Page 85 of My Warrior
She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to blot out the memory. Then a glimmer of irony crept into her voice. “I do believe he was glad of an excuse to be rid of me.”
“He was a fool,” Holden told her passionately, gathering a handful of her hair between his fingers and thinking it was more precious than spun gold.
Then he kissed her again, a tender kiss this time, like the flicker of a moth on the evening wind. Cambria closed her eyes and shivered against him, lifting her lips for more. But Holden knew he couldn’t give more and keep from succumbing to that beast of desire that already tugged at its leash. Besides, she’d been through hell in the last few days. She needed rest.
So he let her recline in the cradle of his arms, and before long, she was drawing in the deep air of sleep. He listened to her soft breathing as if it were a consort playing for his benefit. All around them in the filtered light of the forest, the peaceful sounds of airborne insects and fat squirrels spiraling up oak trees made a lulling music in the Gavin wood.
This was happiness, he decided, snuggling closer—a beautiful woman in his embrace, a magnificent castle to command, loyal vassals at his side. There was nothing more a man could ask. And he owed it all to her.
“Ah, Cambria, Lady de Ware, laird of Gavin,” he murmured against her hair, “how I love you.” The words came easily to his lips now. Later, when she was awake, he’d say them again, say them a thousand times. “I swear to protect you and your clan with my life. Never again will you have to fight your battles alone. I am henceforth your knight, my lady. It is I who will wield the Gavin blade and vanquish your enemies. Now and forevermore.”
A sweet smile graced Cambria’s face, and he pressed a kiss upon her brow. Soon, he vowed, he intended to see that his dear wife would have no greater troubles than deciding whether to have capon or quail for supper. Nothing should worry her pretty little head. She had put the clan first for most of her life. It was time someone put her first.
CHAPTER 17
Holden beamed with pride as he scanned Blackhaugh’s courtyard. Over the past several weeks, he’d demanded a great deal from the castle denizens, yet there wasn’t a shiftless or unwilling soul among them. A man couldn’t wish for more loyal vassals than these Scots, and he was proud he’d won them with honor rather than force of will.
The work on the castle proceeded with even great efficiency than he’d thought possible. Brawny workers sweated over the stones and mortar they hauled up the stairs for the new tower. Woodworkers kept up a steady rhythm of pounding as they skillfully selected and dovetailed long planks together for the flooring. Sir Guy repaired the quintain, replacing it with a figure of uncanny likeness to Duncan de Ware, gleefully informing Holden that it might be the only way he could hope to defeat his older brother.
Thanks to capable Katie, young maids ran to and fro most of the day, sweeping out the musty rushes from the great hall and replacing them with fragrant grasses, heather, and thyme gathered from the fields, laundering bed linens till they snapped white as sails in the summer breeze, mending plaids and wattle fences and scraped knees.
This morn, two little boys with sun-freckled faces crossed the courtyard with a platter of cheese and salted meats for the workers, and the scent of fresh bread wafted from the bakehouse. A pair of waddling old women chased a fugitive pig back into its newly swept pen.
Holden felt as content as a hound with a full belly.
Summer found love blossoming everywhere. Blackhaugh had never seen so many weddings in a single season. Young Gwen snared a reformed Robbie for her own. Jamie found a pale milkmaid from Bowden to warm his heart and his bed. Even Sir Guy was pestered by a bonnie bit of a Scots temptress from the Campbell clan, eliciting wagers as to how long the siege would last. And shining down over everyone was the glow of affection between the Wolf and his mate.
Only Holden’s brother Garth seemed immune to the fever. Deciding he’d had quite enough adventure for one lifetime, he left to return home to his ecclesiastical studies. Holden agreed to let him go, on the condition that Garth be the one to break the news of his wedding to the rest of the de Ware household.
