When the outdoor ritual was complete, the priest held open the door of the church to let all crowd within for the wedding Mass. Beeswax candles filled the shadowy nave, and their light illuminated the jewel-colored glass of the arched windows and danced merrily along the walls in contrast to Cambria’s mood. Her mailed footsteps grated with painful starkness over the hallowed stones as they neared the altar.
The ceremony seemed an endless torture. By the conclusion of the rites, Cambria felt like a complete fool. Holden had to repeatedly help her to her feet in the heavy mail after the constant kneeling required in the service, and though he did so without comment, she was sure he was laughing inwardly at her stupidity. Her knees were sore, and she reiterated the words of the Mass through clenched teeth. What exasperated her more than anything was that Holden seemed to go through the ceremony as if it were something he did every day of his life.
Holden knew Cambria was suffering for her folly. He imagined her own pain was punishment enough for her attempt to humiliate him. He would have to make certain that Guy, Garth, and Malcolm didn’t try to chastise her further. They looked ready to roast her slowly over an open fire.
Already he could see the humor in the situation. He imagined the tales he’d tell his children—their children, he amended as he glanced at her beautiful, stubborn profile.
Oh, aye, they’d have children. She obviously had no idea how persuasive he could be. The foolish clause she’d insisted upon in their marriage contract couldn’t stop him from seducing her. It would only give her a false sense of immunity to his seduction.
He studied the soft, kissable column of her neck, the tender place beneath her ear. The poor lass didn’t know that the art of arousal was a gift with him. Holden’s skills were a favorite subject of conversation among the ladies, and his men often teased him about his uncanny ways with the fairer sex. He was very good, a master, and he had no doubt that even this unwilling wench would eventually answer to his touch. And when she finally did, he thought, focusing on her sensual mouth, it would be with a passion as fierce as her temper.
He was brought back to the matter at hand as the priest spoke the final words, blessing their alliance. Holden took the silver de Ware crest ring from his pouch, the one he’d paid a king’s ransom to have made quickly, and faced his bride. He slipped the band onto the tip of his finger and took her hand, turning it palm upward so he could unfasten her gauntlet.
The hush in the nave was the silence of a hundred held breaths as he removed the mail glove. No doubt many in the crowd suspected he’d cast the thing down in challenge. But he only tucked it beneath his arm and slipped the ring from his own finger onto hers. It fit perfectly.
The priest exhaled shakily, and then gave permission for the kiss to seal their union. Holden handed the gauntlet to the fidgeting priest and turned purposefully to his new wife.
She looked at him guardedly.
He slowly slid the mail coif back from her head, exposing tresses that gleamed in the gold light. Gazing into her liquid eyes with an intensity meant to shake her to the core, he slipped a hand under the soft curls on one side of her head. With the other hand at her back, he pressed her firmly against him. As he tipped her head back, he covertly, languorously traced a finger beneath her ear, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her. The kiss he gave her was sweet and chaste, but the touch of his hands upon her and the way his body melted into hers were far from innocent.
Cambria felt like the Wolf’s victim. Only a moment before, she’d rejoiced that this farce of a wedding was nearly at an end. Now, she felt herself slipping utterly out of control as Holden touched her. His fingers were unexpectedly gentle, like a falconer’s caress, and although she wore a padded gambeson beneath her mail, she could feel the insistent pressure of his hips against her belly. His lips were warm and encouraging on her trembling mouth, and his breath was pleasantly sweet.
For an instant she panicked, losing her balance. To her chagrin, Holden had to steady her as her legs threatened to buckle under his onslaught.
Then the kiss was over, and she could hear the castle folk cheering. She managed to walk out beside Holden under her own power. But she couldn’t bear to lift her flaming face.
For a brief moment they were alone in the adjoining narthex, and Holden caught her by the shoulders.
“All right?” he asked with genuine care.
“Aye,” she croaked, batting his arms away.
