Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (6 page)

The wind roared through the trees, carrying her oath of vengeance across the land that was no longer Gavin’s.

By April, the Border hills burst forth torrents of water like tears from the earth. But the spring bulbs paid no heed to their sorrow, blossoming joyfully with their heady perfume. The land was new and green once again, its old wounds forgotten and life reborn.

Sir Garth de Ware had tamed the denizens of Blackhaugh to his rule like a falconer gentling a tiercel, with patience and persistence. The ladies had begun to gaze longingly at the tall, comely knight. The young lads followed at his heels. Even old Malcolm seemed to have attached himself to the young Englishman, conferring with him on matters of the castle’s defense and provisions.

Only Cambria remained steadfast in her hatred of the invaders, a hatred that consumed every moment of every day. It seemed only she remembered the treachery the enemy had dealt. She had cuts that had mended badly and scarred, and until her vengeance was fulfilled, she’d carry the volatile seeds of abhorrence with her.

The naïve Sir Garth hadn’t an inkling of the dark purpose in her heart, of course. He presumed that she was like most of the other women of his acquaintance, docile and sweet, and so he’d given her completely free run of the castle and its lands. He assumed she was collecting herbs and gossip.

In fact, she spent every waking moment orchestrating revenge.

As she watched from the haven of her bedchamber, the sun bid a lingering farewell over the hills, turning the sky the colors of a ripening peach.

She pounded her fist on the embrasure in frustration. Another day gone, and still she’d found no champion to do battle with Lord Holden de Ware. It seemed everyone had heard of the Wolf’s legendary swordsmanship.

She hung her head. She’d tried pleading, cajoling, flattering, and shaming them. But thus far none of the seasoned knights of her own or neighboring castles would undertake her mission of retribution. They believed her father had indeed succumbed to the hotheaded pride for which he was famed, that he had turned on the enemy at the last moment and made a rash mistake in underestimating the power of the English.

But Cambria couldn’t accept that. She’d glimpsed the dream of peace in her father’s eyes. He’d had no fight left in him.

What was she to do? She’d promised her father revenge, sworn it upon his grave. Now it seemed a Herculean feat. Was there no one to take up her cause? No champion for her vengeance? No man of courage and honor and chivalry in all of Scotland?

Lord Holden de Ware casually sipped at his mead as the sun peeked through the elms and between the merlons of the wall walk at Bowden. He sighed heavily and watched with indifference as two sparrows made chase in the air. It should prove a glorious day, he tried to persuade himself, breathing in a deep lungful of crisp air. The Border forces had been defused weeks ago. Rested now from that ordeal, he knew he should be happily enjoying the comforts due the lord of the manor. But he was unaccustomed to peace. His spirit was restless.

He set his flagon down on a crenel of the battlement, yawning and stretching his stiff muscles. Perhaps it was time to leave Bowden in the hands of a steward and make a visit to his other prize, Blackhaugh. He wished to see how his little brother fared.

When he thought of Blackhaugh Castle, however, it wasn’t Garth’s face that came to mind. He was haunted once again by the image of that fascinating Scotswoman, the elfish lass who’d rendered him unable to even
think
of dallying with the many perfectly willing wenches at Bowden. She’d worked a charm on him—that had to be the answer—and it was ruining his hard-earned reputation as a virile lover.

Perhaps he’d just swive the wench while he was at Blackhaugh and be done with it. He closed his eyes, picturing once again her tempting mouth, that luxurious mane of chestnut hair, her creamy bosom. Just as he began to imagine what he’d like to do with her, his attention was caught by a metallic flash from the field below.

A single knight on horseback galloped through the meadow. Holden watched silently for a moment at the rider’s approach, unable to discern whether he was friend or foe.

“Ho, fellow knight,” he called down, “what are you about this morning?”

The knight made no response. Holden raised a brow at his lack of courtesy and studied the rider carefully. He appeared to be alone. He bore no crest upon his plain blue tabard, and his helm was likewise unadorned.

Again Holden called down. “Hola, Sir Knight, by what name are you known?”

