Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (46 page)

“She
is
the lascivious sort.”

The fire flickered on the hearth as the weak December wind wheezed through the room. But Linet had no desire to leave the comfortable haven of the bed to close the shutters. Beyond the open window, snowflakes floated down from the close black sky like angels falling to earth. Linet shivered and snuggled further down into the soft wool coverlet of Italian blue, tucking her cold nose against her husband’s shoulder.

“Cold?” he asked her, pulling her into the circle of his arms.

“Mmm,” she purred.

“I know how to warm you.” His voice was rough and seductive. Its promise sent tingles along her spine. She sighed luxuriously, relaxing back against his warm body.

Suddenly the hand upon her shoulder seemed to wither into a claw, and he cackled in her ear. “Aye, dearie, I have just the sort of caudle to warm yer bones. Let me see. Was it two wings of a bat and one eye of a beetle, or—”

She beat at him, giggling all the while, until he caught her arms and pulled her roughly against him. Flesh to flesh, there was no mistaking his desire for her, and her laughter subsided when he trapped her in that alluring gaze of his. Then, step by delicious step, he showed her his best method for chasing away the cold.

Afterward, as she lay entwined with him like ivy winding up a pillar, she sighed and gave him a playful pout. “I suppose I won’t be seeing much of you next week.”

“Why?” He closed his eyes contentedly.

“I’ll be busy supervising the weavers.”

He opened one eye. “Weavers?”

“Aye.” She traced a circle on his chest with her fingertip.

“What weavers?”

“Someone has to operate all those looms.”

“Looms?”

“The looms Uncle Guillaume sent as my dowry. I’ll have to weave cloth for the villagers of Avedon first, of course. But after that…have you seen the rags our waifs are running about in? Really, Duncan,” she scolded, “I’m surprised at the neglect.”

Duncan wondered if she knew how much her words pleased him. She’d said “
our
waifs.” He caught her wrist, stopping her ticklish design on his chest. “Thank you,” he murmured, adding in his thoughts, for your understanding, for your generosity, for your faith. “You’re an angel.” He kissed the top of her head.

The candlelight glanced off the heavy wolf’s head ring he wore, catching his eye, and he recalled the moment during their wedding that he’d slipped its twin on Linet’s finger. He’d had the matching rings made from the melted metals of his expensive silver de Ware crest ring and her cheap bronze de Montfort medallion, recovered by Lord Guillaume. The new alloy suited their role as noble champions of the common man.

Linet smiled faintly as she studied her wedding ring. It seemed ages ago that she’d stood before the chapel, enveloped by a thronging mass of nobles and peasants alike, reciting the vows that would bind her to her husband. Never would she forget the lump in her throat at his whispered words to her as they stood upon the steps that morning, nor how true they rang as she studied the hundreds of faces surrounding her.

“This division of men into noble or peasant overlooks the common bonds between them,” he’d said, clutching her hand. “All men want sons. All women crave affection. All people search for some sliver of importance and immortality. You and I can forge those bonds, if you’ll stand beside me in this.”

From that moment forth, she’d vowed in her heart to do just that, to support him faithfully in the many battles to come.

She was part of the de Ware family now, she reflected as she watched the snowy drifts collect at the edges of the narrow window.

And she was safe. Robert’s new bride had assured that. Anabella was with child, and her father, a prominent Spanish gentleman, was so relieved to have his daughter wed well and quickly to an English noble that he’d personally guaranteed the de Ware family full protection against any recourse for El Gallo’s death.

Linet sighed contentedly. Tomorrow was Christmas Day, replete with feasting and entertainments and the exchanging of gifts. She couldn’t wait to give Duncan his present. She’d made a beautiful green wool coverlet with the black de Ware crest on the magnificent loom that had been his wedding gift to her.

Her only regret was that one of Duncan’s brothers wouldn’t be home for the festivities. She’d never met Holden, but he was so beloved by the family that she felt as though she knew him. She also felt she owed him a debt. After all, it had been Holden’s commission that bought King Edward’s approval of their match. According to Duncan, his brother was off winning Scotland for the king even now.

“I wonder if it’s miserably cold at the border,” she murmured.

“Worried about that fool brother of mine?”

She nodded.

“You’ve never even met him.”

“He’s a de Ware,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Oh, he’s a de Ware all right. If he gets too cold, he’ll find some wanton wench to warm his bed. Like I did.”

Linet tickled his ribs for that remark. “You,” she announced, climbing atop him and planting a kiss on the end of his nose, “are wicked.” She kissed his forehead. “And vain.” She licked his earlobe. “And coarse.” She bit his neck. “And cocksure.”

Duncan lost track of his virtues as she ticked them off one by one, and it was only when she rocked smugly back astride him, her toasty bottom nestled against his stomach, that he realized she’d tied his wrists to the bedposts with the cord from the bed curtains.

His eyes grew smoky. “Weaver’s knots?”

Linet grinned at him like a wolf at dinner. Duncan shivered in anticipation.

By Glynnis Campbell

Book 2 in the Knights de Ware Trilogy

Cambria was dreaming. Her father was smiling, walking toward her across a sunny meadow with his arms outstretched in welcome. But as he drew near, from out of nowhere a great gray wolf appeared between them, its paws massive, its eyes penetrating. The beast opened its jaws in a mournful howl as a great black shadow fell across the laird.

She woke with a scream stuck in her throat. Her heart raced as she tried to break the threads of the nightmare. She rested her damp head in trembling hands. They came more frequently now, the dreams that haunted her sleep, dreams that seemed to portend the future. This one was a warning, she was certain. The Wolf boded ill for her father.

Shaken, she rose on wobbly legs, dragging the fur coverlet with her, and peered out the window. Damn! The sun was in the sky already. Katie had let her oversleep, probably out of kindness—Cambria had been up past midnight polishing armor—but she couldn’t afford to be late, not today. She let out a string of curses and tossed the fur back onto the pallet.

A loud crash echoed through the stone corridors and shook the oak floor, bringing her instantly alert.

The shouting of unfamiliar voices rumbled up from downstairs, and she heard the frenzied barking of the hounds. Her heart began to pound like an armorer’s mallet. She scrambled over the bed, snatching her broadsword from the wall. With frantic haste, she struggled into her linen shift, cursing as her tangled hair caught in the sleeve. The crash of hurled crockery and women’s terrified shrieks pierced the air as Cambria finally pulled open her chamber door and rushed out.

She was fairly flying down the long hallway when she heard the unmistakable clang of blades colliding. She hurtled forward, descending the spiraling steps that opened onto the gallery above the great hall.

At the top of the landing, she froze.

The scene before her took shape as a series of gruesome paintings, none of which she could connect to make any sense: brightly colored tabards flecked with gore; servants huddled in the corners, sobbing and holding each other in terror; hounds yapping and scrambling on the rush-covered stone floor; lifeless, twisted bodies of Gavin knights sprawled in puddles of their own blood; Malcolm and the rest of the men chained together like animals. Numbing cold enclosed her heart like armor.

But as her eyes moved from the overturned trestle tables to the slaughtered knights and cowering servants, trying to make reason out of the confusion before her, that armor shattered into a million fragments.

The laird. Where was the laird?

Panic began to clutch at her with desperate claws. She shifted her death grip on the pommel of her sword, frantically seeking out her father. If she could find him, everything would be all right. The laird would explain everything. He always took care of the clan.

She ran trembling fingers over her lips. Bloody hell, where was the laird?

As if in answer, two lads came forth from the side chamber, struggling with the weight of the grisly burden they carried between them.

Nay! Cambria silently screamed as she recognized the tabard of her father. Not the laird!

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 slay
women
in 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.