Page 43 of My Warrior
The priest exhaled shakily, and then gave permission for the kiss to seal their union. Holden handed the gauntlet to the fidgeting priest and turned purposefully to his new wife.
She looked at him guardedly.
He slowly slid the mail coif back from her head, exposing tresses that gleamed in the gold light. Gazing into her liquid eyes with an intensity meant to shake her to the core, he slipped a hand under the soft curls on one side of her head. With the other hand at her back, he pressed her firmly against him. As he tipped her head back, he covertly, languorously traced a finger beneath her ear, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her. The kiss he gave her was sweet and chaste, but the touch of his hands upon her and the way his body melted into hers were far from innocent.
Cambria felt like the Wolf’s victim. Only a moment before, she’d rejoiced that this farce of a wedding was nearly at an end. Now, she felt herself slipping utterly out of control as Holden touched her. His fingers were unexpectedly gentle, like a falconer’s caress, and although she wore a padded gambeson beneath her mail, she could feel the insistent pressure of his hips against her belly. His lips were warm and encouraging on her trembling mouth, and his breath was pleasantly sweet.
For an instant she panicked, losing her balance. To her chagrin, Holden had to steady her as her legs threatened to buckle under his onslaught.
Then the kiss was over, and she could hear the castle folk cheering. She managed to walk out beside Holden under her own power. But she couldn’t bear to lift her flaming face.
For a brief moment they were alone in the adjoining narthex, and Holden caught her by the shoulders.
“All right?” he asked with genuine care.
“Aye,” she croaked, batting his arms away.
“It’s really for the best,” he said, releasing her. “Soon our people will be exchanging pleasantries, discussing crops, swilling ale,” he added with a reassuring grin.
“No doubt.”
But her mind was not at all on the effect of their marriage on the castle inhabitants. She was still recovering from the effect of his kiss.
In the great hall, fresh rushes and meadowsweet were quickly spread, precious candles brought forth, and the cook scrounged up what simple dishes could be found on such short notice for the feast.
Unlike the wedding, which had seemed to Cambria to drone on and on, the meal passed by far too quickly. Due to the haste of the ceremony and the need to prepare for war, Lord Holden had insisted on forgoing the traditional several-day feast and opted for a single banquet. The castle folk seemed intent on becoming just as drunk in one night as five, however, and began falling to their ale with unbridled enthusiasm.
Serving maids carried platters of roast meat and bowls of steaming pottage to and fro, refilling goblets, and avoiding the eager advances of knights with wandering hands. A lutist played at the front of the hall, but he could scarcely be heard above the commotion in the room. Hounds groveled for bones at the feet of their masters, and children licked their greasy fingers in spite of chiding slaps from their mothers.
Cambria had little appetite. In spite of the assurance of the marriage agreement between them, she dreaded sharing a bed with the English lord. She’d been badly frightened by the strange yearning sensations he’d aroused in her with a single kiss, and she had no wish to lose her composure again.
She couldn’t stomach the roast meats, ruayn cheese, and stewed apples that graced the tables and only nibbled on a crust of fine white bread. She grew weary of being jostled about by well-wishers, and the noise and laughter began to irritate her. In her nervousness, she became unmindful of how many times her cup was filled. She noticed only when she stood suddenly and her eyes took an extra moment to catch up, that perhaps she’d had a wee bit too much wine.
Holden noticed three cups after that. There was an odd list to Cambria’s halting gait, and she actually smiled broadly at him as he came toward her.
“Bride,” he admonished softly, amused by her drunkenness, “you’ll drink yourself into a stupor.”
He removed the chalice from her grasp in spite of her objections that that was precisely what she hoped to do.
“Let’s leave the feast,” he whispered into her ear.
She shivered once and struggled to focus her eyes.
“Go up,” he told her. “I’ll join you soon.”
She mumbled a goodbye and wandered off through the crowd. He wondered if she’d find her way to their bedchamber. It probably didn’t matter anyway, he thought, mentally sighing. She wasn’t going to let him between those lovely thighs tonight.
He rose from his chair and announced, “I grow weary from my wound, good people, so I would dispense with the customary wedding night proceedings. My bride and I shall retire now, but we wish the feasting to continue. I give you fair warning, I will be displeased should there be one left standing among you come the morrow.”
The castle folk laughed in good humor. Even the most stubborn of the Scots had to grudgingly admit a certain amount of admiration for Lord Holden’s civility and warmth.
Only Sir Owen, leaning against the smoky wall in a distant corner, watched the proceedings with hatred twisting his mouth. Holden de Ware had just put a nasty kink into his plans. And no amount of gaiety, not even the company of his favorite whore, could coax away his bitter mood.
Holden, only one thing on his mind, stopped briefly to reassure Guy that he wouldn’t let his bride slay him in his sleep. Then he sipped the last of his wine, giving Cambria a few moments to settle into their chamber.
Finally, glancing impatiently at the door, he set down his empty cup and mounted the stairs amid raucous, heckling cries. He grinned good-naturedly and bid them all good night as he closed the chamber door behind him.
Cambria was perched tautly on the edge of the bed, a strange look of vulnerable defiance in her eyes that he didn’t at first understand. Damn her, she was still attired in her armor.
