Guardian of Darkness (6 page)

“Since when is a polite request begging?”

Her little jaw ticked furiously, the emerald eyes blazing at him. They just stared at each other.  Creed could feel the heat from her gaze, all of the pent up anger and frustration and fear that she was feeling.  He could also see that she was not used to being denied her wishes. As a laird’s daughter, she most always got her way.  It was difficult for her to comprehend that things were going to change.

“I want to see my horse,” she said with forced politeness.

“Please?”

Her lips twitched. “Ye arrogant swine, I’ll not have ye teaching me how to ask a question. I already asked. I want to see my horse!”

He could not help it; he did smile. And he snorted for good measure.  Carington saw the laughter and it lit a fire within her the likes of which she’d rarely experienced. He was laughing at her.  Her little hand came up, opened palmed, prepared to slap him across his supercilious cheek. But Creed saw the movement and he blocked her strike before she could make contact.  He held her wrist in a vice-like grip, all of the humor gone from his expression.

“That,” he said slowly, “would have been a stupid move on your part.”

She tried to yank her hand away but he would not let go. “Release me,” she grunted, struggling. “Ye’re hurting me.”

He did not let go. “I will not release you unless you promise me that you will not attempt to strike me again.”

She grunted and struggled, trying to peel his fingers away, but they would not budge.  Creed tightened his grip, not enough to hurt but enough to get her attention.  His dusky blue eyes focused on her.

“Listen to me and listen well, lady,” he lowered his voice into something deep and hazardous. “We have been attempting to explain to you for the better part of two days that you are a hostage for a reason. Your father and Lord Richard have made this so. All of the fighting, screaming, slapping and biting in the world will not change this. You cannot resist and you cannot refuse. And your time with us will be what you make of it; if you are disagreeable and violent, you will be met in kind. If you are pleasant and cooperative, it will make your stay far more agreeable.  You might even come to enjoy the experience, as it is Lord Richard’s and Lady Anne’s intention to treat you like an honored guest.  Do you comprehend?”

Somewhere towards the end of his speech she stopped struggling, gazing up at him with those liquid emerald eyes.  But there was still fire in the depths.

“I willna surrender if that is what ye are asking,” she said defiantly.

“That is not what I am asking. Do you not see that I am trying to help you?”

She did. He had been trying to help her since nearly the moment they had met. But she did not want his help.  She hated him and everything about him.

“Let me go,” she said through gritted teeth.

He did, immediately. Carington rubbed her wrist where he had squeezed, glaring daggers at him.  Creed merely gazed back with his customary cool.

“You will answer my question. Do you understand that proper behavior will gain you far more than resistance?”

“I understand that ye are trying to subdue me.”

“Are you so dense? No one said anything about subdue.”

“Dunna call me dense, Sassenach,” she snapped. “Ye are trying to force me into submission by taking my horse and my freedom.”

“Your freedom has already been taken. What do you think a hostage is?”

Her ranting came to an abrupt halt. She stared up at him, still rubbing the wrist, but her expression was morphing from one of fury into one of realization.  The emerald eyes begin to waver; the lower lip, to tremble.  He had her and they both knew it.

But it was not in Carington’s nature to so easily yield. There was much Scots in her, much fight.  She had inherited the intrinsic sense of loathing for the English and those who would seek to take away the liberty that every Scots believed was their inherent right.  No man should rule over another; race should only rule over the same race. The English believed they were more civilized and, therefore, more intelligent to administer over their brothers to the north.  Carington, her father, and her father’s fathers, believed they were quite capable on their own.  They did not need any interference.

“I hate ye, Sassenach,” it all came out as a blurted, passionate whisper. “I’ll hate ye until I die.”

He was unmoved. “That is your choice.  But in spite of that, I am still your shadow and will do what is necessary to ensure both your safety and your suitable manners.  You will behave, my lady, or my retribution shall be swift.  I’ll not have you striking out at everyone who upsets you, for clearly, that is frequent occurrence. Is that clear?”

She looked away, rubbing her wrist and struggling not to weep.  She was so mad that she was verging on tears. But she was also feeling an extreme measure of defeat.  At the moment, there was nothing left for her to do but relent. She was not so foolish that she did not realize that.  But she was not giving up entirely.

“May I please see to my horse?”

She asked so softly that he almost did not hear her.  As the squires began to collapse the tent behind them, Creed held out his hand to her and she understood the gesture to walk with him. When he reached to take her elbow, purely as a courtesy, she deliberately pulled away. She did not want the knight touching her. She did not want to show any capitulation to the man whose directives she would be forced to comply with.  She hated him. She would hate him forever.

Some of the horses were being tended by the time they reached the make-shift area where the horses were tethered. The sky was lightening to a pale gray, enough so that Carington could see the blond head of her tall horse back in the herd.  Without a word to Creed, she ducked under the roped barrier and wove her way among the horses, occasionally slapping a big horse butt that got in her way.   When she came to within a few feet of Bress, she clucked to him softly, calling his name. The horse’s ears perked in her direction and he nickered softly.

