Page 90 of My Warrior
To his surprise, the dark look didn’t lift from Holden’s face. In fact, Holden seemed almost oblivious to him. Even more astonishing, however, Holden’s rage was directed not at him, but at his opponent. He looked fit to kill the young knight.
“Is this how you greet my kin?” Holden bellowed, fear cracking his voice. “With the point of a blade?”
The squires all hung their heads, as if they were to blame.
“Actually,” Duncan admitted, “it wasmyidea.”
Holden’s eyes locked on Cambria. “You didn’t bother to tell him, did you?” Holden knew by her silence that he was right. She hadn’t told Duncan who she was. Still, he had the irrational urge to knock his brother alongside the head. Why could no one else see that Cambria was a woman?
Linet frowned from the sidelines, sizing up this brother of Duncan’s. She could see the similarities at once between the two—their stature, their good looks—but there the resemblance ended. Where Duncan was spirited and engaging, Holden was as surly as a bear. She hated him at once. In fact, if he weren’t so beloved of her husband, she’d have marched up to him and told him in no uncertain terms just what she thought of his yelling at a woman like that.
Duncan set the point of his sword in the dirt and rested his free fist on his hip. He was unaccustomed to being ignored, especially by his own long-absent brother. It seemed Holden had become rather heavy-handed with his vassals. Still, he knew better than to interfere. His brother was a lord in his own right now. His Linet, however, had no such qualms about intruding. She looked ready to jump into the fray.
Holden couldn’t take a proper breath. He trembled like a skittish colt. Reaching out, he hauled Cambria to him by the front of her tabard, more to assure himself she was whole than to intimidate her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he spat to cover his fear. He twisted his fist in her garment and swore. Bloody hell, his heart wouldn’t stop galloping. He’d sparred with his brother since they were children. No one was such a formidable warrior. Duncan could have sliced Cambria’s head from her shoulders in the blink of an eye. He shuddered at the thought.
“You little fool!” he shouted hoarsely, then flung his sword arm out to point at Duncan. “You are looking at the finest swordsman alive! He’s battled four at a time and conquered men twice his size! He won his spurs before he’d even grown his first beard!”
Duncan kicked at the ground, clearly embarrassed by the praise.
Linet watched the exchange with growing amazement, her mind working as swiftly as a well-strung loom. She was beginning to understand who the warrior woman was and why Holden was so agitated. Perhaps Duncan’s brother wasn’t such an ogre after all.
Meanwhile, Holden continued with his tirade. “I’ve watched Duncan mow down an entire line of knights in a melee, singlehandedly.”
“Now, brother, there I must beg the truth,” Duncan intervened. He was growing somewhat uncomfortable with the lengthy recounting of his feats of prowess. The gaping Scots squires would be kissing the hem of his garment soon if Holden continued. “A full three-quarters of those knights were so drunk they could hardly sit their mounts.”
Holden’s eyes darted over to him, their fury undimmed yet colored by something foreign, something akin to sheer terror. “And you! Don’t you have enough men your own size to fight?”
Duncan shrugged off the hostility. “It was only a friendly match. Can’t you leave this vassal’s scolding for another time? My wife and I have yet to be properly greeted. She’ll think you’re a mannerless boor.”
Holden let his shoulders drop a notch. For the first time, he noticed the blonde woman standing behind Duncan. She was staring at him with a curiously tender expression he couldn’t fathom.
After a lengthy pause, Duncan rolled his eyes. “All right then. Lady Linet, meet my mannerless boor of a brother, Lord Holden de Ware.”
Linet moved to Duncan’s side and offered a dazzling smile, but Holden stood silent, befuddled, unable to contend with the horror that still raged within him.
Duncan shook his head. “So, where are you keeping your Scots hellion of a wife, Holden? Is she so ugly you must hide her away?” He grunted suddenly, unprepared for Linet’s elbow jab to his ribs.
“Dolt!” she called him under her breath.
Holden’s mouth compressed into a grim line, and he sheathed his sword. Then he caught Cambria’s helm in the crook of one arm and pulled it upward and off. Her long chestnut hair tumbled forth over her shoulders, and her eyes flashed rebelliously.
Duncan literally staggered from the impact. Linet had been right. The knight was a woman. He fumbled and dropped his precious sword, for once in his life at a loss for words.
“This,” Holden snarled, “is my wife.”
CHAPTER 19
Linet’s triumphant smile dimmed when she saw the look in Cambria’s eyes. The poor girl was mortified, her face crimson. She would meet no one’s eyes, but only stared at the ground with a fierce and silent pride. Something about her made a surge of protectiveness well up in Linet. She liked the lass immediately. True, Cambria hardly looked like the lady of the castle. Her hair was drenched in sweat. Her face was no stranger to dirt. But there was substance to her—spirit. She seemed to embody the wild soul of Scotland itself.
Unfortunately, Linet couldn’t know how much her close scrutiny disturbed Cambria.
Never had Cambria glimpsed such a pale and fragile creature as Linet. An angel stood before her, a lily-white angel with frail features and flowing blonde hair, the one jongleurs always sang about. She was perfect—well-mannered, beautiful, serene. Cambria lowered her eyes. All at once, she felt keenly the drop of sweat sliding down her own temple, the dust around her neck, the weight of the mail flattening her breasts, he burgeoning stomach. She wished she’d stayed abed this morning. The taste of shame was like metal on her tongue as her glance flickered over to the young woman again. The angel’s delicate hands had probably never touched the edge of a blade, let alone wielded one in battle. And the woman’s husband still gaped at Cambria like a hooked flounder.
Why had Holden unmasked her? She could have left the field untarnished. He could have salvaged their honor. Damn him! She could have met his kin later. But now there was little she could do to make restitution for his humiliating introduction. Still, she refused to be daunted. Blackhaugh washerhome, and no matter what hostile tone Holden took, she’d at least welcome his kin with courtesy, the Scots’ hallmark for centuries.
Calling on the strength and pride of generations of Gavins to sustain her, she announced, “I am Cambria Gavin, the laird of Blackhaugh, and I wel—“
