Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior

by Glynnis Campbell

  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 13

  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 peasant 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.”

  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.

  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 frow
ned. “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.”