They crept forward, their eyes alert, until they topped the crest of a rolling, sycamore-covered hill. Above the leafy limbs of the forest stretched the tower of a great castle of blue-gray stone, perhaps three hundred yards away. And in the dense wood surrounding the keep was a large clearing in which a small group of warriors exchanged blows.
“Blackhaugh,” Duncan whispered, standing upright and gesturing grandly, as if he owned the castle himself.
They skirted the edge of the clearing, watching unobtrusively as a half-dozen armed lads surrounded a single fighter who assaulted them savagely. After a moment, Duncan sheathed his sword. Theirs was obviously a friendly exercise.
Linet continued to watch. There was something about that fighter...
“That knight, the one in the midst,” she murmured abruptly, “is not a man.”
Duncan lifted a brow and whispered, “You think it’s a ghost?”
“Oh, the knight’s real enough, but...it’s not a man. It’s a woman.”
He sighed good-naturedly. “Linet, my dear, you find intrigue in the simplest things. I suppose it comes from living such a boring life before you met me.”
She chided him with a glare.
“That,” he added, folding his arms across his chest, “couldn’t possibly be a woman.”
“Stubborn dolt,” she said affectionately.
His mouth quirked in a half-smile that made him look as if she’d just complimented him.
“No woman could fight like that,” he assured her. The instant the words left his mouth, he knew he was in trouble. Linet’s eyes took on a dangerous gleam of challenge, and he feared he was about to enter a verbal battle he was sure to lose. “Very well,” he decided, “perhaps you’re right. Shall I ask?”
“You can’t just ask.”
He affected a heavy sigh. “The only other way to tell then is to challenge him to a duel,” he said with mock reluctance, although he itched to do just that. “When I’ve won, I’ll force him to remove his helm, and we’ll know for certain.”
“You can’t fight her!” Linet protested. She didn’t even want to think about how her bear of a husband could crush a maiden on the field of battle. “You might harm her.”
“He seems to be fending off six squires as it is,” Duncan murmured sarcastically, “and I thank you, dear lady, for showing concern for my welfare.”
“After this, Duncan de Ware,” she warned, “I won’t bring you compliments again on a silver platter, but you know very well you’re the best swordsman in England, far better than those six knights combined.”
“Aye.” He grinned. “But it’s good to hear it from your lips.”
Linet couldn’t stay irritated with him for long when he looked at her with those sparkling, dark-lashed eyes. She supposed she’d just have to trust him to be careful.
He shook his head in amusement, cleared his throat, and stepped forward to gain the warriors’ attention.
~*~
Cambria heard the intruder call out and ceased fighting. For one awful moment, she thought it was Holden, returning early from fishing, and her heart slammed against her ribs.
Then she turned and saw that this man was a stranger with hair of ebony. When she peered at him more closely through the slit of her visor, she felt her knees go weak. Before her was the face on the quintain―a taller, darker version of Holden de Ware with mischievous blue eyes and a peasant’s costume. It could be none other than Duncan, Holden’s brother.
And the small woman behind him―that must be his wife. She too was garbed in the modest russet gown of a peasant, but her skin gleamed like pale samite, her eyes were the color of new grass, her hair a mane of glorious, noble blonde.
Cambria grew painfully aware of her own disheveled state. Thank God she hadn’t removed her helm. A hundred thoughts raced through her mind, chiefly how she could extricate herself from this situation with as little ado as possible.
“Sir Knight,” Duncan called out formally, “you fight bravely against so many. Will you honor me by doing battle against my blade?”
One of the squires stepped forward in Cambria’s defense with gentle Scots diplomacy. “It would hardly be a sporting match, sir. You’re not at all well armed. Perhaps you’d rather―“
“No matter,” Duncan insisted. “Your knight is better armed, but I clearly have the advantage of size over―“
“Nay, good sir,” the squire followed up. “Choose one of us others. You can see this one’s exhausted.”
Cambria was far from exhausted. Her blood had just begun to pump warmly in her veins. But she knew she should decline the challenge, no matter how tempting it was, no matter how weary she was of battling skittish squires who tempered their blows as if she were made of glass.
