Page 76 of My Warrior
Holden breathed an invisible sigh of relief as Cambria slipped from Owen’s grasp like a too-small mouse through a hawk’s talons.
“Make it,” he commanded.
“By rights, Blackhaugh should have belonged to my brother, God rest his soul. I am the next in line. The keep is rightfully mine. Surrender it,” Owen dared him.
Holden smirked. Sarcasm dripped from his lips. “Anything else?”
Owen trembled with anger, and spittle flew out of his mouth as he spoke. “Do not scoff at me! I have allies here! Give me Blackhaugh willingly, or I shall inform the king that your wife is a murderer, that she has royal blood on her hands.”
Holden sucked in a quick breath. Could Owen make Edward believe that? Logic told him nay. After all, the de Wares had been loyal vassals for generations. But if Edward suspected Holden’s judgment was clouded by love… Myles and Guy, Cambria’s sole witnesses to what had truly happened at the inn, might already be dead. Without them, there was no proof shehadn’tslain Edward’s uncle.
Holden shuddered. Edward was unbending when it came to matters of justice. He’d arranged the execution of his mother’s beloved Roger Mortimer easily enough. If the king believed Owen, he wouldn’t hesitate to exact the same kind of harsh judgment against Cambria.
He couldn’t let that happen. No matter that he’d promised to deliver the traitor to Edward, he couldn’t give Owen the chance to bend the king’s ear. Nay, he’d see the bastard dead before the sun kissed the horizon again.
Somehow he had to goad Owen into fighting. And to do that, he must gull the churl into thinking he had half a chance of winning.
With a cluck to Ariel, he began to rein her back and forth in a clear display of anger.
“You would turn against the very household that fostered you?”
“I have no great affection for the house of de Ware!” Owen shouted. “Your father only took me in because I was Roger’s brother!”
Holden threw his helm to the ground in pretended frustration.
Owen seemed satisfied by this response and began to grow smug. “You still have Bowden Castle, de Ware,” he sang out. “Be content with that.”
“I will not let what is rightfully mine be taken from me!” Holden thundered, raising his fist to the sky.
Owen chortled. “This keep is not rightfully yours!”
Holden punched his fist into his palm. He didn’t want to lay siege, and he wouldn’t pitch an outright battle against his own vassals. But if he could needle Owen into waging war with champions…
“If I lay siege, you won’t last a month. There are not enough provisions in Blackhaugh.” It was a lie, but he gambled that Owen had neglected to check the castle’s stores. “Let us choose champions to battle for possession of the keep. A fight to the death.”
Holden knew his foe was not stupid. Owen would never send a single champion against a man of Holden’s reputation. But if the odds were evened, if he tempted Owen with the possibility of conquering the unconquerable Wolf…
“The Wolf de Ware,” he said, “against ten of your best men!”
Owen scratched at his beard, mulling over Holden’s words. Damn! He wished he had ten knights. He would have liked to see the thus far undefeated Wolf ground into the dust. Besides, earning the reputation as the man who’d conquered England’s greatest warrior would be as effective a defense as an extra curtain wall around the castle. But, sadly, he didn’t have even one ally left to do battle.
Still, if what Holden said about Blackhaugh’s stores was true, he had to take a more timely course of action. He no longer had the resources or the constitution to endure a long siege. His leg was worsening. For days he’d denied it, but already he suffered bouts of fever. If he didn’t get to a physician, it wouldn’t be long before he succumbed to complete delirium.
He spat on the sill in disgust, sick with the irony that, though he held Blackhaugh and all of its inhabitants hostage, he was still powerless against the Wolf.
Then, in a dark corner of his brain, a single thought crawled forth like a glistening pink worm from beneath moldy mulch, a notion so delectably twisted, so diabolical that he nearly choked on his cleverness.
“All right, de Ware,” he called down. “I accept your challenge. Prepare to meet your end.”
Holden didn’t have time to wonder at Owen’s ready agreement. The knave spun quickly away from the window, disappearing from sight. Then a shriek echoed from within the tower.
Cambria.
Holden felt her scream like a blade drawn swiftly across his heart. If that pox-ridden swine had hurt her… His throat closed painfully. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Cambria.
He loved her.
In his entire life he’d never been able to say those words before. He’d scarcely admit, even to himself, that the feeling existed. He’d lusted after women, and he’d adored them from afar. But now he knew. Now he realized, with an almost physical ache, that he loved the Scots lass, loved her beyond reason, beyond understanding, more than life itself. The king be damned, his country be damned, if he came through this and was able to hold her in his arms again, he’d tell her he loved her until she grew sick from hearing it.
