Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (47 page)
Malcolm bit out a curse. Why hadn’t the lass stayed in her bedchamber?
A dark-bearded knight yanked her head back by the hair. She bared her teeth at him and narrowed her eyes like a cornered animal.
Suddenly the unguarded doors of the great hall burst open. An enormous black steed galloped like thunder across the hard floor, bearing a helmed knight. He was flanked by several other riders, who hauled their horses to a skidding stop on the stones. Rushes scattered everywhere, and the knights fought to control their mounts in the close quarters.
Cambria was forced to her knees by the hulking dark captor beside her, and she squinted against the rising dust.
The golden knight stammered in surprise, inclining his head toward the newcomer. “M-my lord.”
Tension hung in the air as he awaited a reply, but the silence was only broached by the snorting of the horses, the squeak of leather tack, and the sniffling of maidservants.
Cambria sucked in great gulps of air through her open mouth and tried to center her mind. She could feel her body drifting toward unconsciousness, toward a place where nothing could harm her. But she resisted its lure, clinging desperately to reality by reminding herself over and over that she was the Gavin. She clenched her nails into the palms of her hands to keep from fainting and focused intently on the rider at the fore, who was nudging his mount closer.
The knight set his huge warhorse into motion using only the slightest pressure of one of his armor-plated knees. The steed tossed its head proudly and ambled forward. Man and beast no doubt made a formidable foe in battle, their carriage that of champions.
With bullying arrogance, the rider let the steed come to within a foot of the golden knight till it huffed its breath into the man’s eyes.
Cambria scowled up at the helmed rider. This must be the monster who’d ordered the laird’s murder. She swayed momentarily with nausea, recalling too clearly her father’s bloody surcoat and his dead, glassy eyes. She swallowed to control her rising gorge.
She prayed for the strength to hold out until help came. De Ware’s knights were due to arrive today, and the English lord was bound by his word to protect Blackhaugh from all enemies. He’d be obliged to capture and punish these murderers. She hoped the Wolf would tear them limb from limb.
The knight removed his helm, tossing it to his squire. He eased the mail coif from his head and ran a hand through his dark curls.
Her heart stilled. She watched him, unable to move, unable to speak. A heavy weight seemed to press on her chest, making it impossible to breathe as she looked at his face.
He wasn’t at all the villain she’d expected. In fact, he was the most striking man she’d ever seen. His face was evenly chiseled, so perfect it might have been pretty were it not for his furrowed brow and the scars that told of many seasons of battle. His hair, damp with sweat, reminded her of the rich shade of roasted walnuts, and it fell recklessly about his corded neck. His jaw was firm, resolute, but something about the generous curve of his lips marked him as far from heartless.
Most startling, however, were his eyes. They were the color of the pines in a Highland forest, deep and slightly sad, eyes that had seen violence and suffering, and had endured. Those eyes caused her heart to beat unsteadily, and she wasn’t entirely certain why.
He angled his mount with another nudge of his knee and cocked a brow at the golden knight. “Have you finished here, Roger?” His voice was low, powerful, and laced with irony.
The golden knight regarded him with ill-concealed hostility. “Aye, my lord. They resisted, as you see, but…” He shrugged.
The knight shifted in his saddle and blew out a long breath. The carnage before him was inexcusable. As he’d suspected when he set out this morning to intercept Roger’s advance, something here was amiss. He should never have trusted Roger Fitzroi. The man obviously didn’t understand the proper use of violence. Judging by the faded shields of the conquered lining the great hall and the frayed edges of the Gavin knights’ garments, this poor clan could hardly have posed a threat. Hell, there weren’t even that many of them, he thought as his gaze roamed over the broken bodies.
And then he saw her, kneeling at his knights’ feet in the midst of all the slaughter, and his breath caught.
She was an angel. Nay, he corrected as he continued to stare at the eyes that were too fierce, the jaw too square, the hair too dark. Not an angel. Something more fey—a sprite. Accustomed to the fleshy, languorous women at court, he found this lass’s exotic looks as refreshing as a dip in a cool loch.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She looked the way he’d made women look many a time in his bed—hair spilled carelessly, lips a-quiver, cheeks flushed—and he longed to caress that fine-boned cheek, run his fingers through those too dark, tangled tresses, kiss that spot on her neck where her pulse visibly raced.
