Robbie swept up his sword with a vengeance and glared at her. “Lads!” he called. “We’re no longer welcome here. Let us join the true Scots in their noble war!”
Although not a man dared reply, all of the renegades followed Robbie as he left the tiltyard.
When they’d gone, only a handful of men remained. Cambria addressed the faithful few with a lump in her throat and a confidence she didn’t feel.
“My father understood that when all else has been lost, what survives are the people and the land. Rulers will be overthrown, and battles will be fought, but the people and the land will continue. I intend to fight for Blackhaugh, but not by waging war. Lord Holden de Ware is a valuable hostage. We’ll keep him as long as necessary to ensure that we may hold this land in the Gavin name, just as my father intended.”
The knights nodded their assent. One by one, they knelt before her to swear their renewed loyalty. She was moved by the gesture, and it was with desperate hope that she accepted each pledge, praying she wasn’t dooming the men to their death.
Within an hour, as Cambria watched from the wall walk, Robbie and his Gavin followers disappeared from her life and into the dark of the forest. Bitter sorrow furrowed her brow as she thought of the men she’d likely never see again—men she’d grown up with, Gavins who had surrendered their clan name for the name of Scotland.
She wouldn’t sleep well this night, not with the rebels gone and the keep so poorly defended. It was near midnight when she climbed the steps to her bedchamber, detouring briefly to check on her prisoner.
The fire flickered gently in the stillness of the room, adding its soft crackle to the only other sound there, the deep, even breathing of the wounded man lying in the bed.
“Damn you, Robbie,” she said under her breath, jabbing at the dozing embers in the fireplace. She set aside the poker, sighing in futility as she eyed Holden’s slumbering form. “And you—damn your weak English blood.”
For all the care she and Blackhaugh’s physician had bestowed upon the hostage—changing his bandages daily, mopping his brow, feeding him hearty barley broths—and despite the apparent healing of his wound, he seemed no better.
Perhaps the waning of his will to live caused him to have fewer stretches of wakefulness. This troubled her deeply. She told herself it was because his worsening would destroy their hope of using him as a hostage. But she knew in her heart it was far more than that.
She’d saved his life, and that had forged a bond between them. She felt responsible for him now. Yet how could she justify the way she felt about this man who was her sworn enemy, her father’s murderer—the way her breath quickened when she thought about him? Not only the magnificent swell of his warrior’s chest, the sensuous movement of his lips when he mumbled in his sleep, the inert power of his muscled arms stretched across the pallet, but what resided in his character—the loyalty and trust and esteem he inspired in everyone around him, both his men and her clan?
The conflict wrenched at her heart. By some cruel twist of fate her Achilles’ heel had become her own admiration for her enemy. More and more, she had difficulty associating the image of her dying father with the noble, tragic face that graced the pillow on this bed.
She sank down upon the foot of the pallet and allowed herself to be drawn by the flame fluttering on the hearth.
What was she to do? The rebels had deserted her again. Malcolm wouldn’t speak to her. The English lord might not survive, and not only did that thought send a ragged twinge across her heart, but it meant the wrath of the king would be visited upon her clan. Never had she needed her father’s wisdom so badly.
She sat deep in thought, worrying her fingers in her lap, so preoccupied that she was unaware when the man behind her awakened and lay silently staring at her through slitted eyes.
Holden felt rope around his wrists. His temper immediately flared, until reason reminded him of his predicament. He remained quiet.
There at the foot of the bed was his captor. She looked small to him, vulnerable, haloed there by the firelight, incapable of the treachery she’d dealt him. He remembered only snatches of their journey—the rough trip on the litter, her careful ministrations to his wounds, the cool water that had finally extinguished the fire in his body. He was intrigued by this sweet enemy who cared for him as gently as a nun, yet he knew he had to do everything in his power to escape her.
As he watched her, the young woman’s shoulders began to shake, and she lowered her head. Damn, she was crying. The sound of her soft sobs tore at his heart.
