Page 146 of Historical Hotties
Richard looked at him, a mixture of disgust and impatience on his face. “She is untouchable, Ryton. Jory must understand that. I will not suffer the wrath of the Kerrs because he cannot keep control of himself.”
Ryton merely lifted an eyebrow. “Then that directive should come from you, as his liege. Let him know that if he brings a wardown upon us because of his lack of control, we will make sure the Clan Kerr knows him by name. I will not defend a man who would knowingly disrupt a peace accord.”
“I will speak to him,” Richard said firmly. “God help us all if that man harms one hair on her head.”
Ryton was both pleased and surprised that his liege had actually committed to speaking with Jory. He almost always left it up to Ryton unless his captain pushed him into a corner.
“Then I will send him to you immediately,” Ryton was moving for the door, not waiting to be dismissed. “And I will make sure that Creed knows that he is permanently assigned to protect the lady for the duration of her stay.”
“Can Jory not wait until tomorrow?”
“Nay, my lord, he cannot.”
Richard nodded in resignation. “Very well. Send him to me. But be quick about it. I should like to see my bed before the sun rises.”
So would I, Ryton thought dryly. The meeting with his liege had left a foul taste in his mouth; he would have liked to see Richard take a more decisive stand against Jory. The knight was difficult enough to command without strong support from their lord. As Ryton crossed the darkened bailey towards the knight’s quarters, he could see the massive outline of his brother on the wall walk.
He was a silent, deadly silhouette against the moonlit sky. Creed had willingly taken the night watch as long as he could remember; even those many years ago when he was newly knighted, Creed would volunteer to take a post deep into the night. Guardian of Darkness, the older knights used to call the powerful young knight with the intense disposition. The man who would guard the night.
Ryton made the decision to deliver Jory his orders before moving on to his brother. He could only imagine what his brother’s reaction would be.
He was not looking forward to it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carington slept wellpast dawn. In fact, she would have slept the entire day away had shouts from the bailey not jolted her from a heavy sleep. Yawning, stretching, she rolled over on her borrowed bed, trying to orient herself. It was a bright day beyond the lancet window. It took her a few moments to remember where she was.
She sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Gazing down at the bed, the room, she suddenly remembered Creed and the passion they had shared in this very room. His warmth filled her veins, the giddy unfamiliar thoughts flooding her. It was enough to prompt her to bolt from the bed, calling to the servants that she knew were lingering within earshot. Two pasty-faced wenches showed themselves at the door and she ordered food and a bath. She was very dirty from her trip and wanted to wash the filth from her body. Moreover, she realized she was starving; she’d hardly eaten the day before and her appetite was back with a vengeance.
In little time, a big copper tub was brought and several servants began filling it with steaming water. Carington was a little stand-offish of the English servants, feeling somewhat intimidated to be alone in a great group of them without her protectors about. She kept herself busy, and away from them, by going through the satchels she had brought with her. She was aware she had only brought four garments with her, plain and serviceable, and she selected the faded yellow wool surcoat that had once belonged to her mother. Due to her father’s thrift, she had many recycled garments. In spite of its age, it was thefanciest piece she owned with red and blue flowers embroidered along the scoop neckline. She found herself hoping that Creed would like it.
When the bath was full the two pale serving women remained, huddled by the hearth and waiting to assist the lady with her bath. But Carington wanted nothing to do with the English servants and sent them away. Removing the Elder flower oil and a precious cake of calendula soap from her bags, she stripped off the dusty and soiled clothing she had both slept and traveled in and plunged into the water.
It was hot and stimulating, and she began to lather away with the calendula soap. From the top of her head to the bottom of her toes, she scrubbed herself furiously. All the while, a sweet little tune came from her lips, an old ballad that was common in her clan. When she was completely soaped, she submerged herself in the water, rinsing the lather off. Her hair was not particularly thick, but she had a lot of it, and it took several rinses to see the water run clear. When the black strands squeaked as she ran her fingers over them, she knew she was finally clean.
Never one to linger in a bath, she leapt out and collected a large square of drying linen that the servants had brought her. Still humming her happy tune, she dried off vigorously and wrapped it around her head to soak the moisture from her hair. After a sparing application of the Elder flower oil to her dry skin, she dressed in soft hose, clean linen pantalets, her spare shift and the pale yellow surcoat.
The peat in the hearth was smoking weakly. Carington stoked it vigorously, added a few more clumps of peat that were in an iron bucket near the hearth, and removed the linen from her head. The warmth of the fire began to dry her black hair into a silken mass and she ran her fish-bone comb through it, letting the heat from the fire envelope every strand.
By this time, an older serving woman with bad skin returned with her meal of bread, cheese and watered ale and she began to wolf it down. The woman watched her eat.
“Ah now, lass,” she said timidly. “You’ll want to slow down. No sense in everything coming back up again.”
Carington eyed the woman. “Get out.”
The old woman was not intimidated or offended. “As you wish, m’lady,” she turned for the door. “I’ll be back in an hour to clean up your mess.”
Carington’s mouth was full of cheese. She should have just let the woman go but something made her call out. “What mess? There is no mess.”
“The mess that you’ll make when you vomit everything you just ate,” the woman said calmly, almost to the door.
Carington swallowed some of what was in her mouth, now looking uncertain. “I’ll not make a mess.”
“As you say, m’lady.”
The woman opened the door and immediately stepped back; lingering in the doorway were two young women, looking as if they were surprised the door had suddenly opened. Startled, Carington realized that Lady Julia and Lady Kristina had made an appearance and she struggled to swallow the food in her mouth, fumbling with her comb and trying to make sure she was properly dressed to accept visitors all in the same breath. As she hurriedly stood up, the young ladies entered the warm chamber.
For a moment, no one said a word. Everyone seemed to be appraising each other. In their first and only contact, Carington had essentially insulted the girls and she was waiting for a barrage of abuse to come hurling back at her. But the young women made no move against her; they just stared as if expecting her to rise up and breathe fire. Carington could not remember which one was Julia and which one was Kristina.
