Chapter One #4
He had a good hold of her, but Carington was a fighter. She hissed and scratched like a cat, battling the knight for all she was worth. In the course of their struggle, she tripped over the long tartan and fell onto her back, taking Jory with her.
He landed on top of her, listening to her grunt, imagining in his sick mind that they were pants of pleasure. It had been a long time since he had heard such things. He trapped her with his legs, holding her arms fast, watching her porcelain-like face contort with struggle.
“My lady,” he breathed, his face very close to hers. “Why do you fight so? There is nothing of the English that should frighten you so.”
Not only was she angry, but now she was terrified. Her second escape attempt was thwarted before it began, and now apparently with far more ghastly consequences. She was too small to battle with him, too small to give him a good fight. His weight was smashing her.
“Get off me, ye foul beast,” she grunted. “Take yer hands from me.”
Jory was not even struggling with her anymore; he simply lay on top of her, feeling her squirm beneath him. It was horrendously exciting.
“Nay, lady,” his tone contained both menace and seduction. “You have been caught at escape again. You must be punished.”
“Ye’ll not lay a hand on me,” her struggles increased. “Get… off!”
Her last word was punctuated by bringing a knee up, aiming for the male groin. She made weak contact, enough to cause Jory to transform from one twisted emotion to the next with blinding speed.
“Unwise, lady,” he squeezed her wrists so tightly that she let out a squeal of pain. “If you are going to play with unfair tactics, then so shall I.”
Horrified, swiftly slipping into panic, Carington had no idea what he meant. But she quickly found out.
*
Creed stood in his brother’s tent watching Ryton remove a few pieces of armor so he could obtain a moderate amount of comfort when he lay down to rest. Creed was still not pleased with his orders and, consequently, with his brother at the moment.
He sighed heavily, standing half-in and half-out of the tent.
“What is it?” he demanded quietly.
Ryton glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”
“Jory said you wanted to speak with me.”
Ryton’s hand paused on a leather fastener near his arm, his brow furrowed.
“Speak with you? I did not.” He resumed working on the fastener.
“But Jory and I were speaking just a few moments ago. I asked him to remind me to speak to you about the lady’s mount.
But it could just as well wait until tomorrow. It was not necessary to send for you.”
“What about her mount?” Creed asked, weary and the least bit perturbed.
Ryton yanked off the breastplate that had been restricting him for the better part of the day. He handed it off to a hovering squire.
“That big blond horse she brought with her,” he said.
“I am not entirely sure she should be riding it. ’Tis a big beast with male instincts.
It has been biting at everything that moves, including the destriers.
It gave Stanton’s charger a nice bite on its flank.
I would hate to have the spirited thing somehow gnash her before we reached Prudhoe. ”
Creed blinked slowly, without patience. “What do you want me to do about it?”
Ryton shrugged, sitting heavily on the three legged stool that was shoved into the ground near the portable vizier. A very small amount of warmth radiated from it and the man held up his hands a moment, attempting to warm them.
“Let her ride with you, I suppose,” he said, running his fingers over his scalp and focusing on his brother. “But it was something we could have just as easily discussed tomorrow. You are supposed to be watching a hostage.”
“I was.”
“Who is with her now?”
“Jory.”
Ryton lifted an eyebrow. “Get back to her, Creed.”
There was something in his tone. It suddenly occurred to Creed that perhaps Jory had given him the message to get him away from their hostage. He could not believe the man was foolish enough to not only make an idiot out of him, but to attempt something against their valuable captive.
With a grunt of frustration, he marched from the tent and back across the camp.
His irritation towards Jory was growing every step of the way and he sincerely hoped the man was sitting quite patiently in a corner of the tent awaiting his return.
Anything else would surely be met with hostility, especially after the parting words between them.
He was still several yards away from the tent when he heard what he thought was a muffled cry. Creed broke into a dead run.
*
He had licked her face.
He had licked her face and now he was in the process of making an attempt to grab a body part that was not his privilege to do so.
He was trying to kiss her, too, with his slobbering mouth and foul breath.