Of course, she deserved to weep. In one swift blow of fate, the lady had lost her father, her clan, and her land. But she’d not wrung her hands and moped. She’d fought back, challenging him, defying his knights, risking her life to save her people. She was an extraordinary woman, this lass who silently bore the burden of her clan like armor on her shoulders and only exorcized her sorrow behind closed doors.
It was a pity she was the enemy.
A quick knock upon the door interrupted his musings and Cambria’s tears. He closed his eyes as she rose with a murmured response. When he opened them again, she’d gone.
Before the glow of morning had yet hailed the sun’s arrival, Cambria awoke to an ungodly bellow. Her prisoner. Picking up her dagger and a torch, she rushed down the hallway, through his door, and to the edge of his bed.
Holden seemed to be having visions. He was thrashing madly from side to side to escape some imagined foe and screaming in terror.
“Cut me free! It comes! It comes for me! In the name of God, cut me free!”
He wrenched wildly at the ropes around his wrists. She tried to calm him with hushed words, but still he grappled with his bonds. God’s blood, his cries would wake the entire castle! She had to do something. A small moan of empathy escaped her as she planted the torch in a sconce, and then sawed rapidly at his bonds with her dagger.
The moment the last rope frayed apart, his helpless fingers grew suddenly quite capable. He expertly squeezed her wrist, causing her to release the dagger. Before she could understand what was happening, he’d reclaimed the knife, and his other hand tangled viciously in her hair.
His strength had obviously returned. He twisted her body so that she lay defenseless beneath him. The point of his blade pressed against a pulsing vein in her throat. She gasped in pain and surprise and shame as his green eyes flickered with victory.
“You deceived me,” she whispered, stricken. To think she’d been worried about his health. The wretched beast was as strong as an ox.
“Don’t blame me for your folly, madam,” he answered calmly. “Where are Garth and the others?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’d rather die than tell you.” Then she regarded him dubiously. “Besides, you won’t slay me.”
His anger with her flared briefly in his gaze. “You believe that after the trouble you’ve caused me?”
She flinched as his hold tightened. “You need me alive to…to escape.”
“Alive, aye, but not necessarily…untouched.”
Holden let his eyes rake suggestively over her tempting form, intentionally unnerving her. He knew where her vulnerability lay now, and although it normally went against his principles to prey on a woman’s weaknesses, this woman had proved herself far from weak. He intended to thoroughly disarm her.
Her eyes widened as he drew the dagger slowly, torturously down the front of her bunched shift, between her pale breasts, past her narrow ribs and her hitching abdomen, over her woman’s mound. She drew her breath in sharply through her teeth as he pressed the flat of the cold blade suddenly and intimately between her bare thighs.
He spoke evenly despite his inevitable surge of desire, his gaze burning like a steady flame into her frantically darting eyes. “I have another dagger I’d gladly sheathe here.” He allowed his meaning to sink in. “Now where is Garth?”
This time she didn’t hesitate. “In the dungeon.”
He slipped the dagger from her, and then sat up, plantin
g his knee lightly in the middle of her chest to keep her down. A sharp pain grabbed briefly at his ribs as he snagged the tabard from its perch on the wall and slipped it over his head. He’d been testing his muscles for the last day now. Though he’d feigned weakness, all that remained of his injury were a dull ache and that occasional twinge. Within a day or two, his body would return to its former strength.
“Let’s go,” he told her, placing the blade at her neck once more and prodding her to rise to her feet. He twisted her arm behind her, pushing her toward the door. How frail it felt in his grasp, like the wing of a sparrow. Yet he knew better. This sparrow had flown far with him.
Once, she attempted to call out for help as they made slow progress down the steps. But so swiftly did his dagger react to her intake of breath, the sound was strangled almost before it was begun.
In the great hall, their only company was a groggy serving wench who shuffled about at her labors, taking no notice of them as they skirted the corner of the room and made their way to the dungeon stairs.