She bit her lip. It would be heaven to face a real opponent. Holden wouldn’t find out. She could trust the squires to keep her secret. When the battle was over, she could leave the clearing with her helm on. No one would be the wiser.
Before common sense could change her mind, she shook her shoulders to loosen them up, faced Holden’s brother, and made ready to strike.
~*~
Scarcely had the squire jumped from between them when Duncan whipped his blade out, letting it hover restlessly before him. As was his habit, Duncan let his opponent attack first. The sword flashed and clanged loudly as it contacted his blade several times. The knight’s blows were not particularly powerful nor were they very accurate, so he had little trouble lunging out of the way, but that didn’t diminish his enjoyment. He always preferred style to brute force anyway. And never had he seen such style, such brash confidence, nimbleness, and aggression in an opponent so obviously overmatched. When fully grown, and with the proper discipline and humility, he thought, this youth might make an extraordinary warrior.
He fought, fascinated, as the knight kept up a rapid barrage of attacks. Still, he wasn’t so enthralled that he didn’t notice one of the squires slipping away from the others to lope out of the clearing and off across the countryside.
~*~
Holden froze at the top of the rise. His chest constricted painfully as he peered down from the slope before Blackhaugh. He could scarcely draw breath for the terror that choked him. Just as the squire reported, there was Cambria, in all her glory and armor, slashing and leaping in mortal combat. And towering over her like a great beast bent on her destruction was his unconquerable brother, Duncan. His heart pounding wildly, he unsheathed and charged at the warriors.
“Cease!” he thundered.
Cambria gasped, her sword arm frozen in the air.
Duncan, delighted with Holden’s arrival, which drew the other knight’s attention away, executed a quick flick of his wrist and, with a ready grin, sent his opponent’s blade sailing across the clearing.
“Ah, there is my advantage at last!” he crowed, and then turned to Holden. “What kept you, brother?”
To his surprise, the dark look didn’t lift from Holden’s face. In fact, Holden seemed almost oblivious to him. Even more astonishing, however, Holden’s rage was directed not at him, but at his opponent. He looked fit to kill the young knight.
“Is this how you greet my kin?” Holden bellowed, fear cracking his voice. “With the point of a blade?”
The squires all hung their heads, as if they were to blame.
“Actually,” Duncan admitted, “it was my idea.”
Holden’s eyes locked on Cambria. “You didn’t bother to tell him, did you?” Holden knew by her silence that he was right. She hadn’t told Duncan who she was. Still, he had the irrational urge to knock his brother alongside the head. Why could no one else see that Cambria was a woman?
~*~
Linet frowned from the sidelines, sizing up this brother of Duncan’s. She could see the similarities at once between the two―their stature, their good looks―but there the resemblance ended. Where Duncan was spirited and engaging, Holden was as surly as a bear. She hated him at once. In fact, if he weren’t so belo
ved of her husband, she’d have marched up to him and told him in no uncertain terms just what she thought of his yelling at a woman like that.
Duncan set the point of his sword in the dirt and rested his free fist on his hip. He was unaccustomed to being ignored, especially by his own long-absent brother. It seemed Holden had become rather heavy-handed with his vassals. Still, he knew better than to interfere. His brother was a lord in his own right now. His Linet, however, had no such qualms about intruding. She looked ready to jump into the fray.
~*~
Holden couldn’t take a proper breath. He trembled like a skittish colt. Reaching out, he hauled Cambria to him by the front of her tabard, more to assure himself she was whole than to intimidate her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he spat to cover his fear. He twisted his fist in her garment and swore. Bloody hell, his heart wouldn’t stop galloping. He’d sparred with his brother since they were children. No one was such a formidable warrior. Duncan could have sliced Cambria’s head from her shoulders in the blink of an eye. He shuddered at the thought.
“You little fool!” he shouted hoarsely, then flung his sword arm out to point at Duncan. “You are looking at the finest swordsman alive! He’s battled four at a time and conquered men twice his size! He won his spurs before he’d even grown his first beard!”
