Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  ~*~

  A sparrow trilled enthusiastically from outside the window. Cambria frowned, snuggling more deeply into the furs in protest of the encroaching morn. She sighed at the wonderful enveloping warmth of the big bed. It was almost like being a little girl again, held in her mother’s cozy embrace.

  The thought brought her fully awake in an instant. She sat up abruptly, pulling free of the arms enclosing her.

  The Wolf!

  Her motions roused him. Disoriented with panic, she scuffled backwards on the pallet and promptly fell off the bed, landing with a thump on her hindquarters.

  Holden lifted himself up on his elbows, his hair askew, and peered down with one sleepy eye, looking completely baffled.

  “You...” Her voice was scratchy. She felt her cheeks grow hot. “What are you doing here?”

  He sighed groggily. “Sleeping. At least I was.”

  “In my bed?” she gasped.

  He took a quick survey of his surroundings. “This is my bed.”

  “I’ve been... I’ve been sleeping in your bed?” she sputtered.

  He shrugged and gave her a sleepy smile. “That’s all right. I forgive you.” He settled back onto the bolster and closed his eyes. “It’s not the first time I’ve awakened to find a woman has crawled into my bed.”

  Her jaw dropped. The man was insufferable.

  “God’s truth, I was going to have you spend the night on the floor,” he continued, yawning, “but you’d fallen asleep. I didn’t have the heart to push you out of bed. I see you’ve done that yourself.”

  “How dare you sleep with me!” she hissed.

  “How dare I indeed?” he said with a twisted grin. “It shall be the ruin of my reputation. I assure you it’s not my usual habit to sleep when there’s a woman in my bed.”

  She gasped.

  “Are you disappointed? I could make amends,” he offered, rubbing his sleep-filled eyes.

  She shot him a scathing glare. “I’m only disappointed I didn’t find out earlier. I would have tormented you as you slept.”

  His eyes slowly coursed down her body as if they were melting her garments. “Ah, little wildcat, you did torment me.”

  She felt her mouth go lax. No one had looked at her like that before. No one had said such things to her, and his compelling voice combined with his unashamed countenance completely rattled her.

  “Don’t call me that,” she muttered uncomfortably.

  “What am I to call you? You’ve never told me your name,” he reminded her, pushing himself up to a sitting position.

  Her glance rested overlong on the strong contours of his wide chest, raised boldly above the fur coverlet. It was only curiosity, she told herself, about the faint scar that ran across his ribs that made it difficult to tear her eyes away. A few curling dark hairs accented the curve of muscle beside the scar and made a line down his ridged stomach, a line that disappeared thankfully below the coverlet. She raised her eyes again.

  He was smiling at her, the knave―an infuriating, all too perceptive smile that made her disgusted with herself.

  Damn it, she wasn’t some rutting maid. She was here on a mission. He wanted to know who she was. She would tell him.

  “I am the Gavin, Cambria, daughter of Angus. I am a noblewoman, and I insist upon my own pallet. I will not share a bed with you. I am not some serving wench who would ease your lusts―“

  “Ease my...” he said, chuckling. “With you? I have no need of an unwilling mistress, Cambria, I assure you.”

  His half-naked presence seemed to fill the room as he rose from the bed, wrapping the coverlet about his waist. He began to pace, and the sensual flex of his torso made things even worse. Her eyes felt as overtaxed as a butterfly with a field of daisies all to itself, flitting about madly.

  “Let’s understand each other, Cambria. You’re my prisoner. You may ‘insist’ on nothing. You will sleep where I command. You will eat what I provide. You will wear what I allow you to wear.” He lowered his voice to a soft murmur. “And should it ever be my will that you spread yourself so that I may indeed ‘ease my lusts’ betwixt your thighs, my dear Cambria, you will do even that.”

  His words brought her around faster than a hard slap. Her jaw dropped in shock, and her startled head shot up. But before she could deliver a scathing retort, he continued.

  “You seem to forget, Cambria―my sword is at your throat. I’d be only too happy to continue reminding you of that fact.”

  She wished he would stop calling her by name. It was having the most disturbing effect on her.

