Guardian of Darkness (4 page)

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 was 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. I 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 arms 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.”

He stood over her, hands on his hips, watching her lowered head.  Carington hoped he would move away from her, allowing her to regain some of her composure, but he did no such thing. Much to her dismay, she heard his joints pop as he crouched beside her.  A massive hand shot out and gently grasped her by the chin. Like it or not, Carington was forced to look at him.

He was studying her, curiosity and nothing more. She was such a delicate little thing, like a beautiful little doll, but somewhere deep down a fire of strength burned. He could see it.  She was scared to death and still maintaining a semblance of control.  A small amount of respect for the woman took hold.

“Your face looks well enough,” he had originally intended to look for bruises but found himself staring at her just because he could not help it.  “On behalf of my liege, I would offer regrets for his actions. They are not indicative of our usual treatment of honorable hostages.”

Carington gazed into his dusky blue eyes, feeling a strange heat radiating from them. Not the lightning bolts she had imagined earlier, but something more intense and discreet.  She did not like it and pulled away from his hand.  When the hand went to rest casually by his side, she realized the man had the most enormous hands she had ever seen.  One of them could swallow up most of her head.

“Ye are English,” she said quietly. “I’d expect nothing less.”

He almost smiled; it was a fair statement, at least in her eyes.  He continued to gaze at her, still crouched, still watching her lowered features. “This day was supposed to bring about a new understanding between your people and mine. So far, all we understand from one another is a lack of trust and complete brutality. Do you suppose that is what your father and my liege wished for when they set about this plan?”

She wiped her nose. “Nay.”

 “What did your father tell you that he wished for?”

She was reluctant to look at him, reluctant to carry on a conversation with him.  But the man had just saved her from a horrible situation; perhaps she owed him a measure of courtesy.

“No more battles,” she said quietly, her gaze moving between his face and her fidgeting hands. “He has lost many a man to wars with the English, including his three brothers. He has no family left but me. “

“Then he has sacrificed much.”

“Aye.”

“Then why would you try to escape and run back to him?”

Her head snapped up, the emerald eyes narrowing.  “Because… because I dunna want to be here. ‘Tis not fair to pledge me to hostage. There are a number of others that could do just as well.”

“Like who?”

She was returning to her normal, belligerent demeanor. “I have six girl cousins,” she insisted. “He could have sent any one of them.”

“But it would not have had as much impact. You are a laird’s daughter. The peace contract holds far more weight with you as collateral.”

Carington’s emerald eyes flamed out and she looked to her hands again.  Her expression rippled, changing from one emotion to another.  “Maybe so,” she said after a moment. “But he has thrown me into a den of lions.”

“It may seem that way,” he said quietly. “But I assure you that d’Eneas is not representative of us all. There are those of us who wish peace also and would seek to protect you as the emissary of that peace. We have all lost friends and family against the Scots.”

She did not reply.  She kept her head lowered, fumbling with her hands, and Creed rose from his crouching position and went back over to where his tray of food now lay scattered.  As he lowered his big body to the ground, he heard a soft voice.

“Have ye?”

He paused to look at her, almost seated, and lowered himself the rest of the way. “Aye.”

“Who?”

“My younger brother.”

As she looked at him, her gaze appeared less hostile.  The brittle, hard emerald eyes softened into something liquid.  “When did he die?”

“Almost five years ago at Kielderhead Moor.”

She nodded in recollection. “I remember that battle,” she said softly, almost reflectively. “It went on for three days. I lost an uncle in the end.”

He righted the tipped cup and pitcher, realizing there was nothing left of the wine.  “Then it seems we both have a need for peace. I only have one brother left and I do not wish to see him perish in a foolish border skirmish.”

She nodded, somehow feeling not quite so hostile against the knight.  But her guard was still up.  Her tartan lay a few feet away and she rose on weary legs, claiming it once again.  She wrapped it tightly around her, making her way back to the bedroll.  She had no idea that Creed was watching every move she made.

“If I ask a question, will you answer me honestly?” he asked.

She paused, her deep green eyes focused on him. “Aye.”

“What did Jory do to you?”

She blinked as if she had to think on an answer. But she had promised him an honest one.  “Nothing that canna be forgotten,” she said faintly. But she knew that was not what he wanted to hear. “He tried to kiss me and he squeezed something that he had no right to squeeze.  But other than that, I canna say he did anything that I willna recover from.”

Creed simply nodded, his gaze lingering on her as she finally settled down and pulled the tartan tightly around her.  After a moment, he rose and went to the vizier, tipped in the battle between the lady and Jory, and righted it.  The embers in the ground were burned out but there were still a few inside the bowl that were glowing.  He went in search of the bar that he had stripped from the lady after she had hit Jory and, upon finding it, stoked the dying peat of the vizier into a small flame.  As he hung the bar on the side of the vizier, Carington rolled onto her back and looked up at him.

“Thanks to ye,” she said softly.

Creed’s gaze lingered on her but he did nothing more than nod his head.  When he woke up a few hours later, she was gone.