“Wake up, wench!” Owen snarled from above her, a peculiar grimace of both loathing and arousal on his face. “Your lord husband has arrived.”
Cambria came fully alert at his words. Holden! Relief and dread warred within her, churning her stomach. Had he come alone? Would he fall into the same trap she had? She had to warn him. She opened her mouth to scream, but her cry ended in a gurgle when Owen’s strangling fingers closed about her throat.
His breath reeked of onions. “Scream,” he hissed, “and I’ll slay every one of your clan—men, women, and children.”
Dark spots floated before her eyes before he released her. She sagged against the stones, gasping for air.
Not that, she thought, anything but that. He could take Blackhaugh. He could beat her into oblivion. But to touch her clan… Fear became a waking nightmare, worse than any to ever invade her slumber. She saw them in her mind’s eye, her ancestors, her family, thousands of Gavins—men, women, and children, specters cursed and wandering the earth for all eternity, blaming her with their ghostly eyes, moaning her name.
She couldn’t let it come to pass, couldn’t let this monster destroy the Gavins. She was her father’s daughter. She was the laird. She had to protect her clan.
Even if to remain silent was to betray her husband.
“Cooperate,” Owen mused, “and maybe I’ll spare your life, take you on as my own personal servant.”
Owen glanced down at her and clucked his tongue. He doubted that. The wench was a mess, a dripping, bruised, swollen-faced, tangle-haired mess. Still, that didn’t stop his ballocks from bulging in his trews at the idea of swiving her before the high and mighty Holden de Ware, just for spite.
He exhaled a contented breath. Fate had smiled on Owen the Bastard at last. The wench’s timely arrival at Blackhaugh couldn’t have been more perfect if it had been served up on a gold platter. She’d been practically alone, the Wolf nowhere in sight. She’d ridden through the front gates and straight into Owen’s hands.
Now she was about to become the perfect hostage.
“Come, let us greet your noble hero, shall we?” he sneered. He picked up the shackle key from the table, swinging it tauntingly before her. “I’ll loose you now, but there will be a dagger at your throat,” he cautioned. “I suggest you move with care. I’d hate to damage the Wolf’s precious bitch…too soon.”
Snickering, he carefully freed her from the wall ring, leaving her hands in the shackles. With the blade pressed close against her throat, he prodded her up, and she shuffled awkwardly over to the window.
Cambria peered down anxiously, faint with hunger, fainter at the sight of her husband, who looked to her like a bright angel with the sun sparkling on his chain mail and flashing off of the helm in the crook of his arm. Now that he was here, all the horrors of the past days knotted in her throat, threatening to burst forth in sobs of relief.
But she couldn’t afford to give rein to her emotions. She had to think.
He’d come, not alone, but with a vast company of his knights. He intended to do battle then. Cambria bit her lip. If he brazenly assailed the keep, the Wolf might indeed ride victorious into Blackhaugh, but only to find that Owen had killed all of its inhabitants.
She had to keep him from attacking. But how?
Holden coiled his fists in the reins, and Ariel tossed her mane in protest. He immediately tugged the horse’s head back around, fighting to restrain himself, too, as he beheld Cambria in Owen’s clutches at the tower window.
Her face was discolored with bruises. Blood stained her cheek and arms. Heavy chains crossed her body.
His heart plunged to the depths of his gut. Beside him, his men gasped in outrage. It was only by great dint of will that he controlled a trembling of fury and bloodlust.
“De Ware,” Owen called out, “my thanks for the use of your wife. She’s proved a welcome…amusement.”
Holden kept his face a mask of grim control as he stared at the bastard, silently marking him for death.
“Indeed,” Owen taunted, “I may just have to keep her to warm my bed.”
Holden stilled his restless mount. By God, if that fiend had bedded Cambria, he’d string the devil up by his ballocks.
“What do you want, Fitzroi?” he said, amazed at the levelness of his voice.
“Oh, I already have what I want,” he sneered. Then the churl reached brazenly across Cambria’s shoulder and thrust a hand into the top of her shift to fondle her breast.
