Cambria swallowed hard. Curse her promise, curse her pride, curse her marriage of political convenience, she wanted Holden. And, she decided, calling upon her renowned Gavin stubbornness, she’d be damned if she’d take no for an answer. Before she could change her mind, she began to push down the coverlet between them.
Holden sucked in a quick breath when he realized what her overture meant. He hoped she realized what she was doing. He rolled back slowly while she moved the furs out of the way, as if moving too fast might give her second thoughts. He didn’t want to frighten her. He prayed he had the control not to hurt her. Suddenly, absurdly, he felt as awkward as an untried youth.
Cambria’s hands found him in the dark. His body was magnificent, proud, lean, contoured as flawlessly as a fine blade. She shivered as her forearm brushed the bold manifestation of his desire that seemed to her a brazen lance. The implication gave her pause, but she was committed now, and she wouldn’t retreat from the challenge she’d issued. With clumsy fingers, she began to pick at the back laces of her kirtle.
Holden retrieved his dagger form the swordbelt beside the pallet and sliced the laces neatly. The garment dropped from her shoulders like a dying rose, and she willingly, breathlessly removed her linen underclothing, baring her body.
Holden cradled her face in his hands. He kissed her deeply, hungrily, and she responded with a ferocity that nearly unleashed his own tempered passions. She was like soft, warm velvet against his body, and the sweet, smoky smell of her hair and the weak moans in the back of her throat were calling him to answer. He knew the answer, longed to give it, but couldn’t, not yet.
“I’ve given you my word,” he murmured against her cheek. “I won’t consummate this marriage until you wish it so.”
Cambria trembled in his arms. The silence between them grew as taut as the long, last moment before the release of an arrow from a bow.
“I wish it,” she finally whispered, “I wish it so.”
Holden wiped the sweat from his lip, and then lowered her to the pallet. It would cost him much to subdue his own desires as he worked to satisfy hers. Her responsiveness had the power to intoxicate them both. He had to bear in mind that this wanton vixen was still a virgin. She’d require patience.
He hovered over her, kissed her eyes, her hair, her fingertips, shuddered when her hands unabashedly reached up to explore his body. With a helpless groan, he bent and captured a succulent nipple in his mouth. She moaned beneath him, brazenly lifting her hips to contact his. He gasped, and then stifled the sound, suckling at her breast like a starving man. His fingers traced a leisurely path up to the juncture of her thighs, and he pulled gently at the hair there. Moving upward again, he kissed her open mouth, letting his tongue dance with hers and graze the edges of her teeth. At last he eased his large body down over hers, covering her completely.
Cambria strained instinctively upward against him, burying her head in the crook of his neck, overcome by the sensation of the powerful muscles enveloping her, the full, warm shaft brushing her skin. His hands found hers, locking her fingers in a gentle bondage.
“Easy, little sprite,” he said huskily against her ear as he bent his head to kiss between her breasts and lower, to her navel.
She stiffened with a faint protest and tried in vain to extract her fingers from his. Surely he didn’t mean to... Ah God, she could feel his breath upon her woman’s curls. His mouth nuzzled her, and she cried out, squeezing his fingers. He moved between her thighs, and when his tongue grazed her flesh, she turned her head onto her shoulder, squirming in sweet distress. Again and again his tongue lapped at her, savoring her like honey from the comb. She could feel her face turn to flame, but not for the world did she wish him to stop.
Holden had to stop. He was in danger of losing control. Breathing raggedly, he placed a single, final kiss upon the soft, dark flower of her blossoming womanhood, and then kissed his way to her mouth.
Cambria was astonished by her own pleasant, musky taste on his lips, and she let her tongue venture into his mouth, trailing across the rims of his teeth and lapping at his tongue. As she explored, he released her hands and placed his palm against the wet curls between her legs. She writhed against him, wanting more, aching with a hunger she didn’t understand. He stroked her with a moist finger, edging more and more deeply into her while his thumb stroked delicately above. She rocked her hips in a steady rhythm, counter to his movements. The pressure was exhilarating, and she couldn’t stop the cries that came to her lips.