There was no reply. Holden wrinkled his brow. This game could become rather tedious, unless…unless it was some sort of jest planned by one of his men to relieve Holden’s obvious boredom. Aye, that must be it.

“You’re armed for battle!” he remarked, picking up his cup and swirling the mead around the rim. “Is it your intent to joust one of my knights?”

The rider abruptly lifted his long ash lance, and Holden cocked his head at this unexpected gesture. Maybe it was his cousin Myles. Myles had just won his spurs. It would be just like Holden’s uncles to put the lad up to such a challenge.

“With whom do you come to battle, sirrah?”

Slowly, the knight lowered the tip of the lance till it pointed directly at Holden.

Pleased with the thought of his uncles’ comeuppance, Holden smiled. “Me?” he murmured. “What a surprise.”

He waved. Then he called out, “I shall arm myself and be down presently, sirrah, to uncover your identity!”

Holden rode out to meet his mysterious challenger moments later. His suspicions about the knight’s identity were confirmed as he noted the small frame and youthful posture. Nonetheless, he’d humor the bold lad.

“You have no design upon your tabard, sir. Will you not at least do me the honor of telling me with whom I joust before I trounce you?”

There was no answer, of course, for Myles’s voice would have given him away. Bemused, Holden chuckled to himself as the horse and rider stormed to one end of the field.

Scarcely had he placed his helm on his head when the young knight surged toward him with lance forward. Angered at the boy’s rude haste, Holden lowered his lance and prepared to unhorse the whelp.

Ariel bolted forward without prompting, flinging up chunks of sod. When they met with a thunderous crash, the small rider was carried easily from the saddle to the earth with a thud.

Holden allowed the dazed lad to rise laboriously. They drew swords, and he gave the young knight many sound punishing buffets upon the helm.

The boy was quick, but haphazard, spinning and slashing with a recklessness Holden hadn’t noticed in Myles before. He was an agile enough opponent, but hardly a match for Holden’s sheer power, which he tempered for the sake of a fair fight.

Noting how quickly the lad tired, Holden offered aid. “Hold your shield higher, man! You’re getting careless!”

This made the knight’s attack all the more brash.

After nearly a quarter of an hour, bored of the battle, which had become sluggish, Holden decided to make an end of it. He swung a powerful blow with the flat of his sword across the knight’s hindquarters. His victim went sprawling in the grass, dropping both sword and shield on the way.

Holden shook his head, and then set his own shield, helm, and sword on the ground, offering his hand to aid the foolish novice.

Unexpectedly, the fallen knight reached for his own blade and swung it around hard, forcing Holden to block the blow with his arm. Holden winced as the blade caught him painfully on the shoulder and fell just short of penetrating the mail.

His arm throbbing from the impact, Holden fiercely swept up his sword and knocked his opponent’s weapon away.

This varlet was not his cousin. No de Ware would fight so unchivalrously. He dragged the knight to his knees and tore off his helm, flinging it to the ground. Blinded by rage, he yanked the dark hair back violently to expose the traitor’s vulnerable throat and raised his sword to slay the fiend.

Then the very breath was sucked from him.

Nay. It wasn’t possible.

“You!” he choked.

Cambria gasped, despite her brave intentions. That last blow had been unworthy of her, and she knew it. Lord Holden had every right to slay her for it.

Clenching her hair in his fist, the Wolf gazed at her bared neck and hesitated. Indecision warred in his steely eyes as his blade hung over her. She forced herself to stare at him, even if she couldn’t draw air into her lungs. She’d be damned if she’d die wincing from her foe. His expression wavered between anger and disbelief and something resembling fear, and then it evolved into a mask of pure fury.

With a bellow of rage, he brought the sword down violently. She screamed as he jammed its point into the ground beside her.

Her heart knifed within her chest, though she was out of immediate peril, as she gasped in great sobs of air. For a long while, nothing but their turbulent breathing rent the silence. Hers was born of shuddering relief, his of barely suppressed savagery.

His eyes flashed green fire when he was at last able to speak. “You little fool!” he snapped hoarsely. “Are you mad?” He plowed his mailed hand through his hair and began to pace like a cornered stallion. “What game are you… How could… Bloody… I almost kil-…”

If she thought she glimpsed a speck of self-reproach in his eyes, it vanished in the next instant, the moment he realized her scheme. He wheeled on her, incredulous. His words fell like blows, and she flinched from the sheer power of his voice.