Holden heard the soft curses of his men about him, but he only set his teeth, silently swearing he would chop that insolent hand off before the sun set. Ariel stomped at the sod, expressing the rage Holden felt.
Then Cambria locked gazes with him, and the anger froze in his veins. Any other woman would have turned away in shame at what Owen forced her to bear, but his Cambria stood bravely, unflinching, the same way Holden had, taking that beating long ago for killing the hound. Her eyes communicated what she could not—that her will was strong, that while Owen touched her body, he didn’t touch her spirit, and that she would endure anything, anything for her clan. And in that moment, while the Scots breeze snarled his courageous wife’s hair and the sun shone down on her like an angel’s blessing, a clot of tears choked him, and he knew he would endure anything for her.
She sent him a message then, not with words, not with gestures. He was too far from her for any kind of real exchange. But somehow she spoke to him. Let Owen do to me what he will, she said, but save my clan.
He nodded infinitesimally. He understood her silent plea. But he didn’t intend to surrender Cambria, no matter what expected. He intended to save them all.
He tore his gaze away. If he wanted to rescue his bride, he’d have to take desperate action soon. Wheeling Ariel about, he conferred with his men.
“We have to assume that Garth, Guy, and Myles are either imprisoned or dead.” The thought shook him to the core. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it. “I’m certain the same is true of the rebel Gavins. Surely none of them would stand for such…degradation of their laird.”
Stephen reined forward. “Can he be reasoned with? The king knows he was the rebel’s spy. His life is already forfeit. Perhaps he’ll surrender.”
“Nay!” Holden said, more harshly than he intended. “Nay, there’s no telling what the traitor will do. He might seek vengeance, slaughter whoever remains inside the castle walls. Or he might panic, flee with…a hostage.”
Though no one voiced it, every man knew who that hostage would be.
“Do we lay siege then, my lord?” Stephen asked.
“And starve our own people?” Holden shook his head. A siege would take far too long anyway. He didn’t want Owen alive one more day. “Nay, I’ll nibble at his bait, see what he intends.”
It was wiser to stalk Owen with stealth, to let him believe he had the Wolf on a short leash. But first, he had to get Cambria out of danger. He turned Ariel about and faced his foe.
“Fitzroi!” he called out. “If the wench has bedded you, then she’s spoiled goods.” Even at this distance, he could see Cambria flinch. He hated to hurt her, but it was the only way. “She’s served her purpose already. You can keep the whore.”
To Holden’s relief, his loyal men remained stolid on their mounts. They knew their lord well, that he would never speak ill of a woman. They recognized his words for what they were—a blatant piece of deception.
Owen, however, sputtered in surprise. He’d obviously expected jealous rage, not dismissal. The knife jerked ever so slightly in his hand, nicking Cambria’s throat. Holden’s heart leaped into his mouth.
But Cambria didn’t wince from the cut. She stared woodenly, as if the knife prick was nothing atop the deep wound Holden had just dealt her. Lord, he had to get her away from that monster before…
“What have you done with my men?” he bellowed. “Garth, Sir Guy, and Myles?”
Owen snatched up the suggestion as eagerly as a child after sweetmeats. “Your me
n? If you’d see them alive again, de Ware,” he said shoving his now useless prisoner aside, “there’s a demand I’d make of you.”
Holden breathed an invisible sigh of relief as Cambria slipped from Owen’s grasp like a too-small mouse through a hawk’s talons.
“Make it,” he commanded.
“By rights, Blackhaugh should have belonged to my brother, God rest his soul. I am the next in line. The keep is rightfully mine. Surrender it,” Owen dared him.
Holden smirked. Sarcasm dripped from his lips. “Anything else?”
Owen trembled with anger, and spittle flew out of his mouth as he spoke. “Do not scoff at me! I have allies here! Give me Blackhaugh willingly, or I shall inform the king that your wife is a murderer, that she has royal blood on her hands.”
Holden sucked in a quick breath. Could Owen make Edward believe that? Logic told him nay. After all, the de Wares had been loyal vassals for generations. But if Edward suspected Holden’s judgment was clouded by love… Myles and Guy, Cambria’s sole witnesses to what had truly happened at the inn, might already be dead. Without them, there was no proof she hadn’t slain Edward’s uncle.
