Page 67 of My Warrior
“Remember that any shame you bring upon me shames your clan as well,” he reminded her.
She considered his words. It was difficult for her to imagine playing the docile wife. But if it would save the Gavin, she’d do it. She dropped her shoulders and extinguished the fire in her eyes. The clan had to come first.
Then, in a flash, the reality of her situation hit her with full force. “I can’t meet the king,” she hissed.
Holden looked at her grimly.
“I’ve nothing to wear, not even my chain mail!” she cried. “He won’t believe I’m a laird when I’m garbed like a peasant. Look at me!”
He did, every delicious inch of her, and he wished wryly that she truly did havenothingto wear.
Cambria wished she’d brought her armor. She could have polished it to a silvery sheen worthy of the king. But this torn peasant’s kirtle of woaded blue…
She jumped up from the pallet, and Holden caught her arm.
“Thank you,” he said gently, sincerely, “for last night, for your precious gift.”
His clear, penetrating gaze made her heart flutter like a pennon. She dropped her eyes and mumbled something in reply that made him smile. Then, snatching up her cloak, she rushed awkwardly from the pavilion. A moment later, when she realized she’d told him it had been her pleasure, she cursed under her breath.
She pulled the cowl close about her head and walked briskly past the curious faces, taking a well-worn path to the nearby stream. She couldn’t afford to think about last night—how she’d lost control and let passion cloud her judgment, how the mere sight of the Wolf had sent her heart racing.
Nay, she scolded herself, she had to think like a laird now. There was much planning to do for a meeting with the king. She promised herself she’d not disgrace her husband, nor would she call the king’s wrath down upon the Gavin. But she had to use the encounter to her best advantage. She had to find a way to dissuade Edward from granting Balliol the Scots throne.
Deep in thought, she picked her way through the lush fern and past sleek elm saplings toward the rushing stream. As she neared the bank, she was disappointed to hear the voices of a trio of men conversing quietly over the sound of the water. It seemed she’d have no solitude after all. Her foot snapped a crisp twig, and two of the men jumped to their feet to glare at her.
“Forgive me,” she said, amused at their exaggerated reaction. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
The third man, young, handsome, and as golden as summer, motioned her forward. “Come, lass,” he said warmly. “There’s plenty of water for all.”
His cohorts appeared annoyed by his friendly overtures. She supposed that was because she sounded Scots and looked like a peasant while they were obviously English nobles. Even without their jeweled belts and fur-lined garments, she could tell by their manner and bearing that they were of high rank.
“You’re from King Edward’s army?” she inquired, dropping to the water’s muddy edge to wash her hands.
The two men looked at each other in chagrin.
“Aye,” the third man said with a nod. “We’ve come from battle at Halidon, a promising victory.”
Her stomach turned, but she continued to smile sweetly. “I’d hardly call it a victory.”
Their eyes widened at her audacity.
The golden man carefully asked, “Your sympathies lie with the rebel Scots then?”
She rinsed her hands and thought for a moment. “Mysympathieslie there, but myloyaltyI give to my lord who fights for your king.”
The man smiled. “Well spoken. Perhaps you’re well advised to pity these disorderly rebels. They certainly don’t know how to fight. Only by appointing them their own king will such savages be tamed.”
“Aye, their own king, but certainly not Balliol,” she pronounced, taking umbrage. “The Scots don’t respect him.”
“And whom would they respect?” he asked with interest.
She frowned. “It would have to be a true Scot, bornandraised in the mother country, not some English puppet.”
The man ignored the agitated protests of his companions and asked, “Aren’t you afraid your lord will punish you for speaking so freely?”
Her eyes glittered. “He wouldn’t dare.” With that, she plunged both hands into the water and sluiced it up over her face, scrubbing the sleep from her eyes.
The man lifted his brows at her impetuosity, and then crouched to dabble his fingers in the stream. “Whoisyour lord, lass?”
