Page 21 of My Warrior
In disgrace, Cambria returned to Castle Bowden.
Holden was already in a foul temper. He tossed his helm to the ground and jabbed the toe of his boot into the dust of the tiltyard. His efforts at training these Scots to fight were futile. They stubbornly resisted any attempts on his part to refine their wild technique and insisted on aimless hacking with their weapons rather than precise blows.
His frustration was compounded by the fact that he’d been outwitted by one of them, a mere child. Nay, a woman, he corrected, remembering vividly her soft curves. He was doubly incensed that she should have such an effect on him, and he’d spent long hours in the tiltyard the last few days, taking his anger out on his knights.
He pressed his weary eyes with the heels of his hands.
Damn Roger! The hound should have caught the girl’s scent by now. What was taking so long? Perhaps he should have hunted her down himself.
Thus far, none of the Gavin clan had come for their laird, but certainly they would. How would he explain to them that he’d…lost her?
Distracted by his thoughts and the artless display of combat taking place before him, Holden only stared blankly at the messenger who came to him until the words finally registered.
“What?” he exploded, bringing the farcical battle to a halt.
The messenger began to repeat the memorized words yet again. “Sir Owen, Sir Guy, and Sir Myles have returned. They have the Gavin girl, but Sir Roger is dead by her hand, and—“
Livid with rage, he interrupted the boy. “Have her brought to me at once in the hall!”
Within moments, Owen, dogged by Myles and Guy, dragged the captive before the dais of the great hall. Holden, still sweaty and disheveled from the practice field, stopped pacing when they entered. Owen threw the girl viciously to her knees. Holden saw her bite back a cry as she struck the stone floor, but he steeled his jaw against the mercy that came naturally to him. After all, the woman before him was now a full-fledged murderess. Not only that, but she’d murdered the king’s kin. It was just fortunate that King Edward had little affection for his grandsire’s bastard. Still, royal blood had been spilled.
“What happened?” he demanded.
They all began speaking at once. He held up his hand for silence. “Owen?”
“The bitch slew my brother, my lord, as he slept.”
“That’s a lie!” the girl cried out. “I’d never—“
“Silence!” Holden was sure his face registered only half of the outrage he felt. “All of you would concur with this?”
He looked carefully from one to another. Owen thrust out his chin in challenge. Sir Guy scowled and nodded with the certainty of an executioner. Myles glanced down at the girl and opened his mouth as if to say something, then looked away quickly, nodding his assent.
Holden turned his back. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Dear God, what was he going to do now? “My condolences, Sir Owen. You are welcome to send one of my servants to your mother with the news.”
Owen murmured an acknowledgment.
“Now go, all of you…except the girl.”
The knights vacated the hall, closing the heavy door with a hollow thud.
Holden paced for a long while before he could trust himself to speak civilly. Finally, he wheeled, looked down his nose at the bloodthirsty wench, and bit out, “You have slain one of my knights—a king’s son, no less.” His voice grew louder, harsher. “You have attempted to slayme, a lord.” His vehement words rang out in the hall. “And you return unharmed after escaping from my prison!” Now he was shouting in a voice he usually reserved for the most unruly of his men, a voice he’d never used on a woman before. “You are fortunate to be living! Tell me this. What revenge could be so sweet that it would cost you your life three times over?”
She said nothing, but her defiant glare wavered. Perhaps she realized at last how precarious her life was.
Frustrated beyond his limits, he wiped the dust from his brow with both hands and paced heatedly. If only she were a man, he thought in irritation, they could simply draw swords and be done with it.
“When I was a lad,” he muttered, “I was told my mother died giving birth to me. On that day, I made a solemn vow never to harm another woman as long as I lived. But you—you are trying that vow.” He cursed again and punched his fist into his hand. “Roger’s kin will want your blood. King Edward may even require it. Are you aware of that?” he pressed.
The girl stared steadily past him. “I didn’t slay him.”
He threw up his hands. “Spare me your denial. You insult my intelligence.”
“But I didn’t slay him.”
Shite, the woman was stubborn. “Three of my men have lent witness to your guilt.”
She raised her chin. “I don’t care if all of England lends witness to my guilt. I didn’t slay your man.”
