And then, sliding the coverlet down, he lay upon her, flesh to fevered flesh, groaning with the pleasured pain of it. She was perfection—warm, yielding, and female. Her body cleaved to his like fine chain mail, caressing his shoulders, enveloping his chest, molding to his thighs. He shivered as delicious, fiery waves of lust rocked him.
Cambria moaned breathlessly. What she’d imagined before was nothing compared to the reality of Holden’s touch. Where his fingers lingered there was fire. Where his lips brushed…
She drew in great draughts of his male scent—smoke and leather and spice. She tasted the salty tang of his muscles as she feverishly kissed his shoulder and lapped at the pillar of his neck. She was hopelessly drunk with desire, but she didn’t care if he thought her wanton or witch. She only knew she wanted this. Needed it. This closeness, this soul-forging intimacy. Now.
Her heart hammered insistently, urging her on, compelling her to quench her growing thirst. Her body strove upward against his hot flesh, as if with a will of its own, arching her toward her destiny, toward what must be.
And then he sank into her, hot and strong and true as a lance, filling the hungry place inside her, and the breath was raked from her throat. This was the melding she’d desired, the joining of their bodies until there wasn’t a whisper’s breadth between them, the summoning of her heart by his until they beat in tandem.
He drew back then, prolonging the agony of separation as his flesh pulled slowly from hers. And just before she could sob in protest, he sheathed himself once more. Firmly. Deeply.
A low cry of passion was wrung from her lips. Every inch of her body felt charged with lightning. She peered through lead-heavy lashes at the forest-dark eyes above her. They were half closed, glazed with need, shadowed with purpose. They told her he knew exactly what he was doing, and nothing on heaven or earth would stop him. She closed her eyes and surrendered.
Holden feared it would be over far too soon. Never had he felt so aroused. But the woman beneath him deserved more. She deserved his patience. She deserved his restraint. He tried to think of her needs, lapping delicately at the shell of her ear, tracing the curve of her breast, grazing slowly across the nubbin of flesh that was the center of her lust. But the more she responded, the more demanding his own body became, like a runaway warhorse charging to its natural rhythm.
And then they were galloping together. She clutched at his mane, and he whispered meaningless commands against her hair. Faster and harder they rode, climbing the mountain of desire, striving upward with muscle and sinew and quivering flesh until the pinnacle was in sight.
Cambria gasped as she crested the top of the hill. A lush, fertile valley seemed to stretch out before her, taking her breath away, promising its bounty, filling her with awe. Holden must have felt it, too, for he paused on the precipice. And then they were racing down the hill together, bounding, falling, tumbling—wild and free and alive with joy.
Cambria didn’t remember drifting off. But the next thing she knew, she was drowsily rousing to find Holden easing his weight from her, tucking the coverlet in around her, and moving toward the window to gaze at the countryside beyond. Sunlight burnished the contours of his body, accentuating the wide curve of his chest, the casual sling of his hip, the rounded swell of his shoulder. Every inch of him exuded power.
And yet he was capable of infinite tenderness. His touch could be iron firm or as delicate as the wing of a butterfly, and the way he caressed her breast… Already she wanted him again.
Holden turned from the fire and dusted his hands. He glanced toward the pallet. His beautiful Cambria was awake. Her hair was artfully tousled. Her skin glowed like a pale candle. Her eyes glimmered behind sultry lashes. And she was looking at him thatway again. Damn, she tempted him. She was an angel in his arms—warm and soft and sweet.
But he couldn’t let her distract him again. He had building to supervise. The new floor had to be…
She pushed herself up onto an elbow. One coy pink nipple peeped innocently out from beneath the fur coverlet.
He cleared his throat. There were important matters waiting. It was imperative that…
She ran her tongue quickly over her lips. And Holden’s good intentions fled quicker than a baker caught with short loaves.
Twice more she drained him of his strength and all sense, until he lay limp as seaweed on the sand.
“Laird Gavin,” Holden murmured wearily, “are you quite finished with me?”
She giggled low, cuddling into the crook of his arm. “There’s one more favor I’d ask of you, Lord Holden.”
“Ask,” he sighed, “and it’s yours.”
She grinned and drew a circle on his chest with her finger. “Could spare a carpenter to build a special piece of me?”
“What do you require?” he asked, closing his eyes to soak up the wonderful warmth of her body. “A wooden chest? A cupboard? A pedestal to set me upon?”
“Vain oaf.” She took a playful swat at him. “Nay, a cradle.”
“A cradle? But why…”
The breath froze inside him. It seemed the whole world ground to a wrenching halt, and the room suddenly darkened, as if a black cloud covered the sun. Her words and his thoughts hung in the air, like lethal arrows caught in midflight, and for a blessed space of time, he was unable to make sense of what he’d heard. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, but saw nothing.
And then the earth stirred, slowly resuming its turn, only now his breath felt oddly altered, dense, unrecognizable, as if he’d somehow crossed into a foreign clime where the air was thicker, perhaps poisoned. His heart beat like a leaden tambour, and his throat was too clogged to speak.
Surely she wasn’t… He swallowed hard, afraid to look at her, afraid he’d find what he feared most in her eyes.
“Holden?”
“A cradle,” he repeated.
“Mm-hmm.” Cambria grinned wide. Sometimes men could be so blind. “Don’t you want to know why?”
“You’re…”
“I’m with child, Holden.” Just saying it aloud made her feel aglow with happiness.
But Holden offered no reply. He only stiffened against her.
“Holden?” Sudden misgiving threatened to sour her joy. “Did you hear me?”
“You’re with child.” His voice was gruff, cold, distant. What was wrong with him?
“Holden, is something…?” A moment ago, she’d floated on angels’ wings. Now she was Icarus, careening toward the earth. “You know… you know the child is yours?”
