Page 50 of My Warrior
Owen’s voice grew bitter. “All those years of submission—‘aye, Roger,’ ‘of course, Roger,’ ‘as you like, Roger,’ listening to my brother boast of his noble blood, taking the rod upon my back for his sins, gobbling up the meager scraps of affection our dear mother threw me—well, they’re all finished now.” He wheezed a contented sigh. “Soon I’ll be the lord of Blackhaugh.”
“Say the part about me again, Owen, say it,” Aggie begged.
“You, my love, will become Lady Agnes, and you shall wear emeralds about your neck and dine on swan at the high table. You can even take a noblewoman to maid if you like, for your own amusement.”
Aggie sighed in contentment. “Oh, Owen, I’ll count the hours till ye return.”
Owen leered at her in what was supposed to be a smile. He set down his sword and pulled Aggie to him, squeezing her affectionately before he began to shove his hand down the bodice of her kirtle with a vulgarity that finally persuaded Cambria to leave, no matter the risk.
She had to find Holden. She had to warn him.
Despite the souvenir bruise that colored his cheekbone, reminding him of his wife’s earlier unpleasantness, Holden didn’t mean to be short with Cambria. He just had a hundred things on his mind.
Tomorrow they would set out to meet with Edward’s forces, and it seemed there wasn’t enough time to prepare. His own fletcher would have to make arrows all night long to have enough good ones, one of his knights’ horses had twisted a leg, and two of the carts needed their wheels mended. Next to these critical concerns, Cambria’s worries seemed insignificant.
“I’malwayscautious in battle,” he told her, checking each longbow he packed onto the arms wagon.
The bustle of activity here in the courtyard—knights sparring, servants packing, animals milling about—masked the sound of their conversation, but Cambria still looked nervous.
“You must watch your back,” she insisted.
“John!” he called out, tossing a bow to the man. “This one is useless. The recurve is split.”
Cambria whispered, “I just heard Owen confess he was responsible for Roger’s murder. And now he intends to slay you to inherit Blackhaugh.”
“Owen?” He sighed. Why did she protest her innocence now? “Cambria, you needn’t worry about your part in Roger’s death. It’s in the past. I deem it an unfortunate accident. Thomas! Careful with that!”
Cambria grabbed his arm. “Listen! He has already killed one man, his own brother, and gotten away with it. He could do the same to you.”
He rolled his eyes. “Cambria, I know what happened at the inn, why you killed Roger—“
“You don’t know anything!” she burst out. “I didn’t kill Roger! I tell you, Owen did it, and he’ll kill again.”
“Cambria, I’ve been fighting and killing men since you were a little girl. You’ll just have to trust my instincts.” He noted the stubborn clench of her jaw. “Did you see to the packing of the kegs of ale?”
Cambria offered no reply. She’d reached the limits of her patience. She spun on her heel and stalked off, a curse on her lips. The devil take Holden for all his blind stupidity. Maybe she should just let fate take its course. The damned fool, he was going to die by his own man’s hand, and he was too pigheaded to do anything about it.
Somehow she had to convince him. But not now, not while he was distracted by split recurves and battle provisions. Nay, she’d wait till nightfall, when duty no longer claimed his attentions. She’d wait till they were alone.
The moon gleamed high overhead and the fire burned low by the time Holden came to their chamber. Cambria had trod the rushes to pieces and bitten her nails down to nubs. She’d practiced all the arguments she intended to use on him, honed every weapon in her verbal arsenal. But when he dragged in, wearily running a hand through his hair, his bruise visible evidence of her earlier diplomacy, her practiced speech deserted her.
He looked up suddenly, as if astonished to find her still awake, and in that instant, all the uncertainty he harbored about the battle to come stood in relief upon his face as clearly as the etched swirls of the moon. For that one brief moment, she longed to comfort him, to smooth the wrinkles from his brow. But as swiftly as they’d appeared, the lines in his face vanished, and he greeted her with the mask of self-assurance he wore for his knights.
“Still awake?” He unbuckled his swordbelt and dropped it beside the bed. “One of us should get some sleep.”
“I couldn’t.”
He nodded. In the waxy moonlight, his bruise, the bruiseshehad given him, looked like a shadow. She lowered her eyes in guilt.
“I’m sorry I struck you,” she blurted. The words sounded strange to her ears. She didn’t believe she’d ever apologized to anyone before.
He waited for her to look at him, and then nodded with that lopsided smile. “When I return from battle, I suppose we’ll have to review the code of chivalry.”
Ifyou return,she thought, her heart lurching. She twisted her fingers in her gown as he began undressing. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t lose her temper, that she’d reason with him calmly. But the last thing she felt as he removed his clothing, piece by piece, was calm.
“I need to speak with you.” Her voice came out whispery, like the wind through dry leaves.
He’d removed his hauberk, and the moon painted the contours of his bare chest with silver. His was a fighter’s body, strong and firm, and yet the recent scar just below his ribs reminded her that he was forged of flesh and blood, as vulnerable as any man.
