Page 22 of My Warrior
He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration and cursed under his breath. Then he looked at her, hard.
She was still gazing off into the distance, well past him, as if their conversation was of no consequence to her. But he could see on closer inspection that her body trembled. Her false bravery was a mask for the fear in her eyes. And yet there was something achingly familiar about her expression, something that took him back to his own youth.
He himself had once worn that brave face, awaiting the whip for killing one of his uncle’s hunting hounds. It had been an accident. He’d been training the dog to fetch a stick, rewarding him with scraps of meat from the kitchen. How could a young boy have known the hound would choke on a chicken bone? Still he’d been punished, and he’d accepted his punishment stoically, even though it wasn’t in him to slay an innocent creature…
Just as it wasn’t inherto commit murder.
Despite the others’ confirmation of Owen’s charge, despite an obvious motive and an apparent opportunity for her to accomplish the crime, he was certain she hadn’t done it. The trembling of her upraised chin and the flicker of uncertainty in her moist gaze told him the truth. Aye, the reckless wench had a penchant for violence, and she’d probably challenge with a blade anything on two legs. Indeed, she might have slain Sir Roger in defense. But she was incapable of cold-blooded killing.
His men, however, were sure she’d done the deed, and until he could sort out what had really happened, he’d have to take them at their word. He needed time, both to dredge up the truth and to let his men’s heads cool. And then there was the whole Gavin clan, waiting with bated breath for news of their laird.
“Listen well, my lady,” he sighed. “For the moment I’ll spare your life, but you must yield to me and renounce your quest for revenge, once and for all.”
The girl straightened her back and focused on a point over his head. “Never could I yield to my father’s murderers. I, too…made a vow.”
His blood froze in his veins. Was she completely addled? Pride was one thing, but this… He was handing the wench her life on a silver tray. How dare she throw it back in his face? His voice grew perilously soft. “Then you may grow to regret your vow as I regret mine.”
She tried to resist him as he stepped from the dais and hauled her to her feet, but in truth she was no more trouble for him than a spitting kitten. He tossed her over one shoulder, ignoring her shrieks, and then mounted the stairs at the corner of the hall.
Damn the wench, he wished she’d stop squirming. He could feel vividly the points of her delicate hipbones against his shoulder and her soft breasts upon his back. Besides, all her thrashing only added to the numerous bruises she already bore as her heels bumped against the narrow stone walls.
He struggled up the last winding steps to the tower cell. Kicking open the thick door, he set her on her feet with a bone-jarring bang.
“You will not escape again.” He jabbed a finger at the air before her as if speaking to a child. “And I’ll post a guard below the window to prevent the temptation.”
“What do you intend to do with me?” she demanded venomously.
He gave her his most diabolical smile. “I’ll let you think on that. I am a just man. I assure you, the punishment shall fit the crime.”
“But I’ve done nothing,” she insisted, her eyes flashing like the devil’s own.
“Lady,” he replied, disbelief clouding his brow, “you’ve done more to destroy any hope of peace in the last week than your father ever did in his lifetime to assure it.”
He could see his words were like a dagger twisted in her heart, but he was infuriated by the girl’s stubbornness and the perilous position she’d put him in. If nothing else, she should suffer forthat.
The fire deserted the wench’s eyes. She sank down dejectedly onto the straw pallet.
Damn her, he almost felt a pang of remorse for his harsh words. But he couldn’t let pity interfere with his sense of justice. He was going to have to somehow placate both Roger’s family and the Gavins without damaging the fragile harmony between their people. He wondered if such a thing was possible.
“You’ll be safer for the moment here,” he informed her, “and I want you where I won’t need to constantly watch my back. Our time of reckoning will come later.”
Before she could completely melt his resolve with her beautiful, watery eyes, he turned and left her, cursing his weakness for women’s tears. Why did this have to happen now, he wondered, just as he was beginning to gain real favor with the king?
Cambria rose and walked to the locked door. She dashed away her tears and rested her forehead against the rough wood. Beyond that door were men who believed her capable of cold-blooded murder, men who longed to mete out their own justice for her imagined crimes.
De Ware was right. She was safer here. Of course, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to escape. It was her duty as the Gavin, after all.
When the sun’s slender morning rays finally filtered into the tower chamber, Cambria welcomed the meager warmth. It seemed winter had visited in the middle of the April night. Tiny crystals of ice frosted the gray stones of the chamber, and her jaw ached from clenching her teeth in the cold. Her fingers and toes were stiff, and the thin fabric she’d torn from the pallet did little to insulate her body from the mists outside.
Light footsteps ascended the stairs. They stopped by the door. A key turned in the lock, but she was too frozen to move.
A pretty doe-eyed maidservant entered with a tray and closed the door. “I’m Gwen, m’lady. I’ve brought you somethin’ to eat,” she ventured, her face openly curious.
Cambria slowly sat up on the pallet and gazed at the steaming pot of porridge. Her stomach rumbled. She took the tray from the maid and set it upon her lap. Eyeing Gwen warily, she slipped a small spoonful of the cereal into her mouth and swallowed. It was lumpy, but at least it was warm and filling.
Eagerly consuming the porridge, Cambria watched the maidservant with keen interest. Perhaps she might escape again after all. The maid was frail, probably no stronger than a sparrow. If Cambria could catch her by surprise…
She carefully lowered her scheming eyes and affected her mother’s delicate voice. “Please, Gwen,” she begged, “you must help me.”