“Oh, aye,” he said, his tone as bitter as rue. “It was I who did the deed.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit her lip to still its tremor. “Aren’t you pleased?” she whispered.
He disengaged himself from her then, sparing her not a glance, and got up from the bed, the bed where they had made love only moments before. He dressed with careless haste.
Her heart crumbled like a sapped castle wall. “Do you not…love me?”
He rounded on her, his eyes fierce with pain and rage and something else she couldn’t name. “Love you? I love you more than life itself! More than…” His voice broke, and with a curse, he stormed from the room.
Stunned and hurt and utterly bewildered, she clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling the sobs that racked her body, sobs that refused to subside until it was far past morning and Holden was far past forgiveness.
The season ripened, and summer-burnished leaves began to litter the forest floor. Heather splashed across the hill in muted golds and crimsons and purples. Berries swelled round and red in the wood, and the world glowed with the mellow light of autumn.
Cambria should have been happy. After all, she grew new life in her body. But Holden’s inexplicable withdrawal diminished her joy like dense fog clouding the sun. He avoided her eyes. His touches became less frequent. And once Blackhaugh’s new tower was completed, he decided to take up residence there. Alone.
The worst of it was he wouldn’t tell her what t
roubled him. Everything else they could discuss. They argued at length about the virtues of acquiring cattle by payment instead of by stealth. They spoke together about the purchase of land and fortification of the castle. They conferred about the idea of holding a tournament come spring. But whenever she mentioned his heir, it was as if a helm closed over his face, and he’d offer no explanation for his cool detachment.
A million ridiculous possibilities crossed her mind. She was fat. She was ugly. He didn’t love her anymore. He regretted marrying her. And in her condition, foolish tears came as readily to her eyes as dew on a spider web.
But Holden wasn’t around to witness them. He used every excuse to distance himself from her—practicing till dark in the lists, fishing half the morning, hunting with falcon most of the afternoon.
He was already up and about this morn, well before the sun. Peering through the narrow window, she could barely make out the dozen night-shrouded figures below, stamping their feet on the frozen ground and hoisting long poles over their shoulders. But she could hear them—Malcolm’s soft chuckle rising on the mist, Guy’s grumbling, their shivers as they blew into their cold hands, and above it all, the gentle commanding tone of the Wolf as the men set off to try their luck in the nearby snow-fed stream that ran through the Gavin holding.
She backed away from the window and pulled the coverlet closer about her. Ordinarily she’d balk at the thought of donning cold chain mail on a morning like this. It was still mostly night. But she had demons to battle, fiends for which she had no name, and if Holden wouldn’t stay to help her vanquish them with words, then she’d slay them the only way she could—with the sword.
If Holden had cared to notice, he would have discovered that she’d never stopped practicing with her sword, despite her condition. Though he’d likely have forbidden such rough activities because of the babe, she felt as hale as ever, and she intended to spar until she no longer fit into her hauberk.
No one seemed to miss her anyway. The servants assumed she lay abed, and the squires she sparred with she swore to silence. She always stole back in at midmorning, and by then the castle was buzzing with activity. Aye, she was as free as a meadowlark. She should have been happy.
But she wiped a tear away as she dragged her chausses up over her gently rounded belly. She wouldn’t cry, she told herself. She must be strong now. She carried the laird of Gavin in her womb. She must be strong for herself and the babe who would one day rule the clan land, with or without his father’s blessing.
CHAPTER 18
“And I tell you my eyes are not the color of emeralds,” the lady argued, although a pleased twinkle crept into those eyes. “They’re more the hue of pond frogs.”
The handsome giant beside her grinned and swept her up off her feet in a swish of russet skirts, eliciting a gasp from her.
“Duncan de Ware!” she scolded, her eyes sparkling in mock disapproval. “Put me down this instant!”
Duncan ignored her struggles, and with a wicked grin, perused her boldly until a blush stained her cheeks. How beautiful she was, he thought. Her eyes were indeed as clear and green as emeralds, her skin milky and soft, and her cheeks like twin roses. But her hair—ah, her hair was perhaps her best feature. It was the colors of wheat and sunshine and moonlight all blended, and at his request, she wore it in loose curls to her waist. He tangled a hand in it, reveling in its silkiness.
“Put you down? On the forest floor?” he teased. “Nay, good lady. It’s not fit soil for your dainty feet.”
Linet rolled her eyes heavenward for what seemed the hundredth time that day. Her husband could be a buffoon at times, but she couldn’t help but love him. He lightened her spirit with a wit and charm that had been absent from her dreary life of looms and ledgers before she met him. She still found it hard to believe that the tall, striking, azure-eyed heir of the de Ware family had married her, a wool merchant’s daughter with little patience for his frivolity. Of course, that was the case no longer, she reflected. Now she had trouble keeping a lovesick grin off of her face.
“My dainty feet have served me well enough for the past ten miles,” she answered pointedly.
It had been Duncan’s idea to abandon his retinue this morning. He was anxious to surprise his brother and this new Scots wife of his, the inimitable lady of whom Garth told the most amazing tales. So he and Linet had stolen ahead before the others, in peasant’s garb and on foot. What Duncan had assured her was a few miles had turned into a very long walk indeed, but she’d certainly not been bored on the journey. He regaled her constantly with tales of heroism, snatches of bawdy songs, and shameless flattery.
As her champion carried her through the temperate wood, nestled against his broad chest, gazing down at her as if she were some treasure he’d discovered, she found herself wishing there were always only the two of them in the world.
Suddenly, the sound of distant swordplay caught their attention. Duncan’s manner changed abruptly. He let her slip gracefully to the ground and set her behind him as he reached under his cloak and drew his sword.
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’ att
ention.
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.
Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior Page 28
