Page 68 of My Warrior
She patted her face dry on a clean corner of her kirtle. “Holden de Ware, sir.”
The man’s eyes flitted up to her suddenly, and he seemed to be studying every inch of her face. Then an amused grin settled onto his lips. “I’ve heard tell of him. Isn’t he called the Wolf? It’s said he’s never lost a battle.”
“Aye.” She drew herself up proudly to her full height.
“But if your sympathies lie with the Scots, why would you ally yourself with de Ware, a man who will surely crush them?”
“Because I’m his wife.”
While his companions made remarks of outrage at what they assumed was a lie, the golden man didn’t seem in the least surprised and began to chuckle deep in his chest. “AndI,” he said with a hearty laugh, coming to his feet and making a half-bow, “am the king of England.”
Her temper flared, and she spoke in a scathing voice. “Do not mock me! Or I’ll set my great Wolf of a husband upon you, and he’ll tear the leer from your face!”
The two gentlemen recoiled and looked as if they’d choke on astonishment. But the third man seemed highly entertained by her threat, even wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.
“I’ve heard tell of this new wife of de Ware’s,” he teased. “It’s said she’s so ugly she must hide beneath a cloak.”
She bridled, but wouldn’t take the bait. “You may judge that for yourself.”
“That she abducted her husband at the point of a dagger.”
“An act of desperation,” she assured him.
“That she wore chain mail to her wedding and that she fights like a man.”
“I can handle a sword.”
The man’s eyes gleamed. “Perhaps you’ll do me the honor of a friendly duel then. It would be refreshing for a change to fight a woman in an arena where I have half a chance of winning.”
Her lip curved up in amusement. “As you see, I’m unarmed.”
“John,” the man directed, gesturing to one of the knights, “lend the lass your sword.” The man sputtered, appalled at the suggestion. “Come, come,” he insisted with a good-natured frown.
“Perhaps he’s afraid his sword will be loath to return to him after tasting my grip,” she taunted.
The one called John looked like he might burst as his face blackened with rage, but she didn’t fear him. He was obviously beholden to the golden man. He unsheathed his sword and tossed it at her, pommel first, with enough force to knock a person down, but she managed to catch it squarely in both hands. She shrugged off her cloak and kicked it out of the way. Too late, she remembered her kirtle was slit down the back. But there would be time for modesty later. At the moment, she was defending her honor.
The man ambled forward, and she saw that he was quite tall and long of limb. A superior reach, however, did not necessarily a victor make. In fact, if one was swift, and she was, speed could have a clear advantage over size.
His eyes danced with merriment, and he drew his blade eagerly. It was a noble sword, true and shining, with some kind of intricate carving and jewels upon the hilt. He struck first, a gentle tap, to test her mettle. She knocked the blow away effortlessly, smirking impatiently at him. He sliced again, and she easily tossed his attack aside and advanced. Taken by surprise, he retreated a few paces, and his companions growled their disapproval.
“It seems your friends,” she told him as she fought, “have no faith in your swordplay.”
The man happily blocked her blows. “They’re only amazed by yours!”
Cambria liked this man. His honesty was refreshing. He complimented her even as they battled. Of course, as timid and tentative as his blows were, he’d naturally be impressed by her technique. Indeed, he seemed to have no qualms about her swordfighting and didn’t appear to be offended in the least by her skills, as other men inevitably were. As much as she’d sought seclusion this morning, it felt good to focus her scattered energies on a tangible opponent. This encounter was rather enjoyable, she realized as she took a downward slice at his head.
A quarter mile away, within the walls of his tent, Holden cursed himself for letting Cambria go off alone. Sir Guy had just returned to the encampment in disappointment. His prey had slipped through his fingers—Owen was still on the loose. And if anyone could find her way into trouble, it was Cambria. He dressed quickly and began searching the camp for his wife.
When he heard the clang of sword upon sword coming from the wood, he drew his own blade and crept soundlessly through the trees. Peering through the low branches of a willow, he saw his worst nightmare realized. Before his very eyes, their swords clashing with fervent purpose, fought his wife and his king.
CHAPTER 14
Cambria chuckled in triumph as her grinning opponent retreated toward the stream. They’d been sparring happily for only a few minutes, and already she’d won the advantage. She raised her blade for the symbolic kill.
Suddenly she was grabbed from behind. One thick arm wrapped around her waist, and another tore the sword from her grasp, flinging it across the clearing. Before she could even lay eyes on her attacker’s face, she knew it was Holden—something about his scent or the familiar heat of his fury—and she was livid that he’d interfered with her sport. She opened her mouth to curse him when, to her amazement, he wound a cruel fist in her hair. Pressing her roughly down to her knees on the damp forest floor, he forced her to bow her head.
“I beg you to forgive her, Your Majesty,” he said all too clearly.
