Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior

by Glynnis Campbell

  A Wolf. The hair prickled at the back of her neck. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought of Duncan. A dozen times she’d considered sending someone to him. Surely he’d know what to do. He’d be easy to locate. He was no doubt fighting in the front lines of the war near Edinburgh. But she couldn’t send someone into that peril—to bear the brunt of both the battle and Holden’s fury when he learned his wife was missing.

  She sighed resignedly. Holden must be told. Maybe there was nothing he could do. Maybe it was too late to save Cambria. But Holden would never forgive Linet if she didn’t give him the chance to try.

  She swallowed hard. She’d go herself. It couldn’t be far. She’d be safe enough. Surely no one, Scots or English, would attack a pregnant woman. She’d find Duncan. And, God willing, he’d find Cambria.

  “Missing!”

  Duncan scowled, recovered at last from the shock of discovering his newly pregnant wife in the war camp with nothing but a scrawny squire for escort.

  Holden focused on Linet’s face as intently as a falcon on prey, making the poor lady cringe. “What do you mean, ‘missing’?”

  Linet shook her grief-weary head. “She’s nowhere to be found, Holden.”

  Holden’s anger turned instantly to breathless fear. He searched Linet’s eyes. “You’re serious.”

  Linet’s face dissolved into a mask of such hopelessness that he didn’t need an answer.

  Holden’s heart tumbled inside his chest. He suddenly couldn’t draw breath. “What… How…”

  “No one knows,” Linet said, her voice breaking. “We’ve looked everywhere. Malcolm’s beside himself. I thought if I came…”

  Holden had to master his heart before panic claimed him. There was still hope. There was always hope.

  “How long have you been traveling?”

  “Two days,” the squire reported.

  Holden bit back a curse. Duncan voiced one.

  “And how long has she been missing?” Holden asked.

  “Five days, all told,” Linet choked out.

  Holden nodded, controlling keen despair only by clenching his jaw and looking past Linet’s crumbling countenance. Five days. Bloody hell. Much could happen in five days.

  He swallowed down the terror that rose up to claim him, blew out a thin breath, and steeled his shoulders. “I’ll leave at once.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Duncan said.

  “And the king?” Linet said, glancing nervously at the soldiers encamped nearby.

  “The de Wares have given more than their share of service,” Duncan assured her.

  “I’ve proven my loyalty to the king,” Holden murmured. “It’s time I proved my loyalty to my wife.”

  Holden searched feverishly through the Gavin woods. He’d sent his men back to Blackhaugh at sunset. But he couldn’t cease searching, no matter that his eyes could barely pierce the deep shade of the forest. He never doubted for a moment he’d find Cambria. He couldn’t afford to doubt it. He only hoped he’d find her in time. For more than an hour, he stomped through the underbrush, trampling bushes, searching for a sign—a scrap of cloth, a footprint…a drop of blood. He swayed on his feet. God, he prayed, let her be safe.

  Then, as he mouthed that silent plea, his attention was caught by an unnatural break in the branches ahead. He rubbed his forehead, afraid weariness may have made him imagine what he’d seen. But when he looked again, it was still there—the unmistakable shape of an H made from the bent branches of an oak. Someone had left him a trail.

  A hard slap startled Cambria awake. Her head rocked over the splintery floor with the impact.

  “Wake up, bitch!”

  It was Aggie’s strident screeching. Cambria caught an unpleasant whiff of her unwashed body and winced. The events of the past days crashed down on her like a cartload of armor. A hundred times she’d wished she were not so unwieldy, a thousand times that she had her sword. She was useless like this, lying on her side, gagged, bound hand and foot, fat and slow and vulnerable.

  “Haven’t ye birthed that whelp yet?” Aggie whined. “It’s been a week now, and I’m growin’ weary o’ this hovel.” She scratched her nose and bent down to stare into Cambria’s face. “Be a good lass, now, an’ I’ll give ye somethin’ to eat. We can’t have the heir o’ Blackhaugh goin’ hungry, can we?” She cackled and roughly loosened the gag from around Cambria’s jaw.

  “Wa…ter…” Cambria’s voice was little more than a croak, and she hated to beg so pitifully, but her throat was parched, and her thirst that of two.

