhoe. Coming around a sharp corner of the great hall, she ran straight into Jory.

  From open interest in her surroundings one moment to apprehension the next, Carington’s veins ran cold at the sight of his heartless brown eyes. She had hardly seen him since the unfortunate Bress incident and had been thankful to forget about him. But here he was, alive and breathing before her, and she could feel anger and fear stir within her. For Jory, however, his expression was one of naked joy; he peered at her, the sound of intense pleasure in his tone.

  “My lady,” he said. “How nice to see you this morn. You look ravishing, as usual.”

  Carington was gearing up for a verbal assault when Kristina suddenly reached an arm around Jory and tugged at her.

  “My lady,” she said insistently. “We shall be late.”

  Carington allowed the girl to pull her along and was thankful for the reprieve. All she could feel for the man was hate.

  Jory’s gaze tracked her as she moved away. “Another time, my lady,” he called after her.

  She could hear him laugh. Disgusted, Carington was aware that Kristina had not taken her hand away. In fact, her soft warm hand was gripping Carington’s fingers. They walked several more feet along a dirt path, into the shadow of the great wall, and ascended a narrow flight of stairs built into a tower. On the second floor of the gatehouse tower was Prudhoe’s lovely little chapel.

  Burle was standing by the door. Carington looked up into his round face and found comfort with his acknowledging smile. She could not help but smile in return as she allowed Kristina to lead her into the room where the d’Umfraville family was gathered.

  It was a small chapel, a tower room that had been converted into a place of worship. The floors were dusty due to its proximity to the main gate, with much dust floating in through the long windows that faced the bailey. Lady Anne and Richard were already kneeling on delicate rugs before a small but elaborate altar while Edward and Gilbert were near the oriel window that faced to the north, thumping each other on the head and generally tussling. But they stopped their battle when they lay eyes upon the latest addition to Prudhoe.

  “Do you even know how to pray?” Gilbert walked directly towards Carington with Edward in tow. “My father says that Scots are barbarians. Do you even know who God is?”

  Anne looked up from her silent prayers, glaring over her shoulder at the boys. Richard continued praying as if nothing was amiss.

  “Gilbert,” Anne snapped softly. “Another word and you will go from this room. Be silent.”

  As his mother returned to her prayers, the little boy dutifully shut up but stuck his tongue out at Carington. She stuck hers out at him in response. He then tried to kick her. She reached out and pinched his arm.

  “Ow!” the boy howled.

  Jolted from her prayers again, Anne turned sharply to her son. “Gilbert, I said not another word!”

  Gilbert was rubbing his arm. “But she pinched me!”

  Lady Anne looked to Carington, who merely lifted her shoulders. “An accident, m’lady.”

  Anne’s gaze lingered on her as if surprised she had even admitted such a thing. Truthfully, she was not quite sure what to make of it. Lacking a better response, she did nothing more than return to her prayers.

  When the woman’s back was turned, Carington glared menacingly at Gilbert and shook her fist at him. He made all manner of fighting gestures in her direction, kicking and throwing his fists to threaten her, but made no actual move to physically touch her. It was apparent he was furious but unwilling to provoke his mother. When his little brother whispered at him, he reluctantly went with his brother back to their seats by the window.

  Carington did not take her eyes off the boy. She did not trust him not to slip up behind her and whack her on the head. Julia was already on her knees, head bowed in prayer, as Kristina pulled Carington alongside. When Kristina went down on her knees, so did Carington. The room fell silent as heads were bowed and the boys thankfully shut up.

  Carington’s father had never been one for the formality of prayer. In fact, her religious education had been very limited. Not wanting to admit such a soul-cursing thing to her new hosts, she simply lowered her head like the other girls and pretended to pray. She honestly was not sure how. Eyes closed, head bowed, her thoughts inevitably drifted to Creed and she wondered where he was on this bright and glorious day. Yesterday morning at this time they had been riding to Prudhoe. She could still feel his arms around her, massive appendages that were safe and comforting. He was such a big man, so powerful, and her heart began to thump strangely as her thoughts of him grew more intense.

  She could feel his hands in her hair, his lips on hers. She was becoming warm at the mere memory. And he had a smell about him, something musky and masculine, that stirred her more deeply than she could comprehend. Her breathing began to deepen, to grow heavy, as she remembered the feel of his mouth against hers, his tongue gently yet insistently probing her. It was enough to bring a rush of heat to her cheeks.

  Wicked, she thought. I should be praying, yet I am thinking of a man who took liberties with me. She smiled faintly, hoping God would forgive her. God made passion, after all. Perhaps he would not be too upset that she could focus on nothing else.