Holden intended to bring his Scots bride to England one day, but he couldn’t leave just now, not while there was so much work to be done. He belonged to Blackhaugh as much as it belonged to him. To gain the full respect of the Gavins and to firmly establish the alliance, he had to earn it, and part of the price was hard work. The other part was compromise. Though it was essential to impose some kind of English order upon the Scots’ wild mode of warfare, he had to concede there were some things he could learn from their rough-hewn ways. He had no wish to conquer this proud people. He desired to join them.
To that end, he labored harder than he’d ever labored in his life. Yet it was good work, honest work. And all his efforts, all the long hours, the back-breaking toil—everything—he did to impress the woman he’d come to cherish, that little Scots elf who yet slumbered above-stairs like a naughty layabed.
He grinned, then winced at what a lovesick pup he’d become. There had been a time when he believed a wife of little import, less import than a good steward or a trusty squire. But not even for the king had he toiled so tirelessly as he did for his precious lady laird. He’d pushed himself so arduously, laboring ceaselessly from dawn to well after dusk, that, night after night, he’d fallen into bed and instant sleep, exhausted.
Damn, he suddenly realized, had it truly been a week since he’d lain with his wife? He glanced up toward the window where Cambria still dozed, remembering the tantalizing way her breast had slipped out from beneath the linens this morn as she lay sleeping, the enticing pout of her dream-kissed lips, the sweet fragrance of her womanly body. His blood warmed like mulled wine.
Ithadbeen a week. Well, then, it was time to make amends.
Cambria stretched luxuriously across the thyme-scented pillow, then grimaced as a twinge lanced through her shoulder. Her arms ached from the rigorous training Sir Guy had put her through yesterday. She supposed she shouldn’t have worked so hard. But after such a long absence from the tiltyard while her body healed, it felt marvelous to have the blood surging through her veins again, to feel the healthy sweat of battle on her brow. It felt almost as good as…
Coupling with Holden. She sighed as lust flooded her veins. Every time she thought of him, molten heat blossomed in her belly and coursed relentlessly down her limbs, setting her flesh afire.
No woman could love a man so well. Her heart swelled with pride when he sat beside her at supper. Her breath caught when he winked suggestively at her from across the great hall. She never let him get within arm’s reach without reaching her arms out for him.
She felt alive. Part of it was the sultry warmth of summer and the peace the land enjoyed. Part of it was her healing and return to the tiltyard. And part of it was the sense of wholeness Holden brought to her.
His green eyes reflected pride when they gazed toward the Gavin wood. He belonged to Blackhaugh now. He knew the servants by name and had memorized all the best fishing spots. His feet no longer stumbled upon the uneven step at the bottom of the larder. Even his speech had altered ever so slightly, taking on the subtle lilt of the Borders. He belonged to the Gavins, and he belonged to Cambria. He completed her.
But there was another reason she felt so vital, so full of life, a reason she’d discovered only recently. And if she didn’t speak to Holden soon about it, she thought she might well burst with the news.
Holden had been too busy in the last several days to do more than murmur good day as they passed in the hallways. Now, in the delicious languor of the morning, her body remembered all too vividly everything about him—the hushed whisper of his breath beneath her ear, the soft brush of his lips upon her skin, the feel of his rough-haired thigh slung over hers, claiming her.
She flopped restlessly onto her back, kicking off the covers, and stared up at the ceiling, where sunlight stretched across the thick beams. Lord—how she missed him, craved him with all of her being. Lying in bed alone the past week, without his caresses, without his warmth, was slow torture.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine his face above her—his smoky green gaze, the subtle curve of his mouth, the spicy scent of his hair, the taste of wine on his tongue. She let one hand trace the neglected contours of her body, move over the places he hadn’t touched in days—the hollow of her throat where her pulse raced, the curve of her shoulder where he oft nestled his head, the crest of her breast that even now stiffened as she slid a thumb across the aching nubbin. She sighed and moved her hand lower, across the flat plane of her belly, toward the nest of crisp curls below, to the place where desire simmered like liquid fire…
Suddenly the latch of the door rattled from its bed. Her eyes popped open.
