She pulled the cowl close about her head and walked briskly past the curious faces, taking a well-worn path to the nearby stream. She couldn’t afford to think about last night―how she’d lost control and let passion cloud her judgment, how the mere sight of the Wolf had sent her heart racing.
Nay, she scolded herself, she had to think like a laird now. There was much planning to do for a meeting with the king. She promised herself she’d not disgrace her husband, nor would she call the king’s wrath down upon the Gavin. But she had to use the encounter to her best advantage. She had to find a way to dissuade Edward from granting Balliol the Scots throne.
Deep in thought, she picked her way through the lush fern and past sleek elm saplings toward the rushing stream. As she neared the bank, she was disappointed to hear the voices of a trio of men conversing quietly over the sound of the water. It seemed she’d have no solitude after all. Her foot snapped a crisp twig, and two of the men jumped to their feet to glare at her.
“Forgive me,” she said, amused at their exaggerated reaction. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
The third man, young, handsome, and as golden as summer, motioned her forward. “Come, lass,” he said warmly. “There’s plenty of water for all.”
His cohorts appeared annoyed by his friendly overtures. She supposed that was because she sounded Scots and looked like a peasant while they were obviously English nobles. Even without their jeweled belts and fur-lined garments, she could tell by their manner and bearing that they were of high rank.
“You’re from King Edward’s army?” she inquired, dropping to the water’s muddy edge to wash her hands.
The two men looked at each other in chagrin.
“Aye,” the third man said with a nod. “We’ve come from battle at Halidon, a promising victory.”
Her stomach turned, but she continued to smile sweetly. “I’d hardly call it a victory.”
Their eyes widened at her audacity.
The golden man carefully asked, “Your sympathies lie with the rebel Scots then?”
She rinsed her hands and thought for a moment. “My sympathies lie there, but my loyalty I give to my lord who fights for your king.”
The man smiled. “Well spoken. Perhaps you’re well advised to pity these disorderly rebels. They certainly don’t know how to fight. Only by appointing them their own king will such savages be tamed.”
“Aye, their own king, but certainly not Balliol,” she pronounced, taking umbrage. “The Scots don’t respect him.”
“And whom would they respect?” he asked with interest.
She frowned. “It would have to be a true Scot, born and raised in the mother country, not some English puppet.”
The man ignored the agitated protests of his companions and asked, “Aren’t you afraid your lord will punish you for speaking so freely?”
Her eyes glittered. “He wouldn’t dare.” With that, she plunged both hands into the water and sluiced it up over her face, scrubbing the sleep from her eyes.
The man lifted his brows at her impetuosity, and then crouched to dabble his fingers in the stream. “Who is your lord, lass?”
She patted her face dry on a clean corner of her kirtle. “Holden de Ware, sir.”
The man’s eyes flitted up to her suddenly, and he seemed to be studying every inch of her face. Then an amused grin settled onto his lips. “I’ve heard tell of him. Isn’t he called the Wolf? It’s said he’s never lost a battle.”
“Aye.” She drew herself up proudly to her full height.
“But if your sympathies lie with the Scots, why would you ally yourself with de Ware, a man who will surely crush them?”
“Because I’m his wife.”
While his companions made remarks of outrage at what they assumed was a lie, the golden man didn’t seem in the least surprised and began to chuckle deep in his chest. “And I,” he said with a hearty laugh, coming to his feet and making a half-bow, “am the king of England.”
Her temper flared, and she spoke in a scathing voice. “Do not mock me! Or I’ll set my great Wolf of a husband upon you, and he’ll tear the leer from your face!”
The two gentlemen recoiled and looked as if they’d choke on astonishment. But the third man seemed highly entertained by her threat, even wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.
“I’ve heard tell of this new wife of de Ware’s,” he teased. “It’s said she’s so ugly she must hide beneath a cloak.”
She bridled, but wouldn’t take the bait. “You may judge that for yourself.”
