A jagged blade protruded from Roger’s chest. His blood, drying in rivulets on his pale skin, spattered the furs and white walls and flecked his golden beard with scarlet-brown.
All her senses told her to run, but she stood frozen in morbid fascination. Somehow, while she lay sleeping, soundlessly and in the space of a heartbeat, Roger had been murdered. It was as if some silent spirit had done the deed.
Finally she broke free of her paralysis. Crossing herself superstitiously, she took a faltering step backward and slipped quietly out the door. Fortunately, the knights and the hound below slept heavily after their evening of carousing. She carefully descended the complaining wooden stairs and inched to the front door of the inn, picking her way in the dark through the dozing bodies.
Suddenly the candled shadow of the innkeeper’s wife fell across her. The woman was carrying a huge pot of water. Both froze for only an instant, but the look they exchanged spoke volumes. The woman nodded knowingly and continued about her labors as if she hadn’t seen Cambria.
Had the old woman murdered Sir Roger? Had she had a change of heart and helped Cambria after all? It didn’t seem possible, yet there was no other explanation.
Cambria sighed gratefully, then opened the door with painful stealth and edged through the crack. Shivering with the morning frost, she clutched the kirtle tightly about her and stole into the shadowy forest. The moss was still damp beneath her bare feet, and her breath came out in moist plumes.
She’d traveled only fifty paces from the inn when a twig snapped behind her. She spun in time to see a dark figure looming up. Wasting no time as the follower’s footfalls closed the distance in the leaves behind her, she turned and fled through the mist-shrouded trees. The cold air sliced through her lungs, but she ran desperately into the thickening gorse, cursing the fact she had no weapon.
All at once, her luck and the narrowing path ran out. She was trapped in dense underbrush, like a boar cornered for the kill. She wheeled to find a dark knight brandishing a sword, her father’s sword.
Owen.
As he came grimly forward to claim his prey, she searched the thicket for any way out. He swept his blade up to touch her throat. She gasped and began to retreat. He followed her with the cold blade and colder eyes until she was pressed against the brambles and there was nowhere for her to go.
“You won’t escape this time, you murdering bitch,” he growled.
The point of the sword nicked her chin, threatening to spill her life’s blood at any moment.
“I didn’t murder him,” she said, gulping. “You have to believe me. Someone else—“
The hard heel of his hand came around to catch her temple, knocking her sideways. Branches clawed at her face like the bony fingers of ghouls, and black flecks danced before her eyes.
“Spare me your lying tongue!” he cried. “My brother lies dead, murdered in his sleep.”
He snagged her arm then, pinioning her roughly before him. She staggered, and he shoved her forward, back toward the inn.
“Stupid wench,” he growled. “Roger was the son of a king. You’ll swing from the gallows for this.”
Was it true? Would she be blamed for Roger’s murder? The devil take her temper, she
had
threatened to slay the man only last night. But she’d never have done it. Didn’t they know that? How could anyone believe the laird of Gavin would stab a man as he slept?
Still, she couldn’t tell them the innkeeper’s wife was responsible for Roger’s death. The old woman had done Cambria a favor. She couldn’t betray that kindness.
Yet, if she didn’t, she was doomed. Owen was one of de Ware’s knights. And Cambria was only a Scotswoman who’d already attempted to kill their lord. Bloody hell, she
would
go to the gallows.
Or maybe, she dared to hope, Lord Holden couldn’t afford to execute her. Maybe he needed her alive for the sake of the new alliance. Maybe he wouldn’t hang her immediately. Maybe time was on her side. Still she gulped in spite of herself, imagining a noose around her neck.
By the time they returned to the inn, it was nearly dawn. Her arm ached from being gripped so cruelly. Sir Owen roused the entire inn with his bellowing until, groggy and only half-dressed, the de Ware knights came out to hear him.
“She’s a murderer!” he shouted, his voice breaking in lament. “My brother lies dead in his chamber! This witch slew him while he slept, then tried to escape!”
A cry of pain was wrung from her as Owen viciously twisted her arm.
