Page 82 of My Warrior
Just in time. As he rounded the curtain wall, Owen dropped to the ground from a long iron chain suspended from the tower embrasure. The released chain buckled and banged against the stones like a deranged black snake as Owen stumbled forward on his injured leg.
Holden clenched his teeth and unsheathed. “Turn and fight, coward!”
Astounded, Owen staggered. His eyes widened in disbelief. “How…?“
“Draw your weapon!”
Owen gaped on, his jaw loose. “You should be dead.”
“As should you, for what you did to my wife,” Holden replied, steeling his jaw. “I’ve come to make sure of it.”
Owen’s eyes flitted wildly about, weighing the possibility of escape and coming up short.
“Prepare to die,” Holden ground out.
Owen nervously licked his lips. “It won’t be a fair fight. I’m wounded.”
“We’re both wounded. Draw your blade, and die like a man.”
Biting out a foul oath, Owen reluctantly pulled forth his sword and crouched for combat.
Holden was at a disadvantage. He still wore his mail chausses, but his upper body was defenseless, naked but for the blood-soaked bandage. He had to depend wholly on the fact that he was the better swordsman.
Owen circled away, his eyes gleaming maliciously. “She’ll never forgive you, you know,” he sneered. “Those things you said.”
Owen was obviously trying to rattle him. It wouldn’t work. Holden advanced, slowly turning his blade in his grip.
“And then,” Owen added, “where will your precious Scots alliance be?”
The man didn’t know what he was talking about. Of course Cambria would forgive him. She was his wife, wasn’t she? As for the alliance…
Owen struck once, hard, against Holden’s injured side. Holden cursed under his breath. He should have seen that one coming.
“You’ve lost her,” Owen continued, creeping like a crab at the verge of Holden’s reach, “just like you’ll lose Blackhaugh.”
Holden slashed forward, slicing Owen’s arm, but not as deeply as he wanted to. Owen backed away, wheezing in pain.
“You may kill me,” Owen gasped, “but it won’t solve anything. She’ll never trust you again. The Scots will never trust you. You’ll lose the keep, and I’ll still win.”
Holden didn’t believe that for a moment. Cambria knew about the strategies of war—why he’d done what he’d done, what he’d been forced to say. He wiped his sweaty palm absently across his chest. It came back drenched in scarlet. Hell, he was dripping blood again. That last maneuver had torn open the gash.
“And you’ll always wonder,” Owen said, panting with malevolent cheer, “about the babe.”
Holden stumbled. Owen’s grinning face began to swim in his vision, doubling, tripling. A soft, soothing, dark cloud flirted at the edges of his sight. Lord, he couldn’t faint. Not now.
Desperate, he doubled his left fist, lifting it high. With sheer determination and force, he brought it down, pounding it as hard as he could against his wounded ribs. Pain burst through the fog of unconsciousness, wrenching a groan from him, but bringing him instantly awake.
“You’ll never know,” Owen taunted, nibbling at Holden’s soul like a crow after carrion, “if the child is yours or mine.”
Child? What child? What was Owen talking about? He swung his blade about, but Owen danced out of the way.
“You see,” Owen continued, huffing now, his eyes mad with his story, “I bedded the bitch.”
Holden couldn’t blot out the image that sprang to his mind—the repulsive, monstrous Owen sprawled atop Cambria. He slashed out again, but he could feel his strength ebbing. Owen dodged the blow.
“Oh, she wasn’t willing. You havethatright.” He swung at Holden’s head and missed. “But it’s amazing what one can do with the proper restraints.”
Holden’s mouth twisted into a snarl. Owen had raped Cambria. He began to tremble with rage as he envisioned it: Owen’s filthy claws gripping her soft flesh, his foul mouth staining her skin with slavering kisses, his pathetic bird’s cock savaging her tender body.
