He set his flagon down on a crenel of the battlement, yawning and stretching his stiff muscles. Perhaps it was time to leave Bowden in the hands of a steward and make a visit to his other prize, Blackhaugh. He wished to see how his little brother fared.
When he thought of Blackhaugh Castle, however, it wasn’t Garth’s face that came to mind. He was haunted once again by the image of that fascinating Scotswoman, the elfish lass who’d rendered him unable to even think of dallying with the many perfectly willing wenches at Bowden. She’d worked a charm on him—that had to be the answer—and it was ruining his hard-earned reputation as a virile lover.
Perhaps he’d just swive the wench while he was at Blackhaugh and be done with it. He closed his eyes, picturing once again her tempting mouth, that luxurious mane of chestnut hair, her creamy bosom. Just as he began to imagine what he’d like to do with her, his attention was caught by a metallic flash from the field below.
A single knight on horseback galloped through the meadow. Holden watched silently for a moment at the rider’s approach, unable to discern whether he was friend or foe.
“Ho, fellow knight,” he called down, “what are you about this morning?”
The knight made no response. Holden raised a brow at his lack of courtesy and studied the rider carefully. He appeared to be alone. He bore no crest upon his plain blue tabard, and his helm was likewise unadorned.
Again Holden called down. “Hola, Sir Knight, by what name are you known?”
There was no reply. Holden wrinkled his brow. This game could become rather tedious, unless…unless it was some sort of jest planned by one of his men to relieve Holden’s obvious boredom. Aye, that must be it.
“You’re armed for battle!” he remarked, picking up his cup and swirling the mead around the rim. “Is it your intent to joust one of my knights?”
The rider abruptly lifted his long ash lance, and Holden cocked his head at this unexpected gesture. Maybe it was his cousin Myles. Myles had just won his spurs. It would be just like Holden’s uncles to put the lad up to such a challenge.
“With whom do you come to battle, sirrah?”
Slowly, the knight lowered the tip of the lance till it pointed directly at Holden.
Pleased with the thought of his uncles’ comeuppance, Holden smiled. “Me?” he murmured. “What a surprise.”
He waved. Then he called out, “I shall arm myself and be down presently, sirrah, to uncover your identity!”
Holden rode out to meet his mysterious challenger moments later. His suspicions about the knight’s identity were confirmed as he noted the small frame and youthful posture. Nonetheless, he’d humor the bold lad.
“You have no design upon your tabard, sir. Will you not at least do me the honor of telling me with whom I joust before I trounce you?”
There was no answer, of course, for Myles’s voice would have given him away. Bemused, Holden chuckled to himself as the horse and rider stormed to one end of the field.
Scarcely had he placed his helm on his head when the young knight surged toward him with lance forward. Angered at the boy’s rude haste, Holden lowered his lance and prepared to unhorse the whelp.
Ariel bolted forward without prompting, flinging up chunks of sod. When they met with a thunderous crash, the small rider was carried easily from the saddle to the earth with a thud.
Holden allowed the dazed lad to rise laboriously. They drew swords, and he gave the young knight many sound punishing buffets upon the helm.
The boy was quick, but haphazard, spinning and slashing with a recklessness Holden hadn’t noticed in Myles before. He was an agile enough opponent, but hardly a match for Holden’s sheer power, which he tempered for the sake of a fair fight.
Noting how quickly the lad tired, Holden offered aid. “Hold your shield higher, man! You’re getting careless!”
This made the knight’s attack all the more brash.
After nearly a quarter of an hour, bored of the battle, which had become sluggish, Holden decided to make an end of it. He swung a powerful blow with the flat of his sword across the knight’s hindquarters. His victim went sprawling in the grass, dropping both sword and shield on the way.
Holden shook his head, and then set his own shield, helm, and sword on the ground, offering his hand to aid the foolish novice.
Unexpectedly, the fallen knight reached for his own blade and swung it around hard, forcing Holden to block the blow with his arm. Holden winced as the blade caught him painfully on the shoulder and fell just short of penetrating the mail.
