Yet he stood before her, speaking to her, his chest swathed in bandages, looking as alive as flesh and blood could be.
The breath stilled in her breast. A thankful sob welled up inside her. Her nose stung as she fought to control a sea of emotions. God had had mercy upon her after all. Holden wasn’t dead. She reached out tremulously for him, stretching her fingers out to touch the warm tips of his.
With a soft cry, she lunged forward, dissolving into his embrace. Nothing had ever felt more solid, more real than his fierce arms about her, his warm chest against her cheek, his love wrapped around her heart.
“Your wounds…how can you ever forgive…” she began before tears choked her.
Her words caught Holden like a boot in the stomach. Forgive her? He prayed she’d forgive him. He’d vowed to protect her, yet she bore the marks of his failure to do that—one eye swollen almost shut, bruises coloring her cheeks, red abrasions at the sides of… His fingers touched the corner of her mouth. She’d been gagged, he realized, and it all became instantly clear—why she’d gone willingly to battle, why she’d remained silent. A muscle in his cheek began to twitch with anger, and his jaw tightened to rock hardness.
“I am sorry,” Cambria breathed, misunderstanding his dark looks.
Holden shook his head and, despite the rage surging in his blood, forced his teeth apart in a reassuring grin.
“For these nicks? I’ve lost more blood shaving. Lady, if the day ever comes that I’m defeated, I assure you it won’t be at the hands of a runty Scots sprite.”
She let the insult go, but his boast gave her pause, and she remembered Stephen’s words: He must love you well. A man would have to love a woman to let her wound him like that. “Are you saying you let me wound you?”
He shrugged.
She searched his eyes as if she wondered at his sanity. “Why?”
“To distract Owen. While he was drooling over the sight of his wee Scots champion quelling the undefeated Wolf, my men were able to steal into the castle.”
“Blackhaugh?”
He grinned. “Is secure.”
Cambria gasped. Could it possibly be true? She’d thought never to walk the parapet of Blackhaugh again, and now… Her eyes softened in gratitude. The Wolf had said he would hold the castle for her clan. He’d already made good on his promise.
Only one black shadow yet hung to mar the glorious triumph.
“What of…Owen?” She whispered the question, fearing that uttering his name might summon him.
“Dead.” Holden’s voice was flat, ominous, final. He left no room for questions, and Cambria wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answers anyway. She nodded, wrapping her arms around herself as if to ward off Owen’s chill shade.
When she looked up at Holden again, his eyes had grown very serious, their gray-green depths as foreboding as the North Sea. He struggled for words.
“Did Owen…” he asked. “Did he touch…” Holden shut his eyes for a moment, and then searched her face, unable to finish the question. Her expression closed before his eyes. He wanted to curse, but didn’t. She’d obviously read his meaning, but she didn’t want to answer him. “Tell me,” he coaxed.
“Do you suspect I am ‘spoiled goods’?” she asked carefully. “Is that what you want to know?”
“Cambria,” he said in a hushed voice, “it was never my intent to hurt you.” He clenched his jaw, and his voice cracked. “But when I saw you up there in the claws of that beast, I would have sold my soul to have you returned safely to me. All those things I said, I said only to protect you.”
“Aye,” she admitted, lowering her eyes. “I know.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
She turned aside and gazed thoughtfully off into the dense nest of trees. “What if I told you,” she murmured, “that Owen had forced himself upon me, that I may now carry his babe?”
Holden swallowed the acid rising in his gorge. The picture of Owen pawing his precious Cambria was too awful to bear, but he’d already considered that possibility.
He answered raggedly. “The child would be half yours. I would care for it as my own.”
“And me? Would you still share my bed?”
He nodded solemnly and whispered, “I’d want to take you back so completely it would wash away any memory of that bastard.”
He’d spoken more vehemently than he’d intended, yet Cambria’s eyes gentled as she cocked them up at him.
“What if I told you instead,” she said evenly, “that I fought him at every turn, bit and scratched and scorned him until he beat me and called me witch and couldn’t even think of bedding me?”