“That she abducted her husband at the point of a dagger.”
“An act of desperation,” she assured him.
“That she wore chain mail to her wedding and that she fights like a man.”
“I can handle a sword.”
The man’s eyes gleamed. “Perhaps you’ll do me the honor of a friendly duel then. It would be refreshing for a change to fight a woman in an arena where I have half a chance of winning.”
Her lip curved up in amusement. “As you see, I’m unarmed.”
“John,” the man directed, gesturing to one of the knights, “lend the lass your sword.” The man sputtered, appalled at the suggestion. “Come, come,” he insisted with a good-natured frown.
“Perhaps he’s afraid his sword will be loath to return to him after tasting my grip,” she taunted.
The one called John looked like he might burst as his face blackened with rage, but she didn’t fear him. He was obviously beholden to the golden man. He unsheathed his sword and tossed it at her, pommel first, with enough force to knock a person down, but she managed to catch it squarely in both hands. She shrugged off her cloak and kicked it out of the way. Too late, she remembered her kirtle was slit down the back. But there would be time for modesty later. At the moment, she was defending her honor.
The man ambled forward, and she saw that he was quite tall and long of limb. A superior reach, however, did not necessarily a victor make. In fact, if one was swift, and she was, speed could have a clear advantage over size.
His eyes danced with merriment, and he drew his blade eagerly. It was a noble sword, true and shining, with some kind of intricate carving and jewels upon the hilt. He struck first, a gentle tap, to test her mettle. She knocked the blow away effortlessly, smirking impatiently at him. He sliced again, and she easily tossed his attack aside and advanced. Taken by surprise, he retreated a few paces, and his companions growled their disapproval.
“It seems your friends,” she told him as she fought, “have no faith in your swordplay.”
The man happily blocked her blows. “They’re only amazed by yours!”
Cambria liked this man. His honesty was refreshing. He complimented her even as they battled. Of course, as timid and tentative as his blows were, he’d naturally be impressed by her technique. Indeed, he seemed to have no qualms about her swordfighting and didn’t appear to be offended in the least by her skills, as other men inevitably were. As much as she’d sought seclusion this morning, it felt good to focus her scattered energies on a tangible opponent. This encounter was rather enjoyable, she realized as she took a downward slice at his head.
A quarter mile away, within the walls of his tent, Holden cursed himself for letting Cambria go off alone. Sir Guy had just returned to the encampment in disappointment. His prey had slipped through his fingers―Owen was still on the loose. And if anyone could find her way into trouble, it was Cambria. He dressed quickly and began searching the camp for his wife.
When he heard the clang of sword upon sword coming from the wood, he drew his own blade and crept soundlessly through the trees. Peering through the low branches of a willow, he saw his worst nightmare realized. Before his very eyes, their swords clashing with fervent purpose, fought his wife and his king.
Chapter Fourteen
Cambria chuckled in triumph as her grinning opponent retreated toward the stream. They’d been sparring happily for only a few minutes, and already she’d won
the advantage. She raised her blade for the symbolic kill.
Suddenly she was grabbed from behind. One thick arm wrapped around her waist, and another tore the sword from her grasp, flinging it across the clearing. Before she could even lay eyes on her attacker’s face, she knew it was Holden―something about his scent or the familiar heat of his fury―and she was livid that he’d interfered with her sport. She opened her mouth to curse him when, to her amazement, he wound a cruel fist in her hair. Pressing her roughly down to her knees on the damp forest floor, he forced her to bow her head.
“I beg you to forgive her, Your Majesty,” he said all too clearly.
Cambria’s bones turned to jelly. She didn’t dare move. She didn’t dare speak. She didn’t dare lift her eyes. Satan’s ballocks, she’d been fighting the king!
It all made sense now. No wonder the man’s companions were nearly apoplectic with concern. Everything she’d heard about the ruthless English monarch came rushing into her head. Bloody hell, she wondered if she’d live out the day. She racked her brain. What had she said to him? What blunt opinions had she offered to the king of England? Screwing up her courage, she peeked at him from beneath worried brows.
