Page 89 of My Warrior
“That,” he added, folding his arms across his chest, “couldn’t possibly be a woman.”
“Stubborn dolt,” she said affectionately.
His mouth quirked in a half-smile that made him look as if she’d just complimented him.
“No woman could fight like that,” he assured her. The instant the words left his mouth, he knew he was in trouble. Linet’s eyes took on a dangerous gleam of challenge, and he feared he was about to enter a verbal battle he was sure to lose. “Very well,” he decided, “perhaps you’re right. Shall I ask?”
“You can’t just ask.”
He affected a heavy sigh. “The only other way to tell then is to challenge him to a duel,” he said with mock reluctance, although he itched to do just that. “When I’ve won, I’ll force him to remove his helm, and we’ll know for certain.”
“You can’tfighther!” Linet protested. She didn’t even want to think about how her bear of a husband could crush a maiden on the field of battle. “You might harm her.”
“Heseems to be fending off six squires as it is,” Duncan murmured sarcastically, “and I thank you, dear lady, for showing concern formywelfare.”
“After this, Duncan de Ware,” she warned, “I won’t bring you compliments again on a silver platter, but you know very well you’re the best swordsman in England, far better than those six knights combined.”
“Aye.” He grinned. “But it’s good to hear it from your lips.”
Linet couldn’t stay irritated with him for long when he looked at her with those sparkling, dark-lashed eyes. She supposed she’d just have to trust him to be careful.
He shook his head in amusement, cleared his throat, and stepped forward to gain the warriors’ attention.
Cambria heard the intruder call out and ceased fighting. For one awful moment, she thought it was Holden, returning early from fishing, and her heart slammed against her ribs.
Then she turned and saw that this man was a stranger with hair of ebony. When she peered at him more closely through the slit of her visor, she felt her knees go weak. Before her was the face on the quintain—a taller, darker version of Holden de Ware with mischievous blue eyes and a peasant’s costume. It could be none other than Duncan, Holden’s brother.
And the small woman behind him—that must be his wife. She too was garbed in the modest russet gown of a peasant, but her skin gleamed like pale samite, her eyes were the color of new grass, her hair a mane of glorious, noble blonde.
Cambria grew painfully aware of her own disheveled state. Thank God she hadn’t removed her helm. A hundred thoughts raced through her mind, chiefly how she could extricate herself from this situation with as little ado as possible.
“Sir Knight,” Duncan called out formally, “you fight bravely against so many. Will you honor me by doing battle againstmyblade?”
One of the squires stepped forward in Cambria’s defense with gentle Scots diplomacy. “It would hardly be a sporting match, sir. You’re not at all well armed. Perhaps you’d rather—“
“No matter,” Duncan insisted. “Your knight is better armed, but I clearly have the advantage of size over—“
“Nay, good sir,” the squire followed up. “Choose one of us others. You can see this one’s exhausted.”
Cambria was far from exhausted. Her blood had just begun to pump warmly in her veins. But she knew she should decline the challenge, no matter how tempting it was, no matter how weary she was of battling skittish squires who tempered their blows as if she were made of glass.
She bit her lip. It would be heaven to face a real opponent. Holden wouldn’t find out. She could trust the squires to keep her secret. When the battle was over, she could leave the clearing with her helm on. No one would be the wiser.
Before common sense could change her mind, she shook her shoulders to loosen them up, faced Holden’s brother, and made ready to strike.
Scarcely had the squire jumped from between them when Duncan whipped his blade out, letting it hover restlessly before him. As was his habit, Duncan let his opponent attack first. The sword flashed and clanged loudly as it contacted his blade several times. The knight’s blows were not particularly powerful nor were they very accurate, so he had little trouble lunging out of the way, but that didn’t diminish his enjoyment. He always preferred style to brute force anyway. And never had he seen such style, such brash confidence, nimbleness, and aggression in an opponent so obviously overmatched. When fully grown, and with the proper discipline and humility, he thought, this youth might make an extraordinary warrior.
He fought, fascinated, as the knight kept up a rapid barrage of attacks. Still, he wasn’t so enthralled that he didn’t notice one of the squires slipping away from the others to lope out of the clearing and off across the countryside.
Holden froze at the top of the rise. His chest constricted painfully as he peered down from the slope before Blackhaugh. He could scarcely draw breath for the terror that choked him. Just as the squire reported, there was Cambria, in all her glory and armor, slashing and leaping in mortal combat. And towering over her like a great beast bent on her destruction was his unconquerable brother, Duncan. His heart pounding wildly, he unsheathed and charged at the warriors.
“Cease!” he thundered.
Cambria gasped, her sword arm frozen in the air.
Duncan, delighted with Holden’s arrival, which drew the other knight’s attention away, executed a quick flick of his wrist and, with a ready grin, sent his opponent’s blade sailing across the clearing.
“Ah,thereis my advantage at last!” he crowed, and then turned to Holden. “What kept you, brother?”
