Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (37 page)

“What do you think you’re doing?” he spat to cover his fear. He twisted his fist in her garment and swore. Bloody hell, his heart wouldn’t stop galloping. He’d sparred with his brother since they were children. No one was such a formidable warrior. Duncan could have sliced Cambria’s head from her shoulders in the blink of an eye. He shuddered at the thought.

“You little fool!” he shouted hoarsely, then flung his sword arm out to point at Duncan. “You are looking at the finest swordsman alive! He’s battled four at a time and conquered men twice his size! He won his spurs before he’d even grown his first beard!”

Duncan kicked at the ground, clearly embarrassed by the praise.

Linet watched the exchange with growing amazement, her mind working as swiftly as a well-strung loom. She was beginning to understand who the warrior woman was and why Holden was so agitated. Perhaps Duncan’s brother wasn’t such an ogre after all.

Meanwhile, Holden continued with his tirade. “I’ve watched Duncan mow down an entire line of knights in a melee, singlehandedly.”

“Now, brother, there I must beg the truth,” Duncan intervened. He was growing somewhat uncomfortable with the lengthy recounting of his feats of prowess. The gaping Scots squires would be kissing the hem of his garment soon if Holden continued. “A full three-quarters of those knights were so drunk they could hardly sit their mounts.”

Holden’s eyes darted over to him, their fury undimmed yet colored by something foreign, something akin to sheer terror. “And you! Don’t you have enough men your own size to fight?”

Duncan shrugged off the hostility. “It was only a friendly match. Can’t you leave this vassal’s scolding for another time? My wife and I have yet to be properly greeted. She’ll think you’re a mannerless boor.”

Holden let his shoulders drop a notch. For the first time, he noticed the blonde woman standing behind Duncan. She was staring at him with a curiously tender expression he couldn’t fathom.

After a lengthy pause, Duncan rolled his eyes. “All right then. Lady Linet, meet my mannerless boor of a brother, Lord Holden de Ware.”

Linet moved to Duncan’s side and offered a dazzling smile, but Holden stood silent, befuddled, unable to contend with the horror that still raged within him.

Duncan shook his head. “So, where are you keeping your Scots hellion of a wife, Holden? Is she so ugly you must hide her away?” He grunted suddenly, unprepared for Linet’s elbow jab to his ribs.

“Dolt!” she called him under her breath.

Holden’s mouth compressed into a grim line, and he sheathed his sword. Then he caught Cambria’s helm in the crook of one arm and pulled it upward and off. Her long chestnut hair tumbled forth over her shoulders, and her eyes flashed rebelliously.

Duncan literally staggered from the impact. Linet had been right. The knight was a woman. He fumbled and dropped his precious sword, for once in his life at a loss for words.

“This,” Holden snarled, “is my wife.”

Linet’s triumphant smile dimmed when she saw the look in Cambria’s eyes. The poor girl was mortified, her face crimson. She would meet no one’s eyes, but only stared at the ground with a fierce and silent pride. Something about her made a surge of protectiveness well up in Linet. She liked the lass immediately. True, Cambria hardly looked like the lady of the castle. Her hair was drenched in sweat. Her face was no stranger to dirt. But there was substance to her—spirit. She seemed to embody the wild soul of Scotland itself.

Unfortunately, Linet couldn’t know how much her close scrutiny disturbed Cambria.

Never had Cambria glimpsed such a pale and fragile creature as Linet. An angel stood before her, a lily-white angel with frail features and flowing blonde hair, the one jongleurs always sang about. She was perfect—well-mannered, beautiful, serene. Cambria lowered her eyes. All at once, she felt keenly the drop of sweat sliding down her own temple, the dust around her neck, the weight of the mail flattening her breasts, he burgeoning stomach. She wished she’d stayed abed this morning. The taste of shame was like metal on her tongue as her glance flickered over to the young woman again. The angel’s delicate hands had probably never touched the edge of a blade, let alone wielded one in battle. And the woman’s husband still gaped at Cambria like a hooked flounder.

Why had Holden unmasked her? She could have left the field untarnished. He could have salvaged their honor. Damn him! She could have met his kin later. But now there was little she could do to make restitution for his humiliating introduction. Still, she refused to be daunted. Blackhaugh was
her
home, and no matter what hostile tone Holden took, she’d at least welcome his kin with courtesy, the Scots’ hallmark for centuries.

