Page 66 of My Warrior
“Aye,” he replied, thinking how ridiculously gullible these Scots were. “If only I’d found you sooner…”
Robbie gazed down at him, and Owen could almost see the scales of trust tipping back and forth on his face. Then he motioned to one of his men. “See that his wound is tended properly. If the battle at Halidon has been lost, it’s only a matter of time before the English return.”
Owen nodded in agreement.
“We must leave this place,” Robbie said.
“If I may be so bold,” Owen began, barely able to contain his mirth at this turn of events, “I have a plan.”
He hardly felt the pain as Robbie’s men changed his dressing, only wincing occasionally as he described his daring proposal to the eager Scots.
The warmth of the sun seeping into the serge tent woke Cambria. She was shocked to find herself sprawled shamelessly next to the sleeping bulk of Lord Holden, her legs dangling out from under the fur coverlet.
She retrieved her rumpled kirtle, pulling it inch by inch from beneath the weight of Holden’s hindquarters, and then slipped it over her head, frowning at the severed laces. She wondered idly how many of her gowns Holden would destroy in his haste to swive her. Then a flush stole up her cheeks as she remembered it had beenshewho had been so impatient for their bed.
She lay back on the pallet once more and peered at the man who was her husband. He lay flat on his back. From the look of his bandages, his shoulder hadn’t worsened, and his face was clear and untroubled by fever. Indeed, he looked like a sweet angel as he slept.
Holden had given her far more than absolution last night. He’d made her feel alive. She’d experienced immense power beyond her wildest imagination, hand in hand with a vulnerability so dangerous it had made her tremble. In one exhilarating, terrifying moment she’d conquered him and been conquered. Had she betrayed her clan by bedding the enemy? Or had she emerged victorious? Her mind was a blur of contradictions.
She needed to get out, to be alone for a while to sort out her thoughts in the open cathedral of a Scots forest. She stood for a moment in the leaf-dappled shade of the tent, attempting to rub the swelling from her eyes, raking her hair into some semblance of order. Then she stole across the spongy carpet. Just as she lifted the pavilion flap, Holden called to her.
“Don’t go yet.”
She’d hoped to escape his notice. She wasn’t ready to talk to him or even look him in the eye. But when she turned resignedly, her reluctance melted like butter on hot bread.
Holden sat up on his elbows, leaving the glorious breadth of his chest exposed. Damp curls clung to his neck, and there was a shadow of masculine stubble on his cheeks. His eyes were heavy-lidded from slumber, his lips were parted hopefully. Her heart caught in her throat as she fought the urge to gulp. How much easier it was to look at him as he slept. Awake, he was too vital, too magnetic, too unpredictable.
Holden cleared his throat. “We have to talk, you and I,” he said solemnly, pulling his discarded tabard modestly across his lap. It wouldn’t do to let her see how much her tempestuous beauty affected him as he watched the warm light bathe the exposed skin of her shoulders.
Her smoky eyes were as captivating as the fog above a loch, and her swollen lips gave her a sultry, sensual mien. Her hair was a hopeless snarl, but it only served to remind him of her passion. Hell, he thought, if he continued his thoughts in that direction, he’d be pushing her onto her back again within moments. And something in her manner told him that would be a mistake just now.
“Please.” He patted the mattress beside him.
Indecision flickered in her eyes, but she joined him on the pallet, sitting stiffly on the edge. He half-smiled at her sudden shyness, particularly since the entire back of her kirtle gapped open, revealing that arrow-straight back.
“There will be a feast this evening. Edward wishes to meet the lady I have wed without his consent.”
Cambria whirled toward him, her awkwardness forgotten in her surprise. “Meet…your king?”
“Ourking,” he corrected casually. “He wishes to see for himself the Scotswoman who would follow her English husband to war and protect him with bow and arrow.”
“You told him?” She suddenly longed to pummel her husband.
“The tale reached his ears long before I got to him. But it’s no matter. Now there’s no questioning your loyalty.”
“But I didn’t do it for the English,” she said bluntly. “I did it for my clan.”
He winced. “A fact best left unmentioned where Edward is concerned. In fact, I’d rather you said as little as possible.”
I’m sure you would,she thought rebelliously. There was much she wanted to say to the king—protest the appointment of Balliol, argue about the unification of Scotland and England, rage over the atrocity committed against her father.
“I will be obeyed in this, Cambria. It will serve no purpose for you to act the shrew.” His eyes issued a warning. “I’ve wagered much in marrying you without the king’s blessing. I must prove that I’ve made a prudent decision. If you attempt to disgrace me with that sharp tongue of yours before Edward—“
“My tongue is not sharp!” she huffed.
“Dear wife,” he said, laughing, “were it any sharper, you wouldn’t need a dagger to cut your meat.”
She shot him her most scathing look. The last thing she’d expected from him this morning was insults.
