Guardian of Darkness (19 page)

As tired as she was, sleep would not come.  She ended up lying on the strange bed, sobbing into a pillow that was not hers and wishing with all her heart she could go home again.  When an owl in one of the massive oak trees near the walls hooted, she started at the sound. Everything was unfamiliar and frightening.

But she was exhausted and her lids eventually grew heavy in spite of her nerves.  Just as she was drifting off into a fitful doze, a soft knock sounded at the door.  Instantly and nervously awake, she sat upright in bed.

“Who comes?” she demanded with more courage than she felt.

“’Tis me, my lady,” came a deep male voice. “Creed.”

She jumped off the bed and ran to the door. Throwing open the panel she was faced with the weary man and his shadowed, beautiful face. His dusky blue eyes gazed intently at her although he had yet to change expression.  He was, as usual, calm and emotionless.

But Carington did not care if he did not look glad to see her. She was certainly glad to see him. “Creed,” she half-gasped, half-exclaimed. “’Tis good to see a friendly face. I was feeling as if the whole world has abandoned me.”

“Nay, lady, you are not abandoned.”

 “Did ye come to watch over me tonight?”

He had yet to make a move to enter the chamber; he continued to stand, quite properly, in the landing. “I will be watching over the entire castle from my post on the wall,” he said. “But I wanted to make sure you were settled for the night. Do you require anything?”

She did not know why her heart sank at his words. Her resistance to the emotionless façade, the coolness, lasted only a few seconds. He sounded detached, politely inquisitive without being truly warm.  Not at all like the passionate man who had kissed her this afternoon.  Rather than become cold with him with the posture of self-preservation, she grew depressed.

“Nay,” she shook her head and lowered her gaze. “I dunna require anything. But thanks for asking just the same.”

She started to close the door but he put his hand up, blocking it. Curiously, she looked up into his tired face.  “Is there something else?” she asked, not particularly caring but hoping that there was.

His dusky blue eyes glimmered in the weak light of the hearth. “Nothing else.” He suddenly pushed his way inside, closing the door quietly behind him.  Carington just looked at him, trying to gauge his mood. The man as moodier than anyone she had ever known; sweet and warm one moment, quiet and morose the next.

“Then what?” she asked.

He did not say anything as he paced the room, inspecting the beds, the window covering, finally coming to rest on the hearth when he seemed satisfied with his observations. It was a quiet night, a gentle breeze blowing from the north.  In the light of the fire, he faced her.

“Aside from the enfants horribles , what did you think of your first day at Prudhoe?” he asked quietly.

She blinked, pulling the tartan more closely about her as the breeze picked up through the oilcloth. “I canna say, exactly. ‘Twas an interesting day to say the least.”

“I would imagine so.” He eyed her. “Why are you wearing the tartan? This room has an abundance of warm and soft coverlets.”

She looked down at the dirty material wrapped around her body. “None of those things belong to me,” she said. “This is mine.”

“It is also very dirty.”

She shrugged, her gaze coming up to meet his. “Perhaps. But I would rather sleep on dirty Tartan than clean Sassenach finery.”

He nodded faintly, studying the way the light flickered off her dark hair.  He was not sure what more he had to say to her; in fact, he did not really know why he had come at all. He knew she was safe, so other than giving himself another opportunity to see her, there was no reason for him to be here.  He should not have come. It was only indulging the foolish sentiment he was coming to feel for her.

“As long as you do not require anything,” he said quietly, turning for the door. “I shall go about my duties.”

But she was not going to let him go so easily. He was the one bright spot in an otherwise miserable situation and she was eager to cling to that brightness, even if he was moody and cold at times. “Creed,” she said, stopping him in his tracks. When he looked at her inquisitively, she fought off a blush. “I… do ye have to go? Can ye not stay and talk awhile?”

He sighed faintly; she heard him. “I am expected at my post, my lady,” he said. “And you should be sleeping.”

“Please, Creed?”

He gazed at her, feeling himself relent and knowing that he should not.  His control had snapped earlier in the day when he had kissed her.  Now, in the quiet of the night with no one to disturb them, a similar loss of control would not be healthy. He could not guarantee that he would not go further than simply kissing her. With her sweet face and marvelously delicious figure, his male drives would overwhelm him.  He had to resist. For both their sakes, he had to be strong.  He closed his eyes to block out the temptation and turned away from her.

“Go to bed, Cari. I will see you on the morrow.” He closed the door in her face before she could say a word.

Carington stood, staring at the door, a hollow feeling filling her. The only person that had shown her any kindness had effectively shut her down.  It was like a stab to her heart and tears sprang to her eyes. Before she could stop herself, she was sobbing.  Creed had only served to reinforce the fact that she was alone, unwanted, cast aside… a hostage.  A stranger in a strange land. The loneliness made her cry harder, the loss of Bress finding its way back into her thoughts as if to drive home the point.  There was no one left for her.

Black, desolate feelings filled her exhausted mind. Perhaps she should simply throw herself from the window and be done with the pain. She could think of no other way to ease it. She was still standing at the door, weeping, when it suddenly flew open. She was too close and the heavy oak panel smacked her in the forehead, sending her falling backwards onto her bum.  Startled, she looked up to see Creed descending on her.

