Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (27 page)

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 frowned. “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.”

“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.