  The prayers seemed to drag on for days when, in fact, it was only a matter of a half hour or so. Carington thought she might have actually dozed off, on her knees to thoughts of Creed’s touch, when she was jolted from her kneeling position by Kristina’s gentle voice. A
bit groggily, she rose, watching Richard and Anne leave arm in arm, followed by Gilbert and Edward. The boys had apparently forgotten about their newest nemesis and paid Carington no mind as they left. They were more interested in tripping each other. Julia was the next one to leave, followed by Kristina. Carington was right behind them, taking a moment to observe the empty chapel with its very precious glass window above the altar. By the time she finished her observation and turned for the door, a very large body was suddenly standing in front of her.

  Startled, she gazed up into Creed’s dusky blue eyes. His expression was as emotionless as ever, but something in the eyes had warmed up. Until this moment, his eyes always held a cold quality about them when he looked at her. But not today; she could not help the smile that spread across her lips, so very glad to finally see him. It was difficult not to appear giddy.

  “Sir Creed,” she said, mindful that Burle was still standing near the door a few feet away. “Have ye just arrived? I’m afraid prayers are over.”

  He looked rested and washed. His skin was smooth, as if he had even shaved. The overall picture was, in fact, striking; she’d only known the man to be dirty and weary from travel for the past few days. But standing in front of her in clean clothing, he looked like an entirely different person. He looked magnificent.

  Creed shook his head in response to her question, his dark hair shaking back and forth.

  “I have not come for prayers, my lady,” he said. “I have come for you.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Me?”

  He nodded, sweeping his hand in the direction of the door and indicating for her to quit the chapel. “Indeed. I told you that I would be your shadow.”

  Clasping her hands primly before her, she obediently left the chamber. “But yer brother said that I was no longer the knights’ responsibility. Has something changed?”

  A few things, in fact, Creed thought as he followed her down the stairs, but he would not tell her the whole of it. His gaze was predictably drawn to the clinging yellow dress; the soft curve of her backside enough to set his male instincts to raging again. She paused politely at the base of the steps, looking up at him expectantly. He realized she was waiting for an answer. Meeting her emerald gaze, he realized he had never more willingly accepted an assignment.

  “It has been decided that, as a special hostage, your position demands more protection,” he said, holding his elbow out to her. She took it immediately, her soft fingers clutching his enormous arm. “Since you and I have established a rapport, this duty has been asked of me.”

  She continued to gaze up at him. “A duty?”

  He smiled faintly. “A pleasure.”

  A broad smile spread across her face. “How kind for ye to say so.”

  Lord God, he thought as he gazed into her face. Her magnificent smile was enough to cause his knees to go weak, a strange warmth filling him. Never in his life had he felt such giddiness, like a drunken man with too much time and pleasure on his hands. Her smile could make him walk through fire without another thought.

  But as foolish and weak as it made him feel, he knew in the same breath that he must conduct himself very carefully. What had happened yesterday would undoubtedly happen again, but he could not, must not, allow it to go further. Creed was not sure what he was feeling for her yet; it had occupied his thoughts all night when he should have damn well been focused on his sentry duties. Even as he tried to catch a few hours’ sleep just after dawn, he could not sleep for thoughts of her. When his brother had told him of his assignment regarding the lady, it was all he could do to not shout for joy. Instead, he had showed his brother a clearly bored expression. He was pleased that Ryton had bought into it.

  He did not say anything more as they crossed the ward back towards the keep; his wink had said it all. He was aware that he felt oddly puffed up, pleased to have her on his arm, as they made their way across the bailey. He knew every man in the place was watching them and he felt a strange sense of both pride and protectiveness.

  Shouts up on the wall distracted him from his thoughts. Glancing up, he could see that the soldiers on the parapet were attempting to gain his attention. He took her hand gently off his elbow, turning in the same motion to Burle several paces behind them.

  “Burle,” he made sure to put her hand into the big knight’s outstretched palm. “Take the lady, if you please. And do not let her out of your sight, for any reason. I shall be right back.”

  Both Burle and Carington watched him jog across the bailey and mount one of the many wooden ladders up to the wall. Burle watched Creed until he mounted the parapets before turning to the lady.

  “Would you like to return to your chamber now, my lady?” he asked politely.

  Carington tore her gaze away from Creed’s distant form to focus on the big blond man. “Nay,” she said after a moment. “I would like to see this place that would be my home for a while. Will ye show me?”

  Burle nodded and began walking slowly with her on his arm. “What would you like to see, my lady?”

  She shrugged. “Everything. I’ve never seen a fortress this size before.”

