Page 65 of My Warrior
They strove together like well-matched champions, meeting blow for blow, straining in ecstatic battle, attacking and retreating, only to advance again. Before long, they were mating in a frenzy of passion and instinct. Holden pounded into her like the surf of the North Sea. She clawed at his back as if he’d save her from drowning in the sensation. With each thrust, she felt herself being purged of the horrifying images at Halidon, and she clung fiercely to him, willing him to stay with her forever.
They rode passion’s wave together, and just as they reached the crest, Cambria looked impossibly through the darkness into Holden’s eyes, blue crystal shooting fire into green, green smoldering back into blue. At that instant of vulnerability, she felt their souls meet, and she knew that neither time nor distance nor death itself could ever part them. Then the wave crashed thunderously, and with a primal cry of relief, they fell to the earth like castaways on a forbidden shore.
CHAPTER 13
The pain was excruciating. Owen shivered with nearly uncontrollable panic and dread as he groped for the edge of the lichen-covered boulder. With a grunt, he fell against it, bruising his shoulder. Then he lay back, rolling his eyes skyward to the shifting pine boughs, catching his breath. Every limp had been an agony. He’d cursed the name of Cambria Gavin at every step. But when he finally reached the cover of the wood, he was certain he’d lost his pursuer.
He wanted to sleep now, to close his watering eyes and drift off to oblivion. But then she wouldn’t be punished. She’d go on living. And more than sleep he longed to see her suffer.
He knew what he must do, even as he whimpered against the thought. With trembling fingers, he ripped the bottom two inches from his blood-stained tabard. As he hitched air into his lungs, he balled the cloth and shoved it solidly between his teeth.
The arrow had surprised him—it had been loosed not from enemy hands, but from behind their own English lines. Incapacitated by the pain, he’d nonetheless instinctively sought out his attacker. How unmanning it had been to find the culprit was a peasant woman. Then he’d seen her face, and in that brief moment of recognition, he’d known hatred beyond all reason. Only his desperation to survive had prevented him from crossing the space between them and tearing the Scots bitch limb from limb with his bare hands.
His nostrils flared with the effort to breathe. For now, he’d retreat. He’d withdraw like an injured animal, lick his wounds, and curl up within himself to heal. There’d be time later to kill her, her and her lover. He giggled nervously in anticipation. He wanted to take his time with her, and for that he’d need strength.
Sweat beaded his clammy face as he shuddered and put both hands to the arrow protruding from his thigh. His eyes bulged from their sockets while he exerted steadily with almost inhuman might. At last, the point budged, and he pulled the shaft slowly from his muscle. The balled cloth muffled his screams of torment as the point tore backwards through his flesh till it was free.
The ragged wound bled furiously. He nearly fainted from the loss. He tore the rag from his mouth to stanch the flow, certain he’d live now. He fell back against the boulder, swatting clumsily at insistent flies, drifting into a long-awaited, troubled sleep. The midday sun pierced through the forest canopy and cooked him in his armor.
Hours later, with the sun well into its downward climb, the point of a sword jostled him awake. For a moment he was disoriented. Then the throbbing in his leg brought everything back.
A dozen savages surrounded him, their grimy faces peering down at him with contempt. They were Scots, their diverse somber plaids draped haphazardly across their shoulders, and the lot of them looked eager to spill English blood.
“Owen?” the one with the sword asked.
Owen recognized the lilting accent and red hair, even if his vision was too blurred to see clearly. It was the Gavin rebel. Damn his luck, he’d have to think quickly. And it was so hard to think when one was in pain.
“Is it you, Robbie?” he wheezed at last. “Thank God!”
The rebels eyed him warily.
“On your feet!” Robbie commanded, prodding him with a sword.
Owen’s voice was a weak croak. “I’ve been sorely wounded, Robbie.”
Robbie glanced cursorily at Owen’s bloody leg. “You’ve given us no new information since the attempt on de Ware’s life. Have your loyalties shifted then?”
“I still bear messages for the rebels,” Owen lied. “I was sent by them to find you. Why were you not at Halidon?”
Robbie’s eyes flared at the slight, and he puffed up his chest. “My men were the eyes and ears of the Scots. We weren’t at Halidon, because we traveled with the English, under their noses. We knew their number and strength days ago.”
Owen sighed dramatically. “Alas, I fear it’s too late.”
“Too late?”
“Aye,” he reported grimly. “By now you’ve lost to the English.”
Robbie regarded him incredulously. “Lost? But our numbers were vast. It isn’t possible.”
The Scots were gripping their weapons as if they’d march to war even now. Owen suppressed a smirk at their impotent ambition.
“It’s true,” he told them, shaking his head.
Robbie cursed and kicked at the hard ground. Then he wheeled toward Owen and regarded him slyly. “How did you come to be wounded?”
Owen didn’t have to feign his wrath. He answered through tightly gritted teeth. “An English arrow pierced me.”
“They discovered your treason?” Robbie guessed.
