Page 81 of My Warrior
“He must love you well,” he murmured, watching a trail of ants traverse the worm-eaten bark. “A man wouldhaveto love a woman to let her wound him like that.”
His words appeared to fall on deaf ears. Damn it, something should be done for her. “Have faith, my lady,” he blurted out, “and everything will be set to rights. I swear it.”
The lady’s silence was unnerving. Perhaps if he could see her face, her eyes… “You must be sweltering in there,” he said with false levity. “Allow me, please.”
He tentatively reached forward to take her helm between his palms. His hands trembled oddly, as if they feared what they’d discover. Then he grumbled at his own hesitation and with great care, he loosened the helm, lifting it gingerly from her shoulders.
What he found beneath made his trembling increase, not with fear, but with rage. He flung the helm to the forest floor with a violent oath.
The gentle lady was gagged cruelly, the rag about her mouth so tight that it nearly cut into her cheeks. One eye was purple and swollen, and her brow was split, leaving a crusted trail of blood. Her hair was a hopeless tangle, and sweat trickled in dirty rivulets down her face. She drew in labored, whistling breaths through her quivering nose. Worse, however, was her vacant stare, the emotionless glaze that told him she’d abandoned all hope. He’d seen that look a hundred times on widows’ faces.
Tenderly, he loosed the knot in the gag. He swallowed anxiously, anticipating Holden’s wrath when he discovered Cambria’s injuries, wondering with a shudder what would become of the one who’d caused them. For the moment, at least, in the undisturbed peace of the deep wood, he’d offer the lady what small comfort he could.
Owen’s triumphant grin tightened. Something was wrong. He couldn’t quite grasp the elusive reason for his sense of discord, but something was very definitely wrong. Why was the courtyard below so quiet? Usually at least a score of maidservants flitted about, tending to the animals, drawing water from the well, preparing food. A stealthy foreboding crept up on him like a storm cloud preparing to loose its burden of bad tidings.
“The keys!” he hissed, patting his thigh where they used to hang, searching his memory, and finally recalling the old woman with the dagger.
He spun so quickly away from the window that he tripped over the pile of Cambria’s chains and dropped the fiery brand he’d used to threaten the girl. Before he could move away, the flame of the fallen torch licked at the hem of his surcoat, finding nourishment.
He had no time for this, he thought absurdly, batting at the fabric. But his motions only fanned the flame. The material smoked and curled, singed black by its fiery predator. He slapped frantically at the smoldering garment, finally unbuckling his swordbelt and flinging the tabard off over his head, hurling it into the corner where it continued to happily devour itself.
Owen ran a shaky hand over his face. He had to think. The prisoners were loose. He knew that now. The brief taste of victory he’d enjoyed curdled on his tongue. He should have slain them all when he had the chance. The Gavins were probably marshaling their men even now to gain command of the castle. And, he thought, watching the tiny flames lose interest in his surcoat to leap playfully toward the tapestry, they’d eventually come for him.
Unless…
Holden wasn’t about to let his knights go in after Owen alone. He’d given his sweat and blood to win the castle back, and he wanted to see Owen’s miserable face when Lord Holden de Ware rose as if from the dead to claim Blackhaugh. So, despite his men’s protests, he cast off his hauberk, hastily bandaged the worst of his injuries, and limped through the gates to the courtyard under his own power. The servants were glad to see him, and while the rebel Scots obviously didn’t relish allying themselves with the English, Robbie had learned about the lesser of evils. Full of remorse, he led Holden to the tower himself.
The situation was still precarious—Holden dared not endanger any hostage Owen might yet have with him. He drew his sword, remaining at the foot of the stairs while two of his men stealthily climbed the spiraling steps, their boots making muffled scrapes on the stones as they ascended.
The door to the tower room was closed, but not bolted. The first knight heaved it open with his shoulder while the other slipped his sword through the opening. But a blast of heat and orange flame sent them staggering back. Thick smoke billowed out around them like a frothing ocean wave.
“Careful!” Holden shouted, afraid Owen had set some diabolical trap.
The men waved the noxious fumes away and squinted through the fire.
“No one’s here, my lord!”
“Wait!” coughed the second, pointing. “In the corner. A knight’s tabard, burning. The crest-it’s…it’s Fitzroi’s.”
Holden scowled. Owen? Burned to death? How?
“Fitting end for the devil,” Guy muttered beside him.
The surrounding knights murmured in agreement as the two men retreated swiftly down the stairs. Holden sheathed his sword, baffled. How could Owen be dead? Without a fight? Without a last stand? His demise had come too swiftly, too…conveniently. Or perhaps, Holden thought grimly, he was only feeling cheated of his vengeance. He’d wanted to tear the monster limb from limb for what he’d done to Cambria. But whatever his doubts, they’d have to wait. The castle was in danger of incinerating.
“Garth, assemble teams to fight the blaze!” he commanded.
The castle denizens sprang to life under Garth’s charge, evacuating the other chambers, moving trunks and livestock and food, fetching water in wooden buckets.
Holden scanned the tower. What he looked for, he wasn’t sure. But something unsettled him. All Owen’s careful plotting, his narrow escapes, his twisted schemes…destroyed in the blink of an eye. By fire. Why fire?
He knew the answer at once. Fire left no footprint, no evidence.
So who had set the blaze?
“Bloody hell!”
Ignoring the sharp pain that lanced across his bandaged chest, he wheeled and hobbled through the scurrying servants and soldiers toward the gate as fast as he could.