“It’s really for the best,” he said, releasing her. “Soon our people will be exchanging pleasantries, discussing crops, swilling ale,” he added with a reassuring grin.
“No doubt.”
But her mind was not at all on the effect of their marriage on the castle inhabitants. She was still recovering from the effect of his kiss.
In the great hall, fresh rushes and meadowsweet were quickly spread, precious candles brought forth, and the cook scrounged up what simple dishes could be found on such short notice for the feast.
Unlike the wedding, which had seemed to Cambria to drone on and on, the meal passed by far too quickly. Due to the haste of the ceremony and the need to prepare for war, Lord Holden had insisted on forgoing the traditional several-day feast and opted for a single banquet. The castle folk seemed intent on becoming just as drunk in one night as five, however, and began falling to their ale with unbridled enthusiasm.
Serving maids carried platters of roast meat and bowls of steaming pottage to and fro, refilling goblets, and avoiding the eager advances of knights with wandering hands. A lutist played at the front of the hall, but he could scarcely be heard above the commotion in the room. Hounds groveled for bones at the feet of their masters, and children licked their greasy fingers in spite of chiding slaps from their mothers.
Cambria had little appetite. In spite of the assurance of the marriage agreement between them, she dreaded sharing a bed with the English lord. She’d been badly frightened by the strange yearning sensations he’d aroused in her with a single kiss, and she had no wish to lose her composure again.
She couldn’t stomach the roast meats, ruayn cheese, and stewed apples that graced the tables and only nibbled on a crust of fine white bread. She grew weary of being jostled about by well-wishers, and the noise and laughter began to irritate her. In her nervousness, she became unmindful of how many times her cup was filled. She noticed only when she stood suddenly and her eyes took an extra moment to catch up, that perhaps she’d had a wee bit too much wine.
Holden noticed three cups after that. There was an odd list to Cambria’s halting gait, and she actually smiled broadly at him as he came toward her.
“Bride,” he admonished softly, amused by her drunkenness, “you’ll drink yourself into a stupor.”
He removed the chalice from her grasp in spite of her objections that that was precisely what she hoped to do.
“Let’s leave the feast,” he whispered into her ear.
She shivered once and struggled to focus her eyes.
“Go up,” he told her. “I’ll join you soon.”
She mumbled a goodbye and wandered off through the crowd. He wondered if she’d find her way to their bedchamber. It probably didn’t matter anyway, he thought, mentally sighing. She wasn’t going to let him between those lovely thighs tonight.
He rose from his chair and announced, “I grow weary from my wound, good people, so I would dispense with the customary wedding night proceedings. My bride and I shall retire now, but we wish the feasting to continue. I give you fair warning, I will be displeased should there be one left standing among you come the morrow.”
The castle folk laughed in good humor. Even the most stubborn of the Scots had to grudgingly admit a certain amount of admiration for Lord Holden’s civility and warmth.
Only Sir Owen, leaning against the smoky wall in a distant corner, watched the proceedings with hatred twisting his mouth. Holden de Ware had just put a nasty kink into his plans. And no amount of gaiety, not even the company of his favorite whore,
could coax away his bitter mood.
Holden, only one thing on his mind, stopped briefly to reassure Guy that he wouldn’t let his bride slay him in his sleep. Then he sipped the last of his wine, giving Cambria a few moments to settle into their chamber.
Finally, glancing impatiently at the door, he set down his empty cup and mounted the stairs amid raucous, heckling cries. He grinned good-naturedly and bid them all good night as he closed the chamber door behind him.
Cambria was perched tautly on the edge of the bed, a strange look of vulnerable defiance in her eyes that he didn’t at first understand. Damn her, she was still attired in her armor.
Although it vexed him, he spoke calmly. “Cambria, I’m a man of honor. I intend to keep our agreement. There’s no need to wear chain mail in our bed.”
She bit her lip in humiliated disgust. “Malcolm is angry with me. He refused to help me disarm, and I can’t find a squire”—she hiccoughed—“sober enough to do it properly.”
