Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior

by Glynnis Campbell

  The sacrifice wasn’t so great. Although he’d bedded his share of wenches, Holden had never considered himself a romantic, unlike his brother Duncan, who pursued women as if they were his Holy Grail. Holden was a warrior, a successful one, and his success had come through careful strategy and a practical nature. He had no intention of giving up his soldiering, but now he was a lord in his own right. It was time he married and began producing legitimate offspring.

  He had what he considered a healthy outlook when it came to taking a wife. A wife was neither a burden nor a blessing. A good wife could be as valuable as a good squire. She represented a man when he went off to war, kept his castle running smoothly, provided him with children. Cambria Gavin could certainly do that. Indeed, she could prove quite helpful, being more familiar than he with the Scots ways. Their union was the perfect answer for peace among their people.

  King Edward would likely approve the match, as long as the details of Roger Fitzroi’s death remained vague. The king had granted Holden permission to use whatever tactics he required to gain the Border alliance, trusting Holden’s good judgment.

  Of course, the most compelling reason for Holden’s decision had nothing to do with good judgment. It was based on neither strategy nor practicality nor honor.

  He simply wanted Cambria. In every sense of the word. He wanted her to share his name, his table, his bed, his future. He wanted to wake up each morn to the Scots faerie who flavored his dreams.

  Oh, she’d fight him. She’d fight him every step of the way. But he’d never failed to tame a wench once he had her between the sheets. And he intended to have her there soon and often. His loins stirred just thinking of it. He found he relished the game to come as much as he did jousting a worthy opponent.

  Garth finally broke the long silence, appalled at Cambria’s lack of response to the more than generous offer. “There must be another way,” he proffered gently. “Any other woman would welcome you, Holden, and be grateful.” He shot Cambria a caustic glare.

  Cambria wore such a comical look of disbelief that Holden nearly laughed aloud. He’d never been rejected by a female. It was a curious feeling.

  “Come now, Garth,” he scolded. “Let’s not press the lady. The decision is hers to make.”

  “You bastard!” Cambria finally exploded, making Malcolm and Garth clinch. “Do you imagine I’ll let a bloody Englishman wed and bed me? I’d sooner die than—“

  “Cambria!” Malcolm interceded, urgently grasping her shoulder. “Listen to me!”

  Lord Holden’s offer had sparked a fatherly instinct in Malcolm. He’d been vexed with Cambria for days now. That cryptic message the squire had delivered when she’d recklessly gone alone to seek revenge on Lord Holden had left him weak with worry.

  He was too old to agonize over her every adventure. He’d already lost his best friend. He didn’t want to lose Angus’s daughter, too. He’d prayed for an answer and saw it in Lord Holden’s offer. Already he envisioned Cambria in wedding garb, standing beside this handsome lord, pledging her troth, keeping the castle in Gavin hands to be passed down to the many children they’d have. He could even imagine Angus smiling down from heaven.

  He’d be damned if he’d let the bullheaded wench play games with the future of the clan for her own vanity.

  “Cambria,” he said gruffly, “your father would be disappointed. He would never have thrown away his life when Blackhaugh was at stake. He gave all he had to ensure that the title would pass to you. Will you now cast it away, make his death in vain, for your pride’s sake?”

  Cambria clutched her head in her hands. Her thoughts were whirling like a spindle. She could hardly believe that her own man was turning against her, and wondered with what poison the de Wares had infected Malcolm’s mind.

  Marriage was as appealing to her as jesses to a falcon. Malcolm knew that. The whole clan knew it. Being a bride to any man, let alone the enemy, was abominable. She was more prepared to be executed by the Wolf than to be wed to him.

  Still, a small part of her knew it was the only rational thing to do. It was the kind of thing the laird of Gavin would have done, sacrifice himself for the good of the clan. She felt her own rebellion slipping away as her options narrowed to the inescapable one Lord Holden presented.

  Collecting herself at last, she turned to Holden. “What do you hope to gain by this? I’m no simpleton, de Ware. The fate of my entire clan rests on the decision I make here. I can see how they will benefit from this alliance, but what are your motives? What do you intend? Will you lure my people into false trust, and then slaughter them like sheep? Or will you murder me on our wedding night and claim Blackhaugh for your own?”