Duncan kicked at the ground, clearly embarrassed by the praise.
Linet watched the exchange with growing amazement, her mind working as swiftly as a well-strung loom. She was beginning to understand who the warrior woman was and why Holden was so agitated. Perhaps Duncan’s brother wasn’t such an ogre after all.
Meanwhile, Holden continued with his tirade. “I’ve watched Duncan mow down an entire line of knights in a melee, singlehandedly.”
“Now, brother, there I must beg the truth,” Duncan intervened. He was growing somewhat uncomfortable with the lengthy recounting of his feats of prowess. The gaping Scots squires would be kissing the hem of his garment soon if Holden continued. “A full three-quarters of those knights were so drunk they could hardly sit their mounts.”
Holden’s eyes darted over to him, their fury undimmed yet colored by something foreign, something akin to sheer terror. “And you! Don’t you have enough men your own size to fight?”
Duncan shrugged off the hostility. “It was only a friendly match. Can’t you leave this vassal’s scolding for another time? My wife and I have yet to be properly greeted. She’ll think you’re a mannerless boor.”
Holden let his shoulders drop a notch. For the first time, he noticed the blonde woman standing behind Duncan. She was staring at him with a curiously tender expression he couldn’t fathom.
After a lengthy pause, Duncan rolled his eyes. “All right then. Lady Linet, meet my mannerless boor of a brother, Lord Holden de Ware.”
Linet moved to Duncan’s side and offered a dazzling smile, but Holden stood silent, befuddled, unable to contend with the horror that still raged within him.
Duncan shook his head. “So, where are you keeping your Scots hellion of a wife, Holden? Is she so ugly you must hide her away?” He grunted suddenly, unprepared for Linet’s elbow jab to his ribs.
“Dolt!” she called him under her breath.
Holden’s mouth compressed into a grim line, and he sheathed his sword. Then he caught Cambria’s helm in the crook of one arm and pulled it upward and off. Her long chestnut hair tumbled forth over her shoulders, and her eyes flashed rebelliously.
Duncan literally staggered from the impact. Linet had been right. The knight was a woman. He fumbled and dropped his precious sword, for once in his life at a loss for words.
“This,” Holden snarled, “is my wife.”
Chapter Nineteen
Linet’s triumphant smile dimmed when she saw the look in Cambria’s eyes. The poor girl was mortified, her face crimson. She would meet no one’s eyes, but only stared at the ground with a fierce and silent pride. Something about her made a surge of protectiveness well up in Linet. She liked the lass immediately. True, Cambria hardly looked like the lady of the castle. Her hair was drenched in sweat. Her face was no stranger to dirt. But there was substance to her―spirit. She seemed to embody the wild soul of Scotland itself.
Unfortunately, Linet couldn’t know how much her close scrutiny disturbed Cambria.
Never had Cambria glimpsed such a pale and fragile creature as Linet. An angel stood before her, a lily-white angel with frail features and flowing blonde hair, the one jongleurs always sang about. She was perfect―well-mannered, beautiful, serene. Cambria lowered her eyes. All at once, she felt keenly the drop of sweat sliding down her own temple, the dust around her neck, the weight of the mail flattening her breasts, he burgeoning stomach. She wished she’d stayed abed this morning. The taste of shame was like metal on her tongue as her glance flickered over to the young woman again. The angel’s delicate hands had probably never touched the edge of a blade, let alone wielded one in battle. And the woman’s husband still gaped at Cambria like a hooked flounder.
Why had Holden unmasked her? She could have left the field untarnished. He could have salvaged their honor. Damn him! She could have met his kin later. But now there was little she could do to make restitution for his humiliating introduction. Still, she refused to be daunted. Blackhaugh was her home, and no matter what hostile tone Holden took, she’d at least welcome his kin with courtesy, the Scots’ hallmark for centuries.
