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  “Do not even think it,” Creed rumbled threateningly, his gaze moving over the camp, the distant trees, anywhere but to his brother who was also his commander. “I do not want anything to do with her.”

  “You are the only one I can trust with this,” Ryton spoke louder so his brother would understand that he did not have a choice. “She has already attacked Stanton; he is young and strong, but I fear he may be swayed by her tears. Burle is not fast enough to corral her should she escape him, and I would not trust Jory with the task simply because I would not trust him with an unescorted, or unprotected, female. He has got a foul streak in him, Creed. You know this.”

  Creed rolled his eyes, fighting off the inevitable. He yanked his destrier to a halt. “This is the last thing I need,” he snapped at his brother, hoping the man would be swayed by a vicious tone. “With everything that happened on the trip from France with that… that girl, the last thing I need is to have charge of another. If you are so worried about her, you take the duty.”

  “I cannot,” Ryton said steadily. “I must be available to command. I need you to do this, Creed. This is not a request.”

  Creed just stared at him. He could not believe what he was hearing. After a moment, he just shook his head. “Why would you ask this of me?”

  “Because you are a knight, the best this land has ever seen. What happened with the king’s betrothed was not your fault. You need to understand that.”

  Creed’s angry stance faded somewhat. After a small, painful moment of holding his brother’s gaze, he looked away. “It does not matter if it was my fault or not. What is done is done.”

  Ryton knew the story well. He was also well aware that their liege had whisked Creed away from London under the cover of darkness to avoid the king’s wrath. Creed was, in essence, a wanted man. Wanted by the king who believed the lies of a spurned young girl, which is why he wanted nothing to do with another female. His reaction was understandable.

  “We both know that the truth shall be known someday,” Ryton lowered his voice, not wanting to sound too harsh. “You rejected the advances of an indiscreet young girl who, just to spite you, told the king that you had deflowered her. The truth was that she had been bedded, by many, long before you ever met her. Everyone knows that. Isabella of Angoulệme is a foul, deceitful child who will one day sit upon the throne of England. She is as hated as her husband. You must have faith that this, too, shall pass, and your honor and reputation will one day be restored to you. But until then, you are under my command and you will continue to perform as an honorable knight. Is that understood?”

  They had hardly discussed the taboo subject of the Isabella occurrence, mostly because Creed refused to. It made it difficult for Ryton to help his brother deal with it, although he had tried. But now he saw the opportunity to tell his younger brother exactly what he thought of the situation, clearly and without Creed attempting to shut him up. He had to know that what happened with Isabella had not been his fault. He could not let the incident ruin his life.

  Reluctantly, Creed cast his brother a sidelong glance; he adored his older, wiser brother, a voice of reason when the world was in chaos. His world had been in chaos for six months. Only Ryton had helped him keep his sanity and he did not want to disappoint him. He knew the man spoke the truth, even when he would be happy to pretend otherwise.

  He drew in a long, deep breath. “It is,” he responded quietly. “What are my orders, then?”

  Ryton spurred his charger forward. Creed followed. “You are to keep her with you at all times,” Ryton said. “She is to remain safe, whole and unmolested. If tragedy befalls her, it will seriously jeopardize this peace we are trying so hard to achieve with her father. You must see this task through, Creed. It is important.”

  Creed sighed heavily again, but this time, it was with resignation. “Very well,” he said. “I shall endeavor to fulfill my orders.”

  “I know you will.”

  Ryton watched his brother canter off towards the camp. He knew how hard this was for him. But he also knew the man had to resume his life as if nothing had haunted him for the past several months. Creed was too good, too skilled and valuable, to lose to something as unfair as vicious rumors and untruths. Now the man had to face his fear, unfortunately, in the form of a very spirited, and potentially naughty, young hostage. Creed was jumping back into the fire.

  Truth be told, Ryton felt sorry for him. But he also knew he was the best man for the job. With a pensive sigh, he spurred his horse after his brother, fading off into the soft smoky glow of the distant camp.

  Wrapped in the heavy Kerr tartan, its colors of brown and yellow and green blending into a web of earthy colors, Carington sat before the small bronze vizier that had been lit to bring her a small measure of heat in this damp and foggy cold. Her knees were hugged up against her chest, huddling for warmth, as she listened to the soft conversation of the knights outside her tent. The camp was quieting for the most part as the men prepared for sleep.

  She glanced around her small tent; there was a bedroll her father had sent along and two massive satchels that held all of her worldly possessions. From sitting on the ground, her hands and feet were freezing, even with the heavy fabric wrapped around her and the vizier blazing gently. The defiance she had felt earlier was fading into despair. She struggled not to let it claim her completely but it was a losing battle. When tears of misery threatened, she angrily fought them off. The English hounds were not going to see her weep. She would not let them see just how despondent she was.

  Exhaustion was claiming her as well. It was tiring maintaining such a level of resistance. She had yawned several times while lost in her dark reflections and she glanced at the bedroll more than once, thinking on claiming a few hours of sleep before she was forced to travel again. It would be wise to rest; only then would she be able to resume the energy necessary to maintain her defiance.

  She scooted across the ground towards the bedroll, her feet touching the wet and freezing grass. It was beginning to seep through her tartan as well. Stiff, cold hands reached out to unfasten the ties on the roll. As she fumbled with the strips of leather, the tent flap suddenly moved aside and an enormous figure entered her tent.

  Startled, Carington looked up into the face of the knight who had launched lightning bolts from his eyes. On her knees as he stood before her in all of his domineering glory, she instinctively clutched the tartan more closely against her chest as if the fabric would magically protect her from his particular brand of intimidation. Her emerald eyes gazed warily at him.

  “What do ye want, English?” She made a good show of sounding brave.

  Creed did not reply at first; he was looking down at her, studying her, wondering how on earth he found himself in nearly the same situation he had faced six months ago. Granted, this charge was far more pleasing to look at, beautiful if he really thought about it, but the fact remained that he was sequestered with another foolish female. He could hardly believe his luck.

  “I am to be your shadow, my lady,” he said with some disgust in his tone. “I am your protection.”

  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.

  He had a good ho
ld 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.