Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (30 page)

It was while he was idly grooming Ariel, imagining in vivid detail his return to his wife’s side, that a young messenger arrived, agitated and out of breath.

“Lord Holden?” the boy gasped.

Holden turned. The message in the lad’s eyes was unmistakable. For a moment, his heart stopped. Every sense was as keen as a new-honed knife.

“Cambria,” Holden breathed.

It was a statement, not a question, and the messenger looked puzzled for a moment. “Aye, my lord. How did you know…?”

Dread stabbed its icy blade into Holden’s chest, twisting mercilessly at his heart.

“Sir Owen has her, my lord,” the boy told him, “at Blackhaugh.”

“Owen is at Blackhaugh?”

“He’s taken the castle. He said I was to tell you—“

Holden heard nothing else. Shite! He’d sent his wife into the arms of the enemy.

“My lord?” The boy looked up at him expectantly.

Holden clenched his jaw, becoming a cold-blooded warrior. His eyes grew alert, resolute, and as dispassionate as the wolf’s on the hunt.

The messenger drew back a pace and made the sign of the cross. Holden armed himself, filled a satchel with meager provisions, and mounted his stamping charger. Then, leaving instructions with his men to break camp and follow as soon as they could, he rode off in a spray of dirt and pebbles that sounded eerily like the rattling of dry bones in a grave.

A faint breeze blew in the window of Blackhaugh’s tower, lifting tendrils of Cambria’s hair about her battered face. Bracing her back against the rough stone, she shivered in her torn shift despite the warmth of the day. She cursed herself for the stubborn pride that kept her from eating the food Owen brought, pride that had gained her nothing but weakness.

Not that strength would serve her much. Her hands were bound in iron above her head, and all of her attempts to free herself had earned her only pain each time the shackles bit into her injured wrists. Long ago she’d given up trying to work the heavy ring over her head loose from the wall.

She wondered what game Owen played, what was happening beyond the tower walls.

Without preamble, the door the chamber flew open, banging back against the wall. Owen entered briskly, his unkempt hair hanging down over his eyes like a frayed tapestry, and limped past her to the window. As he peered below, his face was transformed by an ugly grin, and he rubbed his hands together like a hungry fly. Cambria could only muse at the source of his exuberance.

With the blissful sigh of a lizard spotting a bug, Owen approached her. Almost lovingly, he caressed her cheek. Her flesh crawled. The shackles pinning her wrists to the wall afforded her no room to strike him, and he’d bound her legs with heavy chains yesterday after she’d landed a healthy kick to his belly. Still she managed to whip her head around in time to bite into the meaty part of his palm, hard enough to draw blood.

He yelped in pain and drew back his mangled hand. With the back of his other fist, he cracked her hard across the cheek, splintering her vision in an explosion of sparks. She slumped weakly against the wall, stifling a moan.

It wasn’t the first bruise she’d earned since her unfortunate arrival at Blackhaugh. Curse her luck, she’d walked straight into a trap. The shame of it was almost worse than the beating she’d endured at Owen’s hands.

They’d all been waiting for her—Robbie, Graham, Jamie, the remnants of the Gavin rebels—and they’d already imprisoned her loyal clansmen. God only knew what they’d done with Garth.

It had taken six men to subdue and haul Guy and Myles off to the dungeon while Cambria awaited her fate.

Angry and foolhardy, she’d spit on Owen, showing no fear of the bastard, despite Robbie’s anxious warnings. And both she and the Gavin rebels had paid for her audacity. With a dagger at their laird’s throat, Robbie and his men, still Gavins at heart, had no choice but to surrender to Owen’s will. He’d locked them all up and carted her off to the tower.

By the time the brute tired of using his fists, there wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t ache. The taste of blood was still heavy in her mouth.

But she hadn’t surrendered. Even now, half-conscious, her belly empty and fresh blood trickling down her cheek, she refused to cower before him.

Owen sucked at his wounded hand and spit the salty blood onto the rushes. He’d had almost all he could bear of Lady Cambria de Ware and her unflappable insolence. She was surely the offspring of the devil and a she-cat, with her raking claws and dagger-sharp teeth. It was hard to believe at one time he’d wanted to poke his piece in her. He thought less often of bedding her now, prickly as she was, and more of torturing the Wolf with her slow murder. If he couldn’t bring the bitch to her knees, he’d at least see de Ware humbled before him.

