Page 19 of My Warrior
“So anxious for my bed?” he laughed. “We’ll be there soon enough!”
She felt like a jester’s flopping puppet as he carried her ungracefully up the stairs and kicked open the bedchamber door. She beat at him with her fists, her voice shaking as she threatened him. “Lay one hand on me, you motherless cur, and I’ll kill you! I swear it!”
She cursed him, mostly to hide her very tangible fear. This was one battle she’d never been trained to fight. She didn’t even know what weapon to use against a man’s lust.
Roger slammed the door shut with his body, shoving the bolt home. Then he heaved her onto the crude pallet in the midst of the chamber. She scrambled to her knees, wishing to God she had her dagger.
“Don’t touch me!” she commanded, trying to regain some dignity by smoothing her garments.
He giggled and winked drunkenly at her.
She bit her lip. Her demands were not working. Perhaps she could shame him. “Is this the chivalry of an English knight?”
He ignored her and began to undress, humming to himself.
“Look, you bastard,” she hissed, “I’m not some harlot. I’m a virgin.” Surely he would leave her alone now.
“Are you?” he snorted carelessly. “Well, then…luck-, lucky you,” he said with a hiccough. “Ye’ll have the best teacher. Ye will. Ye’ll see.” With that, he pulled off his gambeson to bare a wide, hairy chest.
She searched wildly for a weapon, anything. There was a clay chamberpot beside the bed. It was heavy. It was hard. She reached for it, flung it with all her might. But as soon as it left her hands, she knew it was going to miss the target.
It shattered against the far wall.
Instantly, the massive knight was upon her. “Woman!” he shouted, pressing her against the plaster wall and spitting in his rage. “Don’t anger me!” He slurred his words. “I can make you suf-, suffer much in the losing of your virg-, your virg-, your maidenhead.”
She blanched.
He released his hold and pulled off the rest of his garments, leaving his huge body naked in the shadowy room. His golden face was fierce and his size frightening. She swallowed hard. He couldn’t mean to…
He weaved toward her. She clambered across the bed, heaving a bolster at him. He laughed and tossed it away. She picked up an empty wooden candle sconce and hurled it. It struck him on the shoulder.
“Son of a…!” he bellowed. In one lunge, he flattened her, crushing the very breath from her. She tried to worm away from him as he covered her face with sloppy, ale-soaked kisses. His body was clammy and so impossibly heavy that her ribs could barely expand to allow her air. When he finally eased his weight off of her, it was only to yank her kirtle all the way up under her arms. He pressed his wet lips to her bared breast, and she fought to wake from the nightmare of his touch.
“You whoreson!” she spat.
He bit her, and she shrieked.
“Holdjer tongue, wench—I’m warnin’ ye,” he said, slurring badly now.
She shuddered as his knee forcefully spread her legs. In a final effort, she brought her knee up hard against him, but it had no effect upon him in his drunken state. He mumbled something as his weight fell upon her again, as heavy as a dozen mail hauberks. She couldn’t move. Closing her eyes, she braced herself for the worst.
Within a few moments, she realized the worst had already happened. The lummox had passed out and was snoring loudly in her ear. She fought the desire to giggle with relief.
Struggling out from under the dozing hulk, she pulled her kirtle back down and ran shaky fingers through her tousled hair. Casting a wary eye toward her attacker, she crept to the door and lifted the bolt. She peered out.
Owen was still drinking and carrying on downstairs. She would never escape unnoticed.
Resignedly, she closed the door. She glanced at the huge golden knight and shuddered. She’d sleep sounder closeted with a bear. But she couldn’t leave just yet, not until the other men retired. Afraid to move him for fear he’d awaken, she left Roger where he was, taking a dark corner of the room for herself. She huddled against the cracked plaster and wrapped her arms around her knees. She had to think.
The windows were sealed shut. The men below were still sober enough to be vigilant. The innkeeper’s wife wasn’t going to help her. And yet, she sighed, what did it matter? Even if she could escape, what would prevent the knights from finding her again? Lord Holden didn’t strike her as the sort of man who’d give up easily. In fact, she thought with a shiver, he seemed the sort of man who’d search the ends of the earth for what he wanted. It would do no good to flee.
Still, she couldn’t bear the thought of facing the Wolf once more. The man was too dangerous, too powerful. His storm-green eyes seemed to invade the fabric of her thoughts and wreak havoc there. Nay, she’d no desire to see him in the flesh again. She shuddered, pulling her kirtle tighter about her legs. She supposed she’d just have to flee to the ends of the earth.
She never intended to fall asleep, propped against the sooty wall. She only meant to rest her eyes for a moment. But exhaustion overtook her, and she dozed off, mumbling a prayer that Roger wouldn’t awaken in the night.
Sir Roger didn’t awaken—that night, nor any other night.
Cambria roused with a start an hour before dawn, dismayed that she’d slept so long. The knight yet lay where she’d left him. But when she saw his condition, the breath was ripped from her in a rough gasp.