Carington tried to scream but he kept putting his mouth over hers.
All that was coming out of her throat were muffled grunts.
He was not a big man, but he was strong.
His dead weight upon her was rendering her helpless.
Carington finally got a hand free and jabbed her finger into his eye.
Jory screamed but only partially rolled off of her.
She tried to flip over on her stomach, struggling to crawl away from him, but she was tangled in the tartan and could not get free quickly enough.
Jory was back on her in a flash, pulling her long dark hair.
He yanked her head up, his face shoved into the side of her hair.
“You will not do that again,” he grunted into her ear, listening to her cry softly when he ran a tongue along her earlobe. “Relax and stop fighting, my lady. I will not hurt you; I promise.”
Carington was struggling not to succumb to hysterics.
It would be so easy to burst into terrified sobs.
She swung a hand back, smacking him in the forehead but doing little damage.
The vizier was almost within arm’s length; she thought to grab it and throw it on him, not thinking that she might burn herself in the process.
All she knew was that she had to fight. This man had foul intentions towards her and she was terrified.
Her fingers grazed the leg of the vizier but she could not get close enough to grab it.
The knight had a hand underneath her, squeezing her breast. Suddenly, the weight on top of her was removed and she heard the knight shout in pain and, perhaps, fear.
Full of panic, she scrambled to her feet and grabbed the nearest weapon she could find, which happened to be a small iron bar that was used to stoke the vizier.
The tartan fell on the ground as she swung around to Jory, fully prepared to shove the bar right through his head. But what she saw surprised her.
Creed stood just inside the tent opening with Jory in his grasp.
But it was not any grasp; he had the younger knight around the neck, lifting him up off of the ground and squeezing the life from him.
Jory was trying to dislodge his grip, but it was like trying to move iron. The man’s hands weren’t budging.
Seeing Jory subdued, Carington raced to the battling men and smacked Jory on the head hard enough to knock him senseless. As Jory went limp in his grasp, Creed’s surprised focus diverted to the lady. Before he could stop her, she took another whack at Jory’s head and split his scalp.
Creed dropped Jory to the ground and grasped the lady by the hands.
He yanked the iron bar from her panicked grip and tossed it aside.
Half-carrying, half-dragging, he took her back over to her bedroll.
The lady was furious, terrified, struggling not to cry.
Her breathing was coming in sharp little pants.
Creed could see how frightened she was and a small amount of guilt crept into his veins.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked gruffly.
Carington’s gaze was riveted to Jory as if afraid he would rear up and grab her again.
But she tore her eyes away from the supine knight long enough to look into deep blue bottomless pools.
Oddly, they eased her somewhat. “I… I dunna think so,” she sounded hoarse with fright. “But he tried. Sweet Jesus, he tried.”
“But you are well? No broken bones or injuries?”
“Nay.”
Creed’s gaze lingered on her a moment before returning his focus to Jory.
As the anxiety of the moment waned, he took a deep breath for calm but continued to hold on to the lady’s hands.
They were like ice. He turned back to her, noting that her exquisite face, pale with terror, was still focused on Jory.
In spite of his resistance, he felt himself softening.
“He will not hurt you again,” he assured her with quiet authority. “You have my word.”
He stood up and went to Jory, now stirring slightly on the wet ground. Effortlessly, he slung the man over his shoulder and went to the tent flap, snapping orders to the sentries standing outside.
Hovering by the vizier, struggling to calm her shaking body, Carington could hear him severely reprimanding the sentries outside, berating them for not having intervened when they heard the sounds of struggle.
She heard a loud thump and a simultaneous grunt as something, or someone, was thrown to the ground.
Realizing that she was indeed safe, the tears of relief came.
Creed came back into the tent to find her weeping.
“What is amiss, my lady?” he went to her, concerned. “Are you injured?”
She wiped her eyes quickly, embarrassed that he had seen her tears. “Nay,” she sniffled, keeping her head lowered so that he could not see her face. “I… I am well enough. I am simply exhausted.”