He bit his cheek to hide a smile. Damn, she was an engaging sprite. He came toward her, past the popping fire.
“How did you manage to put it on?” he asked.
“I told the squire I would wear my chain mail or nothing.”
He smiled devilishly. “Well, I wish I’d stolen your armor then.”
He was sure she wouldn’t have gasped so loudly had she not been so drunk.
“Perhaps I should let you sleep in your armor,” he said with mock severity. “It would be a fitting punishment for your appearance at our wedding today.”
He could see that Cambria wasn’t certain whether or not he was jesting, but she sat as straight as a lance, determined to retain her dignity despite her tipsy state.
Finally, chuckling easily, he caught her arm and began unfastening the rivets holding the armor plate together.
“I haven’t performed squire’s services since I was a lad,” he confided, “and I’ve never performed them for a woman.”
Piece by piece, he stripped the armor from her shoulders, elbows, knees.
Cambria had never felt so relaxed in her life. But then she’d never been so drunk before. As the Englishman unbuckled her plate, she grew keenly aware of his proximity.
She sighed. Everything about Holden exuded masculinity, and yet his touch was as gentle as fleece upon her. His eyes, intent on their task, were a clearer green than she’d remembered. Even the smell of his hair was heavenly. She inclined toward him and breathed deep the dizzying scent. Faith, the wine seemed to have sapped her strength. She could scarcely move. It seemed perfectly natural that he should be undressing her.
Holden was not unaware of the effect he was having on his bride. She was dangerously appealing as she leaned wantonly against him, her eyes heavy-lidded from drink and arousal, but he was determined to adhere to the letter of their agreement. He would make her surrender her heart before he claimed her body.
Finishing with the hauberk and gambeson, he left her to take off her own undergarments beneath the fur coverlet. There was no point in prolonging his agony, after all.
At last, fully cognizant of her curious eyes upon him, he undressed slowly in the golden light.
Cambria was familiar enough with his body. She’d changed his bandages numerous times. But that had been when he was wounded and helpless. He was far from helpless now. His skin seemed to glow with virility. She turned away when he removed his undergarments, and, although it should have come as no surprise, she was shocked when he suddenly climbed in beside her.
He spoke then, and his warm breath teased her ear, the deep tone calling to primitive urges within her. “Don’t be afraid, Cambria. I keep my promises. I won’t take you against your will.” He brushed a lock of hair back from her cheek, and she shivered. “I ask only one thing of you tonight.”
“Aye?” she whispered, amazed at the huskiness of her voice.
“A kiss.”
It was little to ask, she knew, a simple wifely courtesy. Yet she feared it would be her undoing. The warrior in her told her to refuse his touch. But the woman wanted it beyond reason. Before a battle between the two could begin, she closed her eyes and lifted her lips for his kiss.
A long, silent moment passed. When she opened her eyes again, Holden was staring down at her with a queer half-smile.
“Nay, love,” he admonished. “I would have a kiss from you.”
The idea of bestowing a kiss upon a near stranger herself was unthinkable. She’d given her father or Malcolm an occasional peck on the cheek, but a lover’s kiss? She hardly knew how to begin. Still, he was gazing at her with those deep emerald eyes, waiting expectantly. She wondered how it would feel to kiss those curving lips once more.
As he lay back on the pallet, his dark hair falling away from his tan, chiseled face, his sultry eyes never leaving hers, she surrendered to her curiosity. She leaned tentatively over him and pressed shy lips to his.
Holden responded tenderly, drawing her lips subtly between his, carefully controlling her level of arousal. The instant he felt her breathing quicken, he drew back, albeit with great effort on his part, and left her searching for more. There was an ill-concealed expression of longing on her face, one that mirrored his own yearning. But instead of sating her appetite, he only gave her a sweet smile. Ignoring his own hunger as well, he turned away from her to seek sleep.