The wench was glaring at him with those cut-crystal eyes, and he was amazed to see her defiance falter only infinitesimally beneath his regard, a thorough scrutiny that usually made his foes tremble.
She reminded him of a wildcat he’d seen once on his travels through the moors, one caught in an abandoned snare. Before he’d cut the animal free, it had looked at him just this way—frightened, hateful, suspicious. He suddenly had an absurd longing to remove the pain from the liquid pools of her eyes as he’d done for the wildcat.
Ariel nickered softly beneath him and stamped an impatient hoof, jarring him back to reality. Damn, he thought, shaking off his insipid dreaming with a toss of his head. This new life of lordly leisure was making him soft.
He frowned into the girl’s face. Then his gaze dropped lower. Her body strained against the thin linen of her gown, and he could clearly see a perverse crimson streak across her fair breast.
Desire fled, replaced by outrage. He snarled at Roger, “Have you taken to attacking innocents?”
Roger answered belligerently. “It’s not her blood, my lord. It’s that of her traitor father, Laird Angus. But this ‘innocent’ wounded two of my men!”
Holden snorted in disbelief. A wee Border lass was hardly capable of intimidating the formidable de Ware knights. He looked dubiously down at her again to see if he’d overlooked something. He was sorry it was the sprite’s father who had died, but if the laird was a traitor, it would only have been a matter of time before he was executed for his treachery. Perhaps it was better he’d died nobly, with a sword in his hand.
“Who is your father’s successor, lass?” he asked her quietly.
The girl lifted her chin bravely and replied, “I am.”
He should have guessed. “And your husband?”
“I have no husband.”
“Your betrothed?”
“I have no betrothed. I am…the Gavin.” Her voice broke as she said it. He could see she was fighting back tears.
Several of his men smirked at the notion of a young woman claiming a castle. But he knew there was nothing odd about that for the Scots. He stared at the girl with a mixture of pity and disgust at the laird’s foolishness in leaving his daughter unmarried and, therefore, unprotected. He swore he’d never understand the Scots’ ways.
“I’ll spare your life,” he told her, “if you swear fealty to me.”
To his amazement, the girl fixed him with a jewel-hard stare and shook her head firmly once. “Even now the castle is being surrounded by the king’s army,” she proclaimed. “You won’t escape alive.”
“Lass,” a burly old Gavin man called from the corner, but his captor jerked his chain, ordering him to silence.
He scowled down at the girl and held up a hand to quiet his men’s snickering. “The king…Edward’s army?”
“Aye!” she hissed, her eyes sparking like sapphires. “Lord Holden de Ware will slay you for the murder you’ve committed! He is a powerful warrior, known to all as the Wolf for his savagery, and he has sworn to protect this keep!”
He stared at her, stunned. Her eyes gleamed with victory, and the thrust of her chin was confident and proud. He almost hated to dash her hopes.
But he had to.
He held her gaze with his own and explained softly, “I am the Wolf. I am Lord Holden de Ware.”
Born in Paradise, California, Glynnis Campbell has embraced her inner Gemini by leading an eclectic life. As a teen, she danced with the Sacramento Ballet, worked in her father’s graphic arts studio, and composed music for award-winning science films. She sang arias in college, graduating with a degree in Music, then toured with The Pinups, an all-girl rock band on CBS Records. She once played drums for a Tom Jones video and is currently a voice-over actress with credits including “Star Wars” audio adventures, JumpStart educational CDs, Diablo and Starcraft video games, and the MTV animated series, “The Maxx.” She now indulges her lifelong love of towering castles, trusty swords, and knights (and damsels) in shining armor by writing historical romances featuring kick-arse heroines. She is married to a rock star, is the proud mom of two grown-up nerds, and lives in a part of L.A. where nobody thinks she’s weird.
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My Warrior
(Knights of de Ware, Book 2)
My Hero
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Knight’s Prize
(The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 3)
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