Page 11 of My Warrior
“Lass,” a burly old Gavin man called from the corner, but his captor jerked his chain, ordering him to silence.
He scowled down at the girl and held up a hand to quiet his men’s snickering. “The king…Edward’s army?”
“Aye!” she hissed, her eyes sparking like sapphires. “Lord Holden de Ware will slay you for the murder you’ve committed! He is a powerful warrior, known to all as the Wolf for his savagery, and he has sworn to protect this keep!”
He stared at her, stunned. Her eyes gleamed with victory, and the thrust of her chin was confident and proud. He almost hated to dash her hopes.
But he had to.
He held her gaze with his own and explained softly, “I am the Wolf. I am Lord Holden de Ware.”
CHAPTER 3
The girl’s gaze dropped to the figure of the wolf emblazoned on his tabard, and she turned as white as her linen shift. Bloody hell, Holden thought in alarm, the wench was going to faint.
Her eyes rolled in her head. Holden reached his hand forward futilely as if he could cushion her fall. But she collapsed in a heap on the rushes.
He turned his scowl upon Roger. “You said Gavin refused the alliance.”
Roger sneered. “At the last moment, aye. Never trust a Scot.” He spat on the ground. “The devil slew our brother before our eyes.” His glance slid over to Owen.
“My sympathies,” Holden said, although the two brothers didn’t seem particularly grief-ridden. “Hard to believe they preferred to fight,” he added pointedly, “with so small a force.”
“You know these Scots and their stubborn loyalty. Even the wench attacked us,” Roger smirked, nodding at the bundle on the floor.
Holden glanced at the girl again. She certainly couldn’t have posed much of a threat. She was, after all, only a young woman, one apparently prone to fainting.
He looked around the hall at the cowering servants, the whimpering hounds, the Gavin men chained together in the corner. What had really happened here? Perhaps the daughter knew.
He would have liked to question her, to question all of them, but the unfortunate truth was that he had other urgent matters to attend to. He was a lord in his own right now, and much obligation came with the position.
Besides, he couldn’t bring the laird back to life. Whatever brutal mistakes Roger had made, he was the king’s kin, and the deed was done. Blackhaugh was secure, and the bloodshed was over. Their work here was finished.
“Let her be,” he instructed, more reluctant than he cared to admit about leaving the intriguing Border lass behind. “Roger, Owen, you’ll come with me to Bowden.” Then he turned to his brother Garth. The lad had learned much in their weeks together, and Holden felt it was time to test that knowledge. “Garth, you’ll serve as steward here, and your men will hold Blackhaugh.” He nodded to the Gavin survivors. “Obtain their fealty, and they may be released.”
Garth visibly paled. It was a great responsibility. But he drew himself up proudly and accepted the command.
Holden ignored Roger Fitzroi’s scowl of outrage at the obvious slight. As half-uncle to the king, he no doubt expected to be handed the castle on a platter. But Garth was the better man for the task. Despite Roger’s fostering at Castle de Ware, Roger had never quite learned the true meaning of chivalry, and Holden trusted the man about as much as he did his mistresses. Garth, on the other hand, possessed an innate sense of decency, justice, and loyalty that would serve him well as steward.
At Holden’s order, Garth immediately dismounted and came forward. Holden knew his little brother would do well in inspiring trust in the remaining castle folk, trust that Roger had probably damaged with his vicious tactics.
“The rest of us will go,” Holden commanded. “We came to borrow provisions from Blackhaugh.” If any remain, he thought. Looking about the hall at the shabby tapestries and threadbare surcoats, he wondered if all the Border holdings were similarly impoverished. “Bowden’s larder was nearly empty. That’s doubtless why the castle surrendered so readily.”
There was a stirring in the rushes as he spoke. The girl was rousing from her faint, lifting herself on shaky arms and blinking the cobwebs from her bewildered eyes.
He should have been moved to pity. The poor lass had in one blow lost her father and her title. But pity was not at all what he felt as she met and matched his stare, her teeth clenched, her sapphire gaze smoldering. As if she transmitted it to him with those eyes, he felt her power, power he’d never sensed from a woman before, and with it came a wave of lust, pure and strong and immediate. Every fiber of his being felt drawn to her, like iron to a lodestone.
He swallowed hard. It was absurd. He was on a mission, and she was the enemy. He would leave her behind, just as he always had the victims of war. Such were the sacrifices of his profession. He’d earned his considerable fortune with his sword and his allegiance. He couldn’t afford to let a comely face distract him from his duties.
Quickly, before he could lose his resolve, he turned his steed briskly to gallop out of the hall.
Cambria watched Lord Holden de Ware go, hate burning white-hot in her heart. She swore she’d kill the Englishman, destroy the bastard who had betrayed her father.
While she made that silent oath, a rat of a man with dark, stringy hair clutched his bleeding chest with one hand and hobbled close. He swept up her father’s broadsword, turning it over in his grip.
“A fine blade,” he whispered, leering at her with evil ocher eyes. “A pity your father didn’t know how to use it. When I am lord of Blackhaugh, I shall do better.”
Before she could spit in his face, he set the point of the blade at her throat, chuckling at her instant silence. Then he slid the sword into his own scabbard and marched from the hall after the others.