  “I could claim Blackhaugh now and have you tried for the murder of Sir Roger,” he said evenly, giving her pause. “Nay, my motives are simple enough—I need a fortress, supplies, and loyal soldiers to wage this battle, and this is the swiftest, most effective way to achieve that end.”

  “I see.”

  At least he was honest, she thought. Brutally honest. And though she wouldn’t admit it except in the deepest recesses of her heart, his careless words stung her. This wasn’t at all what she’d expected in the way of a marriage proposal. She’d had no suitors before, but she’d always imagined that if the time came for courtship, a kind, sweet, gentle Scotsman might come and beg for her hand. She’d refuse, of course, and he’d have to learn to content himself with standing behind her as she commanded the clan, supporting her, admiring her, as faithful to her as a good hound.

  That was the dream she’d had before her father’s death. Now that dream fled like leaves in a winter gale. This man had no intention of standing behind her. In fact, he’d probably insist on standing above her.

  She shuddered with distaste just thinking about it. But what other option did she have? Slowly she paced before him, solemnly weighing her limited choices, considering his offer solely as a political proposal. Then she stopped and lifted a brow. If it was only a political matter…

  “All right,” she finally decided, “I’ll marry you, but only if…certain provisions are made.”

  “You’re hardly in a position to bargain,” he reminded her, folding his arms across his wall of a chest.

  Her gaze strayed to the taut fabric of his tabard, her mind sculpting the perfectly formed chest beneath, the powerful shoulders, the firm stomach. Her heartbeat increased. This was going to be difficult.

  “It will be on my terms,” she managed, “or not at all.”

  He measured her with eyes that seemed to penetrate her garments, her thoughts, her soul. “What ‘terms’ do you intend?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I will wed you…provided there is no consummation of the marriage.”

  Malcolm and Garth gasped simultaneously.

  “What?” Holden exploded on a laugh, flinging his arms outward. “You’d mock vows given before God? You’d deny me my conjugal rights? That isn’t marriage, lady—it’s a farce!”

  “Those are my terms,” she affirmed, despite Malcolm’s embarrassed squirming. “You need only say aye or nay.”

  “Nay,” Holden replied.

  Garth looked well pleased.

  She nearly choked in surprise. “What?”

  She knew no man relished the idea of chastity, but she never dreamed he’d insist upon that aspect of their marriage. Wasn’t it, after all, only an alliance for the sake of their countries? “You withdraw the offer then?”

  “Nay,” he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “But let the contract read thus: The marriage will remain in name only until such time as the bride consents to honor the consummation.”

  She glanced at Garth, who was suddenly consumed with a coughing fit. She reviewed Holden’s words skeptically, drumming her fingers on the table. “Do you plan to beat me until I consent?”

  “There will be no need,” he said with irritating smugness.

  “You jest,” she scoffed, stilling her fingers. “You know I’ll never come
willingly to your bed.”

  Garth seemed about to strangle on a cough.

  “You will come to my bed. It’s where a wife sleeps,” Holden informed her. “But while you’re there, I won’t take my marriage rights from you until I hear assent from your own lips. And I swear this before your steward.”

  Malcolm was looking at Holden with amazement, as if he’d just promised Cambria the moon. She smirked. How gullible Holden was. He obviously had no idea how strong-willed she could be.

  “Done,” she agreed.

  The marriage contract was drawn up, their marks attached. The wax seals were still warm when Holden took hold of Cambria’s arm, speaking for her ears only.

  “I’ll abide no infidelity on your part.”

  She cocked him a patronizing smile. “I assure you I have no interest in your or any other man’s bed.”

  Holden lifted a sardonic brow. “Well, then, it should prove interesting to see just how you plan to get heirs for your precious piece of land.”

  He chuckled, and then strode from the hall, leaving her staring after him, dumbfounded.

  The fire in the center of the great hall crackled and sparked as the three friends spoke in low tones. Holden’s wound ached, and this conversation was doing nothing to alleviate the pain.

