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making an attempt against her. But he realized, above all else, that he was angry because he felt fear.  He was unused to fear in any form. 
    “Back on your mount,” he growled at Stanton. “Go find someplace to set up camp for the night.”
    The pale young knight was gone, but not without a lingering glance to the crumpled lady.  As Creed stood there, struggling to formulate some manner of communication that did not come blasting out at her, Jory rode up astride his bay stallion.  He gazed down at the lady, her dead horse, and snorted.
    “Serves her right for running off,” he said. 
    Creed’s head snapped to him but he was already gone, digging his spurs into the side of his horse and thundering off.  At Jory’s words, Carington burst into fresh tears and Creed looked down at her. The longer he watched, the more his anger tempered.  Above his fury, he could see what had happened. Aye, her foolish decision had caused all of this. But he was not without empathy for the results.  With a deep breath for calm, he sheathed his broadsword.
    “Are you all right?” he asked with more composure than he felt.
    She was sobbing against the horse’s golden coat. “Aye,” she wept.
    “What is that on your neck?”
    She had forgotten about the bloody scratch.  She sat up, fingering the wound. “A… a tree scratched me,” she sniffled, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands.
    “Those knights did not do that?”
    She shook her head. “Nay.” Her gaze fell back on the horse and she stoked the blond neck, the pale hair of his mane.  “Oh, Bress. Forgive me. I am so sorry.”
    He stood there a moment, watching her kiss the horse.  Darkness was falling and he wanted to get her to the safety of the encampment.  Now that he knew she was safe and uninjured, it was easier to be calm. But he was still rightly furious.
    “My lady,” he said quietly. “We must retreat to the safety of camp for the night.”
    She looked up at him, eyes welling. “I canna leave him.”
    He gazed into the emerald eyes, the deliciously sweet face, and felt himself soften.  It was difficult to maintain his harsh stance when she was so grief stricken.
    “There is nothing more you can do for him,” his voice was considerably gentler. “I will have my men properly dispose of him.”
    She let his statement settle, looking back down at the dead horse.  Her gaze moved to his torso, his legs, coming to rest on the broken one.  Her lower lip trembled.
    “He was startled by the birds,” she said. “We came through the trees and the birds flew out of the grass. He tripped and fell on me, but I dinna know he was hurt until… until.…”
    She could not finish and a new wave of tears washed down her cheeks.   As Creed stood there and debated if he should physically remove her, his brother came upon him.
    “Those knights were from Gilderdale,” he said in a low voice. “If we let the survivor live, he will return to Black Fell Castle and we will have the whole of Gilderdale down around our ears.”
    Creed flipped up his visor, scratching his chin where his hauberk was chaffing him. “It was a fair fight, Ryton. We were protecting our hostage.”
    “Gilderdale will not care. They are a war machine.”
    Creed just shook his head. “I doubt Gilderdale would attack us for revenge on a justifiable conflict.”
    “We killed one of Gilderdale’s heirs.”
    Creed’s dusky blue eyes focused on his brother; that subtle statement changed everything. “What do you want to do?”
    “I’m open to suggestion.”
    Creed drew in a long, deep breath.  There was reservation in the tone. “Then I would suggest sending him back to Gilderdale. The man is a knight, and a captured one. It is not honorable or ethical to assassinate him once he has been subdued.”
    Ryton looked over at the knight in the distance.  Creed followed his brother’s gaze and they both studied the short, older knight as he stood with Jory.  As they mulled over