Page 113 of Historical Hotties
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 weresome 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 hold 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 inhis 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.
“What is it?” he demanded quietly.
Ryton glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”
“Jory said you wanted to speak with me.”
Ryton’s hand paused on a leather fastener near his arm, his brow furrowed. “Speak with you? I did not.” He resumed working on the fastener. “But Jory and I were speaking just a few moments ago. I asked him to remind me to speak to you about the lady’s mount. But it could just as well wait until tomorrow. It was not necessary to send for you.”