It was a long while before Cambria could close her eyes. She felt as prickly as a hedgehog. She fidgeted with the heavy silver band that looked so foreign upon her finger. This was the marriage she’d wanted, a political alliance, chaste and simple. But the reality was somehow empty, and it would be some time before she’d admit the reason for that emptiness.
CHAPTER 9
The predawn mist crept through the arched window and seeped into Cambria’s brain, summoning her without mercy to begin the day as usual, before the sun had even risen. Her mouth was as dry as dust, and her head throbbed. She pressed her fists hard to her temples and looked at the man slumbering in the dim light beside her.
He was Lord Holden de Ware, her husband before God. She shook her head. It was amazing how innocent a man could appear while he lay sleeping. There was no trace either of the scowl he could instantly summon or the mocking grin he usually wore, only the sweet repose of an infant’s slumber. She had to remind herself that this man had practically forced her to marry him against her will and that his motives were less than honorable.
Summoning up her resolve to despise him, she stepped from the haven of his bed into the arms of the cold and sultry morn. She silently pulled on her undergarments, gambeson, and hose. She’d be damned if this marriage would change anything. She refused to be either placated or tamed. In a familiar routine, she wriggled into her coat of mail and buckled on her broadsword, leaving the impossible armor plate on the chest where Holden had stacked it. Snatching up her gauntlets and shield, she slipped quietly out the door.
When Holden woke with the sun an hour later, his first response to Cambria’s disappearance was fury. The wench must have fled somehow in the night, he decided, preferring the dangers of the forest to that of the Wolf’s lair. Finally, forcing himself to calm down, he reasoned that she could be any number of places. He shrugged into a velvet robe and went below to look for his bride.
In accordance with his decree, dozing bodies lay strewn everywhere in the great hall, refuse of the past evening’s well-enjoyed feast. He picked his way carefully through the snoozing humanity. The clank of pots came from the kitchen, and he started for the door.
Katie came bustling out, dodging Malcolm’s playful swat on her backside, and Holden nearly frightened her witless.
“Oh, milord!” she gasped, turning scarlet. “What are ye doin’ up and… I mean…”
“I’ve somehow misplaced my wife,” he admitted.
“Oh, la!” Katie replied, her hand upon her heart. “Why, my lord, she goes most every mornin’ to the—“
“To the garden,” Malcolm interjected.
Katie
gaped at her husband’s blatant lie.
Holden’s brow clouded instantly. Malcolm was a lousy liar. “To the garden?”
“Well,” Malcolm hedged, “some field.”
Holden raised himself to his full threatening height. “Where is my wife?”
Malcolm folded his arms and stared at the point of Holden’s chin, which was still above his eye level. “I told her not to go below. Her place is with you, I know. I presumed she would remain—“
“You presumed she would stay here obediently?” He looked incredulously at the steward. “Even I know her better.”
Malcolm’s face burned with embarrassment. “I’ll show you where she is.”
“Do so and quickly! She’s not safe outside the castle wall.”
“I’ll carve you like an English roast!”
Holden and Malcolm heard Cambria’s colorful threats long before they saw her sword flash in a downward arc at empty air. Holden watched her from the trees as she turned and struck again at her invisible enemy. He neared stealthily, angered at her brazenness in coming alone, but relieved at her apparent safety. The garden indeed. He motioned to Malcolm to go on back to the castle. He had choice words for Cambria.
After Malcolm had gone, he observed his warrior wife for several minutes. She’d forgone a helm, which left her hair loose to dance riotously about her shoulders as she turned and lunged.
The lass was quick. There was a lyrical quality to her movements. But beyond her agility, there was little to recommend her as a fighter. She was recklessly aggressive. Her careless defense left her open so often that in the few minutes he watched her, an enemy could have slain her easily a dozen times.
When she drew near to his place of concealment and he’d seen enough, he stepped suddenly from behind the tall sycamore.
“I’ve not taken a wife!” he bellowed. “I’ve gained a knight-errant!”
Cambria wheeled in surprise and almost ran him through.
Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior Page 14
