Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (31 page)

Holden shuddered. Edward was unbending when it came to matters of justice. He’d arranged the execution of his mother’s beloved Roger Mortimer easily enough. If the king believed Owen, he wouldn’t hesitate to exact the same kind of harsh judgment against Cambria.

He couldn’t let that happen. No matter that he’d promised to deliver the traitor to Edward, he couldn’t give Owen the chance to bend the king’s ear. Nay, he’d see the bastard dead before the sun kissed the horizon again.

Somehow he had to goad Owen into fighting. And to do that, he must gull the churl into thinking he had half a chance of winning.

With a cluck to Ariel, he began to rein her back and forth in a clear display of anger.

“You would turn against the very household that fostered you?”

“I have no great affection for the house of de Ware!” Owen shouted. “Your father only took me in because I was Roger’s brother!”

Holden threw his helm to the ground in pretended frustration.

Owen seemed satisfied by this response and began to grow smug. “You still have Bowden Castle, de Ware,” he sang out. “Be content with that.”

“I will not let what is rightfully mine be taken from me!” Holden thundered, raising his fist to the sky.

Owen chortled. “This keep is not rightfully yours!”

Holden punched his fist into his palm. He didn’t want to lay siege, and he wouldn’t pitch an outright battle against his own vassals. But if he could needle Owen into waging war with champions…

“If I lay siege, you won’t last a month. There are not enough provisions in Blackhaugh.” It was a lie, but he gambled that Owen had neglected to check the castle’s stores. “Let us choose champions to battle for possession of the keep. A fight to the death.”

Holden knew his foe was not stupid. Owen would never send a single champion against a man of Holden’s reputation. But if the odds were evened, if he tempted Owen with the possibility of conquering the unconquerable Wolf…

“The Wolf de Ware,” he said, “against ten of your best men!”

Owen scratched at his beard, mulling over Holden’s words. Damn! He wished he had ten knights. He would have liked to see the thus far undefeated Wolf ground into the dust. Besides, earning the reputation as the man who’d conquered England’s greatest warrior would be as effective a defense as an extra curtain wall around the castle. But, sadly, he didn’t have even one ally left to do battle.

Still, if what Holden said about Blackhaugh’s stores was true, he had to take a more timely course of action. He no longer had the resources or the constitution to endure a long siege. His leg was worsening. For days he’d denied it, but already he suffered bouts of fever. If he didn’t get to a physician, it wouldn’t be long before he succumbed to complete delirium.

He spat on the sill in disgust, sick with the irony that, though he held Blackhaugh and all of its inhabitants hostage, he was still powerless against the Wolf.

Then, in a dark corner of his brain, a single thought crawled forth like a glistening pink worm from beneath moldy mulch, a notion so delectably twisted, so diabolical that he nearly choked on his cleverness.

“All right, de Ware,” he called down. “I accept your challenge. Prepare to meet your end.”

Holden didn’t have time to wonder at Owen’s ready agreement. The knave spun quickly away from the window, disappearing from sight. Then a shriek echoed from within the tower.

Cambria.

Holden felt her scream like a blade drawn swiftly across his heart. If that pox-ridden swine had hurt her… His throat closed painfully. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Cambria.

He loved her.

In his entire life he’d never been able to say those words before. He’d scarcely admit, even to himself, that the feeling existed. He’d lusted after women, and he’d adored them from afar. But now he knew. Now he realized, with an almost physical ache, that he loved the Scots lass, loved her beyond reason, beyond understanding, more than life itself. The king be damned, his country be damned, if he came through this and was able to hold her in his arms again, he’d tell her he loved her until she grew sick from hearing it.

He’d believed he possessed Cambria. She was his vassal, after all, to command as he did his knights. He was the lord of Blackhaugh, and her world should rightly center on serving him.

But that wasn’t the truth of it at all. His lip curled in irony as he dismounted to retrieve his helm.
His
world was the one turned all awry. Cambria could lead him a chase, pricking him like an irremovable thorn and attacking him with the most irreverent tirades. And yet he never felt more alive than when she was working her wiles on him, grappling with him over the Scots’ cause, challenging him with her dagger-sharp wit, taunting him with her glorious body.

