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Authors: Kathryn Le Veque
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the man’s future, Carington successfully calmed herself from the last barrage of tears, her gaze moving to the enemy knight several feet away. She wiped at the last of the moisture around her eyes, stood up, and moved towards the man.
Creed and Ryton watched her with some surprise and mostly curiosity. Then they followed. By the time she reached the knight, they could hear her soft, sweet lilt against the cool evening air.
“Ye were the one who killed my horse,” she said.
The older knight looked at her. She could see no panic, no fear in his eyes, simply resignation. “He was in pain, my lady,” he replied quietly. “I did what was necessary.”
“But I asked ye not to.”
“You would rather have the beast suffer?”
She sniffled, studying him in the dying light. Then she shook her head, slowly. “Ye were swift with it. I saw ye.”
“It was necessary.”
“Where were ye going to take me? Ye and those others.”
His faded blue eyes were fixed on her. “Most likely back to Gilderdale.”
“And then what?”
“You would have to ask Sir Gregory that.”
“Who is Sir Gregory?”
“The man who held you. He is one of Gilderdale’s sons.”
She was almost completely calm by the time the conversation lulled. She looked over at Creed and Ryton, standing side by side. The wind was whipping up, teasing her black hair and plastering her surcoat against her curves. She had an unbelievably divine figure, a body that most men would move heaven and earth to touch. Her full breasts were bold and inviting, her waist slender and long. But she paid no mind to the gusting wind or to Jory’s hot gaze upon her silhouette. She was looking at Creed and Ryton, and both of them were looking at her face.
“He was not like the others,” she said. “I dunna want ye to hurt him. Send him home. Please.”
She added the final word as almost an afterthought, gazing deliberately at Creed as she did so. Ryton also looked to Creed, but Creed was looking at the lady. She was not full of fire and spark like she had been since nearly the moment he had met her. She was calmer, her manner far more pleasing. Standing in the blowing wind with her black hair swirling around her, she looked like a little doll, beautiful and perfect in every way.
Creed broke away from his brother and went to the lady, reaching out to grasp her elbow. “I am taking the lady to camp,” he said, gently taking her arm. “Jory, see to the horse. Ryton, do what you will with this knight. But the lady has asked he be spared and I would suggest that you consider that request.”
With that, he led Carington away, back to the tide of men in the distance. The Prudhoe escort was disassembling to the south, preparing to camp for the night. Already the smoke from cooking fires was filling the air as fire after fire was lit to ward off the coming night. Carington glanced over her shoulder to where Bress lay still and alone upon the cool grass. She could feel the tears again and she sniffled, trying to keep them at bay.
“Have you eaten?” Creed asked as if he did not hear the sniffling.
She shook her head. Then she nodded. “Bress and I ate earlier today. We found some blackberries and…,” she suddenly looked up at him, curiosity and trepidation in her expression. “How did ye find me?”
He scratched the same spot on his chin that was always chaffed by his hauberk. “By tracking you. Your horse has distinct hooves.”
She had not thought on that, although she should have. “How did ye know his hooves?”
“From where he was standing with the other horses this morning.” He did not look at her. “Do you care to tell me why you ran?”
“Are ye going to beat me?”
“Not if you tell me the truth.”
She wiped daintily at her nose; she suspected he would not beat her, anyway. He was, in fact, very calm as he asked her. He should be furious. And she should have stubbornly refused to answer him, but she
Creed and Ryton watched her with some surprise and mostly curiosity. Then they followed. By the time she reached the knight, they could hear her soft, sweet lilt against the cool evening air.
“Ye were the one who killed my horse,” she said.
The older knight looked at her. She could see no panic, no fear in his eyes, simply resignation. “He was in pain, my lady,” he replied quietly. “I did what was necessary.”
“But I asked ye not to.”
“You would rather have the beast suffer?”
She sniffled, studying him in the dying light. Then she shook her head, slowly. “Ye were swift with it. I saw ye.”
“It was necessary.”
“Where were ye going to take me? Ye and those others.”
His faded blue eyes were fixed on her. “Most likely back to Gilderdale.”
“And then what?”
“You would have to ask Sir Gregory that.”
“Who is Sir Gregory?”
“The man who held you. He is one of Gilderdale’s sons.”
She was almost completely calm by the time the conversation lulled. She looked over at Creed and Ryton, standing side by side. The wind was whipping up, teasing her black hair and plastering her surcoat against her curves. She had an unbelievably divine figure, a body that most men would move heaven and earth to touch. Her full breasts were bold and inviting, her waist slender and long. But she paid no mind to the gusting wind or to Jory’s hot gaze upon her silhouette. She was looking at Creed and Ryton, and both of them were looking at her face.
“He was not like the others,” she said. “I dunna want ye to hurt him. Send him home. Please.”
She added the final word as almost an afterthought, gazing deliberately at Creed as she did so. Ryton also looked to Creed, but Creed was looking at the lady. She was not full of fire and spark like she had been since nearly the moment he had met her. She was calmer, her manner far more pleasing. Standing in the blowing wind with her black hair swirling around her, she looked like a little doll, beautiful and perfect in every way.
Creed broke away from his brother and went to the lady, reaching out to grasp her elbow. “I am taking the lady to camp,” he said, gently taking her arm. “Jory, see to the horse. Ryton, do what you will with this knight. But the lady has asked he be spared and I would suggest that you consider that request.”
With that, he led Carington away, back to the tide of men in the distance. The Prudhoe escort was disassembling to the south, preparing to camp for the night. Already the smoke from cooking fires was filling the air as fire after fire was lit to ward off the coming night. Carington glanced over her shoulder to where Bress lay still and alone upon the cool grass. She could feel the tears again and she sniffled, trying to keep them at bay.
“Have you eaten?” Creed asked as if he did not hear the sniffling.
She shook her head. Then she nodded. “Bress and I ate earlier today. We found some blackberries and…,” she suddenly looked up at him, curiosity and trepidation in her expression. “How did ye find me?”
He scratched the same spot on his chin that was always chaffed by his hauberk. “By tracking you. Your horse has distinct hooves.”
She had not thought on that, although she should have. “How did ye know his hooves?”
“From where he was standing with the other horses this morning.” He did not look at her. “Do you care to tell me why you ran?”
“Are ye going to beat me?”
“Not if you tell me the truth.”
She wiped daintily at her nose; she suspected he would not beat her, anyway. He was, in fact, very calm as he asked her. He should be furious. And she should have stubbornly refused to answer him, but she
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