“Honey, I am sorry,” he pulled her to her feet. “Are you all right? I did not mean to hit you.”

Carington threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him.  Her forehead was fine, if not slightly stinging, but if it would keep him with her she would give him the opportunity to feel sorry for her.

“It.. it hurts,” she sobbed.

Feeling like a lout, Creed swept her effortlessly into his arms and carried her over to the bed by the lancet window.  Carington held tightly to his neck, her head on his shoulder. She was not about to let him go.  When he sat on the mattress, it was with her in his lap. He held her like a baby.

He let her weep a moment. “Let me see what I have done,” he said softly, pulling back to look at her. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting the red welt on her forehead.  He sighed. “I have done a good job of bruising your head. I am truly sorry, honey. It was an accident.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes like liquid emeralds as water filled them. “Why did ye come back?”

The dusky blue gaze was steady, unrevealing.  Why had he come back? Should he tell her the truth; because he heard her crying and his tears had destroyed his resolve?  He was not sure that she should know that.  Moreover, he did not want to admit it. After a moment, he simply lifted his big shoulders.

“It is of no matter,” he said softly. “What matters now is that you are going to have a lump on her head that I am responsible for. Lady Anne will have my hide.”

Carington shook her head, wiping away the last of her sniffles. “I will tell her I smacked it on the wardrobe. Ye needna’ worry.”

“That is noble but unnecessary. I will take responsibility for my actions.”

She was still looking at him, studying his masculine features.  He was so cool, so professional, his calm demeanor interspersed with moments of genuine warmth.  It was beginning to wear on her. She was not very good at controlling her mouth or her emotions, especially given the fact that she had just come off of a crying jag.

“May I ask ye a question?”

“Aye.”

“Why are ye so cold to me one moment and so warm the next?”

His brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” she repeated, outraged. “I mean that ye were so kind to me during our trip to Prudhoe and I surely did not imagine yer kiss this afternoon. Yet ye walked from this chamber not a minute ago as if ye wanted nothing to do with me. ‘Tis not the first time ye’ve turned cold and hard on me, Creed de Reyne, and it’s making my head spin. Yer the moodiest man I’ve ever met and I want to know why.”

He just stared at her.  After an eternal moment of holding her intense emerald gaze, he looked away. 

“All you need know is that I am a knight sworn to protect you for your duration at Prudhoe,” he mumbled. “Nothing else matters.”

Now it was her turn to stare at him.  She felt the wind go out of her, as if he had struck her with one of those powerful fists.  After a moment, she climbed off his lap and moved a proper distance away from him, her heart hurting in a way that she could not begin to describe.  It hurt so badly that her entire body ached.

“Then get out,” she said quietly, struggling to keep her voice from breaking. “If ye are simply a knight and I am simply a hostage, then it is not proper for ye to be here alone with me.”

He rose wearily, his gaze still averted, moving for the door.  He looked as if he had just seen defeat at the hands of his mightiest enemy from the way his broad shoulders sagged.  Carington stopped watching him, hearing his bootfalls across the floor. 

The heavy door opened and softly closed.  Her heart shattered.  A whimper escaped her lips and she broke for the door, throwing it open.

“Creed!” she cried.

She raced to the top of the stairs, only to run headlong into him; he could not have been more than a few steps down the flight.  She did not even think; her arms went around his neck of their own accord and she pressed her lips against his with all of the passion and awakening emotion she was feeling.  She knew he would shove her away, but she did not care; at the moment, her mind was only thinking of one thing; to hold the man, to feel him, before it was forever taken away from her.

But strange thing happened; Creed did not pull back, nor did he shove her away. In fact, he seemed to be much more aggressive with their stolen kiss than she was.  More than that, he was completely taking over, kissing her so hard that he drove her teeth into her soft upper lip.  Carington gasped softly as he suckled away the pinpoint of blood as his tongue demanded entry into her honeyed mouth.  Before she realized it, she was aloft in his arms and they were back in her borrowed chamber.  The door was closing behind them and she heard the bolt lock.

She was still in his arms, held off the floor by his amazing strength as his mouth suckled her mindless.  She could not form a coherent thought as he blazed a scorching trail across her cheek, down her neck and to the base of her throat.  Carington held his head so tightly against her flesh that she was sure she was suffocating him.

“Creed,” she murmured into his forehead. “I’m more than a hostage to ye, am I not? Tell me that I am.”

He nodded, his lips working their way up her neck. “God help me, you are,” he muttered. “But I cannot.…”

He trailed off, his lips claiming hers once again.  They were in a frenzy of passionate discovery, gently biting, suckling, acquainting themselves with the taste of one another.  Whatever attraction had been present from the moment of their introduction was now raging like a fever, out of control.  Creed knew, from the moment he put his lips on her, that he was lost.  All of the rationalization in the world was not going to help him out of this because it was more than simple lust; there was feeling involved.  Once feeling was part of the formula, there was very little he could do against it.