Chapter Eleven #2
When he was not watching Julia, he was watching Carington’s backside.
She had the most delectable body he had ever seen.
Everyone had noticed. And the new gowns she was parading around in did nothing to stifle his twisted imagination.
Even now, she stood next to Creed in a surcoat of blue brocade which only emphasized the curves of her figure.
Jory began to imagine the wedding bed and how Creed would be touching and tasting her tender flesh.
He would be slipping his fingers and tongue into intimate places, finally ramming his great manhood into her virginal sheath.
It took Jory a moment to realize that he was engorged and he returned his attention to Julia so that his arousal would go down.
Plain, unattractive Julia would serve to calm him. She would also help him.
When the wedding was over and Julia slipped out before congratulating the happy couple, Jory followed. He caught up to her when she was nearly to the inner bailey.
“Lady Julia,” he called after her. “Wait a moment.”
Julia came to a halt, quickly wiping at her eyes as she turned to him. Jory’s dark gaze fell upon her tear stained face and he smiled thinly.
“I am sorry that it was not you standing next to Creed,” he made an attempt at sounding sympathetic. “Creed will never know what he has given up.”
Julia was struggling to compose herself as she looked up at him. “What is it you want?”
Jory lifted an eyebrow. “Want?” he shrugged, looking about the yard. “I only want to help you.”
“Help me with what?”
He looked at her, then. “Punish Creed, of course.”
She eyed him suspiciously. Then she began to walk away. Jory caught up to her and took pace beside her.
“He has spurned you, Julia,” he said grimly. “And that Scot… what right does she have to marry him? She only met him four days ago. You have known him longer. Certainly you should have been the one to win his heart.”
Julia shook her head. “Go away, Jory.”
He did not do as she asked. He continued.
“By all rights, that woman is a hostage, yet Creed and the others have treated her as if she is royalty,” he insisted.
“See how they fawn over her? ’Tis not right, I tell you.
And what of you? They ignore you. They place this Scots bitch over you.
How does that make you feel? How does it make you feel to know that it will not be you that Creed makes love to tonight? ”
With a frustrated growl, she came to a halt and faced him. “Enough,” she hissed. “I do not need your help or your pity. Go away and leave me alone.”
He grabbed her so that she could not walk away. “Listen to me,” he said. “I will help you exact vengeance on Creed and his wife.”
She looked up at him, struggling to pull away. “What in the world are you talking about?”
His grip tightened. “I speak of a reckoning. Creed has wronged you. His bitch of a wife does not deserve him. Let me help you punish him.”
Julia gazed up into his evil, dark eyes and, for a split second, realized she was considering his offer. She was devastated that Creed had married the Scots hostage. But something deep inside her, one last shred of common sense, held her back.
“Why would you offer to do this?” she hissed. “What has Creed done to you that you would be so willing to be the instrument through which my satisfaction is obtained?”
He let go of her, his brown eyes boring holes with their intensity.
“My vendetta against Creed has already begun,” he said in a low voice.
“For every time he has threatened me, for every time his henchman, Burle, has beaten me, and for every vicious word that has ever come out of his mouth directed at me, I can no longer remain still. I will have my vengeance and then some.”
Julia did not like the way he was looking at her; it was terrifying. Instinctively, she took a step back. “What do you mean it has already begun?”
A hint of a thin, wicked smile came to his lips. “It started yesterday. He will pay.”
“I do not understand.”
He just stared at her in a way that made her skin crawl.
“The blow that killed his brother did not come from a Scots,” he muttered.
“It was a Scots morning star, that is true, but I picked it up from the ground where it had fallen. Ryton never saw me come up from behind and smash it into his skull.”
Julia’s jaw dropped in horror. “You killed Ryton?”
Jory’s eyes narrowed. “For every insult, every beating, every offense,” he repeated, almost sing-song. “That was just the beginning.”
Julia took another step back, thinking quite seriously about running away screaming. “You are mad.”
He grabbed her before she could get away. “Tell anyone and I will kill you,” he seethed. “Help me to exact my vengeance on Creed and you shall live.”