With a decisive grunt, he reached for an urn of water on the table. He flung its contents at the wench to jar her from her stupor.

Cambria sucked in a startled breath as the water slapped her face. She sniffled and choked as it burned high inside her nose, making her eyes tear.

“Wake up, wench!” Owen snarled from above her, a peculiar grimace of both loathing and arousal on his face. “Your lord husband has arrived.”

Cambria came fully alert at his words. Holden! Relief and dread warred within her, churning her stomach. Had he come alone? Would he fall into the same trap she had? She had to warn him. She opened her mouth to scream, but her cry ended in a gurgle when Owen’s strangling fingers closed about her throat.

His breath reeked of onions. “Scream,” he hissed, “and I’ll slay every one of your clan—men, women, and children.”

Dark spots floated before her eyes before he released her. She sagged against the stones, gasping for air.

Not that, she thought, anything but that. He could take Blackhaugh. He could beat her into oblivion. But to touch her clan… Fear became a waking nightmare, worse than any to ever invade her slumber. She saw them in her mind’s eye, her ancestors, her family, thousands of Gavins—men, women, and children, specters cursed and wandering the earth for all eternity, blaming her with their ghostly eyes, moaning her name.

She couldn’t let it come to pass, couldn’t let this monster destroy the Gavins. She was her father’s daughter. She was the laird. She had to protect her clan.

Even if to remain silent was to betray her husband.

“Cooperate,” Owen mused, “and maybe I’ll spare your life, take you on as my own personal servant.”

Owen glanced down at her and clucked his tongue. He doubted that. The wench was a mess, a dripping, bruised, swollen-faced, tangle-haired mess. Still, that didn’t stop his ballocks from bulging in his trews at the idea of swiving her before the high and mighty Holden de Ware, just for spite.

He exhaled a contented breath. Fate had smiled on Owen the Bastard at last. The wench’s timely arrival at Blackhaugh couldn’t have been more perfect if it had been served up on a gold platter. She’d been practically alone, the Wolf nowhere in sight. She’d ridden through the front gates and straight into Owen’s hands.

Now she was about to become the perfect hostage.

“Come, let us greet your noble hero, shall we?” he sneered. He picked up the shackle key from the table, swinging it tauntingly before her. “I’ll loose you now, but there will be a dagger at your throat,” he cautioned. “I suggest you move with care. I’d hate to damage the Wolf’s precious bitch…too soon.”

Snickering, he carefully freed her from the wall ring, leaving her hands in the shackles. With the blade pressed close against her throat, he prodded her up, and she shuffled awkwardly over to the window.

Cambria peered down anxiously, faint with hunger, fainter at the sight of her husband, who looked to her like a bright angel with the sun sparkling on his chain mail and flashing off of the helm in the crook of his arm. Now that he was here, all the horrors of the past days knotted in her throat, threatening to burst forth in sobs of relief.

But she couldn’t afford to give rein to her emotions. She had to think.

He’d come, not alone, but with a vast company of his knights. He intended to do battle then. Cambria bit her lip. If he brazenly assailed the keep, the Wolf might indeed ride victorious into Blackhaugh, but only to find that Owen had killed all of its inhabitants.

She had to keep him from attacking. But how?

Holden coiled his fists in the reins, and Ariel tossed her mane in protest. He immediately tugged the horse’s head back around, fighting to restrain himself, too, as he beheld Cambria in Owen’s clutches at the tower window.

Her face was discolored with bruises. Blood stained her cheek and arms. Heavy chains crossed her body.

His heart plunged to the depths of his gut. Beside him, his men gasped in outrage. It was only by great dint of will that he controlled a trembling of fury and bloodlust.

“De Ware,” Owen called out, “my thanks for the use of your wife. She’s proved a welcome…amusement.”

Holden kept his face a mask of grim control as he stared at the bastard, silently marking him for death.

“Indeed,” Owen taunted, “I may just have to keep her to warm my bed.”

Holden stilled his restless mount. By God, if that fiend had bedded Cambria, he’d string the devil up by his ballocks.

“What do you want, Fitzroi?” he said, amazed at the levelness of his voice.

“Oh, I already have what I want,” he sneered. Then the churl reached brazenly across Cambria’s shoulder and thrust a hand into the top of her shift to fondle her breast.