His arm throbbing from the impact, Holden fiercely swept up his sword and knocked his opponent’s weapon away.
This varlet was not his cousin. No de Ware would fight so unchivalrously. He dragged the knight to his knees and tore off his helm, flinging it to the ground. Blinded by rage, he yanked the dark hair back violently to expose the traitor’s vulnerable throat and raised his sword to slay the fiend.
Then the very breath was sucked from him.
Nay. It wasn’t possible.
“You!” he choked.
Cambria gasped, despite her brave intentions. That last blow had been unworthy of her, and she knew it. Lord Holden had every right to slay her for it.
Clenching her hair in his fist, the Wolf gazed at her bared neck and hesitated. Indecision warred in his steely eyes as his blade hung over her. She forced herself to stare at him, even if she couldn’t draw air into her lungs. She’d be damned if she’d die wincing from her foe. His expression wavered between anger and disbelief and something resembling fear, and then it evolved into a mask of pure fury.
With a bellow of rage, he brought the sword down violently. She screamed as he jammed its point into the ground beside her.
Her heart knifed within her chest, though she was out of immediate peril, as she gasped in great sobs of air. For a long while, nothing but their turbulent breathing rent the silence. Hers was born of shuddering relief, his of barely suppressed savagery.
His eyes flashed green fire when he was at last able to speak. “You little fool!” he snapped hoarsely. “Are you mad?” He plowed his mailed hand through his hair and began to pace like a cornered stallion. “What game are you… How could… Bloody… I almost kil-…”
If she thought she glimpsed a speck of self-reproach in his eyes, it vanished in the next instant, the moment he realized her scheme. He wheeled on her, incredulous. His words fell like blows, and she flinched from the sheer power of his voice.
“By God! You thought to avenge your father by murdering me!” He swore, and then kicked the sod with so much force that a chunk of it came loose. He wrenched his sword from the earth, sheathing it so violently the hilt rang against its bronze catch. Then he came to stand over her, clenching and unclenching his mailed fists, his breath ragged, his jaw set. Though he brandished no weapon other than his iron gaze, it was enough to pin her there.
He almost broke her with his unnerving silence, which seemed to stretch into torturous eternity. But at last he sank to a crouch beside her, so close she could feel the moisture of his breath on her cheek. And the harsh intimacy of his measured whisper inspired more terror than either his shouting or his silence.
“I will not strike you down,” he growled, “as you are by some strange providence a lady. But, by God, you shall be chastised.”
She bit back a startled shriek as he muscled her up and nudged her roughly toward the castle, pinioning her arm. Shite, he could probably snap her bones like twigs in his great hand. He pushed her through the main gate, ignoring the curious stares of the guards. He snarled at a groom to fetch their grazing mounts, and then hauled her across the courtyard as if she were no more unwieldy than a sack of chain mail.
She balked when he pushed open the doors of the great hall, but he prodded her forward, kneeing her with the sharp poleyn of his armor. Her face burned with shame as he forced her through the crowded hall. Even with her eyes lowered, she could see men and women stepping out of the Wolf’s
path, hear them gasp in shock at the spectacle.
They came to a stairwell at the far side of the hall, and he half-dragged her up the winding stone steps. Her heart began to beat against her ribs like a caged falcon as she imagined what horrible punishments he intended, and suddenly she longed to be in the great hall again among witnesses. She struggled against him, but he only cursed and drew her other arm behind her as well.
At the top of the steps, he kicked open a thick oak door, revealing a dismal little room with a thin straw pallet and a barred window. There, he shoved her in and followed after, slamming the door behind them. Before she could whirl to face him, he pressed her back against the wall with his immense body, leaving her breathless. He pinned her to the rough stones, holding her wrists immobile on each side of her head.
