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glowing.  He went in search of the bar that he had stripped from the lady after she had hit Jory and, upon finding it, stoked the dying peat of the vizier into a small flame.  As he hung the bar on the side of the vizier, Carington rolled onto her back and looked up at him.
    “Thanks to ye,” she said softly.
    Creed’s gaze lingered on her but he did nothing more than nod his head.  When he woke up a few hours later, she was gone.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER TWO
     
     
    She did not want to be here. So why was not she running?
    The Sassenach knight was asleep, sitting up, in her tent.  She had just left him there, his eyes closed and sleeping like the dead.  Carington did not think she had slept at all, listening to the sounds of the night beyond the tent and seriously wondering why she was not making another attempt to flee her captors. Perhaps it was because Sir Creed had made a good deal of sense to her. Perhaps it was because he had proven that he was not out to kill her.  She was not particularly sure; for whatever reason, she was swept with reluctance every time she thought she might try to run again.  And the reluctance was making her muddled.
    Creed de Reyne. She was not what she had expected from a Sassenach knight.  When his eyes weren’t verging on a lightning display, they seemed rather calm and wise.  His manner had been very soothing when it was warranted and his words held a great deal of perception.  Although he still sucked out all of the air around him with his very presence, she found he was not as fearsome as she had originally thought.   
    The dawn around her was a dark gray, lightening to shades of silver with the rising of the sun.  It was incredibly damp and cold as she pulled the tartan more closely around her.  She stood just outside of her tent, staring into the bleak moors and dark forests beyond. She thought back to the size of Creed’s hand when he had forced her to look at him; she had never seen hands so enormous. And although he was not as tall as his brother the commander, he was as wide as an old oak tree.  Massive width through his shoulders and chest yet narrow in the waist.  His arms were as large as tree branches, ending up in those colossal hands.  Aye, he was a big man with a striking face.  If she was so inclined to think such a thing about Sassenachs, she might even think him handsome. But she was not ready to go that far yet. She was still in the bosom of the enemy, surrounded by hostiles, and she hated all of them just as they hated her.
    The camp was stirring as men began to rise and pack up their gear for the trip home.   Prudhoe Castle was nearly three days from her home of Wether Fair. This was the dawn of the second day and she was not particularly looking forward to one more, marching to her dismal future in the heart of a rival army. 
    In the distance she could hear the horses nickering as men moved into their midst to feed them. One of those horses was her very own, a tall golden warmblood that her father had given her.  His name was Bress, which meant ‘beautiful’ in the Gaelic.  She had raised the horse from a tiny colt, watching it grow into a magnificent stallion with a thick neck and muscled hind quarters.  She loved the horse as if it was her child and the horse responded to her in kind.  She was concerned for the animal, listening to the whinnying of horses grow increasingly urgent. She hoped he was being fed and that he was behaving himself. With Bress, it was hard to tell.
    Carington wanted to go to where the horses were tethered, but she thought it might look as if she was trying to escape again.  So she stood there, gazing off into the fog, hoping her horse was being adequately cared for.  She did not know how she could have possibly considered leaving him behind last night when she’d tried to flee. She was far too fond of him.
    A body was suddenly standing next to her and she flinched with surprise, looking up to