Page 16 of My Warrior
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“The Gavin lass escaped?”
News evidently traveled fast in the castle. Holden took a swig of wine.
Roger nodded in empathy. Then he set aside his bread, lowered his eyes, and clasped his hands before him. “My lord, I know you were displeased with the way Blackhaugh was managed. I fear my brother’s murder left me blind to reason. Perhaps I can make amends. I would consider it a matter of honor and proof of my loyalty to fetch the girl back for you. I can leave within the hour.”
Holden almost choked on his wine. Was Roger experimenting with humility for the first time? Or had he at last realized that his rash actions might cost him his royal stipend? Holden stroked his chin. While Roger’s motives might be less than pure, the man knew he couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes. If Holden sent along a few of his trusted men as well…
“Very well,” he replied. “But take Myles and Guy with you.”
Roger nodded.
“And Roger?”
The knight paused.
“I want her alive and unharmed, or I’ll have your head, king’s kin or not.”
In spite of what she’d done, Holden admired the spirit of the girl, and he didn’t want that spirit broken.
That spirit and what few berries and nuts she could scrounge in the forest kept Cambria alive. For two days she ran, her body weak with hunger, sleeping only briefly in makeshift nests of twigs and leaves. Her feet were blistered, her fair skin chapped by the harsh wind, her linen garment in rags from the underbrush.
As the likelihood of her capture grew slimmer by the hour, so did the probability of meeting up with her clansmen. She wondered if Robbie would even recognize her in her disheveled state. She had no coin, no clothing, no proof of her birthright, and she was alone.
Another woman would have courted despair, but with each mile she traveled, Cambria grew more and more filled with hate and anger. No single person had caused so much destruction in her life as this demon, Holden de Ware. With one cruel stroke, he’d taken her father, her land, and her rank, and reduced her to this, a half-naked fugitive foraging for berries. By God, she’d survive, if only to scratch out his devilish eyes.
Certain she’d eluded the cursed English, she stopped to rest. Surely Holden’s men would have given up or lost track of her by now. She’d chosen a path far from the main road. Comforted, she nestled against a gnarled oak, covering herself with fallen leaves, and slipped into a heavy sleep.
The sun had moved halfway through the sky when she first heard the sound, the faraway baying of a hound. Swiftly she arose, shook off the leaves, and climbed up onto an oak branch for a better view.
“Nay.”
Her heart sank as she peered at the glen below. The hours of running, the lack of sleep, the pain and hunger, all had been for nothing. The two knights restraining a wildly lunging hound wore the crest of de Ware.
CHAPTER 4
“Nay,” she whispered, choking back a sob.
They’d hunted her down like an animal. And now she was trapped, helpless. Terror cinched her chest, making her breath short and shallow.
Dear God, how could she escape? The hound sounded half-starved. In another moment, it would catch her scent. And if it attacked…
She swallowed hard. She had to calm herself. Panic was a poor master. They were only two men, she reasoned, and they hadn’t spotted her yet. There was still time. There was still hope.
The baying intensified, threatening her determination. Quietly, she slipped from the tree and darted into the woods. It might be impossible to outdistance her pursuers, but the forest would at least provide a screen. And if she could find a stream to follow, she might throw the hound off her scent.
Her hopes withered quickly.
Tearing through a grove of oaks, she nearly collided with another pair of mounted knights, more of Holden’s men. These two she remembered all too well from the Blackhaugh massacre—the big golden knight, Roger, and the dark rat of a man who’d stolen her father’s sword.
Roger guffawed, clearly surprised. “So, you’ve made my work easy;youhave come looking forme!” He whistled a loud signal and galloped toward her.
Her heart pounding, she whirled and bolted for the thick brush, all too aware she was only delaying the inevitable. She stumbled clumsily, aimlessly through the dense foliage, whimpers of panic rising in her throat.
Then she heard the command to unleash the hound. Faith, it would flush her out like a rabbit! Her lungs ached, but when she heard the dog’s crazed yelp, she forced her legs to pump harder, unable to quell her instincts to survive.
Clearing the edge of the wood, she glimpsed freedom. But the only escape was into an open field of thistles. She hesitated. The weeds were thick and sharp.