  “Oh, aye, aye, ye’ll get yer water,” Aggie grumbled, snatching up a skin from the battered oak table and sloshing its contents into Cambria’s mouth.

  Cambria welcomed the precious liquid and the bits of bread Aggie hand-fed her afterward, though they were tough to chew and difficult to swallow.

  “It isn’t easy, is it, chokin’ down peasant bread?” Aggie sneered. “That’s all I’ve had to eat my whole life—the leavin’s.” She wadded another piece and stuck it carefully between Cambria’s teeth. “But no more,” she said, her feline eyes gleaming. “I’m goin’ to be a lady now. I’m goin’ to live in that big castle.”

  “Blackhaugh?” Cambria managed to rasp out around the bit of bread.

  “With servants o’ my own to feed me and dress me…”

  “You?”

  Aggie glared sharply down at her. “Aye. Me.” She set aside the chunk of bread. “Just as soon as ye see fit to birth that babe.”

  Cambria choked down the last piece of bread. She was afraid to ask, but she had to know. “What are you planning, Aggie?”

  Aggie ran her finger idly along the edge of the table. “I’m goin’ to save yer babe, lassie, don’t ye fret. And Lord Holden, when he sees how pitiful sorry I am that I couldn’t save the both o’ ye…” She sighed and drew her thin lips into a trembling pout. “He’ll keep me in the best chamber o’ Blackhaugh for saving’ his heir, so properly grateful he’ll be.”

  Cambria’s heart fluttered. Aggie’s plan was diabolical. Ruthless. And worst of all, she was right. It would work. Holden would take the woman at her word. Bloody hell, she couldn’t leave her babe in this madwoman’s charge. It was unthinkable. She had to say something, anything, to change Aggie’s mind.

  Summoning up all her powers of deception, Cambria managed to force a peal of derisive laughter from her throat.

  Aggie turned on her with the fury of a vexed cat. “How dare ye!” she spat. “Ye won’t be laughin’ long after I yank that whelp from ye!”

  Cambria continued to rock with laughter.

  Aggie stamped her foot. “Damn yer eyes! What ails ye?”

  Cambria shook her head. “Holden’s heir, is it? You foolish woman!”

  Aggie was beside herself now with anger. “How dare ye!”

  “Holden won’t be grateful in the least,” Cambria chuckled. “The babe isn’t his.”

  Aggie sucked in a shocked breath. “What do ye mean?”

  “The babe isn’t his, and he knows it. Why do you think he so willingly left for war?”

  Aggie chewed at her lip. “Then whose babe is it?”

  Cambria took a deep lungful of air. She’d have to be prepared for anything now. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  A panoply of emotions coursed across Aggie’s face—confusion, fury, hurt, disbelief—before she said his name. “Owen.”

  Cambria held her breath. Perhaps Aggie would let her go now. There was no point in keeping her. Owen was dead. Holden was removed from the game. As far as Aggie was concerned, Cambria was no longer a pawn.

  The corners of Aggie’s mouth turned down, and her eyes grew ugly. “Poor Owen. He never could resist a twitchin’ skirt,” she muttered. “And I’ll wager ye strutted yer backside by him every chance ye had. If it weren’t for ye, he’d never have strayed. If it weren’t for ye, he might still be alive. And I’d be packin’ to move into Blackhaugh. Ye bitch.”

  Aggie’s gaze fell on Cambria�
�s knife, embedded in the table, and sly smile distorted her features.

  Cambria squirmed in her bonds.

  Aggie seesawed the blade out of the oak and turned it over in her fingers. The burnished dagger hovered inches from Cambria’s face.

  “It’s all yer fault,” Aggie whispered, leaning close, her eyes glassy.

  Cambria winced as a drop of Aggie’s sweat dripped onto her cheek. God, no, she thought. She couldn’t die like this. Not bound and helpless. Not by her own knife.

  “It’ll be a pleasure to slay ye, ye and yer spawn,” Aggie hissed. She raised the dagger high, coupling her hands on the haft.

  Cambria had no time. No leverage. No momentum. The blade dropped. She ducked her head and rolled onto her back, toward the attack. The movement surprised Aggie enough to ruin her aim. The tip of the blade only grazed Cambria’s shoulder. But now Cambria’s arms were pinned beneath her, and her stomach was fully exposed.

