Chapter One #3
Her emerald eyes widened. “Protection? Do I need protection?”
“A figure of speech. You are to be my charge.”
Reaching up, he pulled off his helm and tossed it irritably in the direction of the tent opening.
It landed with a thud. Carington continued to stare up at him, now faced with the full view of the colossal knight; not only was he wide, but he was tall as well.
He was not particularly young, nor was he particularly old.
He had a sort of ageless male quality, an ambience of wisdom and hardness that came with years of service.
She had only been able to see part of his face before.
Now she could see that the square jaw housed full, masculine lips and a straight nose.
His hair was very dark, with gentle waves through it, and the eyes that shot lightning bolts now appeared a grayish shade of blue.
It occurred to her that the man was profoundly handsome but she angrily chased the thought away.
She did not want to think such things about a hated Sassenach.
“I can take care of myself,” she said with more courage than she felt. “I dunna need ye.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, raking his fingers wearily through his dark hair. “But I am here nonetheless. And think not to get any brilliant ideas about running off again. You would not like my reaction.”
“So ye threaten me, do ye?” Her outrage was tempering her fear of him.
“’Tis not a threat but a promise of things to come should you rebel.”
Her rosebud mouth popped open in indignation. Then it shut swiftly, pressed into a thin angry line. “Just like a Sassenach. The only words out of yer mouth are those of threat and pain. Do ye know nothing else, English?”
He did not react to her other than to pop off pieces of armor.
His sword, in its sheath, ended up near his helm.
“Rules must be established, lady,” he said patiently.
“You have already proven yourself untrustworthy. I am simply following your lead. If you are going to act like a delinquent, I am going to treat you like one.”
She did not want to admit he was right. In fact, she hated him for making her feel like a fool. Turning away from him, she angrily unrolled her bedding and crawled atop it, settling herself with frustrated movements.
Creed finished stripping off his armor, alternately watching her body language and paying attention to his own.
Further inspection of her showed that she was indeed a pretty little thing, with long, curling black hair and eyes the color of emeralds.
She had a pert little nose and lips shaped like a bow.
And she was petite, no bigger than a large child.
But he knew she was no child; the Lady Carington Kerr, the only daughter of Laird Etterick, Sian Magnus Kerr of Clan Kerr, was a full nineteen years old.
She was a grown woman and more than a little old for a hostage.
His gaze lingered on her as she settled into her bedding.
There was something oddly intriguing about her although he could not put his finger on it.
In fact, he did not even want to think about it.
His squire appeared at the tent opening, distracting him with food and drink, and Creed thankfully motioned the lad in.
The boy set the tray to the floor just inside the doorway and fled.
With a heavy sigh, Creed sat on the ground beside the meal and downed most of the wine before he even attempted the bread.
He found he needed the drink more than he needed the sustenance.
Whenever a woman was around, he needed the fortification of alcohol.
He heard a soft sigh, glancing over and realizing that the lady had finally settled down.
But he could also see that she was cold, clutching the tartan close about her and not seeing much relief from the damp cold.
He turned back to his cup, ignoring her until she sat up swiftly and climbed off her bedroll.
As he watched, she pulled the bedding over to the vizier and lay back down again.
The red-hot furnace was against her back as she settled back down again.
Creed gazed at her as she struggled once again to be comfortable.
He could see highlights of red in her hair that were reflecting off of the light from the vizier.
The nearly black color seemed to mask a rainbow of warm hues only revealed by the light.
Her hands, little white things, clutched at the tartan.
He found himself watching her probably more than he should have.
She was cold and he wondered if he should offer to stoke the vizier more; a chivalrous man would have.
But his chivalry had left him a few months ago when it had gotten him into trouble.
Never again would he make the same mistake of showing kindness to a woman.
Just as the lady’s movements lessened and she seemed to still, the tent flap opened and Jory stuck his head in. Short and compact, the young knight sought out Creed.
