Page 31 of My Warrior
“My father is dead. Blackhaugh is mine,” she said solemnly, “and you’ll always be Gavins.”
Robbie stared at her, digesting her words, words they both knew her father would never have uttered in his life, then nodded in agreement. The four armed themselves with the weapons in the room and fell silent as they prepared mentally for what they were about to do.
As soon as they began to pull Holden from the pallet, all hell broke loose.
He moaned in agony, and the sound almost gave Cambria a change of heart. From beyond the door, she heard several pairs of footsteps race up the stairs. When the door flew open under Sir Guy’s hand, banging against the wall with its force, Robbie, thinking quickly, pressed a dagger to the throat of Lord Holden, who sagged in the arms of the other two Scots.
“We hold your lord!” Cambria shouted to the half-dressed men at the door, surprised at the strength of her voice under the circumstances. “If you’d see him live out the day, then heed my words.”
Sir Guy’s trembling rage made a veritable current in the room. For a moment, it seemed to her that the slender piece of steel held against Holden’s neck was too weak a defense against that anger. But Guy made no move toward them.
“We wish only to return to Blackhaugh,” she continued. “Your lord will be safe with us as long as we’re allowed to travel freely. But if any man attempts to follow us, de Ware’s life is forfeit.”
She could tell it cost Sir Guy extreme restraint to allow them to pass. Pure hatred burned in his black eyes as, one by one, the castle folk backed away from the abductors.
The procession downstairs was difficult and slow. Holden moaned in pain with each step, though his eyes never opened. Fresh blood began to seep from his wound. When they reached the great hall, a few of the young maids sobbed in grief for their beloved lord and fled the room. The physician fled, returning with an armload of linen rags.
“You must change the bandages,” he imparted with grave concern. “Keep the wound clean. There is danger of fever now.”
She nodded, and then spoke to Sir Guy. “Ready three horses for us with provisions and a litter.” As Guy passed the command on to his squire, she added with malicious satisfaction, “And fetch me my father’s sword.”
Owen purpled and stammered an objection, but Sir Guy nudged the knight into grudging compliance.
Several tense minutes later, beneath clouds that smothered the distant promise of approaching dawn, Cambria and her small entourage mounted up. With Lord Holden set at knifepoint before Robbie in the saddle, they made their escape unhindered. As they rode away, she felt a wave of remorse for betraying Holden’s trust. She hadn’t truly broken her vow, or so she tried to convince herself, but guilt still pressed heavily upon her.
Behind them, Sir Guy had put a new steward in charge and was already organizing a party to follow the fugitives at a discreet distance. The wench must be mad, he thought, to assume they’d let her escape with their lord.
Only after hours of hard riding through rough-rocked countryside and forests so dense no light passed through did Cambria feel safe enough to rest the mounts and attend to the hostage. They stopped by a narrow stream to let the horses drink and feast on young grass. Cambria helped Robbie ease Holden from the saddle and onto the litter.
Holden was, if possible, more pale than before. The bandages were soaked with blood. His eyes were sunken and circled with dark rings, and his head lolled backwards. Cambria bit her lip. She couldn’t lose him now.
“We have no further need of him,” Robbie said with a snort, his blue eyes cool in his ruddy face. “They won’t follow us.”
“Nay!” she protested, startled as much by her own vehemence as by Robbie’s new callousness. She blinked up at him. Life among the rebels had altered the boy, changed him from the gentle youth she’d admired to the hardened, cynical man she now saw before her. She realized with a painful jolt that he’d lost his innocence and, with it, all sense of humanity.
“We need him to gain access to Blackhaugh,” she explained, her voice weary with disillusionment. “His brother holds the castle, and we don’t know how many English are there now.”
“He probably won’t live to make the journey,” Robbie argued.
Dread washed over her. What if the journey did kill him?
“I’ll keep him alive,” she said, her words half-promise, half-prayer.
She fetched the linen rags and dampened one in a spring that trickled from the mossy bank. Gently, she sponged Holden’s beaded brow and knelt to change his bandage. Some of the blood had dried, sticking the linen to his ribs, so she had to gingerly loosen the edges of the cloth. Holden must have thought she was practicing some form of unspeakable torture, groaning each time she touched him, but he was thankfully too helpless to defend himself against her necessary ministrations.
As she carefully wrapped new cloth around his ribs, she couldn’t help but regard his scarred chest as it rose and fell, the skin flushed with heat. His was a warrior’s body, taut and broad, thick with muscle. Dark, curling hairs made a subtle path down his oak-firm stomach. His pulse swelled the hollow of his throat in a steady rhythm that her own heart was wont to mimic.
Quickly, she averted her eyes. Being so close to him was having a strange effect on her, almost as if his fever were contagious. The sensation was at once disconcerting and compelling. Hastily, she covered him with a blanket and then busied herself with rinsing out the foul bandages and setting them on rocks to dry.
Night seemed to fall at full-tilt, and Cambria decided they should remain where they were rather than risk traveling in the dark. She agreed it would be necessary to secure Holden so he couldn’t escape, although secretly she thought it was unnecessary and cruel. Jamie hobbled Holden’s ankles where he lay on the litter and tied his wrists around a young tree.
She took the first watch of evening, sure that every rustle in the bushes was either Sir Guy or a hungry wolf, and she wasn’t certain which she would have preferred to meet. Even afterward, when Robbie took over, she didn’t sleep well. Her prisoner, too, seemed to toss and trash all night at unseen ghosts.
She woke early in the morning, rubbing weary eyes. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she surveyed the small camp. Her eyes alit instantly on Lord Holden. What she found made her wince in shame and anger.
The poor wretch had kicked the blankets from his body, and there was a wet stain on his hose.
Pushing the hair back from her face, she stood and approached him. His forehead was etched with lines of pain, his cheeks two spots of color in an otherwise wan face. She reached out to touch his stubbled jaw, and then pulled her hand back suddenly from the heat. His skin was dry and his lips parched.
