Guardian of Darkness (5 page)

CHAPTER TWO

She did not want to be here. So why was not she running?

The Sassenach knight was asleep, sitting up, in her tent.  She had just left him there, his eyes closed and sleeping like the dead.  Carington did not think she had slept at all, listening to the sounds of the night beyond the tent and seriously wondering why she was not making another attempt to flee her captors. Perhaps it was because Sir Creed had made a good deal of sense to her. Perhaps it was because he had proven that he was not out to kill her.  She was not particularly sure; for whatever reason, she was swept with reluctance every time she thought she might try to run again.  And the reluctance was making her muddled.

Creed de Reyne. She was not what she had expected from a Sassenach knight.  When his eyes weren’t verging on a lightning display, they seemed rather calm and wise.  His manner had been very soothing when it was warranted and his words held a great deal of perception.  Although he still sucked out all of the air around him with his very presence, she found he was not as fearsome as she had originally thought.   

The dawn around her was a dark gray, lightening to shades of silver with the rising of the sun.  It was incredibly damp and cold as she pulled the tartan more closely around her.  She stood just outside of her tent, staring into the bleak moors and dark forests beyond. She thought back to the size of Creed’s hand when he had forced her to look at him; she had never seen hands so enormous. And although he was not as tall as his brother the commander, he was as wide as an old oak tree.  Massive width through his shoulders and chest yet narrow in the waist.  His arms were as large as tree branches, ending up in those colossal hands.  Aye, he was a big man with a striking face.  If she was so inclined to think such a thing about Sassenachs, she might even think him handsome. But she was not ready to go that far yet. She was still in the bosom of the enemy, surrounded by hostiles, and she hated all of them just as they hated her.

The camp was stirring as men began to rise and pack up their gear for the trip home.   Prudhoe Castle was nearly three days from her home of Wether Fair. This was the dawn of the second day and she was not particularly looking forward to one more, marching to her dismal future in the heart of a rival army. 

In the distance she could hear the horses nickering as men moved into their midst to feed them. One of those horses was her very own, a tall golden warmblood that her father had given her.  His name was Bress, which meant ‘beautiful’ in the Gaelic.  She had raised the horse from a tiny colt, watching it grow into a magnificent stallion with a thick neck and muscled hind quarters.  She loved the horse as if it was her child and the horse responded to her in kind.  She was concerned for the animal, listening to the whinnying of horses grow increasingly urgent. She hoped he was being fed and that he was behaving himself. With Bress, it was hard to tell.

Carington wanted to go to where the horses were tethered, but she thought it might look as if she was trying to escape again.  So she stood there, gazing off into the fog, hoping her horse was being adequately cared for.  She did not know how she could have possibly considered leaving him behind last night when she’d tried to flee. She was far too fond of him.

A body was suddenly standing next to her and she flinched with surprise, looking up to see Creed’s sharp eyes gazing off across the fog and moors. He looked sleepy but alert. She stared at him a good long while before he finally looked down at her.

“You are up early,” he said. “Is anything amiss?”

She shook her head. “I… I couldna sleep. I came outside to see the morning.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

Again, she shook her head. “I dunna think so.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Then this will be an exhausting day for you.”

She lifted her slender shoulders and looked away. “It is of no matter.”

He watched her lowered head a moment before emitting a piercing whistle.   Carington jumped at the shrill sound as a lad running in their direction from a group of smaller tents.   The boy was very tall, very skinny and blond, perhaps around fifteen years of age. He went straight to Creed.

“My lord?” the boy asked breathlessly.

Creed jerked his head in the direction of the tent behind them. “Gather my things for travel. Bring the lady a meal and some warm water.”

The young man fled. Carington watched him disappear into the tent, recognizing him from the previous evening when he had brought Creed his meal. “Who is that?”

Creed’s gaze lingered over the foggy encampment a moment longer. “My squire,” he said shortly. Then he looked at her. “If you wish to wash and eat before we leave, now would be the time.”

She went silently back to the tent, tartan still wrapped tightly around her. She was freezing. Creed watched her a moment, truthfully very thankful that he had found her standing just outside the tent. He thought she had fled again and his heart was still racing because of it.  But she had surprised him by remaining firm.

He followed her only as far as the tent flap.  James, his squire, emerged from the tent with his arms full of armor and mail and raced back in the direction he had come from.   As Creed stood sentry outside the tent, watching the increased activity of the camp, another boy with short brown hair and enormous brown eyes appeared shortly with an iron pot of steaming water hanging off one arm and a covered tray in both hands.  Creed flipped back the tent flap and allowed the lad entrance.  When the youth quit the tent less than a minute later, Creed resumed his post, his mind moving to the trip ahead.

