Page 34 of My Warrior
“Leave me a moment,” he abruptly requested.
“Leave you? Are you daft? You’d escape faster than a loosed hare.”
“Fine. I merely thought it might offend you to watch my attempts to relieve myself.”
The heat that suffused her face likely amused him. She gave him his privacy, and when she returned, kicking up the forest debris to ensure that he heard her coming, he was already lying docile upon the litter, his eyes closed in rest.
Shortly afterward, the others joined them, a score or so Scots renegades, roused and hungry for the kill. They held the prisoners from Bowden. At the fore was Sir Guy, his cheek split and his eyes smoldering rage. Hell, Cambria realized as he glared at her, even held captive as he was, murder infused his black gaze and inspired fear.
She swallowed and glanced away. As she searched the bloodthirsty faces of her countrymen, she saw that Holden had been right about the possible danger of fanatics. But it was too late to turn back now. The wheels of revenge had been set in motion.
CHAPTER 7
Garth de Ware nervously stroked the soft down of his upper lip. He never should have come, never should have agreed to join his brother’s retinue, never should have listened to Holden, who’d refused to believe that his little half-brother had aspirations, not to the battlefield, but to the church. But nay, Holden had insisted he needed to get one final taste of grand adventure before making the decision to take on a monk’s robes. And Garth had believed him.
Lo and behold, what had happened?
It was true that things had gone surprisingly well at first. The Scots seemed to appreciate Garth’s fairness. He made a point of treating them with respect. He’d even developed a friendship with Malcolm the Steward, who was teaching him a great deal about the fortitude of the Scots. He’d started believing that he could indeed handle the responsibilities of a lordship.
Until now. Now he was convinced he was right in limiting his enterprises to the confines of monastery walls.
Outside the keep, Cambria Gavin held a dagger to his brother’s throat. From Garth’s vantage point atop the wall walk, Holden, supported by two men, looked as weak as a maid. A score of savage-looking Scots held hostage a handful of Holden’s best knights as well, and they were making outrageous demands. Garth was to surrender himself and the other English within the castle to this girl.
Beside him, Malcolm swore under his breath. Garth shook his head. How had the maid escaped? How had she acquired a whole company of swordsmen to follow her? And most disturbing of all, how had she brought Holden, his brave, powerful, undefeated brother, to his knees? He pounded his fist upon the stone merlon. For the love of God, his brother at the mercy of a woman. It was an abomination.
He knew with a futile certainty that Holden would disapprove of the decision he was about to make, but he had to make it. Garth admittedly had none of the relentlessness for which the older de Wares were famous. His compassionate heart went out to Holden in his helplessness. He only prayed that his brother would somehow forgive him for that weakness.
Grudgingly, he allowed the Scots to enter the castle.
Holden came in on a litter. Garth fought the almost irresistible instinct to run to his brother. Lord God, he was as pale as parchment. He might be dying.
“Holden,” he breathed, his voice breaking.
“He’ll heal,” the Scots lass said all too optimistically.
He turned his eyes to her then—that smug Gavin vixen who had dared rouse the Wolf—and the de Ware blood in him began to boil.Thou shalt not killbe damned—it was all he could do to keep from drawing his sword and lopping off the wench’s head.
He stretched himself to his full height in an unconscious mimicry of Holden and addressed her directly, his voice unyielding. “What have you done to him?”
The girl blinked, obviously taken aback for a moment by the change in his manner.
“I’ve brought him back to the living,” she replied, rubbing a bruised cheek, “despite his clear determination to avoid my care.”
“And what do you intend?” he demanded. From the corner of his eye, he could see that his men itched to take up their surrendered weapons against these barbarians.
“You will either swear fealty to me upon your knighthood,” she told him, “or stay below in the dungeon.”
Garth didn’t bother to seek the counsel of his knights. He held his arms boldly out before him for the shackles. His men imitated the gesture. They would all die in a damp cell before they would yield to a Scots lass.
Cambria pursed her lips. Stubborn Englishmen. She could have used those strong arms for the coming battle. Yet she knew full well she would have done the same in their place. With a sigh of exasperation, she ordered the men taken below.
Holden, on the other hand, she secured to the bed in her father’s chamber, which adjoined her own. There she could change his bandages and see to his meals. He was too valuable a hostage to be kept in the dungeon where he might fall prey to disease. He was probably one of Edward’s favorites. It would be stupid to incur the English king’s wrath by mistreating a beloved vassal.
That was the excuse she gave the Scots, but it fell far short of the truth. The truth was she couldn’t let Holden die. Whether it was because of the trouble she’d gone through to save him, or the admiration she bore for his courage, or just the way her heart raced when he caught her in his forthright gaze, she knew she couldn’t let harm come to him. She only prayed that when the king of England came to bargain for the Wolf’s life, he wouldn’t perceive the emptiness of her threats.
Even after a week, Cambria still didn’t feel as if she’d come home. Blackhaugh had changed irrevocably in her absence. To her chagrin, the Gavins had grown quickly accustomed to living under English rule. Even Malcolm was vexed at her actions and refused to speak with her, only answering her questions with a curt and formal “aye, my lady” or “nay, my lady.” He expressed no interest in hearing about her daring escape, and he regarded her with harsh disapproval, disapproval that many others of the clan shared. She felt their cool resentment at her interference, as if she were an outsider. It felt like her clan had scattered out of her control like goatsbeard seeds on an English wind.
She rubbed her eyes and sank down onto the edge of her pallet, pressing her fist into the ache at the small of her back. She was exhausted. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been trained for leadership. She knew what her duties as laird were. The clan was like a family of children, her father had told her, children who looked to the laird for guidance, discipline, and justice. Still, at the moment, that responsibility seemed overwhelming.
