Page 28 of My Warrior
As they shared the meal, Cambria casually inquired about de Ware. After all, the first rule of battle was to know the enemy. She’d promised not to attempt escape. She’d said nothing aboutplanningto attempt escape.
“Why the lord’s taken all of Bowden under his wing, he has,” Gwen told her, warming to the subject. “We were half-starved when he came, but the larders are full now. They call him the Wolf, y’know, but I’ve not met a kinder master.”
This news didn’t cheer Cambria. Lord Holden had obviously been bluffing about beating Gwen. Confound it all, she wanted to hear that he was a twisted, malicious beast that fed on the blood of innocents. If he truly had such capacity for kindness, how could she then justify his actions at Blackhaugh? Was it conceivable, as the rest of the Gavin clan seemed to think, that it wasn’t Holden de Ware who’d conspired to slay her father? She broke off a chunk of the heavy brown bread and gnawed at it, considering the possibility.
“Why is he called the Wolf?”
Gwen screwed up her face thoughtfully and answered, “I s’pose it’s ‘cause he’s very brave and cunnin’ on the battlefield. Accordin’ to all accounts, he’s never lost a battle, y’know,” she added proudly, sitting a little straighter.
“Never?” She found this difficult to believe, considering the number of dents his armor bore.
“Not a one.”
She imagined it would be easy to claim such a record if he always caught his enemies unaware the way he had at Blackhaugh. Then she remembered how he’d chidedherfor not following the rules of chivalry. Damn the man! Which was he—slaughterer or saint? Holden de Ware was becoming a frustrating series of contradictions.
“And what did the Wolf do with the knights who opposed him at Bowden?” she asked, sure his cruelty would be demonstrated now.
Gwen shrugged. “None opposed him.”
“No one questioned his authority?” she demanded. “They just let him take what he wanted?”
“Why, m’lady,” Gwen replied, “if he’s never lost a battle, only a fool would challenge him.” Then suddenly realizing what she’d said, she gasped and sputtered, “I-I mean…”
“He’s not yet conquered the Gavins,” Cambria stated, narrowing her eyes. She walked to the window of her prison, cocked open the shutter, and gazed out, imagining a time when she’d play the victor, not the captive.
Gwen, seeing that Cambria was preoccupied with her own thoughts, used the moment to mumble an excuse and escape the solar before her tongue could get her into yet another scrape.
“The ashes are warm,” Sir Stephen reported, crouching by the makeshift fire and rubbing the gray remains between his fingers.
Holden frowned. He stared at his man without hearing him. A paradox kept biting at his brain with the persistence of a flea. Cambria Gavin, murderess or no, was nonetheless the enemy, and she’d become as troublesome as a thistle beneath his saddle. How could what he felt toward her possibly be called desire? And yet didn’t it torment him like desire?
“My lord?” Stephen prompted, scowling back.
Holden blinked. Damn, he was having trouble concentrating on the task at hand. And by Stephen’s expression, his distraction was painfully obvious.
“Aye?” he replied.
It was that damned sprite. For the first time in his life, he’d met a foe he didn’t know how to fight. Never before had he met a woman he couldn’t handle. They were usually such pleasant creatures, docile, easy to please, grateful for his protection, even more grateful for his affections. What was wrong with this wench? Part of him wanted to throttle the bloodthirsty Scotswoman, and the other part…
The other part he swore he’d sate with the next willing maid he met. The Scots lass, after all, held no particular sway over him, no more than any other passing fair female. Why then could he not force her from his mind?
“The ashes, my lord,” Stephen said in measured irritation. “They’re still warm.”
Holden gritted his teeth and willed himself to focus on his duties. He’d be damned if he’d let that little elf bewitch him at this distance.
“How long do you think, Stephen?”
“No more than an hour.”
“We’re close then.”
“If it’s indeed the renegades we’re following,” Sir Henry piped in from atop his mount.
“Aye, it’s them,” Sir Myles replied as he knelt in the dust beside the fire. “One of them has orange hair, aye?”
“Aye,” Stephen replied.
Myles picked up a single coppery hair between his thumb and finger and held it up for all to see.