Inside the small tent, Carington was also preparing for the trip ahead.  The tartan was folded neatly on the ground and she was in the process of washing some of the dust from her curvaceous body.  It was cold in the tent, made bearable by the steaming water the boy had brought her.  She had a surcoat of gray wool laid out with a soft white-wool sheath that went beneath it.  Her family was not one of wealth or glory, so she owned no pretty belts or jewelry.  She came from a functional, warring clan and such things were considered unnecessary.  

 But she did own soap and oil, which she used in concert with the warm water to bathe her tired body.   She scrubbed her face vigorously and ran a comb through her nearly-black hair.   To keep it neat, she wove it into a single thick braid, draping it over one shoulder.   The oil she had brought with her was extracted from Elder flower and had a sweet, slightly spicy scent.  It was perhaps the only luxury her frugal father had allowed because her skin often became so dry in the winter time that it bled.  The Elder oil helped tremendously and she rubbed it sparingly into her skin.

The surcoat and sheath were long of sleeve, of good quality and durable.  She dressed in the garments, pulling on woolen pantalets and finally heavy hose, which were the only pair she owned.   Sturdy leather boots went on her feet; her father did not believe in wasting money on frivolous slippers.  Rubbing some oil on her rosebud-shaped lips, she quickly re-packed everything and emerged from the tent.

She ran right into Creed.

“I am ready to leave,” she had both her satchels in her hand. “May I collect my horse now?”

He gazed down at her, momentarily startled by her appearance; she was scrubbed and groomed, appearing completely different from the disheveled creature he had associated with since yesterday.  Somewhere in his mind, his inherent male instincts told him that she was an exquisite beauty; sweet face, striking coloring, and a body that was as round and pleasing as any he had ever seen. Better, in fact. Though very short of stature, she had full breasts and a narrow torso that put all other women to shame. 

He had to make a conscious effort not to gape at her. But the logical male instincts were stronger that the lustful ones.  So was his sense of self protection. He refused to allow himself to entertain a pleasant thought where it pertained to her. She was a hostage; nothing more.

“There is some trepidation about your horse, my lady,” he said, his enormous arms folded across his chest. “We have concern that it is a violent horse, something a young lady should not be riding.”

She appeared genuinely surprised. “Bress? I have raised him since he foaled. He is not a violent horse.”

“He has already caused quite a few problems with the other horses.”

Her emerald eyes flashed. “’Tis because they are Sassenach horses,” she spat. “He smells the enemy and reacts in kind. He knows they want to kill him.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Horses do not know if they are English or Scots.”

“But they know if they are enemies.”

“That may well be, but the commander feels that it would be best if you rode with me.”

Her reaction was not pleasing; she scowled deeply as if he had just suggested something horribly offensive.  “I am not a bairn in need of constant attention. I have been riding longer than I have been walking. I can ride better than ye.”

He almost smiled at her indignation. “Perhaps. But with your horse reacting badly to the chargers, his behavior could be out of the ordinary. The last thing we need is for the horse to throw and injure you.  It would be in your best interest to ride with me.”

Her pretty mouth pressed into a thin, angry line.  “Dunna believe for one moment that I dunna know what ye’re up to.  Ye’re trying to keep me caged by denying me the right to travel on my own horse.”

Creed was coming to realize that she flared faster than any woman alive.  But if he possessed one particular personality trait above all else, it was that he was a calm man.  The world could explode around him and murder could be rampant in the streets, but still, he would be calm and collected.  He had never been known to lose his temper, even when all of the madness with Isabella was going on.  He had simply remained collected and struggled to deal with it. In fact, he blamed that particular trait for getting him into trouble in the first place; he’d been calm when the girl-child who would be queen tried to seduce him. He had been calmer still when he had refused her.  Nothing could have upset the girl more.

It would therefore stand to reason that he was wary of flaring women.  He did not trust them. But he remained characteristically cool as she grew more agitated.

“We are simply concerned for your safety, my lady,” he said evenly.  “It would be safer for you to ride with me.”

“I willna do it.”

“You have no choice.”

“If I refuse?”

“Then I shall tie you up and you can ride in the back of the provisions wagon.”

She glared at him for several long seconds before very nearly throwing her satchels to the ground.  They ended up at Creed’s feet.  Her little fists worked as if she was contemplating going to fisticuffs against him; Creed was so surprised by her body language that he very nearly laughed. In fact, it was a struggle not to grin.  He did not think she would take that reaction too well.

But she did not strike him.  She did, however, continued to clench and unclench her fists.  When she spoke, it was through clenched teeth.

 “If ye willna let me ride my horse, then at least ye’ll let me see to him to make sure he’s all right,” she said. “Take me to him.”

He was unfazed by her anger, laboring not to crack a smile. “Polite requests will be granted. Demands will be ignored.”

His calm statement only made her madder. Her fist-clenching grew more furious and her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of red. Creed had to bite his cheek to keep from erupting in laughter.

“I’ll not beg ye,” she seethed.