Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior

by Glynnis Campbell

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.”

  Less than an hour later, a rustling in the bushes ahead startled Holden from his troubled thoughts, and the three steeds froze instantly in response to their masters’ silent commands. Slowly the men dismounted, the only noises the squeak of shifting saddles and the whisper of drawn blades. Stealthily they crept forward. Holden peered ahead toward the source of the sound, but then his keen ear heard a twig snap in the brush to the left behind them and another rustle of leaves from the right.

  He only had time for one thought—they’d walked into a trap—before he felt the sharp agony of a blade piercing his flawed mail and sinking deep into his chest.

  Cambria watched the day grow rapidly dreary and bleak. Showers were imminent, but the sky aged gracelessly into a vague gray presence that held onto the rain like a miser with his coins. With the knights collected within the keep, she had little desire to leave the security of Holden’s chamber. Consequently she grew as restless as the weather. When the clouds finally spilled their harvest, it was with a vengeance, and she found herself idly wondering if Holden and his men would find shelter in the storm.

  She’d been pacing like a lion in a cage, desperately bored, so it was with great relief that she welcomed Gwen’s arrival with apple coffyns and wine shortly after midday.

  The servant proved good enough company. Gleaning news from her was like taking the cork from a keg of ale. Never had she met a maid so eager to wag her tongue on any subject, and since Gwen had struck up a courtship with one of Holden’s men, she possessed a wealth of information. Thus Cambria discovered that Holden was one of three sons, the middle one. His older brother Duncan and he shared the same mother, but young Garth was the son of their father’s second marriage. Holden had no doubt joined Edward’s army in hopes of gaining land for himself. That was one of the only ways a younger son could win property and become a lord in his own right. Still, it chafed at her that one of the properties he’d laid claim to was Gavin land.

  Cambria was then forced to listen to Gwen’s babbling about the lord’s infamous dalliances. According to all reports, there were few maids he hadn’t bedded, and the de Ware household was constantly enlarging to accommodat
e a number of baseborn green-eyed children whom his older brother Duncan insisted on fostering. Gwen spared no details concerning Holden’s alleged prowess and renowned virility, and by the time the supper hour had arrived, Cambria found herself completely irritated by the maid’s prattle. Then, as if that weren’t enough, as a final insult to Cambria’s sensibilities, Gwen coyly informed her that she had plans to meet her own lover, Holden’s gaoler, in the dungeon at midnight.

  Cambria rolled her eyes. How anyone could focus so much attention on affairs of the heart, or more accurately, the loins, when there were battles to be waged and mouths to be fed, was beyond her grasp.

  By nightfall, disgusted with Gwen’s chatter, weary of confinement, and unable to sleep, Cambria decided to venture forth. Perhaps she could find some tome from Bowden’s library in which to bury her nose. To her irritation, she was dogged by a pair of less than discreet squires that Lord Holden had no doubt set to shadow her every move.

  Tiptoeing down the stairs to the great hall with an illuminated history of Rome, she was displeased to see the spot by the fire already occupied. The ominous Sir Guy half-reclined in a carved chair, his slippered feet up on a stool and his fingers laced peacefully over his large stomach.

  Before she could creep back up the steps, he raised his black eyes. “I’m under oath to cause you no harm,” he grumbled.

  No harm indeed, she thought dubiously. Her neck still bore the bruises from the big man’s fingers. “I can read elsewhere. I only need—“

  “Read?” he interrupted with sudden interest.

  “Aye.”

  “What do you have there?” He nodded toward the book.

  Wanting nothing more than to remove herself from the awkward situation, she told him. “It’s an account of Roman history.”

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You weren’t thinking to steal it?”

  “Of course not,” she said tightly.

  “Bring it here,” he commanded, and she thought that while he may be under oath not to harm her, that certainly didn’t keep him from ordering her about with his dark scowl and menacing presence. She stifled an oath and took a step toward him. He suddenly seemed larger than she remembered.