  Without warning, he unwrapped his coverlet and let it drop to the floor.

  Appalled at his immodesty, she quickly ducked her head away. What a brash knave he was. No doubt he’d gotten that long scar on his thigh from some hotheaded brawl.

  “In any event,” he continued, ignoring her discomfiture and donning his chausses, “you’ll have the bed to yourself. I’ll be away for a few days. It seems there is still a band of renegade Scots roaming the countryside, intent on taking on the entire English army.” He shook his head. “Your people’s pride will be their undoing.”

  She lifted her chin defiantly at the sardonic edge in his voice and fixed her eyes on the wall. “It’s their pride that has kept them alive.”

  To her surprise, he nodded in agreement. “Perhaps,” he said pensively, ‘But there are times when pride can be blinding. Your Scots have become fanatics, and fanatics are dangerous, particularly to themselves.”

  She couldn’t think of one suitable argument, so she avoided his gaze. As he dressed, she smoothed the material of her own gown, combed her disheveled hair with her fingers, and primly perched on the edge of the bed.

  “You must unchain me,” she decided abruptly when he was decent, or at least as decent as he was ever going to be.

  “Must I?” He blinked.

  “You’ve said you carry the only shackle key,” she began, innocently enough.

  “Aye.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  “Should you by chance be killed by that band of Scots on your little escapade, who will free me...so that I may dance on your grave?”

  He stared at her in silence a long moment. Then a wry smile curved his lips. “Lady Cambria, your tongue is as poisonous as a viper’s.”

  She had no reply that wouldn’t merely reinforce his opinion, so she busied herself studying the armor laid out on the pallet. She frowned, scrutinizing a flaw in the mail. The hauberk had obviously weathered many a battle. Its finish was dull, and several of the iron rings were dented from blows of a sword.

  “The links along the ribs need repair,” she mumbled, forgetting for the moment that he was the enemy and simply stating the information out of habit.

  He looked up, not at the mail, but at her.

  She pointed to the place. “Your mail...there’s damage there, a gap.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, but paid little heed to her words. “Tell me, how did a lady come to learn of arms and swordplay?”

  “My...father taught me.” The word was still hard to say. She couldn’t believe he was gone.

  “Why?”

  “Because I am the Gavin.”

  “You’re a woman.”

  “I can wield a sword,” she replied proudly.

  “You do have a certain agility and speed,” he admitted, pulling a padded gambeson over his head, “but you lack strength, and you’ve no grasp of chivalry. You cannot continue attacking unarmed opponents. Did your father not teach you that?”

  She felt her face grow hot. “I know the rules of chivalry.”

  “Ah, so you chose to ignore them.”

  She deftly changed the subject. “You must remove the shackle before you go.”

  He pulled on soft leather boots and paused in thought. “You expect me to believe I can trust you to stay here?”

  “You dare ask me that after you betrayed my father’s trust?”

  “Your father betrayed my trust,”
he insisted.

  “All my father ever cared about were his people and his land. He didn’t care who sat upon the throne.” She stabbed him with an icy glare. “He was going to sign your damned documents!”

  “He never signed them. He attacked my men.”

  “He couldn’t have!”

  “Were you there?” he demanded, his eyes challenging her.

  The space of silence grew as her agony of doubt filled the room. She’d cursed herself a thousand times for having slept through the horrible slaughter of her father.

  “Nay,” she finally admitted, defeat thickening her voice.

  His point made, he turned his back on her and slipped his heavy hauberk on. He shrugged the mail over his shoulders and adjusted the length from front to back.

  Then he let out a loud sigh and turned to her. “I’ve no reason to trust you,” he murmured.

  Nonetheless, he retrieved the ring of keys from the leather pouch lying atop his tabard and jangled it against his palm.

  “Your clan is important to you, is it not?”

  She lifted her chin, once again as proud as any queen. “It’s everything.”

  “Then will you swear, upon your honor to your clansmen, that you’ll not attempt to escape from this keep while I’m away?”