“By God! You thought to avenge your father by murdering me!” He swore, and then kicked the sod with so much force that a chunk of it came loose. He wrenched his sword from the earth, sheathing it so violently the hilt rang against its bronze catch. Then he came to stand over her, clenching and unclenching his mailed fists, his breath ragged, his jaw set. Though he brandished no weapon other than his iron gaze, it was enough to pin her there.

He almost broke her with his unnerving silence, which seemed to stretch into torturous eternity. But at last he sank to a crouch beside her, so close she could feel the moisture of his breath on her cheek. And the harsh intimacy of his measured whisper inspired more terror than either his shouting or his silence.

“I will not strike you down,” he growled, “as you are by some strange providence a lady. But, by God, you shall be chastised.”

She bit back a startled shriek as he muscled her up and nudged her roughly toward the castle, pinioning her arm. Shite, he could probably snap her bones like twigs in his great hand. He pushed her through the main gate, ignoring the curious stares of the guards. He snarled at a groom to fetch their grazing mounts, and then hauled her across the courtyard as if she were no more unwieldy than a sack of chain mail.

She balked when he pushed open the doors of the great hall, but he prodded her forward, kneeing her with the sharp poleyn of his armor. Her face burned with shame as he forced her through the crowded hall. Even with her eyes lowered, she could see men and women stepping out of the Wolf’s path, hear them gasp in shock at the spectacle.

They came to a stairwell at the far side of the hall, and he half-dragged her up the winding stone steps. Her heart began to beat against her ribs like a caged falcon as she imagined what horrible punishments he intended, and suddenly she longed to be in the great hall again among witnesses. She struggled against him, but he only cursed and drew her other arm behind her as well.

At the top of the steps, he kicked open a thick oak door, revealing a dismal little room with a thin straw pallet and a barred window. There, he shoved her in and followed after, slamming the door behind them. Before she could whirl to face him, he pressed her back against the wall with his immense body, leaving her breathless. He pinned her to the rough stones, holding her wrists immobile on each side of her head.

She shuddered. She’d thought about her confrontation with the Wolf for days now—planned her attack, practiced her blows, imagined his defense—but nothing she’d envisioned had prepared her for this. At this proximity, the beads of sweat on his face were too real, his body too intimate, his anger too palpable. She felt like a moth trapped in his fist, to be crushed at his whim. De Ware’s eyes seared her with their intensity while his voice remained dangerously quiet.

“What have you done with my brother?”

Cambria was momentarily dazed. What kind of a question was that?

The human manacles on her wrists tightened a fraction. She swallowed convulsively. Damn, he was strong.

“Garth?” she gasped.

“Of course Garth,” he said between his teeth.

She saw now. It made perfect sense. Lord Holden had concluded that her escape from Blackhaugh meant that some ill had befallen Garth. Leave it to an Englishman to consider his kin infallible to the simple wiles of a Scotswoman.

“What have you done?” the Wolf hissed, the cold fire in his eyes burning her far more than his grasp on her wrists.

For a moment, she thought her voice had deserted her. Then she managed to choke out, “He is well.”

“You’re certain?” he demanded, pressing so close that she could have counted his eyelashes.

She closed her eyes and nodded.

“Look at me,” he ordered. “Where are the others you brought with you?”

“There are no others.”

He snarled at her, making her flinch. “You’re lying!”

“Nay!” she insisted. “I came alone, of my own choosing. No one knows.”

This last bit wasn’t exactly true. She hadn’t wanted Malcolm the Steward to worry. The squire who had armed her for the journey had been given a message to deliver to him after she was long gone. It would inform Malcolm that she was safe, that she would return shortly, and that he wasn’t to interfere.

Apparently convinced, Lord Holden inspected her at greater leisure now and more thoroughly, as if she were a palfrey he might purchase, letting his gaze move over her hair, her lips, her throat. She shivered. This silent interrogation was far more intimidating than what he asked aloud.