  “Are you mad, Holden?” Sir Guy bit out. “What will the king say? What will your father say?”

  He clapped his man on the shoulder. “I assure you, Guy, Edward will think it ingenious. After all, I’ve gained him a stronghold in the Borders. And my father?” He lifted the corner of his lip into a rueful grin. “I’m certain he’ll be content to have no more of my by-blows running around his castle. Nay, it’s my mother’s wrath I fear most of all, since she’ll not get to plan the wedding.”

  Guy shook his head. “I still say it’s sheer lunacy,” he muttered. “The wench is dangerous. She murdered the last man who laid a ha—“

  Holden scowled at him, and then glanced down at Myles, who shuffled from one foot to the other. The three were alone now, but Holden’s men still seemed reluctant to speak their mind.

  “The last man who what?” he asked.

  “Bah!” Guy snorted. “Can’t you see how this looks? It’s as if you’re…submitting to the Scots.”

  “Cousin, these Scots are our allies.”

  “How can you say that, when that wench has”—Guy counted her sins on his fingers—“taken you hostage, tried to slay you, murdered Sir Roger…”

  Holden bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t lose his temper. “She took me hostage because it was a brilliant tactic. I would have done the same myself. She tried to slay me because she believed I ordered her father’s murder under trust. And as far as killing Sir Roger, there are some doubts I have concerning that.”

  Myles looked up guiltily.

  “Perhaps you’ll clear them up for me?” Holden suggested.

  Guy and Myles exchanged glances, reluctant to speak, but Guy finally nodded assent.

  Myles cleared his throat nervously. “Sir Guy missed the whole thing, my lord. He was deep in his cups, snoring on the table. He can’t be blamed.”

  Guy colored, ashamed that he’d been less than attentive in his duties.

  “Blamed for what?” Holden straightened, his interest piqued.

  “And I,” Myles stammered, “I tried to s-stop him, but he set the h-hound on me.”

  “Guy?”

  “Nay, Roger,” Myles gulped. “Roger thought he’d…we all…he took her upstairs and…”

  Sir Guy interrupted. “Roger had his way with her, my lord.”

  A chill passed through Holden’s heart.

  “I tried to stop him, truly I did,” Myles chattered. “Owen, he was as drunk as an alewife. I’m sure they meant no harm.”

  “He raped her?” Holden asked in a calm voice that belied the turmoil he felt. No wonder Cambria had asked for that clause in their marriage contract. She’d already been violated once by an English knight.

  Guy muttered, “Maybe she had cause to kill him—I don’t know—but I suspect the king won’t take kindly to your making his kinsman’s murderer the next Lady de Ware.”

  “And the Gavins won’t take kindly to our executing their laird,” Holden snarled.

  “Aye,” Sir Guy agreed, spitting on the fire. “It’s a coil, my lord. God’s truth, it might have been better had the wench been slain with her father at the first.”

  He almost didn’t finish the sentence, so quickly did Holden go for his throat. Guy gaped like a hooked fish as Holden tightened his grip and burned into him with a black stare.

  “Never say that again,” Holden whispered. “She is to be my wife, and whether you think her angel or whore, you will speak of her with respect. Do you understand?”

  Guy nodded and gave a strangled reply.

  Holden released him, then staggered back, stunned. He stared at his hands, unable to believe what they’d done. Muttering an apology, he strode from the hall out into the courtyard.

  Guy fingered his neck to make sure it was in one piece.

  Myles stared open-mouthed after Holden. “By the saints’ bones, what afflicts him?”

  Guy shook his head in disgust. “He’s in love with her,” he told Myles. “I’d bet my blade on it.”

  “In love with her?” Myles echoed, still reeling from Holden’s display of rage.

  “Only love could make him so blind,” Guy grumbled, smoothing his beard. “I only pray his wedding night finds him with his eight inches sheathed in her and not the other way round.”

  Katie clucked her tongue. The lass refused to don the velvet gown she’d brought to her chamber. Such a shame. The surcoat was a wondrous shade of rich green edged at the neck and sleeves with intricate gold crenellations. The fabric was soft and of rare quality and color, but Cambria had cast it aside like dirty scrap linen.