Calling on the strength and pride of generations of Gavins to sustain her, she announced, “I am Cambria Gavin, the laird of Blackhaugh, and I wel—“

“You are Lady Cambria
de Ware
,” Holden gritted out. His brows lowered in a mixture of displeasure and disappointment.

Cambria’s cheeks burned. The speech stuck in her throat. Of course she was Lady Cambria de Ware. It was only force of habit and nervousness that made her forget. But Holden no doubt thought she intended the slight. There was no noble way to extricate herself from the embarrassing situation. And to her horror, a painful knot had risen in her throat. So for the benefit of the frail angel who looked as if she would faint at any moment, Cambria gathered what dignity she could scrape up, gave the visitors a brief nod, and swung around toward Blackhaugh.

Ignoring her gathering tears, she stiffly walked up the hill, her fists clamped at her sides, and tried not to think about what Lady Linet was whispering behind her delicate hand. All the way up the incline she felt Holden’s eyes upon her—cursing her, condemning her, but worst of all, ashamed of her.

It didn’t matter, she told herself. He was only an Englishman. What he thought of her had no bearing on what she truly was. Damn his disappointed scowl—she
was
the Gavin! Marriage didn’t change that.

As for meeting his kin with a sword, even Duncan had explained it was
his
challenge. Why then did Holden insist on humiliating her? Unless he thought she had humiliated
him
…

She pictured again the blonde angel hanging on Duncan’s arm. Perhaps Linen was more of what Holden desired in a wife. Perhaps he preferred a woman to be quiet and docile and frail, none of which described Cambria. Perhaps Holden was embarrassed by her. And that was the reason he’d become so distant of late.

Pah! She dashed away a tear. If she didn’t possess Linet’s delicate countenance or sweet mien or pretty speech, it was only because she wasn’t properly trained to be any man’s wife. Holden should have known that, she thought, sniffling. Or else he should never have married her.

Somehow her leaden feet managed to carry her up the sward, and her head was still held high when at last she passed through the barbican. Stumbling only once, she almost reached the haven of the keep and the promise of solitude.

But Holden had followed her, and before she could reach safe harbor, he swung her about by the shoulders. For one fleeting moment, she thought she glimpsed care and concern in his eyes. But then they flattened, and his mouth turned down at the corners.

“I won’t have you endanger my heir. You are not to spar again.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them escape. “You suddenly care about your heir?” she choked out. “All these weeks you haven’t made one mention of the babe. It’s as if it doesn’t exist.”

All the color vanished from his face. “Is that what you think?”

“What am I to think?” she muttered, mindful of the scattering of servants that passed nearby in the courtyard. Then the pain that she’d kept carefully in check burst forth in a bitter hiss. “You don’t speak of the babe. You don’t ask after me. You don’t touch me, hold me, kiss me. We don’t even share a bed anymore.”

He only stared at her. She couldn’t read his thoughts. Her heart was breaking, and all he offered was silence. She cursed him on a sob.

“Perhaps it’s best your mother died before she could see what a coldhearted bastard you would become!”

Holden’s eyes grew instantly flat and chill. He released her like a poisonous snake. Anger ticked in the muscle of his cheek, and his fists open and closed. For a terrible moment, she wondered if he would strike her. But then she looked into his eyes and glimpsed evidence of another emotion beneath his tightly checked wrath—raw, profound hurt.

As quickly as she made that discovery, he shut her out, and she wasn’t certain that she hadn’t merely imagined his look of pain. And then he was gone with a whirl of his cloak before she could steal another glance or draw another breath.

Holden braced himself against the cold stones of Blackhaugh’s stairwell, where he’d hidden for most of the afternoon. It felt as if a great weight had been dropped on his chest. This woman to whom he’d pledged his undying devotion, for whom he’d put his own body at risk, for whom he’d sacrificed the familiarity of his homeland for a wild and savage country, had crushed him with a single blow. She’d cut him to the quick.

But he couldn’t hide away for the rest of his life. Nor could he remain here until she birthed the babe. Duncan would wonder where he’d gone, and those nosy Scots would come sniffing around soon.

