Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior

by Glynnis Campbell

  “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 14

  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 besotted 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.

  Holden was astonished by his own instinctive gentleness as her nipples brushed his ribs and her soft woman’s curls tickled his thigh. He kneaded the muscles of her buttocks, reveling in her sleek curves. He clasped her behind the thighs, and then effortlessly lifted her and laid her back onto his pallet.

  Cambria trembled beneath him in expectation. Pure lust burned in his gaze, and she knew that emerald fire was reflected in her own eyes as she regarded him shamelessly.

  Suddenly, with delicious savagery, Holden’s mouth swooped down upon hers in a kiss that claimed her. When she embraced him with all the strength of her need, he made a low growl in his throat, lifted her knees back against her chest, and pushed deeply into her.

  She gasped in pleased surprise as he filled her completely. She wrapped her legs possessively around him and pressed her heels into his back, beckoning him ever closer.

  Their mating was silent then, except for their labored breathing and the rustling of the bed linen. It was as if they were afraid to speak, afraid to rend the fragile fabric of their new love with careless words. They only stared at each other, watching a wondrous palette of emotions color their eyes—lust, hope, fear, surrender—as their bodies became caught up in the restless rhythm of desire.

  When Cambria thought she could bear no more, that she must turn away from his searing gaze, Holden’s breath caught and his face glowed with the glory of release. Shudders racked his body with the power of a galloping steed as he cried out his triumph. The sweet agony in his eyes was so moving that her own body swelled with vibrant warmth, and she moved toward and found her own victorious relief. Waves of pleasure sluiced over her again and again until passion’s tide slowly ebbed into a lulling wash, cleansing her soul.

  Long afterward, when her pulse had evened and her breath had slowed, he slid deliciously against her with his wet, warm skin, licking her shoulder, tickling her neck with his hair.

  “You’re magnificent,” he murmured.

  Her lips curved into a satisfied smile, but she had no strength to reply. She sighed contentedly and snuggled deeper into his arms, into the slumber of the replete, into the land of dreams.

  In that ethereal world, the golden monarch visited her again, wielding his jeweled sword. Again they battled, but together this time, he in royal robes, she in her Gavin tabard. And she was leading the charge.

  She awoke with a luxurious yawn in Holden’s embrace. The dream must be her destiny, she decided. It was the reason fate had brought her here—to this husband, to this battle, to this king. She would be the instrument of peace. There was no doubt in her mind now.

  It was her destiny to make Edward see his folly.

  Owen looked up at the impressive, impenetrable castle wall. He felt it again—that secure k
nowledge that Blackhaugh would shortly be his. The dozen ragged Scotsmen behind him had less confidence, of course. They kept their hooded cloaks well around them and their hands close to their weapons as their eyes flitted nervously about. But then they knew nothing about the determination of a desperate man.

  Even now, Owen knew that the sentry he’d spotted on the parapet would be scurrying through the passages to alert Holden’s brother of their presence. Owen grinned. His leg pained him, but he paid it little heed, so excited was he about the chess move he was about to make.

  They approached the oak portal, and it slowly creaked open, as if he’d willed it so. That pleased him greatly.

  “Owen,” Garth said by way of greeting.

  Owen grinned in friendship, the expression forced and oddly foreign. He shrugged. “I caught a Scots arrow.”

  Garth glanced briefly at the bandaged leg. He was obviously not much concerned with Owen’s injuries.

  “And Holden?” Garth asked, worry etched into his face.

  Owen nodded. “He is well. He sent us to let you know the battle was a success. He’ll return shortly. In the meantime, we could use a bath and—“

  “Of course.” Now that Garth’s fears were relieved, he remembered his courtesy and invited them within the walls.

  No sooner had the doors thundered shut than the Scots drew their blades. Garth gasped as cold steel from more than one sword pressed suddenly and surely against his throat.

  “I told you it’d be simple,” Owen chuckled to his cohorts.

  “What is the mean—“ Garth began, but the nick of Robbie’s sword stopped him short.

  Owen rubbed his hands together with glee. “Now we have only to wait for Lord Holden de Ware to fall into the trap.” At his command, the rebels pushed their quarry roughly into the great hall. “Not cut from the same cloth as your brother, are you?” Owen taunted. He hit mark—Garth’s face reddened in shame. “No need to explain. I know all about that.”

  Within the hour, Garth, Malcolm, and Blackhaugh’s few remaining men-at-arms were safe under lock and key. Owen would just as soon have slain them all, for he was sure they could never be trusted to serve him. But he still needed to ally himself with Robbie’s men. In spite of their new loyalty to him, he supposed they wouldn’t look kindly upon the mass slaughter of their clansmen.