The sounds she made almost drove Holden over the edge of desire. While one hand continued to pleasure her, he tenderly wiped the beads of perspiration from her brow with the other.
“Cambria,” he said hoarsely, “I must cause you...pain...this first time. I don’t wish to, but I will. It will be brief, I promise, and then you’ll never endure it again.”
Cambria paid little heed to his words. She was a Gavin. She feared no pain. Every nerve in her body was awake and crying out for succor.
“I’m ready, Englishman,” she said in a voice that was half plea, half demand.
Holden wasted no time. He coaxed her thighs apart and entered her fully, groaning as her warm sheath surrounded him like a blanket.
Cambria was stunned by the burning that knifed through her loins. But she was a warrior. She’d never cried out in pain. She wouldn’t do so now. Clenching her teeth as he waited for her to adjust to his invasion, she willed the sting to recede, and it did.
When her hands relaxed upon his shoulders, Holden began to move, very slowly at first, letting her grow accustomed to the feel of him.
Cambria learned quickly. Once the pain had diminished, she couldn’t get close enough to him. She pressed upward against the bones of his hip, and he squeezed her buttocks, urging her higher. She wrapped her long legs around him, and Holden gasped at her welcome boldness. He’d never experienced such ferocity in a woman before, and it excited him beyond control.
They strove together like well-matched champions, meeting blow for blow, straining in ecstatic battle, attacking and retreating, only to advance again. Before long, they were mating in a frenzy of passion and instinct. Holden pounded into her like the surf of the North Sea. She clawed at his back as if he’d save her from drowning in the sensation. With each thrust, she felt herself being purged of the horrifying images at Halidon, and she clung fiercely to him, willing him to stay with her forever.
They rode passion’s wave together, and just as they reached the crest, Cambria looked impossibly through the darkness into Holden’s eyes, blue crystal shooting fire into green, green smoldering back into blue. At that instant of vulnerability, she felt their souls meet, and she knew that neither time nor distance nor death itself could ever part them. Then the wave crashed thunderously, and with a primal cry of relief, they fell to the earth like castaways on a forbidden shore.
Chapter Thirteen
The pain was excruciating. Owen shivered with nearly uncontrollable panic and dread as he groped for the edge of the lichen-covered boulder. With a grunt, he fell against it, bruising his shoulder. Then he lay back, rolling his eyes skyward to the shifting pine boughs, catching his breath. Every limp had been an agony. He’d cursed the name of Cambria Gavin at every step. But when he finally reached the cover of the wood, he was certain he’d lost his pursuer.
He wanted to sleep now, to close his watering eyes and drift off to oblivion. But then she wouldn’t be punished. She’d go on living. And more than sleep he longed to see her suffer.
He knew what he must do, even as he whimpered against the thought. With trembling fingers, he ripped the bottom two inches from his blood-stained tabard. As he hitched air into his lungs, he balled the cloth and shoved it solidly between his teeth.
The arrow had surprised him―it had been loosed not from enemy hands, but from behind their own English lines. Incapacitated by the pain, he’d nonetheless instinctively sought out his attacker. How unmanning it had been to find the culprit was a pe
asant woman. Then he’d seen her face, and in that brief moment of recognition, he’d known hatred beyond all reason. Only his desperation to survive had prevented him from crossing the space between them and tearing the Scots bitch limb from limb with his bare hands.
His nostrils flared with the effort to breathe. For now, he’d retreat. He’d withdraw like an injured animal, lick his wounds, and curl up within himself to heal. There’d be time later to kill her, her and her lover. He giggled nervously in anticipation. He wanted to take his time with her, and for that he’d need strength.
Sweat beaded his clammy face as he shuddered and put both hands to the arrow protruding from his thigh. His eyes bulged from their sockets while he exerted steadily with almost inhuman might. At last, the point budged, and he pulled the shaft slowly from his muscle. The balled cloth muffled his screams of torment as the point tore backwards through his flesh till it was free.