She shuddered. She’d thought about her confrontation with the Wolf for days now—planned her attack, practiced her blows, imagined his defense—but nothing she’d envisioned had prepared her for this. At this proximity, the beads of sweat on his face were too real, his body too intimate, his anger too palpable. She felt like a moth trapped in his fist, to be crushed at his whim. De Ware’s eyes seared her with their intensity while his voice remained dangerously quiet.
“What have you done with my brother?”
Cambria was momentarily dazed. What kind of a question was that?
The human manacles on her wrists tightened a fraction. She swallowed convulsively. Damn, he was strong.
“Garth?” she gasped.
“Of course Garth,” he said between his teeth.
She saw now. It made perfect sense. Lord Holden had concluded that her escape from Blackhaugh meant that some ill had befallen Garth. Leave it to an Englishman to consider his kin infallible to the simple wiles of a Scotswoman.
“What have you done?” the Wolf hissed, the cold fire in his eyes burning her far more than his grasp on her wrists.
For a moment, she thought her voice had deserted her. Then she managed to choke out, “He is well.”
“You’re certain?” he demanded, pressing so close that she could have counted his eyelashes.
She closed her eyes and nodded.
“Look at me,” he ordered. “Where are the others you brought with you?”
“There are no others.”
He snarled at her, making her flinch. “You’re lying!”
“Nay!” she insisted. “I came alone, of my own choosing. No one knows.”
This last bit wasn’t exactly true. She hadn’t wanted Malcolm the Steward to worry. The squire who had armed her for the journey had been given a message to deliver to him after she was long gone. It would inform Malcolm that she was safe, that she would return shortly, and that he wasn’t to interfere.
Apparently convinced, Lord Holden inspected her at greater leisure now and more thoroughly, as if she were a palfrey he might purchase, letting his gaze move over her hair, her lips, her throat. She shivered. This silent interrogation was far more intimidating than what he asked aloud.
“But your kinsmen will find out soon enough, won’t they?” he murmured, almost to himself. “Such a precious jewel could not go missing for long.”
She blinked, startled. No one had called her a precious jewel before, certainly not an Englishman. Surely he only mocked her.
His gaze lingered on her mouth, and his voice came out on a mere breath. “What if you had slain me, little witch? Did you intend to singlehandedly fight the whole English army?”
She swallowed. She had no answer for him. Indeed, she hadn’t thought that far ahead.
His next words were so soft, she had to watch his lips to decipher them. “And what…what if I had slain you?”
He caught her gaze then, trapping her in the smoldering depths of his eyes, and some strange current passed through them, as fleeting as lightning, as ephemeral as mist. For one brief instant, she saw him not as the enemy, but as a man—troubled, vulnerable, human—and molten fire surged inexplicably through her veins.
But in the next moment, his eyes hardened like green glass. He became the warrior once more. He released her arms and stepped away.
“I’ll send a squire for your armor,” he said gruffly, nodding at her in dismissal.
Then he took a key from the hook on the wall and left without another word, locking the oak door behind him.
Cambria pounded on the door, demanding freedom, but her captor’s heavy footsteps faded resolutely away.
She sank down wearily upon the musty straw pallet in the corner, breathless and aching from the battle. Tears blurred her eyes, but she refused to shed them.
She’d failed—both her father and her clan. She’d come for revenge, and she’d earned only shame. Her father had always warned her about losing her temper. This time, it had cost her the field. It had almost cost her her life.
She could still see vividly the fierce countenance of Lord Holden as he towered over her, and she understood now why he was called the Wolf. With his teeth bared and his eyes glittering with malice at the moment he intended to strike her down, he’d resembled some unleashed beast.
Though he’d spared her life, Cambria dreaded the punishment Lord Holden would mete out for her. She’d felt his iron grip on her wrist, the solid wall of his chest, the powerful blow of his sword, and she knew she could never endure his strength should he decide to beat her.
She supposed she did deserve a beating. She’d completely lost control. So caught up was she in her passion for vengeance that she’d forgotten every rule of warfare her father had taught her. Perhaps, she thought ruefully, if she’d kept her mind alert and her temper bridled, she might have won the battle.