As he forced her to traverse the wet, slippery steps in her bare feet, she leaned upon him for dear life, fearing he’d trip on the uneven ground and impale her on his blade. But he was surefooted enough and managed to keep them both upright. Not a drop of her blood was spilled.
At the bottom of the stairs, Blackhaugh’s gaoler sat snoozing on a three-legged stool. Hearing their approach, the man shot to his feet and gawked stupidly back and forth between the two.
“The keys,” Holden said, nodding toward the wall.
“The keys,” the gaoler aped, scratching his head in confusion beneath Cambria’s glare.
The slack-jawed servant hesitated, weighing the consequences of disobeying each of his superiors. In the end, Holden’s wrath evidently overshadowed that of the Gavin laird. Shrugging an apology to his mistress, the gaoler fetched the key ring from the wall.
Holden nodded toward the long row of cells. “Free my brother and his men.”
The gaoler let the breath whistle out through his teeth, but did as he was told. “Aye, my lord.”
Garth and his knights emerged from their cramped quarters with delighted grins on their faces. They seemed no worse for wear from their brief stay in the dungeon, and they looked at Cambria with undisguised triumph.
“You’re all right?” Garth asked him, the hero worship plain in his eyes. “I thought you were…that is, I knew they were no match for you.”
Cambria squirmed in mute protest at the insult. Holden renewed his grip on her arm and pressed the steel close against her throat as a reminder.
“The armory,” he directed his brother.
Garth led them there. The armory was well stocked with claymores and daggers and sundry other weapons, and as the de Ware knights armed themselves generously, Holden addressed them.
“We go not to battle, but to make peace,” he said. “The Gavins won’t harm us while we hold their laird. Use the weapons only for defense.”
He paused a moment, taking Cambria’s chin between his thumb and fingers, turning her face up to his. “I have a proposition for the Scots, one that may ensure there’s no more bloodshed.”
Defiance crackled in her gem-hard eyes, and her delicate nostrils flared in outrage. Her cheeks flushed pink, and her lips compressed into an unyielding line. He looked at her curiously and wondered for a moment if he was doing a wise thing. Then he released her jaw and exhaled a long, decisive breath.
This time the serving wench saw them enter the hall. When she beheld her mistress taken captive by a whole assemblage of heavily armed men, she dropped her kettle of water and ran whimpering from the room. In a few moments, the hall was populated by Gavin knights, freshly roused from slumber and meagerly armed. There were less than a score of them.
Holden whispered in Cambria’s ear. “These are all the men that remain?”
“Aye,” she bit out.
Was it desolation he heard in her voice?
He took his time, studying them, measuring the worth of each of the Gavin men carefully before he spoke. “You,” he said to the scowling old, gray-haired gentleman at the fore. “You must be the steward.”
The man stepped forward with a frown on his face and a hand on his hilt. “I am.”
Cambria looked sharply at Holden. He answered her silent question, murmuring, “It’s plain. He’s the one who looks most eager to kill me.”
He regarded the steward with an assessing eye. The surly old bear looked to be a man of his word. His loyalty to his laird was unquestionable.
“Sir…?”
“Malcolm,” was the gruff reply.
“Sir Malcolm,” he commanded, “come with me. And you, too, Garth.” To the others, he said, “Try no trickery, and I won’t harm your lady. I only wish to speak to her in private.”
The Scots glanced uneasily at each other, and Malcolm explained. “Speak in private. That’s what your man said to Angus Gavin right before he slew our good laird.”
Holden frowned. “My man. Roger Fitzroi?” While that revelation in itself didn’t condemn Roger, it did cast a shadow on the story Roger had told. He nodded in agreement. “Then let’s surrender our weapons in good faith.”
Garth set aside his blade. Holden dropped his dagger, but replaced it with an arm around Cambria’s throat. His message was clear. He could kill her as easily with his bare hands. Of course, he wouldn’t harm a woman in a year of fortnights, but the Blackhaugh men didn’t know that.
Malcolm looked to his knights to assure their cooperation, unbuckled his sword, and then withdrew with the others to the adjoining chamber.
