Page 36 of My Warrior
When they’d gone, only a handful of men remained. Cambria addressed the faithful few with a lump in her throat and a confidence she didn’t feel.
“My father understood that when all else has been lost, what survives are the people and the land. Rulers will be overthrown, and battles will be fought, but the people and the land will continue. I intend to fight for Blackhaugh, but not by waging war. Lord Holden de Ware is a valuable hostage. We’ll keep him as long as necessary to ensure that we may hold this land in the Gavin name, just as my father intended.”
The knights nodded their assent. One by one, they knelt before her to swear their renewed loyalty. She was moved by the gesture, and it was with desperate hope that she accepted each pledge, praying she wasn’t dooming the men to their death.
Within an hour, as Cambria watched from the wall walk, Robbie and his Gavin followers disappeared from her life and into the dark of the forest. Bitter sorrow furrowed her brow as she thought of the men she’d likely never see again—men she’d grown up with, Gavins who had surrendered their clan name for the name of Scotland.
She wouldn’t sleep well this night, not with the rebels gone and the keep so poorly defended. It was near midnight when she climbed the steps to her bedchamber, detouring briefly to check on her prisoner.
The fire flickered gently in the stillness of the room, adding its soft crackle to the only other sound there, the deep, even breathing of the wounded man lying in the bed.
“Damn you, Robbie,” she said under her breath, jabbing at the dozing embers in the fireplace. She set aside the poker, sighing in futility as she eyed Holden’s slumbering form. “And you—damn your weak English blood.”
For all the care she and Blackhaugh’s physician had bestowed upon the hostage—changing his bandages daily, mopping his brow, feeding him hearty barley broths—and despite the apparent healing of his wound, he seemed no better.
Perhaps the waning of his will to live caused him to have fewer stretches of wakefulness. This troubled her deeply. She told herself it was because his worsening would destroy their hope of using him as a hostage. But she knew in her heart it was far more than that.
She’d saved his life, and that had forged a bond between them. She felt responsible for him now. Yet how could she justify the way she felt about this man who was her sworn enemy, her father’s murderer—the way her breath quickened when she thought about him? Not only the magnificent swell of his warrior’s chest, the sensuous movement of his lips when he mumbled in his sleep, the inert power of his muscled arms stretched across the pallet, but what resided in his character—the loyalty and trust and esteem he inspired in everyone around him, both his men and her clan?
The conflict wrenched at her heart. By some cruel twist of fate her Achilles’ heel had become her own admiration for her enemy. More and more, she had difficulty associating the image of her dying father with the noble, tragic face that graced the pillow on this bed.
She sank down upon the foot of the pallet and allowed herself to be drawn by the flame fluttering on the hearth.
What was she to do? The rebels had deserted her again. Malcolm wouldn’t speak to her. The English lord might not survive, and not only did that thought send a ragged twinge across her heart, but it meant the wrath of the king would be visited upon her clan. Never had she needed her father’s wisdom so badly.
She sat deep in thought, worrying her fingers in her lap, so preoccupied that she was unaware when the man behind her awakened and lay silently staring at her through slitted eyes.
Holden felt rope around his wrists. His temper immediately flared, until reason reminded him of his predicament. He remained quiet.
There at the foot of the bed was his captor. She looked small to him, vulnerable, haloed there by the firelight, incapable of the treachery she’d dealt him. He remembered only snatches of their journey—the rough trip on the litter, her careful ministrations to his wounds, the cool water that had finally extinguished the fire in his body. He was intrigued by this sweet enemy who cared for him as gently as a nun, yet he knew he had to do everything in his power to escape her.
As he watched her, the young woman’s shoulders began to shake, and she lowered her head. Damn, she was crying. The sound of her soft sobs tore at his heart.
Of course, she deserved to weep. In one swift blow of fate, the lady had lost her father, her clan, and her land. But she’d not wrung her hands and moped. She’d fought back, challenging him, defying his knights, risking her life to save her people. She was an extraordinary woman, this lass who silently bore the burden of her clan like armor on her shoulders and only exorcized her sorrow behind closed doors.
It was a pity she was the enemy.
A quick knock upon the door interrupted his musings and Cambria’s tears. He closed his eyes as she rose with a murmured response. When he opened them again, she’d gone.
Before the glow of morning had yet hailed the sun’s arrival, Cambria awoke to an ungodly bellow. Her prisoner. Picking up her dagger and a torch, she rushed down the hallway, through his door, and to the edge of his bed.
Holden seemed to be having visions. He was thrashing madly from side to side to escape some imagined foe and screaming in terror.
“Cut me free! It comes! It comes for me! In the name of God, cut me free!”
He wrenched wildly at the ropes around his wrists. She tried to calm him with hushed words, but still he grappled with his bonds. God’s blood, his cries would wake the entire castle! She had to do something. A small moan of empathy escaped her as she planted the torch in a sconce, and then sawed rapidly at his bonds with her dagger.
The moment the last rope frayed apart, his helpless fingers grew suddenly quite capable. He expertly squeezed her wrist, causing her to release the dagger. Before she could understand what was happening, he’d reclaimed the knife, and his other hand tangled viciously in her hair.
His strength had obviously returned. He twisted her body so that she lay defenseless beneath him. The point of his blade pressed against a pulsing vein in her throat. She gasped in pain and surprise and shame as his green eyes flickered with victory.
“You deceived me,” she whispered, stricken. To think she’d been worried about his health. The wretched beast was as strong as an ox.
“Don’t blame me for your folly, madam,” he answered calmly. “Where are Garth and the others?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’d rather die than tell you.” Then she regarded him dubiously. “Besides, you won’t slay me.”
His anger with her flared briefly in his gaze. “You believe that after the trouble you’ve caused me?”