The ragged wound bled furiously. He nearly fainted from the loss. He tore the rag from his mouth to stanch the flow, certain he’d live now. He fell back against the boulder, swatting clumsily at insistent flies, drifting into a long-awaited, troubled sleep. The midday sun pierced through the forest canopy and cooked him in his armor.
Hours later, with the sun well into its downward climb, the point of a sword jostled him awake. For a moment he was disoriented. Then the throbbing in his leg brought everything back.
A dozen savages surrounded him, their grimy faces peering down at him with contempt. They were Scots, their diverse somber plaids draped haphazardly across their shoulders, and the lot of them looked eager to spill English blood.
“Owen?” the one with the sword asked.
Owen recognized the lilting accent and red hair, even if his vision was too blurred to see clearly. It was the Gavin rebel. Damn his luck, he’d have to think quickly. And it was so hard to think when one was in pain.
“Is it you, Robbie?” he wheezed at last. “Thank God!”
The rebels eyed him warily.
“On your feet!” Robbie commanded, prodding him with a sword.
Owen’s voice was a weak croak. “I’ve been sorely wounded, Robbie.”
Robbie glanced cursorily at Owen’s bloody leg. “You’ve given us no new information since the attempt on de Ware’s life. Have your loyalties shifted then?”
“I still bear messages for the rebels,” Owen lied. “I was sent by them to find you. Why were you not at Halidon?”
Robbie’s eyes flared at the slight, and he puffed up his chest. “My men were the eyes and ears of the Scots. We weren’t at Halidon, because we traveled with the English, under their noses. We knew their number and strength days ago.”
Owen sighed dramatically. “Alas, I fear it’s too late.”
“Too late?”
“Aye,” he reported grimly. “By now you’ve lost to the English.”
Robbie regarded him incredulously. “Lost? But our numbers were vast. It isn’t possible.”
The Scots were gripping their weapons as if they’d march to war even now. Owen suppressed a smirk at their impotent ambition.
“It’s true,” he told them, shaking his head.
Robbie cursed and kicked at the hard ground. Then he wheeled toward Owen and regarded him slyly. “How did you come to be wounded?”
Owen didn’t have to feign his wrath. He answered through tightly gritted teeth. “An English arrow pierced me.”
“They discovered your treason?” Robbie guessed.
“Aye,” he replied, thinking how ridiculously gullible these Scots were. “If only I’d found you sooner...”
Robbie gazed down at him, and Owen could almost see the scales of trust tipping back and forth on his face. Then he motioned to one of his men. “See that his wound is tended properly. If the battle at Halidon has been lost, it’s only a matter of time before the English return.”
Owen nodded in agreement.
“We must leave this place,” Robbie said.
“If I may be so bold,” Owen began, barely able to contain his mirth at this turn of events, “I have a plan.”
He hardly felt the pain as Robbie’s men changed his dressing, only wincing occasionally as he described his daring proposal to the eager Scots.
~*~
The warmth of the sun seeping into the serge tent woke Cambria. She was shocked to find herself sprawled shamelessly next to the sleeping bulk of Lord Holden, her legs dangling out from under the fur coverlet.
She retrieved her rumpled kirtle, pulling it inch by inch from beneath the weight of Holden’s hindquarters, and then slipped it over her head, frowning at the severed laces. She wondered idly how many of her gowns Holden would destroy in his haste to swive her. Then a flush stole up her cheeks as she remembered it had been she who had been so impatient for their bed.
She lay back on the pallet once more and peered at the man who was her husband. He lay flat on his back. From the look of his bandages, his shoulder hadn’t worsened, and his face was clear and untroubled by fever. Indeed, he looked like a sweet angel as he slept.
Holden had given her far more than absolution last night. He’d made her feel alive. She’d experienced immense power beyond her wildest imagination, hand in hand with a vulnerability so dangerous it had made her tremble. In one exhilarating, terrifying moment she’d conquered him and been conquered. Had she betrayed her clan by bedding the enemy? Or had she emerged victorious? Her mind was a blur of contradictions.
She needed to get out, to be alone for a while to sort out her thoughts in the open cathedral of a Scots forest. She stood for a moment in the leaf-dappled shade of the tent, attempting to rub the swelling from her eyes, raking her hair into some semblance of order. Then she stole across the spongy carpet. Just as she lifted the pavilion flap, Holden called to her.