He looked sharply at her, searching her battered face for the truth. It was there, in the stubborn tilt of her chin, the flashing defiance of her eyes, the set of her jaw.
“That I would sooner believe,” he admitted, letting out a grateful rush of air. “You’re wont to be a thistle under a man’s saddle.” His relief soured, however, as he saw again how that thistle had been trod underfoot. “Ah, Cam.”
Words couldn’t serve to tell her how he felt. He moved forward, wrapping one arm about her neck, placing his hand gingerly upon her face, removing all doubt from her with a kiss.
Cambria gave a small moan. He was crushing her bruised lips, and his hand upon her jaw pained her, but she welcomed his embrace. The stubble of his chin was rough on her face, his skin warm and alive against hers. She had no strength to answer his ardor, but neither did she resist his arms, and it was a long while before she could speak around the lump in her throat.
“When I thought I’d slain you…” she began.
“Shh,” he soothed, stroking her cheek with the back of his finger. “Hell, Cambria, when I discovered that devil’s spawn had sent you for his champion, that he wanted me to…kill…” The words stuck in his throat.
She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to blot out the memory. Then a glimmer of irony crept into her voice. “I do believe he was glad of an excuse to be rid of me.”
“He was a fool,” Holden told her passionately, gathering a handful of her hair between his fingers and thinking it was more precious than spun gold.
Then he kissed her again, a tender kiss this time, like the flicker of a moth on the evening wind. Cambria closed her eyes and shivered against him, lifting her lips for more. But Holden knew he couldn’t give more and keep from succumbing to that beast of desire that already tugged at its leash. Besides, she’d been through hell in the last few days. She needed rest.
So he let her recline in the cradle of his arms, and before long, she was drawing in the deep air of sleep. He listened to her soft breathing as if it were a consort playing for his benefit. All around them in the filtered light of the forest, the peaceful sounds of airborne insects and fat squirrels spiraling up oak trees made a lulling music in the Gavin wood.
This was happiness, he decided, snuggling closer—a beautiful woman in his embrace, a magnificent castle to command, loyal vassals at his side. There was nothing more a man could ask. And he owed it all to her.
“Ah, Cambria, Lady de Ware, laird of Gavin,” he murmured against her hair, “how I love you.” The words came easily to his lips now. Later, when she was awake, he’d say them again, say them a thousand times. “I swear to protect you and your clan with my life. Never again will you have to fight your battles alone. I am henceforth your knight, my lady. It is I who will wield the Gavin blade and vanquish your enemies. Now and forevermore.”
A sweet smile graced Cambria’s face, and he pressed a kiss upon her brow. Soon, he vowed, he intended to see that his dear wife would have no greater troubles than deciding whether to have capon or quail for supper. Nothing should worry her pretty little head. She had put the clan first for most of her life. It was time someone put her first.
CHAPTER 17
Holden beamed with pride as he scanned Blackhaugh’s courtyard. Over the past several weeks, he’d demanded a great deal from the castle denizens, yet
there wasn’t a shiftless or unwilling soul among them. A man couldn’t wish for more loyal vassals than these Scots, and he was proud he’d won them with honor rather than force of will.
The work on the castle proceeded with even great efficiency than he’d thought possible. Brawny workers sweated over the stones and mortar they hauled up the stairs for the new tower. Woodworkers kept up a steady rhythm of pounding as they skillfully selected and dovetailed long planks together for the flooring. Sir Guy repaired the quintain, replacing it with a figure of uncanny likeness to Duncan de Ware, gleefully informing Holden that it might be the only way he could hope to defeat his older brother.
Thanks to capable Katie, young maids ran to and fro most of the day, sweeping out the musty rushes from the great hall and replacing them with fragrant grasses, heather, and thyme gathered from the fields, laundering bed linens till they snapped white as sails in the summer breeze, mending plaids and wattle fences and scraped knees.
This morn, two little boys with sun-freckled faces crossed the courtyard with a platter of cheese and salted meats for the workers, and the scent of fresh bread wafted from the bakehouse. A pair of waddling old women chased a fugitive pig back into its newly swept pen.