Edward, watching her cower like a kicked hound, fell into robust gales of laughter. “Perhaps I shall forgive you, Holden, for interrupting my play! I’ve not been so entertained in a long while!”
As she knelt before the king, her heart rattling rapidly in her chest, the pressure of Holden’s hand lessened slightly, and he shook his head in wonder.
“My wife is gone from me for only a moment, and I arrive to find my lady and my liege engaged in mortal combat,” he said in mock disgust, “and now you tell me it’s play!”
The golden king chuckled. “You were right, de Ware. Your lady is a rare gem. I wholly approve of your choice.”
Holden bowed. “My thanks, Your Majesty.”
“Although, if I were you,” Edward said with a twinkle in his eye, “I think I’d prefer a little more honey and a little less mustard with my game!”
Holden smiled at the king’s pun. “Ah, but you’re a gentleman, Majesty. I’m a soldier. I’ve always loved a good battle.”
“Was it one of your ‘battles’ then that cost your lady her gown?” the king said slyly.
At his reminder, Cambria reached behind her to hold the edges of the torn garment together. Edward bid her rise with a gesture, and then winked conspiratorially at Holden. “Do learn to untie the laces, de Ware, or you’ll deplete your wealth purchasing new gowns.”
Holden managed to chuckle politely at the jest, but his mind was fixed on the disobedient vixen rising to her feet before him. He was furious with Cambria, despite the fact that the soft scent of her hair beneath his chin was driving him to distraction.
When the king dismissed them, Cambria curtseyed demurely, returned the borrowed sword, and then retrieved her cloak, leaving the forest without a backward glance.
Holden caught up with her moments later in his pavilion, throwing back the flap with a vengeance. He startled her, and Cambria, clad only in a sleeveless linen shift, clutched her torn kirtle protectively to her chest. In two long strides, he closed the space between them. His fingers clenched and bit into her bare upper arm, and she winced in surprise.
“I don’t want to see you raise your sword against anyone again, do you hear me?” he snapped.
She tore her arm from his grasp. “You wouldn’t have seen me had you kept to your own affairs.”
“You are my affair!” he shouted. “We are wed, madam.”
He rubbed his brow in frustration and began to pace like a cornered wolf. “I can’t believe you dared confront the king.”
“I didn’t know he was the king.” She shrugged. “He seemed like any other man.”
Cambria’s own words gave her pause. She realized the truth of them. Edward wasn’t the monster she’d once imagined, the demon Robbie would have had her believe. He was a mere mortal, a simple man clothed in the robes of royalty. She wondered why the Scots were so opposed to the leadership of this young, fair-haired, laughing sovereign.
“Had you let your loyalties be known,” Holden assured her, “you would have found he’s not like other men. He has limitless power.” A shudder betrayed his emotions. “He could have had you executed on the spot!”
“I did tell him of my loyalties,” she said, unable to understand Holden’s concern. The golden knight seemed harmless enough, and he seemed to like her.
“You told Edward...” Holden sunk dismally into his chair, his eyes flat and his mouth agape.
“I didn’t know who he was,” she explained with another shrug.
“Perhaps that’s best,” he said weakly. “If you’d known, you probably would have run him through.”
“Run him through? Do you truly believe I have no honor? It was a friendly match.”
Holden swallowed uncomfortably as he visualized again the heart-stopping duel in the woods. “Your honor certainly would have been in question had you injured the king or―or slain him,” he said hoarsely.
But that wasn’t his real fear. He wasn’t worried in the least about the king. He’d seen the fight. Edward had easily blocked her blows, merely provoked Cambria into attacking him. The king’s guard would have intervened had she so much as sliced a thread from his surcoat. But Cambria was so reckless and aggressive and impetuous that Edward might have harmed her unintentionally. She might have slipped onto his blade. Lord, he didn’t want to think about it.