“Don’t go yet.”
She’d hoped to escape his notice. She wasn’t ready to talk to him or even look him in the eye. But when she turned resignedly, her reluctance melted like butter on hot bread.
Holden sat up on his elbows, leaving the glorious breadth of his chest exposed. Damp curls clung to his neck, and there was a shadow of masculine stubble on his cheeks. His eyes were heavy-lidded from slumber, his lips were parted hopefully. Her heart caught in her throat as she fought the urge to gulp. How much easier it was to look at him as he slept. Awake, he was too vital, too magnetic, too unpredictable.
Holden cleared his throat. “We have to talk, you and I,” he said solemnly, pulling his discarded tabard modestly across his lap. It wouldn’t do to let her see how much her tempestuous beauty affected him as he watched the warm light bathe the exposed skin of her shoulders.
Her smoky eyes were as captivating as the fog above a loch, and her swollen lips gave her a sultry, sensual mien. Her hair was a hopeless snarl, but it only served to remind him of her passion. Hell, he thought, if he continued his thoughts in that direction, he’d be pushing her onto her back again within moments. And something in her manner told him that would be a mistake just now.
“Please.” He patted the mattress beside him.
Indecision flickered in her eyes, but she joined him on the pallet, sitting stiffly on the edge. He half-smiled at her sudden shyness, particularly since the entire back of her kirtle gapped open, revealing that arrow-straight back.
“There will be a feast this evening. Edward wishes to meet the lady I have wed without his consent.”
Cambria whirled toward him, her awkwardness forgotten in her surprise. “Meet...your king?”
“Our king,” he corrected casually. “He wishes to see for himself the Scotswoman who would follow her English husband to war and protect him with bow and arrow.”
“You told him?” She suddenly longed to pummel her husband.
“The tale reached his ears long before I got to him. But it’s no matter. Now there’s no questioning your loyalty.”
“But I didn’t do it for the English,” she said bluntly. “I did it for my clan.”
&nb
sp; He winced. “A fact best left unmentioned where Edward is concerned. In fact, I’d rather you said as little as possible.”
I’m sure you would, she thought rebelliously. There was much she wanted to say to the king―protest the appointment of Balliol, argue about the unification of Scotland and England, rage over the atrocity committed against her father.
“I will be obeyed in this, Cambria. It will serve no purpose for you to act the shrew.” His eyes issued a warning. “I’ve wagered much in marrying you without the king’s blessing. I must prove that I’ve made a prudent decision. If you attempt to disgrace me with that sharp tongue of yours before Edward―“
“My tongue is not sharp!” she huffed.
“Dear wife,” he said, laughing, “were it any sharper, you wouldn’t need a dagger to cut your meat.”
She shot him her most scathing look. The last thing she’d expected from him this morning was insults.
“Remember that any shame you bring upon me shames your clan as well,” he reminded her.
She considered his words. It was difficult for her to imagine playing the docile wife. But if it would save the Gavin, she’d do it. She dropped her shoulders and extinguished the fire in her eyes. The clan had to come first.
Then, in a flash, the reality of her situation hit her with full force. “I can’t meet the king,” she hissed.
Holden looked at her grimly.
“I’ve nothing to wear, not even my chain mail!” she cried. “He won’t believe I’m a laird when I’m garbed like a peasant. Look at me!”
He did, every delicious inch of her, and he wished wryly that she truly did have nothing to wear.
Cambria wished she’d brought her armor. She could have polished it to a silvery sheen worthy of the king. But this torn peasant’s kirtle of woaded blue...
She jumped up from the pallet, and Holden caught her arm.
“Thank you,” he said gently, sincerely, “for last night, for your precious gift.”
His clear, penetrating gaze made her heart flutter like a pennon. She dropped her eyes and mumbled something in reply that made him smile. Then, snatching up her cloak, she rushed awkwardly from the pavilion. A moment later, when she realized she’d told him it had been her pleasure, she cursed under her breath.
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