  He just started walking, pointing out things like the stables, the buttery, the tanner’s shack. The outer ward was wide and long and there was much to see. The kitchens were separate from both the hall and the keep, a stone structure that had holes near the roof line to allow the smoke to escape. They must have been baking because she could smell the bread and she was hungry. Burle took her inside the very warm, very smoky structure and procured a newly baked loaf from the red-faced cook. Happy, she pulled the bread apart and tore into it like a common soldier. Crust and crumbs flew all over the place.

  Burle watched her with a grin on his face. She stuffed bread in her mouth and asked about the kitchen in general, including the big copper pots used to make ale. The cook was also the ale wife and produced most of Prudhoe’s liquor. As she ate, Carington engaged the woman in a conversation about her ale process. Burle stood by the door in silence, listening to Lady Carington discuss the various methods of brewing at her home of Wether Fair. It was apparent that she knew a great deal about it.

  Before Burle realized it, Carington and the cook had grasped one of the big copper tubs and were obviously preparing to utilize it. They moved it to the enormous hearth, big enough to cook several people in, and set it upon an extended iron hook that hung from a chain secured into the stone of the chimney.

  A conversation with a servant was becoming manual labor. The women could barely move the pot between them but somehow managed as Burle stood there, dumbfounded. He was not sure if he should stop her or not; she seemed very determined and very knowledgeable. He knew it never did him any good to try and stop his own wife from doing something once her mind was set, so he was hesitant to interfere.

  “Sir Burle,” Carington jolted him from his thoughts, waving him over. “We require yer strength, if ye please.”

  He moved from his post by the door, eyeing her. “What is your wish, my lady?”

  Carington wiped at a stray lock of hair with the back of her hand, gesturing to the pile of massive sacks lined up neatly near the hearth.

  “The barley,” she said. “Please open a sack.”

  “And then what, my lady?”

  “Dump it into this vat. We are going to cook it.”

  “Cook it?”

  She looked at him then, annoyance on her face. He read her expression and immediately went to the sack without further delay. It was very heavy, but he was very strong; bringing it over to the women, he held it while Carington ripped the stitching in the top. When a small opening was created, he flipped it over and dumped the entire thing into the pot. Dust from the grain billowed up and Carington sneezed several times.

  “Do I dare ask what is going on in here?”

  The trio of ale cooks looked up at the enormous man standing in the doorway. Creed’s shoulders were so wide that they went from one side of the frame to the other, filling the entire o
pening. More than that, he was sucking all of the air out of the room again. Carington could feel it from where she stood, only it did not intimidate her like it used to. She welcomed it. Creed’s expression was curious as he moved into the heated room, his gaze moving between Burle and the little lady.

  Carington answered. “I am going to show yer cook how to make a honeyed fruited ale.”

  Creed’s eyebrows slowly lifted, his eyes studying her intently. “You are going to make ale?”

  She nodded, completely oblivious to the distain in his tone. “A recipe that has been in my family for generations. It is quite delicious.”

  He shifted on his thick legs, crossing his arms as he continued to look at her. “You are going to make ale?”

  Now she was catching his tone. She cocked her head curiously. “Aye; what is the matter?”

  He could not believe she did not see anything wrong with domestic work. But, then again, things were quite different at her home. He knew her father was quite frugal, as she had told him. And he had also seen Wether Fair, a rather desolate keep with a big, dirty army and little else. It began to occur to him that perhaps she was well acquainted with domestic chores. The thought saddened him; such a lovely, intelligent lady was destined for finer things. He never wanted her to lift a finger again.

  But he had to be careful with his words. He did not want to insult her when she clearly saw nothing wrong with what she was doing. He took a few steps towards the group until he stood next to Burle, but his eyes never left Carington.

  “Nothing is the matter except that I have been asked to take you to town to purchase material for new clothing,” he said. “I thought you would want to go now. It is a fine day for travel.”

  She blinked at him in surprise. “New clothing? Why do I need new clothing?”

  “You do not need it, but Lady Anne thought you would like to have some new garments made.”

  “Why?”

  He was on two very touchy subjects and being very careful not to tip the balance against him. First the ale, now the clothing. As he had observed since the day they had taken her from Wether Fair, she obviously did not own any fine clothing. Even the dress she wore now, as much as it clung to her delicious figure, was faded and outdated. Either she did not care how she looked, which he could not imagine was the case, or she did not own anything finer. Lady Anne had noticed it this morning also and had mentioned it to him as he had passed her on his way to the chapel. He was under orders to finely dress her without offending her at the same time. It was a difficult task.