His heart heavy, he trudged downstairs, ignoring the curious glances of the supper guests. Duncan and Linet sat at the high table, but he didn’t spare them a word. Cambria was conspicuously missing. He grabbed up two leather jacks full of ale from a table, and then escaped through the main door of the great hall into the night.

The cool air was bracing, and he took a long pull of ale, attempting to warm his heart. He wandered aimlessly, cursing the full moon and kicking at the damp sod of the courtyard, stopping only when he reached the stables. He shuffled in through the double door, past the quietly nickering horses, swilling ale with a vengeance. The familiar smells of the stable—the fresh hay, the sweat of the horses, the pungent leather tack—were some comfort at least. Clutching his drink to his chest, he settled down into a moonlit corner.

Duncan recognized all too well the emotion on Holden’s face as he swept through the hall. It was the expression of a dog kicked once too many times, the countenance of a man haunted by his past.

After the supper tables were cleared and the guests assigned their pallets for the night, Duncan bid Linet a sweet good night and set out to hunt for his brother.

It didn’t take long to find him. Holden was muttering loudly and incoherently to the stabled horses. When Duncan moved to stand in the doorway, blocking the light of the moon, Holden looked up from his dark corner with fluttering eyelids and beckoned him nearer. Duncan shook his head in pity, crouching down beside him.

Holden was drunk. As far as Duncan knew, he only got that way under one condition—when someone indiscreetly mentioned their mother’s dying.

Duncan sighed and took hold of Holden’s forearm. He’d gone over the facts a hundred times, though not in a long while. And he’d willingly go over them a hundred more. He’d assure Holden their mother’s death wasn’t his doing, that she’d been weak from the beginning, that with so much blood lost, nothing could have saved her.

Holden mumbled, “Never fall in love, Duncan.”

Duncan screwed up his forehead. Love? What was he muttering? Wasn’t he upset about his birth having killed their mother? Perhaps he was too drunk for conversation. He tugged on Holden’s arm. “Holden, come back inside. It’s late.”

“Aye, too late. The deed is done. I’ve destroyed her.”

Duncan ran a weary hand over his face. “Who?”

“The Scots wench. I’ve ruined her.”

“How have you ruined her?”

Holden smacked his fist into the wall of the stable. Duncan winced. Those knuckles would be bruised on the morrow.

“Damn it! I bedded her,” Holden slurred. “I bedded my wife.”

Duncan frowned. Holden might as well have said he’d
beaten
his wife for all the despair that lined his face. He wrapped a companionable arm around his brother. “Holden, that’s what one
does
with a wife. You see, that’s the beauty of it. You find yourself—“

“But now she’s with…” Holden shook off his brother’s arm. “Hellfire, Duncan! She’s with child.”

“With child?” Duncan’s heart tripped as he relived in memory one of the fierce swipes he’d taken at Holden’s bride with his sword. Dear God—he’d not only battled with a woman. He’d battled with a
pregnant
woman! The thought made him feel ill.

But it was Holden’s eyes that were shadowed with misery, haunted with pain. “It’s my child, Duncan.”

“But that’s marvelous!” He extended his hand. “Come. Let’s tell Linet. She’ll be delighted to hear she’s—“

“Nay!” Holden drunkenly batted away Duncan’s gesture. “Don’t you see?” He seized the front of Duncan’s surcoat in desperate fists. “I’ve murdered her. I’ve murdered my wife.”

“But Holden—“

“Leave me alone,” Holden croaked, his hands losing their grasp. Then he slumped over onto the fodder.

Duncan shook his head. Holden never could abide much drink. And what was he ranting on about? Murdering his wife? How could he possibly think…

Died in childbirth.
It hit him like a sack of chain mail. Their mother had died in childbirth. And now Holden feared Cambria would do the same. Never mind that he’d already fathered half a dozen by-blows off other wenches, all hale and hearty. This one was different. This one was his wife. This one he loved.

Duncan looked down at the great, iron-hard knight slumped on the stable floor, laid low not by the steel weapons that were much as part of his life as the air he breathed, but by the fragile strings of his heart. This was the man who’d dedicated his soul to battle, the little boy who’d revered the sword above all.

Duncan smiled. How the mighty warrior had fallen. And he knew all too well the name of Holden’s conqueror, for he’d faced that assailant himself. Its name was woman.