Holden shuddered. Edward was unbending when it came to matters of justice. He’d arranged the execution of his mother’s beloved Roger Mortimer easily enough. If the king believed Owen, he wouldn’t hesitate to exact the same kind of harsh judgment against Cambria.
He couldn’t let that happen. No matter that he’d promised to deliver the traitor to Edward, he couldn’t give Owen the chance to bend the king’s ear. Nay, he’d see the bastard dead before the sun kissed the horizon again.
Somehow he had to goad Owen into fighting. And to do that, he must gull the churl into thinking he had half a chance of winning.
With a cluck to Ariel, he began to rein her back and forth in a clear display of anger.
“You would turn against the very household that fostered you?”
“I have no great affection for the house of de Ware!” Owen shouted. “Your father only took me in because I was Roger’s brother!”
Holden threw his helm to the ground in pretended frustration.
Owen seemed satisfied by this response and began to grow smug. “You still have Bowden Castle, de Ware,” he sang out. “Be content with that.”
“I will not let what is rightfully mine be taken from me!” Holden thundered, raising his fist to the sky.
Owen chortled. “This keep is not rightfully yours!”
Holden punched his fist into his palm. He didn’t want to lay siege, and he wouldn’t pitch an outright battle against his own vassals. But if he could needle Owen into waging war with champions…
“If I lay siege, you won’t last a month. There are not enough provisions in Blackhaugh.” It was a lie, but he gambled that Owen had neglected to check the castle’s stores. “Let us choose champions to battle for possession of the keep. A fight to the death.”
Holden knew his foe was not stupid. Owen would never send a single champion against a man of Holden’s reputation. But if the odds were evened, if he tempted Owen with the possibility of conquering the unconquerable Wolf…
“The Wolf de Ware,” he said, “against ten of your best men!”
Owen scratched at his beard, mulling over Holden’s words. Damn! He wished he had ten knights. He would have liked to see the thus far undefeated Wolf ground into the dust. Besides, earning the reputation as the man who’d conquered England’s greatest warrior would be as effective a defense as an extra curtain wall around the castle. But, sadly, he didn’t have even one ally left to do battle.
Still, if what Holden said about Blackhaugh’s stores was true, he had to take a more timely course of action. He no longer had the resources or the constitution to endure a long siege. His leg was worsening. For days he’d denied it, but already he suffered bouts of fever. If he didn’t get to a physician, it wouldn’t be long before he succumbed to complete delirium.
He spat on the sill in disgust, sick with the irony that, though he held Blackhaugh and all of its inhabitants hostage, he was still powerless against the Wolf.
Then, in a dark corner of his brain, a single thought crawled forth like a glistening pink worm from beneath moldy mulch, a notion so delectably twisted, so diabolical that he nearly choked on his cleverness.
“All right, de Ware,” he called down. “I accept your challenge. Prepare to meet your end.”
Holden didn’t have time to wonder at Owen’s ready agreement. The knave spun quickly away from the window, disappearing from sight. Then a shriek echoed from within the tower.
Cambria.
Holden felt her scream like a blade drawn swiftly across his heart. If that pox-ridden swine had hurt her… His throat closed painfully. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Cambria.
He loved her.
In his entire life he’d never been able to say those words before. He’d scarcely admit, even to himself, that the feeling existed. He’d lusted after women, and he’d adored them from afar. But now he knew. Now he realized, with an almost physical ache, that he loved the Scots lass, loved her beyond reason, beyond understanding, more than life itself. The king be damned, his country be damned, if he came through this and was able to hold her in his arms again, he’d tell her he loved her until she grew sick from hearing it.
He’d believed he possessed Cambria. She was his vassal, after all, to command as he did his knights. He was the lord of Blackhaugh, and her world should rightly center on serving him.