The knights looked amazed. The black-haired giant seethed with outrage. He bolted forward and seized her by the throat with one large hand. Already towering over her, he moved just inches from her face, so close that she could see the two gray hairs in his black beard. He spoke as if he chewed upon tough meat, clenching his fist before him and branding her with his coal black eyes.
“You cursed wench, it’s a pity my cousin wishes you alive, or I’d slay you with my own hand! Be watchful once you are safely returned, for I won’t be far away.”
He closed his hand tightly about her throat. Black spots swam before her, and she felt her heart struggling to pump blood through her veins. Her fingers clawed frantically at his. Then he released her abruptly, and she fell to the ground, coughing.
When she dared to look up, Myles was staring down at her, his gray eyes filled with disappointment and pity.
“She’s dangerous! She must be bound!” Owen snapped, slicking his fingers back through his greasy hair.
She was still quaking when the black-bearded ogre wrapped cords around her wrists and ankles, carried her out, and draped her, belly down, over Roger’s horse, in the custom of a dishonored knight. She swallowed back rising bile as the knights placed Roger’s cloaked dead body beside her on the steed.
In disgrace, Cambria returned to Castle Bowden.
Holden was already in a foul temper. He tossed his helm to the ground and jabbed the toe of his boot into the dust of the tiltyard. His efforts at training these Scots to fight were futile. They stubbornly resisted any attempts on his part to refine their wild technique and insisted on aimless hacking with their weapons rather than precise blows.
His frustration was compounded by the fact that he’d been outwitted by one of them, a mere child. Nay, a woman, he corrected, remembering vividly her soft curves. He was doubly incensed that she should have such an effect on him, and he’d spent long hours in the tiltyard the last few days, taking his anger out on his knights.
He pressed his weary eyes with the heels of his hands.
Damn Roger! The hound should have caught the girl’s scent by now. What was taking so long? Perhaps he should have hunted her down himself.
Thus far, none of the Gavin clan had come for their laird, but certainly they would. How would he explain to them that he’d…lost her?
Distracted by his thoughts and the artless display of combat taking place before him, Holden only stared blankly at the messenger who came to him until the words finally registered.
“What?” he exploded, bringing the farcical battle to a halt.
The messenger began to repeat the memorized words yet again. “Sir Owen, Sir Guy, and Sir Myles have returned. They have the Gavin girl, but Sir Roger is dead by her hand, and—“
Livid with rage, he interrupted the boy. “Have her brought to me at once in the hall!”
Within moments, Owen, dogged by Myles and Guy, dragged the captive before the dais of the great hall. Holden, still sweaty and disheveled from the practice field, stopped pacing when they entered. Owen threw the girl viciously to her knees. Holden saw her bite back a cry as she struck the stone floor, but he steeled his jaw against the mercy that came naturally to him. After all, the woman before him was now a full-fledged murderess. Not only that, but she’d murdered the king’s kin. It was just fortunate that King Edward had little affection for his grandsire’s bastard. Still, royal blood had been spilled.
“What happened?” he demanded.
They all began speaking at once. He held up his hand for silence. “Owen?”
“The bitch slew my brother, my lord, as he slept.”
“That’s a lie!” the girl cried out. “I’d never—“
“Silence!” Holden was sure his face registered only half of the outrage he felt. “All of you would concur with this?”
He looked carefully from one to another. Owen thrust out his chin in challenge. Sir Guy scowled and nodded with the certainty of an executioner. Myles glanced down at the girl and opened his mouth as if to say something, then looked away quickly, nodding his assent.
Holden turned his back. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Dear God, what was he going to do now? “My condolences, Sir Owen. You are welcome to send one of my servants to your mother with the news.”
Owen murmured an acknowledgment.
“Now go, all of you…except the girl.”
The knights vacated the hall, closing the heavy door with a hollow thud.
Holden paced for a long while before he could trust himself to speak civilly. Finally, he wheeled, looked down his nose at the bloodthirsty wench, and bit out, “You have slain one of my knights—a king’s son, no less.” His voice grew louder, harsher. “You have attempted to slay
me
, a lord.” His vehement words rang out in the hall. “And you return unharmed after escaping from my prison!” Now he was shouting in a voice he usually reserved for the most unruly of his men, a voice he’d never used on a woman before. “You are fortunate to be living! Tell me this. What revenge could be so sweet that it would cost you your life three times over?”
