Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (36 page)

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 troubled 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.

“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’ attention.

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.

Before common sense could change her mind, she shook her shoulders to loosen them up, faced Holden’s brother, and made ready to strike.

Scarcely had the squire jumped from between them when Duncan whipped his blade out, letting it hover restlessly before him. As was his habit, Duncan let his opponent attack first. The sword flashed and clanged loudly as it contacted his blade several times. The knight’s blows were not particularly powerful nor were they very accurate, so he had little trouble lunging out of the way, but that didn’t diminish his enjoyment. He always preferred style to brute force anyway. And never had he seen such style, such brash confidence, nimbleness, and aggression in an opponent so obviously overmatched. When fully grown, and with the proper discipline and humility, he thought, this youth might make an extraordinary warrior.

He fought, fascinated, as the knight kept up a rapid barrage of attacks. Still, he wasn’t so enthralled that he didn’t notice one of the squires slipping away from the others to lope out of the clearing and off across the countryside.

Holden froze at the top of the rise. His chest constricted painfully as he peered down from the slope before Blackhaugh. He could scarcely draw breath for the terror that choked him. Just as the squire reported, there was Cambria, in all her glory and armor, slashing and leaping in mortal combat. And towering over her like a great beast bent on her destruction was his unconquerable brother, Duncan. His heart pounding wildly, he unsheathed and charged at the warriors.

“Cease!” he thundered.

Cambria gasped, her sword arm frozen in the air.

Duncan, delighted with Holden’s arrival, which drew the other knight’s attention away, executed a quick flick of his wrist and, with a ready grin, sent his opponent’s blade sailing across the clearing.

“Ah,
there
is my advantage at last!” he crowed, and then turned to Holden. “What kept you, brother?”

To his surprise, the dark look didn’t lift from Holden’s face. In fact, Holden seemed almost oblivious to him. Even more astonishing, however, Holden’s rage was directed not at him, but at his opponent. He looked fit to kill the young knight.

“Is this how you greet my kin?” Holden bellowed, fear cracking his voice. “With the point of a blade?”

The squires all hung their heads, as if they were to blame.

“Actually,” Duncan admitted, “it was
my
idea.”

Holden’s eyes locked on Cambria. “You didn’t bother to tell him, did you?” Holden knew by her silence that he was right. She hadn’t told Duncan who she was. Still, he had the irrational urge to knock his brother alongside the head. Why could no one else see that Cambria was a woman?

Linet frowned from the sidelines, sizing up this brother of Duncan’s. She could see the similarities at once between the two—their stature, their good looks—but there the resemblance ended. Where Duncan was spirited and engaging, Holden was as surly as a bear. She hated him at once. In fact, if he weren’t so beloved of her husband, she’d have marched up to him and told him in no uncertain terms just what she thought of his yelling at a woman like that.

Duncan set the point of his sword in the dirt and rested his free fist on his hip. He was unaccustomed to being ignored, especially by his own long-absent brother. It seemed Holden had become rather heavy-handed with his vassals. Still, he knew better than to interfere. His brother was a lord in his own right now. His Linet, however, had no such qualms about intruding. She looked ready to jump into the fray.

Holden couldn’t take a proper breath. He trembled like a skittish colt. Reaching out, he hauled Cambria to him by the front of her tabard, more to assure himself she was whole than to intimidate her.