The past few days had been pure hell without her. Merely gazing upon her made his heart quicken. Every turn of her head, every spark in her eye, each gesture that was unique to her captivated him. Nay, he admitted, clutching his helm beneath his arm, he wasn’t lord and master to Cambria Gavin. He was the willing prisoner of her heart.

And, by God’s grace, when he had pummeled Owen’s men into the dust, he’d sweep her into his arms, surrender the key to his soul, and hold on to her forever.

The cruel syllables echoed over and over in the empty shell of Cambria’s heart—
spoiled goods…keep the whore…

He couldn’t have meant it, not the man who’d melted her with a kiss, who’d chased away her nightmares in his arms, who’d vowed before God to keep her and honor her. Yet his heartless words bruised her far worse than any blows from Owen’s fists.

Had she mistaken their silent exchange? She’d sworn in that one moment when they locked gazes that they’d understood each other, that together, somehow, some way, they would overthrow Owen.

Perhaps she’d been wrong. He’d been so angry with her the last time they spoke. Perhaps the Wolf
had
only used her to gain control of Blackhaugh. Perhaps she
had
“served her purpose.” It was too awful, too painful to consider.

Besides, a greater challenge awaited her.

Owen had unlocked her shackles and cast her chains to the floor, replacing them with a coat of mail, gauntlets, and a surcoat.

Half-hysterical laughter threatened to issue from her mouth as she realized Owen’s intent, but in the next heartbeat, the brute stifled it with a wad of cloth stuffed between her lips. Her eyes watered as he shoved the rag deep into her mouth, making her gag. Then he tied it in place with a strip of linen, pulling it so tight that she imagined her lips would crack. Over it all, he plunged a heavy steel helm, and Cambria battled panic as she strove to breathe in the suffocating bascinet.

From the shade of the dovecote, Katie watched, her chin a-tremble, as the bastard Englishman dragged Cambria to the middle of the courtyard. The old servant chewed on her fist to stop the foolish tears that would do the girl no good, fighting back the urge to rush to her mistress’s aid. She hadn’t laid eyes on Cambria since the lass’s untimely arrival, but by the girl’s staggering gait and the droop of her shoulders, Katie knew she’d been mistreated.

It vexed her to be so helpless. Owen had given the women the run of the keep—the bastard needed their services—but he’d threatened to slay Cambria at once if any of them left. Katie had thankfully been able to make frequent visits to Malcolm in the dungeon. But the situation was no better. Even if she’d been able to steal the dungeon keys from Owen, which was impossible, since he slept locked in the tower, there was nothing any of them dared do while he held their laird prisoner.

And now the monster was sending the poor lass out to battle her husband, the Wolf, who would likely cut her down in the wink of an eye before he even knew whom he attacked.

Katie couldn’t bear it. She’d already witnessed the deaths of Cambria’s mother and father. She couldn’t stand idly by while Owen destroyed what little was left of the Gavin clan.

As Owen tried to maneuver the unwieldy charger in the middle of the courtyard, the sun caught on the dull iron ring of castle keys dangling from his belt by a leather thong. They jangled against his thigh, taunting her. She gnawed at her lip. If she could get to them, somehow cut that tie…

Her heart batted against her ribs like a trapped sparrow, but she stepped from hiding and crossed determinedly to where Owen fought to control the nervous steed.

Sweat beaded the man’s brow, and his face bore a deathly pallor. He reeked of the infection in his leg and the wine he constantly consumed to dull its ache. He was not long for this world, and with a vengeance that surely damned her soul, Katie wished the man would die on the spot. But he only limped forward, jerking hard on the horse’s lead.

She came up behind him, her heart pounding so fiercely she feared he might hear it. Biting her lip to stop its quivering, she slipped an embroidery needle from her pouch. Before she had time to regret her actions, she jammed it hard into the charger’s flank.

The horse screamed, rearing in protest, and Katie was nearly trampled. In the confusion, Owen staggered back with a curse. Swiftly, before he could regain his presence of mind, Katie drew her eating dagger and sliced forward.

The knife grazed his side, scarcely breaking the skin, and he snarled more in fury than pain. But he wheeled on her with eyes as black as the devil’s. The last thing she remembered was the crack of his fist exploding against her chin and splinters of light like a chapel window bursting in her face.

