Page 9 of My Warrior
Even as her heart seized, she dared to hope he was still alive. But his body was limp, drenched with blood, far too much blood, and when his head flopped back, the glazed eyes stared sightlessly toward the heavens, where his spirit already resided.
The shrill keening in her soul pierced through her heart and escaped her lips. “Nay!” she screamed, hurtling down the steps. “Nay!”
No one made a move to stop her, neither friend nor foe, and the young boys bearing her father set him gently upon the stones and stepped aside.
Cambria dropped her sword and shook the pale body, unwilling to accept the laird’s impossible stillness. He had to wake up. The clan needed him.
She stroked his forehead, but there was no response. She took his big hand in hers, but it was as heavy and slack as a slain rabbit. Blood soaked her linen gown, smearing across her breast as she embraced his silent form.
“Nay,” she whispered, “nay.”
He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. She’d already lost her mother. He couldn’t leave her alone.
And yet there he lay, as silent as stone.
A wretched sob tore from her throat, choking her. Dagger-sharp pain lanced through the empty place in her chest.
The laird was lost to her forever.
Hot tears spilled down her cheeks onto her father, mingling with the blood of the Gavin who was no more. She wept while, all around her, the nameless invaders murmured on, calmly wiping the blood from their blades, blood of the brave Gavin men they’d killed. She peered at them through the wild strands of her hair, the obscene enemy who’d massacred her people.
Who were they? Who were these bastards who in one bloody moment had destroyed the Gavin?
The ache in her heart twisted into a bitter knot of hatred. Nay. She refused to believe it. These strangers hadn’t destroyed the Gavin. No one could destroy the Gavin. Gavins had lived here for hundreds of years. They would never die. They lived in her. She was the life’s blood of the clan now.
Wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, she reached down to clasp the pommel of her fallen sword. She kicked her gown out of her ankles’ way and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Whirling, she came up with the blade and faced her foe. Several of the servants crossed themselves as she turned toward the knights with the fury of a madwoman.
“You bastards!” she shouted. “Face the wrath of the Gavin!”
Malcolm the Steward’s eyes widened. Cambria was going to get herself killed. “Nay, lass!” he bellowed from the corner of the room.
His shout earned him a cuff from one of the knights that held him, but that didn’t stop him from wrenching at the chains binding his wrists. He watched helplessly as his dearest friend’s daughter began a battle she was sure to lose. The muscles of his throat worked painfully. He’d already lost his laird. He couldn’t watch Cambria die as well.
But she was beyond hearing. He could see that. The lust for vengeance was in her eyes. Like an avenging angel, she raised her sword high in both hands. With a battle cry, she charged at the enemy, swinging the blade in a wide arc like a crofter harvesting grain.
Her steel flashed wildly as she attempted to take on the entire company, and the knights scattered, dodging her slashing broadsword. To Malcolm’s satisfaction, the Englishmen were dumbfounded for a moment by the mere slip of a girl who faced them boldly, watching for advances and striking with a deliberate arm. His chin quivered with pride. He and her father had trained her well, the little lioness.
She slashed forward and back, using both hands on the pommel to strengthen her blows. Two men who underestimated her sincerity received serious wounds, wounds he feared she’d pay for later.
But the element of surprise couldn’t remain long on her side. Though Cambria kept them at bay briefly, using what skills he’d taught her, the enemy far outnumbered her. Two of the knights finally caught her from behind, squeezing her wrists till she dropped the sword, which clattered heavily to the floor.
At least, Malcolm thought with relief, the English didn’t slaywomenin cold blood.
Half-crazed with fury, she struggled to get free, swearing, straining from the men’s grasp on her arms and tossing her head violently.
Malcolm bit out a curse. Why hadn’t the lass stayed in her bedchamber?
A dark-bearded knight yanked her head back by the hair. She bared her teeth at him and narrowed her eyes like a cornered animal.
Suddenly the unguarded doors of the great hall burst open. An enormous black steed galloped like thunder across the hard floor, bearing a helmed knight. He was flanked by several other riders, who hauled their horses to a skidding stop on the stones. Rushes scattered everywhere, and the knights fought to control their mounts in the close quarters.
Cambria was forced to her knees by the hulking dark captor beside her, and she squinted against the rising dust.
The golden knight stammered in surprise, inclining his head toward the newcomer. “M-my lord.”
Tension hung in the air as he awaited a reply, but the silence was only broached by the snorting of the horses, the squeak of leather tack, and the sniffling of maidservants.
Cambria sucked in great gulps of air through her open mouth and tried to center her mind. She could feel her body drifting toward unconsciousness, toward a place where nothing could harm her. But she resisted its lure, clinging desperately to reality by reminding herself over and over that she was the Gavin. She clenched her nails into the palms of her hands to keep from fainting and focused intently on the rider at the fore, who was nudging his mount closer.
