Page 20 of My Warrior
A jagged blade protruded from Roger’s chest. His blood, drying in rivulets on his pale skin, spattered the furs and white walls and flecked his golden beard with scarlet-brown.
All her senses told her to run, but she stood frozen in morbid fascination. Somehow, while she lay sleeping, soundlessly and in the space of a heartbeat, Roger had been murdered. It was as if some silent spirit had done the deed.
Finally she broke free of her paralysis. Crossing herself superstitiously, she took a faltering step backward and slipped quietly out the door. Fortunately, the knights and the hound below slept heavily after their evening of carousing. She carefully descended the complaining wooden stairs and inched to the front door of the inn, picking her way in the dark through the dozing bodies.
Suddenly the candled shadow of the innkeeper’s wife fell across her. The woman was carrying a huge pot of water. Both froze for only an instant, but the look they exchanged spoke volumes. The woman nodded knowingly and continued about her labors as if she hadn’t seen Cambria.
Had the old woman murdered Sir Roger? Had she had a change of heart and helped Cambria after all? It didn’t seem possible, yet there was no other explanation.
Cambria sighed gratefully, then opened the door with painful stealth and edged through the crack. Shivering with the morning frost, she clutched the kirtle tightly about her and stole into the shadowy forest. The moss was still damp beneath her bare feet, and her breath came out in moist plumes.
She’d traveled only fifty paces from the inn when a twig snapped behind her. She spun in time to see a dark figure looming up. Wasting no time as the follower’s footfalls closed the distance in the leaves behind her, she turned and fled through the mist-shrouded trees. The cold air sliced through her lungs, but she ran desperately into the thickening gorse, cursing the fact she had no weapon.
All at once, her luck and the narrowing path ran out. She was trapped in dense underbrush, like a boar cornered for the kill. She wheeled to find a dark knight brandishing a sword, her father’s sword.
Owen.
As he came grimly forward to claim his prey, she searched the thicket for any way out. He swept his blade up to touch her throat. She gasped and began to retreat. He followed her with the cold blade and colder eyes until she was pressed against the brambles and there was nowhere for her to go.
“You won’t escape this time, you murdering bitch,” he growled.
The point of the sword nicked her chin, threatening to spill her life’s blood at any moment.
“I didn’t murder him,” she said, gulping. “You have to believe me. Someone else—“
The hard heel of his hand came around to catch her temple, knocking her sideways. Branches clawed at her face like the bony fingers of ghouls, and black flecks danced before her eyes.
“Spare me your lying tongue!” he cried. “My brother lies dead, murdered in his sleep.”
He snagged her arm then, pinioning her roughly before him. She staggered, and he shoved her forward, back toward the inn.
“Stupid wench,” he growled. “Roger was the son of a king. You’ll swing from the gallows for this.”
Was it true? Would she be blamed for Roger’s murder? The devil take her temper, shehadthreatened to slay the man only last night. But she’d never have done it. Didn’t they know that? How could anyone believe the laird of Gavin would stab a man as he slept?
Still, she couldn’t tell them the innkeeper’s wife was responsible for Roger’s death. The old woman had done Cambria a favor. She couldn’t betray that kindness.
Yet, if she didn’t, she was doomed. Owen was one of de Ware’s knights. And Cambria was only a Scotswoman who’d already attempted to kill their lord. Bloody hell, shewouldgo to the gallows.
Or maybe, she dared to hope, Lord Holden couldn’t afford to execute her. Maybe he needed her alive for the sake of the new alliance. Maybe he wouldn’t hang her immediately. Maybe time was on her side. Still she gulped in spite of herself, imagining a noose around her neck.
By the time they returned to the inn, it was nearly dawn. Her arm ached from being gripped so cruelly. Sir Owen roused the entire inn with his bellowing until, groggy and only half-dressed, the de Ware knights came out to hear him.
“She’s a murderer!” he shouted, his voice breaking in lament. “My brother lies dead in his chamber! This witch slew him while he slept, then tried to escape!”
A cry of pain was wrung from her as Owen viciously twisted her arm.
The knights looked amazed. The black-haired giant seethed with outrage. He bolted forward and seized her by the throat with one large hand. Already towering over her, he moved just inches from her face, so close that she could see the two gray hairs in his black beard. He spoke as if he chewed upon tough meat, clenching his fist before him and branding her with his coal black eyes.
“You cursed wench, it’s a pity my cousin wishes you alive, or I’d slay you with my own hand! Be watchful once you are safely returned, for I won’t be far away.”
He closed his hand tightly about her throat. Black spots swam before her, and she felt her heart struggling to pump blood through her veins. Her fingers clawed frantically at his. Then he released her abruptly, and she fell to the ground, coughing.
When she dared to look up, Myles was staring down at her, his gray eyes filled with disappointment and pity.
“She’s dangerous! She must be bound!” Owen snapped, slicking his fingers back through his greasy hair.
She was still quaking when the black-bearded ogre wrapped cords around her wrists and ankles, carried her out, and draped her, belly down, over Roger’s horse, in the custom of a dishonored knight. She swallowed back rising bile as the knights placed Roger’s cloaked dead body beside her on the steed.