Carington and the monstrous horse came together in an affectionate clash. Creed stood a few feet away, watching her hug and kiss the big golden head.  The horse nibbled on her arm and flapped its big lips at her face when she tried to kiss it.  It was actually quite touching to watch, if he were to admit it.  He could see just by the way she handled the animal that she was very much in love with it.  Without all of the resistance and fight, he could sense that she was a sweet and compassionate woman.  He began to have some doubt as to whether or not he should forbid her from riding the animal; she had indeed ridden it yesterday with no ill effects. Perhaps his brother’s concerns were overrated.

As he mulled over his thoughts, Carington proceeded to inspect every inch of the horse. When she was sure the animal was unharmed, she turned to Creed.

“Has he been fed yet?” she asked. “I would like to feed him myself.”

Creed looked around to the few soldiers milling about, men who usually tended the horses on a long march. “I doubt it,” he said. “Stay here a moment. I’ll see about procuring him some food.”

She watched him as he wandered off into the lifting fog, studying his confident gait.  To see a rear view only confirmed that he did indeed have the widest shoulders she had ever seen.  He also cut a very pleasing shape with a narrow waist, tight buttocks and thick legs. But just as those warm thoughts rolled across her mind, she angrily chased them away. She hated the man. She refused to think him attractive to look at.

Bress’ eyes were half-lidded as she stroked the blond face. He had an even white blaze down his face that was distinctive and lovely.  As she petted the horse, a thought suddenly occurred to her and she found herself seeking out Creed’s location; he was a good distance from her, speaking with a soldier. A quick glance back at Bress showed the horse with a halter and lead rope only; no saddle or bridle to make for easier riding. But no matter; she had ridden him with just a halter many a time. She was comfortable with it.  And Creed was too far away to give immediate chase.

Carefully, and with one eye still on Creed, she looped the lead rope over Bress’ neck and secured it to the other side of the halter to create make-shift reins. Bress was the fastest horse she had ever seen. She knew the fat destriers would be unable to keep pace with him.  Aye, she had decided not to run, once. But she had changed her mind, now that she saw what the Sassenachs truly had in mind for her: complete submission and utter humiliation. She would not be a hostage; she would be a prisoner. And the big beast Creed de Reyne would take great pleasure in her surrender.

The last Creed saw of Carington, she and her golden horse made a graceful jump over a rope barricade and were disappearing into the awakening dawn.

***

 She could not go home.  Carington knew that; she knew that her father would only turn her back over to the Sassenachs and they would probably beat her for her insolence, so she knew right away that she could not return to Wether Fair. That meant she had to flee far enough to be able to start a new life for herself, far from peace treaties and English knights and Scots barons.  It was a foolish and desperate thought, but she was foolish and desperate at the moment. She did not want to be a token for peace. She did not want to be a prisoner. She wanted; nay, needed to be free.

Bress was swift; he covered several miles within the first hour.  The morning fog had lifted slightly, but it was still cold and wet.  In little time she had made it to a larger town far to the south, although she was not exactly sure why she was heading south. More than likely because Creed and his brotherhood of devils would expect her to head for home, so they would turn northward to search for her.  She would fool them and go south. 

A few hours into her flight, Bress was showing signs of exhaustion.  She slowed the horse and directed him off the road, into a cluster of trees to shield them from the highway.   The animal was sweating and foaming, so she began to walk him through the thick bramble to cool him off.   He tried to munch on the clusters of wet grass but she pulled him up, wanting to cool him before he ate.

The fog had almost completely cleared as they emerged from the bramble into a lovely green meadow with rocky crags in the distance.  Some of the peaks had a white cap of snow.  She had a fairly good sense of direction and knew she was heading to the southeast, but she had no idea if there were any towns nearby or what she would do when night fell.  

She would have to feed and shelter herself, which she was confident she could do. Being the only child of a warlord, her father had taught her a few things he had hoped to teach a son. He had taken her hunting on occasion and she knew how to catch small game.  She also knew how to identify edible plants for the lean times when meat was unavailable. Thanks to the cook at Wether Fair, she also knew how to prepare items like bread and ale. She was quite good at making ale and, thanks to her father, she was quite good at drinking it, too.  She wished she had some if only for the warmth it would provide.

Carington glanced up at the sky; it was late morning, possibly mid-day, and she was famished.  Bress needed to eat and rest also.  Wandering across the green grass of an early spring season, she could hear water in the distance.   She followed the trickling sound, across the meadow, through a thicket, and emerging on the other side.  A small stream cut right through the pasture and she allowed Bress to drink heavily now that he was sufficiently cooled.   When he was finished with his water, he went to work on the thick grass that lined the stream and she tethered him to a bush so that he would not run off.   With the horse munching happily, she could focus on herself.

She needed food.  The thicket was not too far away and she retraced her steps, entering the dark, cool trees and hoping to find some edible foliage. Off to her right, on the outskirts of the trees, was a huge cluster of dandelions.  She went to the patch, collecting as much as she could and using the length of her surcoat as a basket.