When they were safely closeted, Holden relaxed his hold on Cambria slightly.
“First, Sir Malcolm, I suspect there may indeed have been foul business afoot for your good laird to have been slain,” he confided. “Roger Fitzroi frequently overstepped his authority. For that, I extend my deepest apologies.”
Malcolm looked him in the eye for a long while. Then he nodded. “My lord, I think I’ve known all along that the de Wares are not men to ply such treachery.”
Cambria snapped her head around toward the steward in amazement. “What do you—?”
Holden halted her words with a warning squeeze of his forearm. “Secondly, I hope you understand, sir, that it’s not my habit to hold women hostage. I would prefer to release her and have her swear no treachery, but her word has proved worthless.”
“I’ve never broken my word!” Cambria argued.
He raised a dubious brow.
She averted her eyes. “I did not attempt escape while you were away.”
He stared at the top of her head in grim amusement. “I’ll have to remember to be careful about how I word your promises. Very well, then, swear no deceit and I’ll loosen my hold.”
Cambria remained stubbornly silent.
“Come lass,” Malcolm coaxed. “Let’s end the bloodshed now and listen to what the Englishman has to say.”
Cambria didn’t want to listen to what he had to say. It was all lies anyway. But she supposed she couldn’t stop the arrogant bastard from speaking.
“Fine,” she said sullenly.
He immediately released her. She winced, rubbing her neck from an imaginary injury. Then the Wolf began to pace the small room, weighing some heavy thought, rapping his knuckles occasionally on the oak table.
“There has been too much bloodshed,” he said. “The rebel forces are increasing, but Edward’s army is far superior—in number, in skill, in organization. The English will win.” He turned, flinching as pain lanced across his ribs, but waved Garth’s eager attentions away. “You must choose sides. Whatever wrongs have occurred in the past, you must choose sides now. I can retain Blackhaugh for our people, yours and mine, but I must have your cooperation. Neither of us can afford to play this game of chess, taking rooks back and forth until Edward or the rebel Scots arrive. We must prepare for battle now.”
Garth hung on his brother’s every word. Malcolm nodd
ed slowly in agreement. Only Cambria stared at him, incredulous. They were lies, all lies. How could Malcolm be taken in by Holden’s deceitful English tongue?
Holden continued, addressing her. “When England subdues the rebellion, Cambria, you’ll be under English law. A Scotswoman may not hold property under English law. Your father apparently was unaware of this, or he wouldn’t have struck such a useless bargain. In essence, he has left you powerless.”
“What?” She slitted her eyes at him. “That’s not true.”
Malcolm sighed. “He’s right, lass. Laird Angus had… Your father had hoped… He’d thought that one day…that you’d wed before…”
“Nay.” Her heart twisted with grief. She’d told her father time and time again that she had no intentions of marrying. Had he truly believed she would change her mind?
Malcolm clasped her shoulder. “He assumed you and Robbie…but then Robbie left and…”
“Robbie?” Surely not Robbie. He was like a brother. She shook her head. It couldn’t be true. The land that had been in her family for hundreds of years couldn’t be snatched from her like this.
“I’m sorry,” Lord Holden said, “but no matter which side wins, Blackhaugh will not remain in your hands. The English won’t allow you to hold it, and the Scots—“
“Have already turned against me,” she finished bitterly, jerking her shoulder from Malcolm’s grasp.
She closed her eyes against the pain. One by one, her hopes were being dashed by this imperious invader. Soon she’d be left with nothing.
Holden spoke softly. “I know of only one way to prevent the spilling of more blood, to guarantee peace between our people, and to allow you to keep Blackhaugh.”
He waited until she reluctantly returned his gaze.
“Be my wife.”
CHAPTER 8
The silent moment that met his suggestion grew so pregnant it was almost comical. Holden supposed it came as a shock to the other three, but he’d given the idea much thought while he lay abed over the past few days. To his mind, it was a brilliant solution.
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