  Leering down, Aggie recovered her balance and raised the weapon again. The blade gleamed as it split the air. This time there was nowhere to go. Screaming as she strained the muscles of her stomach, Cambria shot her legs upward like a loosed catapult. She caught Aggie alongside the head, knocking her sideways. Cambria groaned. Her stomach felt on fire. But she’d gained a few precious seconds. While Aggie recovered her wits, Cambria got her legs under her enough to kneel.

  Then Aggie slashed out in wild fury. Cambria bent forward to shield her vulnerable belly. The knife gashed her forehead. Once. Twice. Grazed her cheek. Aggie’s mad spittle sprayed her face.

  Cambria couldn’t last much longer. Not with her hands bound behind her. Not without a weapon of any kind. She waited for Aggie to draw back for another strike. She gritted her teeth. Then she swung forward with her head as hard as she could, cracking it against Aggie’s. Pain flashed through her temples and down her neck. Her ears buzzed. Her vision fractured into a million fragments. But the knife whistled past her, harmless.

  When her sigh returned, Aggie lay limp on the floor, the dagger deposited like an offering between them. Cambria had to work fast. Ignoring the complaints of her stomach, the sting of her shoulder, and the blood that threatened to seep into her eyes, she inched backward on her knees toward the knife.

  The haft was slippery with blood and sweat. It kept sliding out of Cambria’s fingers as she awkwardly sawed at the ropes binding her wrists behind her. She dropped it. Cursing under her breath, she groped blindly for it. She pierced her finger on the point. Then her left hand closed about it. Carefully she tried to transfer the dagger to her right hand. But it dropped again. Frantic now, she scrabbled her fingertips along the splinter floor, shoving a sliver under one of her nails.

  A small moan sounded behind her. Aggie was rousing. Cambria had to get the knife. A sob of panic built in her throat. Her fingers grazed metal, drove it away, caught it again. She had the dagger in her hand.

  Then Aggie collided with her, pushing her forward, hard. The cornerstone of the hearth rose up to pound against her forehead. The floor slammed into her, shoving her firm womb against her soft organs with the force of a huge iron ball shot from a thunder tube. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. But she still clenched the dagger tightly in her bound fists, holding on to it for dear life.

  A strange squeal came from behind her. Aggie. Stretched out gracelessly atop Cambria’s back, her bony frame trembling. Her fingers clawed at Cambria’s shoulders, digging in a hopeless struggle. Her voice sounded parchment-thin as she gasped against Cambria’s ear.

  “Nay…nay.”

  Cambria shuddered. A thin stream of pink saliva hung from Aggie’s lips and then dropped to the floor. She closed her eyes against the sight. It was too late. Cambria’s dagger had found anchor. She loosened her fingers around the weapon. Aggie rolled weakly from her, sobbing once in bewilderment when she saw the blade buried deep in her breast and the spreading scarlet staining her kirtle.

  Then, with pathetic determination, scraping and clawing her way, Aggie crawled forward, as if she could escape death’s reach. It was a painful eternity before the last raping breath of life wheezed out from between her lips. When Cambria found the nerve to look, Aggie lay collapsed at her feet.

  Holden plunged forward, fording streams, whipping away branches, searching for the signs of the H, backtracking when they became too sparse. At last the marks led him to an overgrown hovel, a squalid, deserted place made nearly invisible with heavy vines.

  Slowly he crept forward. Strange sounds came from the cottage, pathetic sounds that turned his brave soul to custard, sounds like an animal in heat—groaning, tortured noises. His heart pulsed in his throat as he slipped his sword from its sheath and neared the open door.

  In the dim light, it was difficult to see inside. There was a shifting lump near the stone hearth that looked like a moving pile of laundry. It was from there that the noises came. Cautiously, he inched through the doorway. He could hear panting, like the rough breathing of a wounded creature.

  It was Cambria’s familiar moan that pulled at his very soul, that human sound that rent his heart and made him drop his sword and his guard to go to her. Fear slammed into his chest. There was blood everywhere. Her whimpers were piteous, gut-wrenching. Dear God, he prayed, let her be unhurt. Let her live.

  “Cambria,” he called hoarsely, kneeling beside her.

  The moaning ceased.

  “Cambria!” he cried, reaching his hands out, yet afraid to make contact.