She said nothing, but her defiant glare wavered. Perhaps she realized at last how precarious her life was.
Frustrated beyond his limits, he wiped the dust from his brow with both hands and paced heatedly. If only she were a man, he thought in irritation, they could simply draw swords and be done with it.
“When I was a lad,” he muttered, “I was told my mother died giving birth to me. On that day, I made a solemn vow never to harm another woman as long as I lived. But you—you are trying that vow.” He cursed again and punched his fist into his hand. “Roger’s kin will want your blood. King Edward may even require it. Are you aware of that?” he pressed.
The girl stared steadily past him. “I didn’t slay him.”
He threw up his hands. “Spare me your denial. You insult my intelligence.”
“But I didn’t slay him.”
Shite, the woman was stubborn. “Three of my men have lent witness to your guilt.”
She raised her chin. “I don’t care if all of England lends witness to my guilt. I didn’t slay your man.”
He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration and cursed under his breath. Then he looked at her, hard.
She was still gazing off into the distance, well past him, as if their conversation was of no consequence to her. But he could see on closer inspection that her body trembled. Her false bravery was a mask for the fear in her eyes. And yet there was something achingly familiar about her expression, something that took him back to his own youth.
He himself had once worn that brave face, awaiting the whip for killing one of his uncle’s hunting hounds. It had been an accident. He’d been training the dog to fetch a stick, rewarding him with scraps of meat from the kitchen. How could a young boy have known the hound would choke on a chicken bone? Still he’d been punished, and he’d accepted his punishment stoically, even though it wasn’t in him to slay an innocent creature…
Just as it wasn’t in
her
to commit murder.
Despite the others’ confirmation of Owen’s charge, despite an obvious motive and an apparent opportunity for her to accomplish the crime, he was certain she hadn’t done it. The trembling of her upraised chin and the flicker of uncertainty in her moist gaze told him the truth. Aye, the reckless wench had a penchant for violence, and she’d probably challenge with a blade anything on two legs. Indeed, she might have slain Sir Roger in defense. But she was incapable of cold-blooded killing.
His men, however, were sure she’d done the deed, and until he could sort out what had really happened, he’d have to take them at their word. He needed time, both to dredge up the truth and to let his men’s heads cool. And then there was the whole Gavin clan, waiting with bated breath for news of their laird.
“Listen well, my lady,” he sighed. “For the moment I’ll spare your life, but you must yield to me and renounce your quest for revenge, once and for all.”
The girl straightened her back and focused on a point over his head. “Never could I yield to my father’s murderers. I, too…made a vow.”
His blood froze in his veins. Was she completely addled? Pride was one thing, but this… He was handing the wench her life on a silver tray. How dare she throw it back in his face? His voice grew perilously soft. “Then you may grow to regret your vow as I regret mine.”
She tried to resist him as he stepped from the dais and hauled her to her feet, but in truth she was no more trouble for him than a spitting kitten. He tossed her over one shoulder, ignoring her shrieks, and then mounted the stairs at the corner of the hall.
Damn the wench, he wished she’d stop squirming. He could feel vividly the points of her delicate hipbones against his shoulder and her soft breasts upon his back. Besides, all her thrashing only added to the numerous bruises she already bore as her heels bumped against the narrow stone walls.
He struggled up the last winding steps to the tower cell. Kicking open the thick door, he set her on her feet with a bone-jarring bang.
“You will not escape again.” He jabbed a finger at the air before her as if speaking to a child. “And I’ll post a guard below the window to prevent the temptation.”
“What do you intend to do with me?” she demanded venomously.
He gave her his most diabolical smile. “I’ll let you think on that. I am a just man. I assure you, the punishment shall fit the crime.”
“But I’ve done nothing,” she insisted, her eyes flashing like the devil’s own.
“Lady,” he replied, disbelief clouding his brow, “you’ve done more to destroy any hope of peace in the last week than your father ever did in his lifetime to assure it.”