  “I do not go to my love,” Cambria insisted. “I have no wish to please him, only to have this thing done with.”

  Katie wrung her hands and pleaded with her mistress. “My lady, well I know he is English and an enemy, but he means well, and he seems a man of honor.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “He’s quite comely as well, my lady. Ye’ll make beautiful children.”

  Cambria shuddered dramatically. “I don’t care if he has the looks of Adonis and the manner of a saint,” she retorted. “I intend to make my protest clear. I won’t garb myself as if I’m going to a happy event. I’d sooner dress for my execution!”

  Katie sighed heavily. There was so much Cambria didn’t know. “Lass, it will go much better with ye tonight if ye’re pleasin’ to him today, if ye get my meanin’,” she confided.

  Cambria smiled smugly. “I’ve taken care of that, Katie. You see, the wedding’s agreed to, but the bedding is not.”

  “Oh, aye, so Malcolm’s said.” She laughed as she thought about the virile beast of a man Cambria was about to wed. “Think he’ll agree to that?”

  “He’s already agreed to it in the marriage document.”

  “Ah, Cambria,” Katie breathed, shaking her head, “what have ye got yerself into? He’s clever, that one. I warrant that promise will last longer on parchment than in practice.”

  Cambria frowned at her chiding remark, and Katie at last tossed up her hands in surrender. Perhaps she’d send Malcolm along to see if he could talk some sense into the lass.

  The steps of the church were strewn with cornflowers, periwinkle, and cowslip, and the air buzzed with a colorful cacophony of voices. Nobles and peasants alike, adorned in their best attire, ranging from the finest burgundy velvet to passably clean sheep’s hide, lined the stony road. Every tongue wagged, speculating at the strange event to come. The anticipation rose with the passing minutes.

  It was hardly a fit day for a wedding. There had been little time to prepare for either the ceremony or the feast to follow, and the bleak sky threatened to loose its store of rain. The priest, scratching in his woolen frock, looked as if he’d bee
n dragged from his bed.

  A hush fell gradually over the crowd as Lord Holden at last made his approach from Blackhaugh Castle on his charger, appearing out of the mist like some mythical hero. He had bathed and dressed in a sumptuous black velvet surcoat that matched the trappings of his horse. Detailed silver embroidery was worked into the design of the wolf de Ware, and the dark color of the background made Holden’s eyes a more brilliant green than usual in contrast. His hair, freshly washed, fell in shining mahogany waves to his wide shoulders, and many of the women present would have gladly given up their place in heaven for the chance to hold that head in their lap. Not a lady wasn’t envious of Cambria Gavin when Lord Holden halted the steed before the church and dismounted. His bearing exuded his noble birth in spite of the slight favor he was forced to give his wounded side as he walked.

  When Cambria finally galloped up, scattering the unfortunate few who stood too close to her path, the priest, the knights, the servants, everyone except Holden, gasped audibly, appalled at her appearance. Guy and Garth looked ready to throttle her, as did Malcolm the Steward. But Holden, to her disappointment, reacted not at all to the fact that she was attired from head to foot in chain mail.

  She dismounted and walked toward him, each step of her metal-shod feet ringing clearly on the silent air. But he met her with civility, taking her hand, though it was encased in a gauntlet, as if it were the most delicate blossom.

  It peeved her to see him remain calm, unimpressed with her show of defiance. Surely he was angry with her for her choice of dress. But he didn’t blink an eye. It was almost as if he’d expected her to do something like this. And since the impact was lost on him, she almost regretted her rebellious behavior, particularly as the priest stood staring at her with his jaw lax.

  Holden cleared his throat, and the priest clumsily began the ceremony. Cambria mumbled her way through the ritual, repeating words she was reluctant to say, while Holden’s voice rang strong with conviction. As the priest droned on, she began to feel absolutely slovenly next to Holden, noting his fine garments, his freshly shaved chin, the wonderful spiced scent of his skin, a pitiful contrast to her unwashed face and tarnished armor.