Page 117 of Historical Hotties
She went silently back to the tent, tartan still wrapped tightly around her. She was freezing. Creed watched her a moment, truthfully very thankful that he had found her standing just outside the tent. He thought she had fled again and his heart was still racing because of it. But she had surprised him by remaining firm.
He followed her only as far as the tent flap. James, his squire, emerged from the tent with his arms full of armor and mailand raced back in the direction he had come from. As Creed stood sentry outside the tent, watching the increased activity of the camp, another boy with short brown hair and enormous brown eyes appeared shortly with an iron pot of steaming water hanging off one arm and a covered tray in both hands. Creed flipped back the tent flap and allowed the lad entrance. When the youth quit the tent less than a minute later, Creed resumed his post, his mind moving to the trip ahead.
Inside the small tent, Carington was also preparing for the trip ahead. The tartan was folded neatly on the ground and she was in the process of washing some of the dust from her curvaceous body. It was cold in the tent, made bearable by the steaming water the boy had brought her. She had a surcoat of gray wool laid out with a soft white-wool sheath that went beneath it. Her family was not one of wealth or glory, so she owned no pretty belts or jewelry. She came from a functional, warring clan and such things were considered unnecessary..
But she did own soap and oil, which she used in concert with the warm water to bathe her tired body. She scrubbed her face vigorously and ran a comb through her nearly-black hair. To keep it neat, she wove it into a single thick braid, draping it over one shoulder. The oil she had brought with her was extracted from Elder flower and had a sweet, slightly spicy scent. It was perhaps the only luxury her frugal father had allowed because her skin often became so dry in the winter time that it bled. The Elder oil helped tremendously and she rubbed it sparingly into her skin.
The surcoat and sheath were long of sleeve, of good quality and durable. She dressed in the garments, pulling on woolen pantalets and finally heavy hose, which were the only pair she owned. Sturdy leather boots went on her feet; her father did not believe in wasting money on frivolous slippers. Rubbing someoil on her rosebud-shaped lips, she quickly repacked everything and emerged from the tent.
She ran right into Creed.
“I am ready to leave,” she had both her satchels in her hand. “May I collect my horse now?”
He gazed down at her, momentarily startled by her appearance; she was scrubbed and groomed, appearing completely different from the disheveled creature he had associated with since yesterday. Somewhere in his mind, his inherent male instincts told him that she was an exquisite beauty; sweet face, striking coloring, and a body that was as round and pleasing as any he had ever seen. Better, in fact. Though short of stature, she had full breasts and a narrow torso that put all other women to shame.
He had to make a conscious effort not to gape at her. But the logical male instincts were stronger that the lustful ones. So was his sense of self protection. He refused to allow himself to entertain a pleasant thought where it pertained to her. She was a hostage; nothing more.
“There is some trepidation about your horse, my lady,” he said, his enormous arms folded across his chest. “We have concern that it is a violent horse, something a young lady should not be riding.”
She appeared genuinely surprised. “Bress? I have raised him since he foaled. He is not a violent horse.”
“He has already caused quite a few problems with the other horses.”
Her emerald eyes flashed. “’Tis because they are Sassenach horses,” she spat. “He smells the enemy and reacts in kind. He knows they want to kill him.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Horses do not know if they are English or Scots.”
“But they know if they are enemies.”
“That may well be, but the commander feels that it would be best if you rode with me.”
Her reaction was not pleasing; she scowled deeply as if he had just suggested something horribly offensive. “I am not a bairn in need of constant attention. I have been riding longer than I have been walking. I can ride better than ye.”
He almost smiled at her indignation. “Perhaps. But with your horse reacting badly to the chargers, his behavior could be out of the ordinary. The last thing we need is for the horse to throw and injure you. It would be in your best interest to ride with me.”
Her pretty mouth pressed into a thin, angry line. “Dunna believe for one moment that I dunna know what ye’re up to. Ye’re trying to keep me caged by denying me the right to travel on my own horse.”
Creed was coming to realize that she flared faster than any woman alive. But if he possessed one particular personality trait above all else, it was that he was a calm man. The world could explode around him and murder could be rampant in the streets, but still, he would be calm and collected. He had never been known to lose his temper, even when all of the madness with Isabella was going on. He had simply remained collected and struggled to deal with it. In fact, he blamed that particular trait for getting him into trouble in the first place; he’d been calm when the girl-child who would be queen tried to seduce him. He had been calmer still when he had refused her. Nothing could have upset the girl more.
It would therefore stand to reason that he was wary of flaring women. He did not trust them. But he remained characteristically cool as she grew more agitated.
“We are simply concerned for your safety, my lady,” he said evenly. “It would be safer for you to ride with me.”
“I willna do it.”
“You have no choice.”
“If I refuse?”
“Then I shall tie you up and you can ride in the back of the provisions wagon.”
She glared at him for several long seconds before throwing her satchels to the ground. They ended up at Creed’s feet. Her little fists worked as if she was contemplating going to fisticuffs against him; Creed was so surprised by her body language that he very nearly laughed. In fact, it was a struggle not to grin. He did not think she would take that reaction too well.
But she did not strike him. She did, however, continued to clench and unclench her fists. When she spoke, it was through clenched teeth.
“If ye willna let me ride my horse, then at least ye’ll let me see to him to make sure he’s all right,” she said. “Take me to him.”
He was unfazed by her anger, laboring not to crack a smile. “Polite requests will be granted. Demands will be ignored.”