But that wasn’t the truth of it at all. His lip curled in irony as he dismounted to retrieve his helm. His world was the one turned all awry. Cambria could lead him a chase, pricking him like an irremovable thorn and attacking him with the most irreverent tirades. And yet he never felt more alive than when she was working her wiles on him, grappling with him over the Scots’ cause, challenging him with her dagger-sharp wit, taunting him with her glorious body.
The past few days had been pure hell without her. Merely gazing upon her made his heart quicken. Every turn of her head, every spark in her eye, each gesture that was unique to her captivated him. Nay, he admitted, clutching his helm beneath his arm, he wasn’t lord and master to Cambria Gavin. He was the willing prisoner of her heart.
And, by God’s grace, when he had pummeled Owen’s men into the dust, he’d sweep her into his arms, surrender the key to his soul, and hold on to her forever.
The cruel syllables echoed over and over in the empty shell of Cambria’s heart—spoiled goods…keep the whore…
He couldn’t have meant it, not the man who’d melted her with a kiss, who’d chased away her nightmares in his arms, who’d vowed before God to keep her and honor her. Yet his heartless words bruised her far worse than any blows from Owen’s fists.
Had she mistaken their silent exchange? She’d sworn in that one moment when they locked gazes that they’d understood each other, that together, somehow, some way, they would overthrow Owen.
Perhaps she’d been wrong. He’d been so angry with her the last time they spoke. Perhaps the Wolf had only used her to gain control of Blackhaugh. Perhaps she had “served her purpose.” It was too awful, too painful to consider.
Besides, a greater challenge awaited her.
Owen had unlocked her shackles and cast her chains to the floor, replacing them with a coat of mail, gauntlets, and a surcoat.
Half-hysterical laughter threatened to issue from her mouth as she realized Owen’s intent, but in the next heartbeat, the brute stifled it with a wad of cloth stuffed between her lips. Her eyes watered as he shoved the rag deep into her mouth, making her gag. Then he tied it in place with a strip of linen, pulling it so tight that she imagined her lips would crack. Over it all, he plunged a heavy steel helm, and Cambria battled panic as she strove to breathe in the suffocating bascinet.
From the shade of the dovecote, Katie watched, her chin a-tremble, as the bastard Englishman dragged Cambria to the middle of the courtyard. The old servant chewed on he
r fist to stop the foolish tears that would do the girl no good, fighting back the urge to rush to her mistress’s aid. She hadn’t laid eyes on Cambria since the lass’s untimely arrival, but by the girl’s staggering gait and the droop of her shoulders, Katie knew she’d been mistreated.
It vexed her to be so helpless. Owen had given the women the run of the keep—the bastard needed their services—but he’d threatened to slay Cambria at once if any of them left. Katie had thankfully been able to make frequent visits to Malcolm in the dungeon. But the situation was no better. Even if she’d been able to steal the dungeon keys from Owen, which was impossible, since he slept locked in the tower, there was nothing any of them dared do while he held their laird prisoner.
And now the monster was sending the poor lass out to battle her husband, the Wolf, who would likely cut her down in the wink of an eye before he even knew whom he attacked.
Katie couldn’t bear it. She’d already witnessed the deaths of Cambria’s mother and father. She couldn’t stand idly by while Owen destroyed what little was left of the Gavin clan.
As Owen tried to maneuver the unwieldy charger in the middle of the courtyard, the sun caught on the dull iron ring of castle keys dangling from his belt by a leather thong. They jangled against his thigh, taunting her. She gnawed at her lip. If she could get to them, somehow cut that tie…
Her heart batted against her ribs like a trapped sparrow, but she stepped from hiding and crossed determinedly to where Owen fought to control the nervous steed.
Sweat beaded the man’s brow, and his face bore a deathly pallor. He reeked of the infection in his leg and the wine he constantly consumed to dull its ache. He was not long for this world, and with a vengeance that surely damned her soul, Katie wished the man would die on the spot. But he only limped forward, jerking hard on the horse’s lead.
She came up behind him, her heart pounding so fiercely she feared he might hear it. Biting her lip to stop its quivering, she slipped an embroidery needle from her pouch. Before she had time to regret her actions, she jammed it hard into the charger’s flank.
Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior Page 24