Page 91 of My Warrior
“You are Lady Cambriade Ware,” Holden gritted out. His brows lowered in a mixture of displeasure and disappointment.
Cambria’s cheeks burned. The speech stuck in her throat. Of course she was Lady Cambria de Ware. It was only force of habit and nervousness that made her forget. But Holden no doubt thought she intended the slight. There was no noble way to extricate herself from the embarrassing situation. And to her horror, a painful knot had risen in her throat. So for the benefit of the frail angel who looked as if she would faint at any moment, Cambria gathered what dignity she could scrape up, gave the visitors a brief nod, and swung around toward Blackhaugh.
Ignoring her gathering tears, she stiffly walked up the hill, her fists clamped at her sides, and tried not to think about what Lady Linet was whispering behind her delicate hand. All the way up the incline she felt Holden’s eyes upon her—cursing her, condemning her, but worst of all, ashamed of her.
It didn’t matter, she told herself. He was only an Englishman. What he thought of her had no bearing on what she truly was. Damn his disappointed scowl—shewasthe Gavin! Marriage didn’t change that.
As for meeting his kin with a sword, even Duncan had explained it washischallenge. Why then did Holden insist on humiliating her? Unless he thought she had humiliatedhim…
She pictured again the blonde angel hanging on Duncan’s arm. Perhaps Linen was more of what Holden desired in a wife. Perhaps he preferred a woman to be quiet and docile and frail, none of which described Cambria. Perhaps Holden was embarrassed by her. And that was the reason he’d become so distant of late.
Pah! She dashed away a tear. If she didn’t possess Linet’s delicate countenance or sweet mien or pretty speech, it was only because she wasn’t properly trained to be any man’s wife. Holden should have known that, she thought, sniffling. Or else he should never have married her.
Somehow her leaden feet managed to carry her up the sward, and her head was still held high when at last she passed through the barbican. Stumbling only once, she almost reached the haven of the keep and the promise of solitude.
But Holden had followed her, and before she could reach safe harbor, he swung her about by the shoulders. For one fleeting moment, she thought she glimpsed care and concern in his eyes. But then they flattened, and his mouth turned down at the corners.
“I won’t have you endanger my heir. You are not to spar again.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them escape. “You suddenly care about your heir?” she choked out. “All these weeks you haven’t made one mention of the babe. It’s as if it doesn’t exist.”
All the color vanished from his face. “Is that what you think?”
“What am I to think?” she muttered, mindful of the scattering of servants that passed nearby in the courtyard. Then the pain that she’d kept carefully in check burst forth in a bitter hiss. “You don’t speak of the babe. You don’t ask after me. You don’t touch me, hold me, kiss me. We don’t even share a bed anymore.”
He only stared at her. She couldn’t read his thoughts. Her heart was breaking, and all he offered was silence. She cursed him on a sob.
“Perhaps it’s best your mother died before she could see what a coldhearted bastard you would become!”
Holden’s eyes grew instantly flat and chill. He released her like a poisonous snake. Anger ticked in the muscle of his cheek, and his fists open and closed. For a terrible moment, she wondered if he would strike her. But then she looked into his eyes and glimpsed evidence of another emotion beneath his tightly checked wrath—raw, profound hurt.
As quickly as she made that discovery, he shut her out, and she wasn’t certain that she hadn’t merely imagined his look of pain. And then he was gone with a whirl of his cloak before she could steal another glance or draw another breath.
Holden braced himself against the cold stones of Blackhaugh’s stairwell, where he’d hidden for most of the afternoon. It felt as if a great weight had been dropped on his chest. This woman to whom he’d pledged his undying devotion, for whom he’d put his own body at risk, for whom he’d sacrificed the familiarity of his homeland for a wild and savage country, had crushed him with a single blow. She’d cut him to the quick.
But he couldn’t hide away for the rest of his life. Nor could he remain here until she birthed the babe. Duncan would wonder where he’d gone, and those nosy Scots would come sniffing around soon.
His heart heavy, he trudged downstairs, ignoring the curious glances of the supper guests. Duncan and Linet sat at the high table, but he didn’t spare them a word. Cambria was conspicuously missing. He grabbed up two leather jacks full of ale from a table, and then escaped through the main door of the great hall into the night.
The cool air was bracing, and he took a long pull of ale, attempting to warm his heart. He wandered aimlessly, cursing the full moon and kicking at the damp sod of the courtyard, stopping only when he reached the stables. He shuffled in through the double door, past the quietly nickering horses, swilling ale with a vengeance. The familiar smells of the stable—the fresh hay, the sweat of the horses, the pungent leather tack—were some comfort at least. Clutching his drink to his chest, he settled down into a moonlit corner.
Duncan recognized all too well the emotion on Holden’s face as he swept through the hall. It was the expression of a dog kicked once too many times, the countenance of a man haunted by his past.
After the supper tables were cleared and the guests assigned their pallets for the night, Duncan bid Linet a sweet good night and set out to hunt for his brother.
It didn’t take long to find him. Holden was muttering loudly and incoherently to the stabled horses. When Duncan moved to stand in the doorway, blocking the light of the moon, Holden looked up from his dark corner with fluttering eyelids and beckoned him nearer. Duncan shook his head in pity, crouching down beside him.
Holden was drunk. As far as Duncan knew, he only got that way under one condition—when someone indiscreetly mentioned their mother’s dying.
Duncan sighed and took hold of Holden’s forearm. He’d gone over the facts a hundred times, though not in a long while. And he’d willingly go over them a hundred more. He’d assure Holden their mother’s death wasn’t his doing, that she’d been weak from the beginning, that with so much blood lost, nothing could have saved her.
Holden mumbled, “Never fall in love, Duncan.”
Duncan screwed up his forehead. Love? What was he muttering? Wasn’t he upset about his birth having killed their mother? Perhaps he was too drunk for conversation. He tugged on Holden’s arm. “Holden, come back inside. It’s late.”
“Aye, too late. The deed is done. I’ve destroyed her.”
Duncan ran a weary hand over his face. “Who?”