  She gave his words careful consideration. She didn’t like making such a promise, but what choice did she have? She couldn’t remain chained to his bed like some concubine. She slowly nodded her assent. “I swear.”

  He bent over her to work the lock, one knee pressing into the pallet beside her. He slipped a finger beneath the shackle band, brushing the delicate skin of the inside of her wrist. She swallowed hard. His hands, though battle-nicked, were long-fingered and nimble, not at all the brutal paws she’d expected. The masculine scent of him―the iron tang of his armor, the musk of leather, some elusive spice, woodruff or cinnamon―seemed to engulf her. His hair curled rebelliously down his neck, and his lips tensed slightly as he tried the various keys. His breath was even and gentle upon her face, and he was close enough for her to see the stubble on his cheek. His lashes were as thick and dark as the trees in a wood, and though they were lowered, she remembered his eyes were the color of Highland pines, deep and wise and mysterious. Odd, she thought, she’d not noticed the gray flecks in them before, but then...

  Shite, he was staring at her. Flustered, she dropped her gaze. Then she noticed that the shackles were already unlocked. She cleared her throat and rubbed hard at her wrist.

  He moved away, but the air still felt charged around her. She closed her eyes against the sensation. Curse him, this was the man who was responsible for her father’s death.

  “Thank you,” she said frostily.

  He winced almost imperceptibly. Then, with a brusque nod, he went to open the door, calling for the squire outside to help him with his armor plate.

  “You may wander the castle,” he informed her, “but don’t go beyond the castle wall. I’ll issue orders that you’re not to be harmed. But if I were you, I wouldn’t attract the attention of knights who have cause to despise you.”

  He didn’t have to warn her. She vividly remembered Sir Guy’s dark threat.

  When the squire finished, his master looked formidable indeed. The chain mail fit over his muscular arms and legs like the scaly plate of a dragon. The rich forest green tabard, emblazoned with the fierce black Wolf de Ware, hugged his hips where it was secured with a black leather belt. The gleaming armor plate made his already broad shoulders that much more imposing.

  The squire handed the lord his great helm, and then took his leave. Lord Holden faced her, pulling on his gauntlets.

  “I’ll return in a few days. If you’re not here, laird of Gavin,” he said ominously, “pray that I never find you.”

  When he’d left and closed the door behind him, Cambria let out the breath she’d been holding. She stood and flexed her arms like a falcon loosed from its jesses. She was free now.

  So why did she still feel imprisoned by the man?

  She shivered and looked about her. This chamber was indisputably his domain, or rather he’d made it his, from the dark red damask bed curtains and deep blue feather bolsters to the intricate Oriental carpet and the well-ordered quill and parchment set upon the table. Even his scent lingered in the room. He may have gone, but she still belonged to him, just as much as the carpet or the table or the candlesticks. And no matter how magnanimous he’d seemed in granting her her freedom, she was sure he’d left orders for her to be watched closely, just like his other property.

  Eventually she drifted over to the arched window. Below, Holden and nine of his men were mounting up to ride off across the flower-studded hills. She prayed they’d not meet Gavin men. Robbie and Graham were so young, like children next to these invaders. The knights made a formidable company, even if they were English, particularly with Lord Holden at their fore.

  Holden must have felt her eyes upon him, for he turned before they rode into the forest and gave her a salute. She stepped back from the window and clapped the shutters close before he could see the pink flush of her cheeks.

  A moment later, Gwen timidly crept in with bread and watered wine. She wouldn’t meet Cambria’s eyes. Cambria imagined she was probably still stung by the near attack of the day before. Her kicked dog expression made Cambria regret her earlier actions, so she broke the loaf of bread and handed the maid a chunk of it in an overture of peace.

  As they shared the meal, Cambria casually inquired about de Ware. After all, the first rule of battle was to know the enemy. She’d promised not to attempt escape. She’d said nothing about planning to attempt escape.

  “Why the lord’s taken all of Bowden under his wing, he has,” Gwen told her, warming to the subject. “We were half-starved when he came, but the larders are full now. They call him the Wolf, y’know, but I’ve not met a kinder master.”