Calling on the strength and pride of generations of Gavins to sustain her, she announced, “I am Cambria Gavin, the laird of Blackhaugh, and I wel―“
“You are Lady Cambria de Ware,” Holden gritted out. His brows lowered in a mixture of displeasure and disappointment.
Cambria’s cheeks burned. The speech stuck in her throat. Of course she was Lady Cambria de Ware. It was only force of habit and nervousness that made her forget. But Holden no doubt thought she intended the slight. There was no noble way to extricate herself from the embarrassing situation. And to her horror, a painful knot had risen in her throat. So for the benefit of the frail angel who looked as if she would faint at any moment, Cambria gathered what dignity she could scrape up, gave the visitors a brief nod, and swung around toward Blackhaugh.
Ignoring her gathering tears, she stiffly walked up the hill, her fists clamped at her sides, and tried not to think about what Lady Linet was whispering behind her delicate hand. All the way up the incline she felt Holden’s eyes upon her―cursing her, condemning her, but worst of all, ashamed of her.
It didn’t matter, she told herself. He was only an Englishman. What he thought of her had no bearing on what she truly was. Damn his disappointed scowl―she was the Gavin! Marriage didn’t change that.
As for meeting his kin with a sword, even Duncan had explained it was his challenge. Why then did Holden insist on humiliating her? Unless he thought she had humiliated him...
She pictured again the blonde angel hanging on Duncan’s arm. Perhaps Linen was more of what Holden desired in a wife. Perhaps he preferred a woman to be quiet and docile and frail, none of which described Cambria. Perhaps Holden was embarrassed by her. And that was the reason he’d become so distant of late.
Pah! She dashed away a tear. If she didn’t possess Linet’s delicate countenance or sweet mien or pretty speech, it was only because she wasn’t properly trained to be any man’s wife. Holden should have known that, she thought, sniffling. Or else he should never have married her.
Somehow her leaden feet managed to carry her up the sward, and her head was still held high when at last she passed through the barbican. Stumbling only once, she almost reached the haven of the keep and the promise of solitude.
But Holden had followed her, and before she could reach safe harbor, he swung her about by the shoulders. For one fleeting moment, she thought she glimpsed care and concern in his eyes. But then they flattened, and his mouth turned down at the corners.
“I won’t have you endanger my heir. You are not to spar
again.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them escape. “You suddenly care about your heir?” she choked out. “All these weeks you haven’t made one mention of the babe. It’s as if it doesn’t exist.”
All the color vanished from his face. “Is that what you think?”
“What am I to think?” she muttered, mindful of the scattering of servants that passed nearby in the courtyard. Then the pain that she’d kept carefully in check burst forth in a bitter hiss. “You don’t speak of the babe. You don’t ask after me. You don’t touch me, hold me, kiss me. We don’t even share a bed anymore.”
He only stared at her. She couldn’t read his thoughts. Her heart was breaking, and all he offered was silence. She cursed him on a sob.
“Perhaps it’s best your mother died before she could see what a coldhearted bastard you would become!”
Holden’s eyes grew instantly flat and chill. He released her like a poisonous snake. Anger ticked in the muscle of his cheek, and his fists open and closed. For a terrible moment, she wondered if he would strike her. But then she looked into his eyes and glimpsed evidence of another emotion beneath his tightly checked wrath―raw, profound hurt.
As quickly as she made that discovery, he shut her out, and she wasn’t certain that she hadn’t merely imagined his look of pain. And then he was gone with a whirl of his cloak before she could steal another glance or draw another breath.
~*~
Holden braced himself against the cold stones of Blackhaugh’s stairwell, where he’d hidden for most of the afternoon. It felt as if a great weight had been dropped on his chest. This woman to whom he’d pledged his undying devotion, for whom he’d put his own body at risk, for whom he’d sacrificed the familiarity of his homeland for a wild and savage country, had crushed him with a single blow. She’d cut him to the quick.
But he couldn’t hide away for the rest of his life. Nor could he remain here until she birthed the babe. Duncan would wonder where he’d gone, and those nosy Scots would come sniffing around soon.
Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels) Page 79