Holden heard the soft curses of his men about him, but he only set his teeth, silently swearing he would chop that insolent hand off before the sun set. Ariel stomped at the sod, expressing the rage Holden felt.

Then Cambria locked gazes with him, and the anger froze in his veins. Any other woman would have turned away in shame at what Owen forced her to bear, but his Cambria stood bravely, unflinching, the same way Holden had, taking that beating long ago for killing the hound. Her eyes communicated what she could not—that her will was strong, that while Owen touched her body, he didn’t touch her spirit, and that she would endure anything,
anything
for her clan. And in that moment, while the Scots breeze snarled his courageous wife’s hair and the sun shone down on her like an angel’s blessing, a clot of tears choked him, and he knew
he
would endure anything for
her
.

She sent him a message then, not with words, not with gestures. He was too far from her for any kind of real exchange. But somehow she spoke to him.
Let Owen do to me what he will,
she said,
but save my clan.

He nodded infinitesimally. He understood her silent plea. But he didn’t intend to surrender Cambria, no matter what expected. He intended to save them all.

He tore his gaze away. If he wanted to rescue his bride, he’d have to take desperate action soon. Wheeling Ariel about, he conferred with his men.

“We have to assume that Garth, Guy, and Myles are either imprisoned or dead.” The thought shook him to the core. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it. “I’m certain the same is true of the rebel Gavins. Surely none of them would stand for such…degradation of their laird.”

Stephen reined forward. “Can he be reasoned with? The king knows he was the rebel’s spy. His life is already forfeit. Perhaps he’ll surrender.”

“Nay!” Holden said, more harshly than he intended. “Nay, there’s no telling what the traitor will do. He might seek vengeance, slaughter whoever remains inside the castle walls. Or he might panic, flee with…a hostage.”

Though no one voiced it, every man knew who that hostage would be.

“Do we lay siege then, my lord?” Stephen asked.

“And starve our own people?” Holden shook his head. A siege would take far too long anyway. He didn’t want Owen alive one more day. “Nay, I’ll nibble at his bait, see what he intends.”

It was wiser to stalk Owen with stealth, to let him believe he had the Wolf on a short leash. But first, he had to get Cambria out of danger. He turned Ariel about and faced his foe.

“Fitzroi!” he called out. “If the wench has bedded you, then she’s spoiled goods.” Even at this distance, he could see Cambria flinch. He hated to hurt her, but it was the only way. “She’s served her purpose already. You can keep the whore.”

To Holden’s relief, his loyal men remained stolid on their mounts. They knew their lord well, that he would never speak ill of a woman. They recognized his words for what they were—a blatant piece of deception.

Owen, however, sputtered in surprise. He’d obviously expected jealous rage, not dismissal. The knife jerked ever so slightly in his hand, nicking Cambria’s throat. Holden’s heart leaped into his mouth.

But Cambria didn’t wince from the cut. She stared woodenly, as if the knife prick was nothing atop the deep wound Holden had just dealt her. Lord, he had to get her away from that monster before…

“What have you done with my men?” he bellowed. “Garth, Sir Guy, and Myles?”

Owen snatched up the suggestion as eagerly as a child after sweetmeats. “Your men? If you’d see them alive again, de Ware,” he said shoving his now useless prisoner aside, “there’s a demand I’d make of you.”

Holden breathed an invisible sigh of relief as Cambria slipped from Owen’s grasp like a too-small mouse through a hawk’s talons.

“Make it,” he commanded.

“By rights, Blackhaugh should have belonged to my brother, God rest his soul. I am the next in line. The keep is rightfully mine. Surrender it,” Owen dared him.

Holden smirked. Sarcasm dripped from his lips. “Anything else?”

Owen trembled with anger, and spittle flew out of his mouth as he spoke. “Do not scoff at me! I have allies here! Give me Blackhaugh willingly, or I shall inform the king that your wife is a murderer, that she has royal blood on her hands.”

Holden sucked in a quick breath. Could Owen make Edward believe that? Logic told him nay. After all, the de Wares had been loyal vassals for generations. But if Edward suspected Holden’s judgment was clouded by love… Myles and Guy, Cambria’s sole witnesses to what had truly happened at the inn, might already be dead. Without them, there was no proof she
hadn’t
slain Edward’s uncle.