Page 142 of Historical Hotties
“Even so, you have been asked to treat him differently from the rest of us because of his father’s relationship with Lord Richard.”
Ryton cast his brother a resolute look. “That may be, but I will not allow him to continue to antagonize you like this. He seems to have a special interest in goading you and that is not healthy for any of us. He only succeeds in provoking Burle and I fear the day when he actually incites you beyond reason. It would be like trying to stop a mad bull.”
Creed simply lifted his massive shoulders, his gaze moving across the quieting bailey. “He will tire of the game eventually as long as I do not react to him.”
Ryton just shook his head. “Creed, you’re a saint,” he slapped his brother across the shoulder affectionately. His gaze, too, moved over the ward, watching the soldiers on patrol as the night deepened. “I suppose I should find out what those merchants really told him. If there really is trouble brewing, we will want to know.”
Creed just nodded, faintly, as if he did not particularly care. “I am going to check on the lady before taking my usual night watch,” he said quietly, turning up the stairs. “I will see you upon the morrow.”
Ryton watched his brother lumber up the stairs, sensing depression in the man’s manner even though he professed otherwise. Jory’s words had indeed weighed heavily on him.
“Take a weapon with you to protect yourself in case she gets out of hand,” he jested, attempting to lighten the mood. “And watch out for flying torch butts. Remember what happened to Stanton.”
Creed snorted in the darkness; Ryton could hear him. Without another word, the men parted ways and went about their duties for the night.
*
Carington decided rightaway that she would not sleep in the bed by the window. It was probably sabotaged so she made a firm decision to sleep in one of the other beds. The night was cool and she changed from her surcoat into a sleeping shift. Alone for the first time since leaving Wether Fair, she felt disoriented and homesick. Wrapping up in her dusty tartan for familiar comfort, she lay on either Julia or Kristina’s clean linens.
As tired as she was, sleep would not come. She ended up lying on the strange bed, sobbing into a pillow that was not hers and wishing with all her heart she could go home again. When an owl in one of the massive oak trees near the walls hooted, she started at the sound. Everything was unfamiliar and frightening.
But she was exhausted and her lids eventually grew heavy in spite of her nerves. Just as she was drifting off into a fitful doze, a soft knock sounded at the door. Instantly and nervously awake, she sat upright in bed.
“Who comes?” she demanded with more courage than she felt.
“’Tis me, my lady,” came a deep male voice. “Creed.”
She jumped off the bed and ran to the door. Throwing open the panel she was faced with the weary man and his shadowed, beautiful face. His dusky blue eyes gazed intently at her although he had yet to change expression. He was, as usual, calm and emotionless.
But Carington did not care if he did not look glad to see her. She was certainly glad to see him. “Creed,” she half-gasped, half-exclaimed. “’Tis good to see a friendly face. I was feeling as if the whole world had abandoned me.”
“Nay, lady, you are not abandoned.”
“Did ye come to watch over me tonight?”
He had yet to make a move to enter the chamber; he continued to stand, quite properly, in the landing. “I will be watching over the entire castle from my post on the wall,” he said. “But I wanted to make sure you were settled for the night. Do you require anything?”
She did not know why her heart sank at his words. Her resistance to the emotionless façade, the coolness, lasted only a few seconds. He sounded detached, politely inquisitive without being truly warm. Not at all like the passionate man who had kissed her this afternoon. Rather than become cold with him with the posture of self-preservation, she grew depressed.
“Nay,” she shook her head and lowered her gaze. “I dunna require anything. But thanks for asking just the same.”
She started to close the door but he put his hand up, blocking it. Curiously, she looked up into his tired face. “Is there something else?” she asked, not particularly caring but hoping that there was.
His dusky blue eyes glimmered in the weak light of the hearth. “Nothing else.” He suddenly pushed his way inside,closing the door quietly behind him. Carington just looked at him, trying to gauge his mood. The man was moodier than anyone she had ever known; sweet and warm one moment, quiet and morose the next.
“Then what?” she asked.
He did not say anything as he paced the room, inspecting the beds, the window covering, finally coming to rest on the hearth when he seemed satisfied with his observations. It was a quiet night, a gentle breeze blowing from the north. In the light of the fire, he faced her.
“Aside from theenfants horribles, what did you think of your first day at Prudhoe?” he asked quietly.
She blinked, pulling the tartan more closely about her as the breeze picked up through the oilcloth. “I canna say, exactly. ’Twas an interesting day to say the least.”
“I would imagine so.” He eyed her. “Why are you wearing the tartan? This room has an abundance of warm and soft coverlets.”
She looked down at the dirty material wrapped around her body. “None of those things belong to me,” she said. “This is mine.”
“It is also very dirty.”