  This news didn’t cheer Cambria. Lord Holden had obviously been bluffing about beating Gwen. Confound it all, she wanted to hear that he was a twisted, malicious beast that fed on the blood of innocents. If he truly had such capacity for kindness, how could she then justify his actions at Blackhaugh? Was it conceivable, as the rest of the Gavin clan seemed to think, that it wasn’t Holden de Ware who’d conspired to slay her father? She broke off a chunk of the heavy brown bread and gnawed at it, considering the possibility.

  “Why is he called the Wolf?”

  Gwen screwed up her face thoughtfully and answered, “I s’pose it’s ‘cause he’s very brave and cunnin’ on the battlefield. Accordin’ to all accounts, he’s never lost a battle, y’know,” she added proudly, sitting a little straighter.

  “Never?” She found this difficult to believe, considering the number of dents his armor bore.

  “Not a one.”

  She imagined it would be easy to claim such a record if he always caught his enemies unaware the way he had at Blackhaugh. Then she remembered how he’d chided her for not following the rules of chivalry. Damn the man! Which was he―slaughterer or saint? Holden de Ware was becoming a frustrating series of contradictions.

  “And what did the Wolf do with the knights who opposed him at Bowden?” she asked, sure his cruelty would be demonstrated now.

  Gwen shrugged. “None opposed him.”

  “No one questioned his authority?” she demanded. “They just let him take what he wanted?”

  “Why, m’lady,” Gwen replied, “if he’s never lost a battle, only a fool would challenge him.” Then suddenly realizing what she’d said, she gasped and sputtered, “I-I mean...”

  “He’s not yet conquered the Gavins,” Cambria stated, narrowing her eyes. She walked to the window of her prison, cocked open the shutter, and gazed out, imagining a time when she’d play the victor, not the captive.

  Gwen, seeing that Cambria was preoccupied with her own thoughts, used the moment to mumble an excuse and escape the solar before her tongue could get her into yet another scrape.

 
; ~*~

  “The ashes are warm,” Sir Stephen reported, crouching by the makeshift fire and rubbing the gray remains between his fingers.

  Holden frowned. He stared at his man without hearing him. A paradox kept biting at his brain with the persistence of a flea. Cambria Gavin, murderess or no, was nonetheless the enemy, and she’d become as troublesome as a thistle beneath his saddle. How could what he felt toward her possibly be called desire? And yet didn’t it torment him like desire?

  “My lord?” Stephen prompted, scowling back.

  Holden blinked. Damn, he was having trouble concentrating on the task at hand. And by Stephen’s expression, his distraction was painfully obvious.

  “Aye?” he replied.

  It was that damned sprite. For the first time in his life, he’d met a foe he didn’t know how to fight. Never before had he met a woman he couldn’t handle. They were usually such pleasant creatures, docile, easy to please, grateful for his protection, even more grateful for his affections. What was wrong with this wench? Part of him wanted to throttle the bloodthirsty Scotswoman, and the other part...

  The other part he swore he’d sate with the next willing maid he met. The Scots lass, after all, held no particular sway over him, no more than any other passing fair female. Why then could he not force her from his mind?

  “The ashes, my lord,” Stephen said in measured irritation. “They’re still warm.”

  Holden gritted his teeth and willed himself to focus on his duties. He’d be damned if he’d let that little elf bewitch him at this distance.

  “How long do you think, Stephen?”

  “No more than an hour.”

  “We’re close then.”

  “If it’s indeed the renegades we’re following,” Sir Henry piped in from atop his mount.

  “Aye, it’s them,” Sir Myles replied as he knelt in the dust beside the fire. “One of them has orange hair, aye?”

  “Aye,” Stephen replied.

  Myles picked up a single coppery hair between his thumb and finger and held it up for all to see.

  “You have the eye of a falcon, Myles,” Holden praised. “Good work. We’ll separate here. On foot, they can’t have gone far.” He mounted Ariel and patted her sleek neck. “Stephen, Henry, you come with me. Myles, Owen, and John, travel east. The rest of you head north. We’ll meet here again before nightfall. By then, God willing, one of us will have captured the renegades.”