Cambria’s eyes flooded with tears of anguish and rage. Her poor beloved Katie. The old maid lay still as death on the sward, her russet skirts sprawled on the ground like a withered rose.

Owen grabbed Cambria’s arm, and she tried to wrench away, wanting nothing more than to beat him to a bloody pulp. But she didn’t have the strength to finish him off, and she couldn’t afford to rile him. He’d only take his anger out on her clan anyway, as he’d already done with Katie.

So she cast one last despondent look at the servant who had raised her, the dear woman who’d sacrificed herself for the laird.

Then a dark glimmer within the folds of Katie’s skirt caught her eye. Cradled in the servant’s still palm were the castle keys.

“Mount!” Owen growled.

A slender blade of hope pierced her bleak despair. But there was no time now, no chance to take advantage of her discovery. She wasn’t even sure Katie was alive.

“Mount!”

Cambria swallowed the impulse to stand her ground and did as she was told. The sooner she was out of the keep, the sooner her clan would be safe. Still, her limbs felt leaden as she climbed into the saddle, albeit more from the burden of duty than from the weight of the armor plate Owen had forced her to wear.

Owen seized the reins so she couldn’t possibly spur the horse to trample him. Then he issued a dire threat.

“If you reveal yourself to de Ware or make any attempt to avoid this battle, make no mistake—I’ll torch the dungeon. You’ll hear your clansmen scream your name in agony as they burn alive.”

Her heart tolling like a burial bell, Cambria rode slowly toward the front gate, likely to her death. Holden would never guess it was she. He’d slay her in a few calculated strokes, never suspecting until he tore her helm away and beheld her sightless eyes that Owen had sent his own wife to fight him.

But fight him she would, for her clan’s sake. She was a laird now. Her life belonged to the Gavins. If she didn’t do everything in her power to protect them, then she was as worthless as a broken sword. She’d die for them, if need be. She only prayed that if Holden killed her, the Gavins would forgive him, and that he would stay to protect her people.

She consoled herself with the knowledge that at least it was a noble way to die—in the defense of her clan. Holden would slay her, and Blackhaugh would revert to his hands—his and the Gavins who had grown to respect him, Malcolm and Katie and…

She sniffed back the tears that threatened to undermine her control and kicked once at the charger. It was best this way, she decided, swift and with honor.

Holden wasn’t deceived for an instant. He knew from the size and the carriage of the knight exactly who it was. What bloody trickery was this? His men might be gulled, but did Owen truly imagine Holden wouldn’t recognize his own wife?

The knights around him began to converse in curious whispers as she approached, falling silent when she halted twenty feet away. Their scowls clearly showed they disapproved of the disparity in size between the imposing Holden de Ware and Owen’s scrawny champion.

Once Owen had returned to the tower window to watch, Holden made a show of saluting his opponent. “Hola!”

Cambria made no answer. Holden frowned. So she didn’t wish to be known. Why? Was it possible she’d taken his reckless words to heart? Did she believe she’d been used? Had she come willingly to do battle with him? Nay, it couldn’t be. Surely she wouldn’t champion a monster such as Owen.

“Have you made your peace with God, sirrah?” he said loudly, buying time so he could nudge Ariel close to her.

Her nod was barely discernible.

He murmured just loudly enough for her to hear. “I swear on the honor of de Ware, I meant none of the things I—“

“Get on with it!” Owen yelled, waving a flaming brand menacingly from the tower window.

Cambria reined her mount back in panic, trying to maintain distance between them. Clearly she intended to avoid discourse with him at all costs. Maybe Owen had threatened her—her or her clan.

He cursed softly, wishing he could look her in the eye and know the truth of her silence.

It appeared battle was unavoidable. He took his time, covering his head with his helm and tugging on his gauntlets. He cast a glance at his weapons. He wouldn’t use the lance—Cambria had little skill with it. Better to use arms for close combat.

“Swords?” he suggested, as Ariel pawed at the ground and tossed her head impatiently.

Cambria nodded, and then dismounted, catching at the stirrup for balance as her legs buckled beneath her.