Page 53 of My Warrior
By the end of supper, she was as tense as an oversprung catapult, torn between self-pity and disgust, waiting anxiously for word that some wench had been called to the lord’s tent. But at last Holden retired to his pavilion, alone. For tonight, at least, she could rest easy.
She’d just begun to drift off on a threadbare wool blanket amidst the lull of snoring when an old serving woman came to her. The beldame bore the message that she’d been summoned to Lord Holden’s pavilion. Cambria was certain there had been a mistake—she’d tried to remain all but invisible to the nobles—but the old woman insisted it wasshethe lord had called, the wench in the cloak.
Her teeth chattered all the way there. Perhaps it was only the cool night air, or perhaps the idea of facing Holden sent a chill up her spine. Had he discovered her identity? Or had he, in some ironic jest of destiny, chosen her as a sweetmeat to end his meal?
She drew the cloak about her face. The servant pulled aside the tent flap and bid her enter.
The pavilion was dark inside. She hesitated, wondering in which corner of his lair the Wolf lurked. Before the old woman left, she lit a tall candle on a stand beside the pallet with her firebrand, throwing a pool of gold light across the enclosure. It appeared to be empty.
Cambria stood still for several heartbeats, letting her eyes adjust to the candlelight. The tent was modestly furnished. A worn Turkish carpet stretched out across the hard-packed earth. There was a single carved chair and a large locked trunk for clothes and valuables. The thick, fur-covered pallet filled nearly half the space.
Anxiety threatened to destroy her composure, and she fought to keep her expression bland. Her brain buzzed with a hundred different answers she could give if Holden questioned her presence. But none of them were even remotely convincing.
Outside the pavilion, beneath the watchful moon, Holden paused. He took a deep breath, like a jouster preparing to charge. What would he say to her? What would he do? And most important, why was she here?
If only he’d discovered her earlier… But once he was sure Cambria was safe behind castle walls, he’d focused his mind on nothing but the battle ahead, shunning the maids vying for his affections. He wished now he hadn’t ignored that particular maid in the cloak.
He’d finally spotted her across the evening fire. A quick glimpse of the squared curve of her jaw lit by flickering flame had nearly caused him to choke on his wine. And then, watching her, he wondered how he could have been so blind.
There were things about Cambria no cloak could mask. She had a most distinctive walk, for one thing, not a feminine gait, but a warrior’s long stride. Then there were the strong, sensuous, familiar curves and planes of her body, revealed when she pushed up her sleeves or hiked her skirts to step over a tree root, when she bent over to serve pottage or leaned far into a cart after a cup.
But now that he’d discovered her, he had to ask himself why she’d come.
He wanted to believe she’d followed him, as she’d threatened, in order to protect him from Owen. He wanted to believe her concern for him motivated her decision to counter his commands.
But the sad truth was, he couldn’t be entirely sure of her affections. Other than her grudging admiration of his knightly prowess and the suppressed spark of desire he tended to inspire in women, he had no real proof of Cambria’s feelings for him.
This alliance with the Border clans was too new, the king’s battle too critical, to overlook the possibility, as painful and improbable as it seemed, that Cambria might betray him. He knew she had contacts among the rebels—she had freed the three who’d attacked him, an attack too well arranged for his taste. She was likely sympathetic to the rebels’ plight—it seemed all Scots were romantics when it came to futile causes. And she was trying to distract him by casting suspicion upon one of his own men, Sir Owen, coincidentally the one who may have slain her father.
Damn it all, he had to find out where Cambria stood, for the safety of his men. He couldn’t afford to allow her time to stir up revolt in the ranks or alert the rebel Scots of their coming.
He sighed heavily and rubbed his hands together. He knew what had to be done. He had to question her. Although he despised the task, he was very good at eliciting information from less than willing individuals. He knew how much force to exert, and where, to get almost any prisoner to sing like a nightingale.
But even as he considered it, he shook his head. He couldn’t raise his hand against Cambria. Such a thing was unspeakable. Besides, as proud as the little Scots warrior was, he knew threatening her with violence was absolutely useless. She was more than willing to die for her clan.
Nay, he’d have to use a different attack to find the soft spot in her armor. He looked up at the dark heavens as if the answer lay there. A soft breeze blew at the nape of his neck, making the hairs there stand on end. And he knew.
He’d use her own vulnerability—her very womanhood, that unexplored passion that lay below the surface of her cool exterior, denied for so long that she wasn’t even aware it existed. He’d use it to wring the truth from her.
He rubbed his knuckles across his mouth as he contemplated the task before him. Summoning a passing squire with a motion of his hand, he quietly bid the lad bring a vessel of wine and two cups. His wife, he decided, was about to experience the touch of a master of seduction.
Cambria heard the rustle of the tent flap, and she held her breath, shielding her face from view. When Holden entered, a dark, large, looming shadow, he breezed past her without acknowledgment. Indeed, Cambria thought he might not have even seen her. Slowly, silently she let the air leak out between her lips.
Without looking up, he poured a measure of wine into two cups.
“Don’t you roast, wearing that hood all the time?” he asked.
She didn’t dare answer. He might know her voice. But as the silence lengthened, she began to believe his gaze could pierce the dim light and her shadowed hood into her very soul. She took the cup he held out for her in trembling fingers, turning aside and sipping at the wine.
After a moment, he tipped back his own cup, finishing it off all at once.
“You’re shy,” he remarked. “Have you never lain with a man before?”
She gulped down the strong wine too quickly and was caught up in a spell of coughing. Holden reached out and clapped her a few times on the back, which didn’t help in the least.
“Nay,” she croaked.
Holden grimaced. How easy it was for her to lie, he thought ruefully. According to Guy and Myles, Sir Roger had bedded with her at the inn. He hoped to God she wasn’t lying about her loyalties as well.