She struggled with him. “So it is your vengeance after all? I thought you said it was mine.”
He shook her so hard that her neck snapped.
“What I do, I do for us both,” he growled, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.
“Creed has ever affronted me. He shadows me with his self-righteousness, always ensuring that he has the upper hand. I will not allow him to dominate me any longer. I will not allow him to win.”
Julia could see her death in his eyes. She stared at him a very long time before nodding her head, just once. Jory let her go and smiled broadly.
“There, my lady,” he said sweetly. “That was not so difficult, was it?”
Julia was trembling and terrified. “What would you have me do?”
He told her.
*
Lady Anne had turned the small chamber on the fourth floor of Prudhoe’s keep into a wonderland of warmth and comfort.
Slender tapers burned everywhere, filling the room with a gentle glow.
Upon the large bed was a fluffy linen coverlet stuffed with feathers, which Lady Anne had covered in the dried petals of wild flowers that grew beyond Prudhoe’s walls.
Fresh rushes covered the floor and a warm fire blazed in the small hearth.
Carington ran her hand over the coverlet and tossed it back, realizing that the sheets were made of fine cotton and woven until very soft.
She fingered the material, never having felt anything so fine.
Over her shoulder, she noticed that someone had brought her two satchels and bedroll and had stacked them neatly in the corner.
The room was truthfully very tiny and there was hardly enough room to turn around in it, but Carington found it extremely comfortable and inviting.
She was much more at home here than in the larger ladies’ chamber downstairs.
She looked up at her husband as he stood next to her, also inspecting the bed. She smiled when their eyes met.
“I’ve never seen such a beautiful room,” she said. “It looks as if angels sleep here.”
His eyes glittered as he touched her cheek. “One does.”
She blushed modestly, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. Her nervous eyes darted about the room until her gaze fell upon a small table with a pitcher and two cups. She moved around Creed and went to pour them some wine.
“Libations on yer wedding night, m’lord?” she smiled as she extended him the cup.
He took a step towards her and accepted it, watching her as she collected her own cup.
They gazed into each other’s eyes as they both drank deeply.
He drained his, took her still half-full cup away from her, and set both cups down on the table.
Then he took her hand and led her over to the bed.
He sat on the mattress as she continued to stand.
With his height and her petite size, they were nearly at eye level.
He gazed into her sweet face, studying the woman who had very quickly come to mean the world to him. “Although I had always hoped to marry at some point, I never imagined it would come about like this,” he said.
She lifted her eyebrows. “Nor did I.”
He laughed softly. “Any regrets, my lady?”
She shook her head and sat down next to him. “Not-a yet.”
“Not-a yet?” He repeated in her heavy burr with a snort, watching the firelight play off her nearly black hair. “Hopefully there will never be any. I will do my best to ensure that there are not.”
His reached out an enormous hand, gently touching her hair. She instinctively leaned into his hand and he cupped her head gently.
“Tell me something, English?”
He loved hearing her delicate voice, the way her Scots accent enunciated each word. “Anything, honey.”
“Are we always to live at Prudhoe?”
His warm expression faded. “Nay.”
“Then where will we go?”
His dusky blue eyes took on a distant look. “Throston Castle, eventually. It is where I was born.”
“Does yer family live there, then?”
“My father does. My mother passed away some years ago.”
She cocked her head, looking at him rather strangely. “Yer father lives there alone? Why do ye not live there with him?”
He took his hand off her head and pulled her into his arms. It was one of the rare times when he did not have any armor on, a harsh barrier between him and her tender flesh. She was soft and warm and he snuggled against her, delighting in the feel of her.
“Because my father has many knights serving him, men whose families have served the Hartlepool Baronetcy for generations,” he told her.
“I went to foster at a young age, following Ryton. Ryton did not want to serve my father; he wanted to be independent and not under the constant shadow of my father. I wanted the same, as did Lenox, which is how all three of us ended up at Prudhoe. When I return to Throston, it will be as Baron Hartlepool at the death of my father. The title was supposed to go to Ryton, but as of today, it is mine.”