  Her head whipped around, and he could see the shine of her wide eyes.

  “Holden?” her voice was weak.

  Tears filled his eyes. He let them fall. “I’m here now. You’ll be safe. I swear it.”

  She groaned again.

  He touched her cheek tentatively. “Oh, God, Cambria, what’s been done to you?”

  A sound eerily like a chuckle escaped Cambria, but it was immediately wrenched from her mouth as another wave of pain overpowered her. When she could speak again, she said rapidly, “Fetch a clean blanket or something, Holden, hurry.”

  She was dying, he thought. But he didn’t question her command. He would have brought her the moon. The best he could offer was his cloak.

  “Now cut me loose,” she gasped before pain rendered her speechless once more.

  He swiped at his tear-blinded eyes and carefully severed the cords about her wrists and ankles. It was all his fault. If only he’d stayed with her…

  Cambria huffed heavily, and Holden closed his eyes. Tears squeezed between his lashes and left burning trails down his cheeks. Please, God, he prayed, don’t let her die. He was afraid to touch her, afraid of what mortal wound he would find. He cast his gaze away in despair, and it was then that he divined what the lump beside him was. He nearly fell back on his haunches as he recognized the ashen face of Sir Owen’s slut, Agnes.

  “She’s dead,” Cambria whispered. Then she moaned loud.

  Her cries were driving him mad. He had to do something. He wiped at his trembling mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Cambria, we have to get you home, to Blackhaugh, to the physician.”

  “Not…now. Too…late.”

  “I’ll carry you,” he pleaded, reaching beneath her. God, her garments were drenched. “Cambria, if you lose any more blood—“

  She barked out a little laugh. “It isn’t blood.”

  She must be delirious. He tried to move her.

  “Nay!” she cried. “It comes! It comes!”

  She clenched her fists and lifted her head from the floor. For an awful moment, he thought she’d seen the specter of death coming for her, that she was about to breathe her last. Her features contorted in a grimace that seemed part anguish and part ecstasy. Then his eyes adjusted to the low light of the room. He could make out Cambria’s profile. She was as round as an overstuffed goose.

  “You’re not having… Holy Mother of God,” he breathed, and for an irrational instant wondered how it could have happened. “You’re not…” />
  “Not…for…long,” she panted.

  Reality hit him like a mallet. Cambria wasn’t wounded. She was in the throes of labor.

  Any other man would have been relieved. But dread ran icy fingers along Holden’s spine. Nightmares of his own mother, screaming and writhing in agony as she succumbed to a bloody death, racked his mind. Cambria bore down, her body heaving with effort, and an overwhelming urge to flee consumed him. But he was immobilized by panic.

  “You must…help…” she gasped.

  Holden turned his head away in terror. He’d done this to her. He’d gotten her with child. He was fated to kill another kinswoman.

  Suddenly Cambria’s fists tangled in his tabard, and she yanked him down to her. “Listen, Englishman!” she hissed like an angry cat between gulps of air. “If you don’t help me…I’ll tell your son…his father is an English coward.”

  Her threat brought him around faster than a hard slap. It wasn’t what she said. It was the determination with which she said it. She had faith, even if he didn’t. Together they would get through this. Had he been gone so long he’d forgotten Cambria’s stubbornness, her will, her tenacity? She was nothing like his pale, delicate mother. Cambria was a Scotswoman, by God, a laird, a warrior. She would battle heaven and hell to survive, if only to scoff at the weakness an Englishman had shown her. She would live, if only to boast about how she’d birthed her firstborn by herself in a humble cottage. And she’d gloat about the fact that he’d sat helplessly by while she did it.

  Holden swallowed hard and pushed back the sleeves of his hauberk. He murmured a prayer and moved between Cambria’s knees. If she could fight the battle, so could he.

  He looked into her pain-glazed eyes and saw no fear, no hesitation, only challenge and determination. “God, I love you.” His voice broke, and his hands trembled as he placed them upon her bloody thighs. But he told her.

  “And I love you,” she said between ragged gasps, giving him a brilliant smile.

  The heir of de Ware and the next laird of Gavin was about to enter the world. He’d be damned if he’d desert his wife on the battlefield. And he’d be damned if he’d be excluded from this legendary birth.