Holden felt as content as a hound with a full belly.
Summer found love blossoming everywhere. Blackhaugh had never seen so many weddings in a single season. Young Gwen snared a reformed Robbie for her own. Jamie found a pale milkmaid from Bowden to warm his heart and his bed. Even Sir Guy was pestered by a bonnie bit of a Scots temptress from the Campbell clan, eliciting wagers as to how long the siege would last. And shining down over everyone was the glow of affection between the Wolf and his mate.
Only Holden’s brother Garth seemed immune to the fever. Deciding he’d had quite enough adventure for one lifetime, he left to return home to his ecclesiastical studies. Holden agreed to let him go, on the condition that Garth be the one to break the news of his wedding to the rest of the de Ware household.
Holden intended to bring his Scots bride to England one day, but he couldn’t leave just now, not while there was so much work to be done. He belonged to Blackhaugh as much as it belonged to him. To gain the full respect of the Gavins and to firmly establish the alliance, he had to earn it, and part of the price was hard work. The other part was compromise. Though it was essential to impose some kind of English order upon the Scots’ wild mode of warfare, he had to concede there were some things he could learn from their rough-hewn ways. He had no wish to conquer this proud people. He desired to join them.
To that end, he labored harder than he’d ever labored in his life. Yet it was good work, honest work. And all his efforts, all the long hours, the back-breaking toil—everything—he did to impress the woman he’d come to cherish, that little Scots elf who yet slumbered above-stairs like a naughty layabed.
He grinned, then winced at what a lovesick pup he’d become. There had been a time when he believed a wife of little import, less import than a good steward or a trusty squire. But not even for the king had he toiled so tirelessly as he did for his precious lady laird. He’d pushed himself so arduously, laboring ceaselessly from dawn to well after dusk, that, night after night, he’d fallen into bed and instant sleep, exhausted.
Damn, he suddenly realized, had it truly been a week since he’d lain with his wife? He glanced up toward the window where Cambria still dozed, remembering the tantalizing way her breast had slipped out from beneath the linens this morn as she lay sleeping, the enticing pout of her dream-kissed lips, the sweet fragrance of her womanly body. His blood warmed like mulled wine.
It had been a week. Well, then, it was time to make amends.
Cambria stretched luxuriously across the thyme-scented pillow, then grimaced as a twinge lanced through her shoulder. Her arms ached from the rigorous training Sir Guy had put her through yesterday. She supposed she shouldn’t have worked so hard. But after such a long absence from the tiltyard while her body healed, it felt marvelous to have the blood surging through her veins again, to feel the healthy sweat of battle on her brow. It felt almost as good as…
Coupling with Holden. She sighed as lust flooded her veins. Every time she thought of him, molten heat blossomed in her belly and coursed relentlessly down her limbs, setting her flesh afire.
No woman could love a man so well. Her heart swelled with pride when he sat beside her at supper. Her breath caught when he winked suggestively at her from across the great hall. She never let him get within arm’s reach without reaching her arms out for him.
She felt alive. Part of it was the sultry warmth of summer and the peace the land enjoyed. Part of it was her healing and return to the tiltyard. And part of it was the sense of wholeness Holden brought to her.
His green eyes reflected pride when they gazed toward the Gavin wood. He belonged to Blackhaugh now. He knew the servants by name and had memorized all the best fishing spots. His feet no longer stumbled upon the uneven step at the bottom of the larder. Even his speech had altered ever so slightly, taking on the subtle lilt of the Borders. He belonged to the Gavins, and he belonged to Cambria. He completed her.
But there was another reason she felt so vital, so full of life, a reason she’d discovered only recently. And if she didn’t speak to Holden soon about it, she thought she might well burst with the news.
Holden had been too busy in the last several days to do more than murmur good day as they passed in the hallways. Now, in the delicious languor of the morning, her body remembered all too vividly everything about him—the hushed whisper of his breath beneath her ear, the soft brush of his lips upon her skin, the feel of his rough-haired thigh slung over hers, claiming her.