“Slay him? I wouldn’t even wound anyone in a friendly battle,” Cambria stated, clearly offended. “Not even an Englishman.”
He looked at her for a long while, wavering in indecision, and then sighed resignedly. “Promise me you won’t raise your sword against Edward again, even in sport. I don’t believe my heard could endure it.”
A small smile touched the corners of her lips. “I swear, my lord,” she complied, but then the light of mischief danced in her eyes. “However, if the king should command me to―“
“Cambria,” he warned her, “don’t attempt to make me completely mad. I’m halfway there already.”
She grinned, instantly enchanting him out of his ire. God’s bones, it was a cruel jest of fate that Cambria should cause him as much trouble as she did joy. But how could he stay angry with her when she looked him like that?
His fears soothed for the moment, Holden saw his wife now as if for the first time. Her threadbare shift did little to hide her soft, sweet curves, particularly where the muted gold sunlight pierced the sheer linen. She was lovely. Her skin glowed from the morning’s duel, and her cheeks wore the flush of health. Her eyes sparkled like a bubbling spring, and when she blushed at his forthright appraisal, her gaze softened receptively. Best of all, she was his. He felt a powerful surge of need arise in him, his body remembering well last night’s coupling.
Cambria felt the breath quicken in her breast as Holden’s warm gaze slowly raked down her body. His thoughts were as transparent as rainwater. He wanted her. Now.
She should resist him, she knew. It was mid-morn, bright daylight. Outside, the encampment was fully awake. Maids hurried to and fro, knights barked out commands, servants grumbled at their duties. Anyone could walk in upon them. Anyone could overhear the sounds of their lovemaking. It wasn’t decent.
Still, the intensity of his vibrant stare sent a shiver of delight up her spine, reminding her of the unspeakable pleasures he could bring her. Her knees quivered, her lips parted, and an aching need blossomed between her thighs.
Without a word, he came to her. Their lips met first, caressing slowly, their lingering pace denying the urgency of their desire. Holden’s fingers filtered through her hair as if touching it for the first time. Cambria’s hands fluttered over each rippling muscle through his linen shirt with complete fascination. They sampled each other as if savoring a rare dessert of spun sugar.
Holden knew from the first taste that he was ensnared. Never had he been so beso
tted with one woman. It was dangerous, this obsession. But his mind didn’t dwell long on such fears. When her hands slipped beneath his tunic to seek their pleasure, all rational thought left him. Her fingers burned fire as they traced the line of his collarbone and grazed his ribs. When her hands dared to creep lower, he groaned and took her by the wrists, shaking his head.
Cambria was thoroughly intoxicated by the feel of him. She wanted to touch him all over. Each plane of his body had a different, wonderful texture. His cheek was rough with stubble, his chest wide and firm, his stomach flat and softly furred.
Giving no more thought to the time of day and the possibility of discovery, they separated long enough to undress, their eyes never breaking contact. Wool garments fell away, and linen soughed to the carpet like cherry blossoms in summer. At last, they stood naked together in the pale light of morning, an arm’s length away, regarding each other with limpid eyes of desire.
Holden thought he’d never beheld such a beautifully sculpted body, supple and strong, yet still so womanly, every inch of flesh made for his embrace. Already he longed to kiss the spot where her shoulder curved into the hollow above her breast, to pillow his head against the soft cushion of her bosom.
Cambria felt a strange lethargy creep over her. Her eyelids grew heavy, her movements slow, as if she’d taken a draught of opium wine. Her breath dropped deep in her chest, and her knees grew weak as she saw that the Wolf was quite ready for her.
They approached with almost painful stealth. Holden felt as if he’d burst. Cambria was near faint with longing. The air rippled with current, and when their bodies finally touched, they became irrevocably joined by the forces of nature.
Cambria was overcome by the warmth of Holden’s skin as his massive arms enfolded her with quiet strength. She licked and bit tenderly at his chest, fascinated by the taste of him.
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