“Your brother needs a word with you,” he said, eyeing the supine figure. “I shall watch the lady while you are gone.”
Creed set his cup down and stood without hesitation. But he paused when he reached the opening.
“You will not go near her, is that clear?” he said. “If she has been touched, harmed or harassed in any way, know that my retribution shall be swift and painful.”
Jory’s dark eyes widened at the man who was literally more than twice his size. “I would never touch her, Creed.”
Creed did look at him, then, lifting a knowing eyebrow. “That is not true; otherwise, I would not have felt compelled to make things plain to you.”
He was gone, leaving Jory standing just inside the doorway with an insulted and slightly fearful expression on his face.
After several moments of silently cursing Creed, he settled into a crouched position next to Creed’s half-eaten meal.
Out of spite, he knocked over the remainder of the wine and snorted at his handiwork.
He lingered by the doorway, watching the lady’s head as it lay partially buried beneath the colors of the hunting tartan.
Jory d’Eneas was something of an erratic and, at times, appalling creature.
Fathered by a powerful baron from a common servant, he had been sent away to foster at four years of age.
Though sequestered at a noble house, he had become the victim of an older knight who had seriously abused him from the time he was very young up until he became a squire and could muster the strength to fight the man off.
Though there were some that knew of the despicable abuse, no one cared enough to stop it.
Consequently, Jory grew up with a twisted sense of morals and an even more twisted view of the world.
He was a strong fighter and had moments of sanity in which one might think he was a decent human being, but for the most part, Jory was a man that bore watching.
He came to serve Richard d’Umfraville because Jory’s father, Baron Hawthorn, had begged it of d’Umfraville.
Not wanting to upset his old friend, Lord Richard had agreed.
Even now, as Jory watched the lady sleep, Creed’s threat had little effect on him.
True, he was frightened of the man, but it would not prevent him from ultimately doing as he pleased.
As the vizier glowed softly and the night outside quivered with the soft sounds of the evening, Jory took a few slow steps in the lady’s direction.
To an outside observer, it would have looked like a predator stalking prey.
To Jory, it was simply a normal approach.
His dark eyes glittered as he closed in on her.
Carington was not asleep; she had heard Jory entered the tent and heard the subsequent conversation between him and Creed.
In fact, as she lay buried beneath the tartan, she was wide awake, her senses attuned to any movement in the tent.
She could hear footsteps approaching. When the grass near her head softly gave way, she bolted up so fast that she tipped the red-hot vizier onto its side, spilling the coals to the damp earth.
Jory was no more than a foot away from her as she rolled to her feet. She clutched the tartan to her, backing away from the knight still in slow pursuit.
“Stay away from me, Sassenach dog,” she hissed. “If you come anywhere near me, ye’ll regret the day ye were born.”
Jory smiled. Then he came to a halt. After a moment’s deliberation, sizing the lady up, he laughed softly and put up his hands.
“You need not worry over me, my lady,” he said, turning away and looking for a place to sit in the small, cramped quarters.
“I was simply checking to see if you were adequately resting. However, since you are awake, I can see that you are not. You really should be, you know. We are departing in a few hours.”
There is something disturbing about him, Carington thought as she watched his mannerisms. She did not reply but continued to stand several feet away, coiled like a spring. Jory glanced at her as he plopped down at the edge of her bedroll to avoid sitting on the smashed grass beneath his feet.
“You may return to sleep, my lady, truly,” he said, now toying with a blade of grass by his boot. “I will not threaten you.”
Carington did not move. She continued to stand there, eyeing him.
His back was to her. Suddenly, a light appeared in the emerald eyes, something of brilliance and bad judgment.
She was closer to the tent flap than he was.
Moreover, his back was to her. He probably would not even see her leave until it was too late.
Very slowly, she took a step in the direction of the tent flap.
Then she took another. But Jory suddenly threw himself at her before she could bolt from the tent and the battle was on.