She flopped restlessly onto her back, kicking off the covers, and stared up at the ceiling, where sunlight stretched across the thick beams. Lord—how she missed him, craved him with all of her being. Lying in bed alone the past week, without his caresses, without his warmth, was slow torture.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine his face above her—his smoky green gaze, the subtle curve of his mouth, the spicy scent of his hair, the taste of wine on his tongue. She let one hand trace the neglected contours of her body, move over the places he hadn’t touched in days—the hollow of her throat where her pulse raced, the curve of her shoulder where he oft nestled his head, the crest of her breast that even now stiffened as she slid a thumb across the aching nubbin. She sighed and moved her hand lower, across the flat plane of her belly, toward the nest of crisp curls below, to the place where desire simmered like liquid fire…
Suddenly the latch of the door rattled from its bed. Her eyes popped open.
Holden! Her cheeks flamed. With a sound that was half-gasp and half-giggle, she yanked the coverlet up under her chin and slammed her eyes shut, feigning sleep.
The oak panel creaked open. His presence intruded into the darkened room like a burning brand. Her heart hammered at her ribs. But she didn’t dare open her eyes. If she looked at him, he’d know instantly what she’d been thinking, what she’d been doing.
Holden took a deep, measured breath as he ran his gaze along the length of the woman in his bed. She was naked beneath that coverlet. He knew it.
Seven days had been too long. They were practically strangers again. Here he stood with a platter of sweetmeats, like a squire come to beg the affections of a maid. It was like starting over. And the last thing his raging, snarling hound of a body wanted was to start over. Not when she was his wife. Not when she lay naked under there.
The telltale fluttering of Cambria’s eyelids belied her pathetic attempt at pretending sleep.
“You’re awake,” he accused, reining in the beast of his lust and easing the door shut behind him.
Her eyelids twitched, their lashes brushing soft and thick upon her pink cheek, but didn’t open.
“I’ve brought sweetmeats,” he crooned, unpinning his cloak with one hand and draping it across the chest at the foot of the bed. It was almost laughable, he
thought. The Wolf de Ware was reduced to courting his own wife with sweets.
And still Cambria pretended to doze. She was holding her breath, but a rapid heartbeat pulsed in her neck. That slim, smooth column begged for a kiss.
“Well then,” he softly announced, creeping close, “since you’re not awake to protest…” He lowered his head to hers until he could see the nervous quiver of her nostrils. “Perhaps I’ll steal a kiss from you, and—“
Her eyes snapped open.
“Ah,” he breathed, mildly disappointed. “You are awake. Have a sweetmeat then.”
He popped a honeyed walnut between her astonished lips and stuffed another into his own mouth. Sweet syrup bathed his tongue, but the flavor paled in comparison to the honey of Cambria’s kiss.
As if she could read his thoughts, Cambria flicked out her tongue to lap up a stray drop of honey from her lower lip. And then, because she could hide nothing from him, he saw it in her eyes. Desire. Naked, pure, powerful desire.
Instantly, all the molten lust bottled up for seven lonely days surged within him. He ached to press his lips to hers, to hold her against his hungry flesh, to couple with her. And she wanted it as well. Her gaze was hot and liquid, her skin flushed with longing. Her eyes lowered to his mouth.
He sighed her name. She closed her eyes. The platter of walnuts clattered to the floor as he lowered his mouth to hers. It was as sweet as coming home. Her lips softened at once in eager welcome. Her arms pulled him close, and he caught the curious, wonderful fragrance of her hair—a blend of thyme and leather and the sweet woodruff of her bath. He tangled his hand in the thick tresses, deepening the kiss, grazing the tips of her teeth with his tongue, then plunging into the honey-sweet recesses of her mouth. She tasted of heaven and summer and the wild hills of Scotland, of freedom and youth and desire.
He snagged the upper edge of the coverlet and slowly drew it back to her waist, feasting on her at first with his eyes and then his lips, until he’d baptized every inch of bared skin. His heart pounded as he hastily wrenched away his clothing.
Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior Page 27