Page 42 of My Warrior
Guy fingered his neck to make sure it was in one piece.
Myles stared open-mouthed after Holden. “By the saints’ bones, what afflicts him?”
Guy shook his head in disgust. “He’s in love with her,” he told Myles. “I’d bet my blade on it.”
“In love with her?” Myles echoed, still reeling from Holden’s display of rage.
“Only love could make him so blind,” Guy grumbled, smoothing his beard. “I only pray his wedding night finds him withhiseight inches sheathed inherand not the other way round.”
Katie clucked her tongue. The lass refused to don the velvet gown she’d brought to her chamber. Such a shame. The surcoat was a wondrous shade of rich green edged at the neck and sleeves with intricate gold crenellations. The fabric was soft and of rare quality and color, but Cambria had cast it aside like dirty scrap linen.
“I do not go to my love,” Cambria insisted. “I have no wish to please him, only to have this thing done with.”
Katie wrung her hands and pleaded with her mistress. “My lady, well I know he is English and an enemy, but he means well, and he seems a man of honor.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “He’s quite comely as well, my lady. Ye’ll make beautiful children.”
Cambria shuddered dramatically. “I don’t care if he has the looks of Adonis and the manner of a saint,” she retorted. “I intend to make my protest clear. I won’t garb myself as if I’m going to a happy event. I’d sooner dress for my execution!”
Katie sighed heavily. There was so much Cambria didn’t know. “Lass, it will go much better with yetonightif ye’re pleasin’ to himtoday, if ye get my meanin’,” she confided.
Cambria smiled smugly. “I’ve taken care of that, Katie. You see, the wedding’s agreed to, but the bedding is not.”
“Oh, aye, so Malcolm’s said.” She laughed as she thought about the virile beast of a man Cambria was about to wed. “Think he’ll agree to that?”
“He’salreadyagreed to it in the marriage document.”
“Ah, Cambria,” Katie breathed, shaking her head, “what have ye got yerself into? He’s clever, that one. I warrant that promise will last longer on parchment than in practice.”
Cambria frowned at her chiding remark, and Katie at last tossed up her hands in surrender. Perhaps she’d send Malcolm along to see if he could talk some sense into the lass.
The steps of the church were strewn with cornflowers, periwinkle, and cowslip, and the air buzzed with a colorful cacophony of voices. Nobles and peasants alike, adorned in their best attire, ranging from the finest burgundy velvet to passably clean sheep’s hide, lined the stony road. Every tongue wagged, speculating at the strange event to come. The anticipation rose with the passing minutes.
It was hardly a fit day for a wedding. There had been little time to prepare for either the ceremony or the feast to follow, and the bleak sky threatened to loose its store of rain. The priest, scratching in his woolen frock, looked as if he’d been dragged from his bed.
A hush fell gradually over the crowd as Lord Holden at last made his approach from Blackhaugh Castle on his charger, appearing out of the mist like some mythical hero. He had bathed and dressed in a sumptuous black velvet surcoat that matched the trappings of his horse. Detailed silver embroidery was worked into the design of the wolf de Ware, and the dark color of the background made Holden’s eyes a more brilliant green than usual in contrast. His hair, freshly washed, fell in shining mahogany waves to his wide shoulders, and many of the women present would have gladly given up their place in heaven for the chance to hold that head in their lap. Not a lady wasn’t envious of Cambria Gavin when Lord Holden halted the steed before the church and dismounted. His bearing exuded his noble birth in spite of the slight favor he was forced to give his wounded side as he walked.
When Cambria finally galloped up, scattering the unfortunate few who stood too close to her path, the priest, the knights, the servants, everyone except Holden, gasped audibly, appalled at her appearance. Guy and Garth looked ready to throttle her, as did Malcolm the Steward. But Holden, to her disappointment, reacted not at all to the fact that she was attired from head to foot in chain mail.
She dismounted and walked toward him, each step of her metal-shod feet ringing clearly on the silent air. But he met her with civility, taking her hand, though it was encased in a gauntlet, as if it were the most delicate blossom.
It peeved her to see him remain calm, unimpressed with her show of defiance. Surely he was angry with her for her choice of dress. But he didn’t blink an eye. It was almost as if he’d expected her to do something like this. And since the impact was lost on him, she almost regretted her rebellious behavior, particularly as the priest stood staring at her with his jaw lax.
Holden cleared his throat, and the priest clumsily began the ceremony. Cambria mumbled her way through the ritual, repeating words she was reluctant to say, while Holden’s voice rang strong with conviction. As the priest droned on, she began to feel absolutely slovenly next to Holden, noting his fine garments, his freshly shaved chin, the wonderful spiced scent of his skin, a pitiful contrast to her unwashed face and tarnished armor.
When the outdoor ritual was complete, the priest held open the door of the church to let all crowd within for the wedding Mass. Beeswax candles filled the shadowy nave, and their light illuminated the jewel-colored glass of the arched windows and danced merrily along the walls in contrast to Cambria’s mood. Her mailed footsteps grated with painful starkness over the hallowed stones as they neared the altar.
The ceremony seemed an endless torture. By the conclusion of the rites, Cambria felt like a complete fool. Holden had to repeatedly help her to her feet in the heavy mail after the constant kneeling required in the service, and though he did so without comment, she was sure he was laughing inwardly at her stupidity. Her knees were sore, and she reiterated the words of the Mass through clenched teeth. What exasperated her more than anything was that Holden seemed to go through the ceremony as if it were something he did every day of his life.
Holden knew Cambria was suffering for her folly. He imagined her own pain was punishment enough for her attempt to humiliate him. He would have to make certain that Guy, Garth, and Malcolm didn’t try to chastise her further. They looked ready to roast her slowly over an open fire.
Already he could see the humor in the situation. He imagined the tales he’d tell his children—theirchildren, he amended as he glanced at her beautiful, stubborn profile.
Oh, aye, they’d have children. She obviously had no idea how persuasive he could be. The foolish clause she’d insisted upon in their marriage contract couldn’t stop him from seducing her. It would only give her a false sense of immunity to his seduction.
He studied the soft, kissable column of her neck, the tender place beneath her ear. The poor lass didn’t know that the art of arousal was a gift with him. Holden’s skills were a favorite subject of conversation among the ladies, and his men often teased him about his uncanny ways with the fairer sex. He was very good, a master, and he had no doubt that even this unwilling wench would eventually answer to his touch. And when she finally did, he thought, focusing on her sensual mouth, it would be with a passion as fierce as her temper.
He was brought back to the matter at hand as the priest spoke the final words, blessing their alliance. Holden took the silver de Ware crest ring from his pouch, the one he’d paid a king’s ransom to have made quickly, and faced his bride. He slipped the band onto the tip of his finger and took her hand, turning it palm upward so he could unfasten her gauntlet.
The hush in the nave was the silence of a hundred held breaths as he removed the mail glove. No doubt many in the crowd suspected he’d cast the thing down in challenge. But he only tucked it beneath his arm and slipped the ring from his own finger onto hers. It fit perfectly.