She rolled onto her side and idly picked at a crack in the stone wall, thoroughly miserable.
Holden paced his chamber restlessly, shaken by the fact he’d almost slain a woman. Her countenance was etched into his brain now—the silky hair bunched in his fist, the crystalline blue eyes bright with fear, the delicate nose glazed with the sweat of battle, her lips trembling as he held her life in his hands. She’d been even more beautiful than he remembered, beautiful and dangerous, like that damned wildcat.
He saw now what Roger had meant about the savage Scots. Mother of God, even their women were warriors.
He tried to rub the headache from his temples, completely at a loss as to what to do with the lass.
He had to believe she’d come alone. No knight worth his armor would have stood by while a mere girl battled a seasoned warrior. But her clansmen would come for her eventually. She was their laird. What would he do when they demanded her? He had to maintain peace between the English and the Border Scots, but he couldn’t simply release the lass.
By all rights, he could claim her life—she’d attempted to slay him underhandedly—but it was impossible for him to imagine raising a fist against her. She was a woman, for God’s sake. They were gentle creatures. They were to be protected. Even now, despite her crime, a wave of guilt washed over him as he thought about the wisp of a girl he’d imprisoned in a cold, dank tower cell by his own cruel hand.
He fingered the hilt of his sword. For the first time in his life, his trusty blade felt like just a useless piece of steel, and he realized he had no idea what weapon to use against this perplexing foe.
Burdened by frustration and anxiety, he cursed and left for the practice field, where his men were astounded by the rigorous bouts he made them endure the rest of the afternoon.
Cambria leaned against the iron bars of her prison and counted the stars as they emerged gradually from the darkening heavens. She’d stopped dwelling on her failure now and begun to use her clever Gavin brain.
Escape was possible. Just like his foolish little brother, Holden de Ware had made the mistake of underestimating her desperation and resourcefulness. Not only had he provided ample bread and pottage for her supper, but he’d generously sent the squire he’d promised to help her remove her armor, knowing she couldn’t very well sleep in it. This last kindne
ss would cost him his prisoner.
Without the heavy mail, she could squeeze through the bars at the window. Wearing only her linen undergarment, she tore her tabard into long strips, which she tied together. It was a simple matter to secure the rope of rags to the bars, letting it fall to the ground below.
Taking a few deep breaths, she expelled all her air and squeezed painfully through the grille. The faint light of the crescent moon afforded her cover, mercifully dimming her downward view. Nonetheless, her belly tightened as she teetered on the narrow ledge and gazed down the long wall of the tower.
She gave a testing tug on the rags, and then, clamping her eyes shut, swung out over the empty darkness. The rope twisted once, and she banged into the wall, bruising her shoulder, but the fabric held. She clung to the rags with trembling limbs and lowered herself inch by slow inch, not daring to look down into what seemed a bottomless black pit. Several times, she scraped her knees on the rough gray stone of the castle wall.
At last, she felt the cold, damp earth beneath her bare feet. She edged cautiously from the shadow of the castle wall to the open field, then from the field to the forest. When she reached the haven of the trees, she cast aside stealth and ran as swiftly as she could in the thick black.
All night she ran, to the hooting of owls and the skittering of mice, shivering in her thin garment as the cold mist wrapped cruel fingers around her body. Her heart pounded in her ears as she scrambled through the brush, scratching her arms and legs. But always she thought of the Gavin, of her ancestors who had run naked through this savage land and survived. If they had done it, she could do it.
She was the Gavin.
Hours passed, and dawn at last began to lighten the sky above the rolling, oak-studded hills that, with any luck, would lead her eventually to Robbie and his band. She paused for a moment at the crest of a grassy hillock, letting her knifelike breaths dull to a steady throb. She was weary and hungry and in need of sleep. But she had to push on. She couldn’t let the Wolf find her.
Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior Page 5