Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (8 page)

At first she sat bolt upright, vigilant lest any part of her come into contact with her captor. But as they rode mile upon mile, her exhausted body betrayed her. Slouching wearily in the saddle, she faded in and out of sleep until she finally slumped against her guard’s chest.

Hours later, she awoke to the rude pawing of her bare thigh. Roger. She jerked away in surprise, reaching for the dagger she always carried in her belt and nearly unhorsing both herself and Myles, who reined his steed away in irritation.

Roger only chuckled and gave her a mocking bow. Then he gestured toward the moss-grown thatched inn tucked into the shadowy wood where they’d stopped. A reed-thin old man emerged from the dark doorway, followed by a wrinkled crone fidgeting with her dirty surcoat. Disoriented, it took Cambria a moment to realize that this was to be their lodging for the night.

The old man came forward to collect coin from Roger. His stooped wife, wary of the knights, muttered nervously and motioned for Cambria to come with her.

The inn was warm and redolent with the comfortable smells of mutton and ale. The woman guided Cambria to a table. She sank gratefully down onto the worn bench, ignoring the stares of the other patrons in the room.

The flickering fire felt like a balm upon her face, warming her through to her bones. When the woman returned with a trencher of pottage and a tankard of ale, she feasted ravenously, unmindful that the greasy fare might turn her stomach later.

No sooner had she gulped down the last morsel of her meal than Roger directed the woman to have a hot bath prepared for Cambria upstairs, grumbling all the while about the cost of Lord Holden’s whims.

For once, Cambria didn’t mind complying with the Englishman’s instructions. Slipping out of her ragged, filthy shift and into the soothing water of the wooden tub, she relaxed for the first time in days. She soaked the myriad cuts on her body and scrubbed her head vigorously with the scraps of scented soap until her hair shone like a silk robe.

But eventually the water cooled. And as her sweet languor faded, she plotted her escape.

“Have ye finished then?” the innkeeper’s wife demanded as she entered, startling Cambria from her thoughts.

“Oh! Aye.” Cambria took the coarse linen towel from the woman and stepped from the tub. As she briskly rubbed herself dry, she glanced sideways at the old crone.

Mimicking her mother’s timidity, she whispered, “They hold me against my will, you know.”

The woman dried her hands anxiously on her grubby apron. “’Tis no business o’ mine, mistress.”

“But they killed my father!” Cambria snapped, and then continued more softly, “And they may kill me as well.”

“Oh, miss.” The woman shook her head. “I’d like to help ye, but I’d be puttin’ a rope around my own neck.”

“Please,” Cambria pleaded. “You wouldn’t have to help me. You could but leave a door open, a shutter ajar…”

The withered old beldame was firm. “I’ll give ye balm for yer hurts, and I’ll give ye a kirtle to wear, but I’ll not call upon the wrath o’ those swordsmen below.”

Cambria pursed her lips in frustration, and then forced herself to smile at the woman. She accepted the balm and the rough kirtle with thanks.

After the woman had the tub taken away, Cambria hastily dressed, then plaited her wet hair into a thick braid. She scanned the room, reviewing the possibilities for escape. She studied the shutters of the room. They were nailed closed.

As she rose to investigate, her stomach churned in protest, reluctant to digest the heavy stew she’d eaten earlier. She cursed under her breath, as much at her poor judgment in wolfing down her meal as at the fact the shutters were nailed tight. She needed something to pry them open. Damn, she decided, clutching her belly as a wave of nausea swelled in her, she needed a concoction for her stomach first or she wouldn’t be able to think clearly.

Of course! She could go to the kitchen to ask the innkeeper’s wife for an elixir and possibly pilfer a tool of some kind to use on the shutters.

She eased the door open. The four de Ware knights were now the sole occupants of the common room, seated around the table close to the fire, swapping boasts and dares. They were obviously well steeped in ale and past all reason. Young Myles swayed on the bench, and Roger pushed at him belligerently every time he chanced to lean upon him. Roger and the rat-like man cuffed each other, more out of habit than malice, it appeared. The black-haired giant snored loudly into his black beard atop the table, while beneath it, his hound crunched contentedly on a bone. Cambria held her breath as she descended the steps, trying to slip past unnoticed.

But Roger spied her at the bottom of the stairs.

“Well, look here, Owen! There
was
a wench beneath that filth.”

“And a right fair wench, too,” Owen leered. “Seems a waste, all that sweet flesh lying alone up there in that cold chamber.”

“Aye, it’s weeks since I had me a clean-smelling woman.”

Cambria felt as if her legs were caught in a sticky bog, that no matter what she did, she was only going to sink deeper. Unaccustomed to this kind of warfare, she shrank back against the dingy wall. Suddenly, her stomach was the least of her worries.

“Are you surprised, wench?” Owen asked, his dark, greasy hair and crooked teeth garish in the firelight. “Have you never heard, ‘to the victor go the spoils’?”

Befuddled with drink, boyish Sir Myles nonetheless stepped forward in her defense. “Lord Holden gave orders she was to be unharmed.”

Roger snickered and pushed the boy back onto his bench. “I won’t harm her. I’ll just break her in like a good palfrey. Holden will be grateful for the service.”

Cambria’s eyes widened in disbelief. She coiled her muscles to spring, but before she could move, Roger signaled to Owen, who caught her easily by the arms. She fought in earnest, heaving her body against his grasp, but he was as tenacious as a ferret. The two men laughed at her efforts, enjoying the sport.

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the innkeeper’s wife emerging from the kitchen, but she knew no help would come from that quarter.

“What are you called, fiery maid?” Roger asked, stepping close to her. He reeked of ale.

She thought of her clan and clenched her teeth, refusing to answer.

“Your name, wench!” he repeated.

She spat derisively at his feet.

He replied with a cold steel dagger, sharp and immediate against her bosom. But Cambria refused to flinch.

The wretched old crone crossed herself and scurried from the room.

“If you don’t remember your name, wench,” Roger drawled, “I’ll be happy to carve a new one here for you where you won’t forget it.”

Myles took a tenuous step toward her, but Roger blocked the boy with his arm.

She glanced down at the threatening blade and, still struggling against Owen’s grasp, reluctantly complied. “Cambria.”

“Cambria? Cambria,” he tried the name. “It sings on the lips. But not as pretty as you do, I warrant. Shall I try, brother?”

Lucifer’s ballocks! Not this, she thought—a cuff, a kick, but not this. Would no one stop him? From the corner of her eye, she saw Myles shift nervously from foot to foot, but knew he couldn’t possibly lend her assistance, not with the brothers cheering their drunken encouragements to each other.

Roger sheathed his dagger, nodding at Owen for her release. Then, before she could twist free, he brought her up roughly against him, placed a meaty hand upon her face, and pressed his lips hard against hers. She battled to escape and tried to bite his lip, to no avail. He opened her mouth with his, his beard scratching her skin like a whetstone, and she fought off the nausea of his sour breath and probing tongue.

When he released her to Owen’s applause, she scrubbed at her mouth with the back of her hand. “You bastard!” she choked out. Her stomach was roiling again.

“Ah!” Roger swooned playfully. “Now there’s a song for your liking, lively and spirited! I think I’m going to enjoy learning to play this instrument.”

Myles had evidently seen enough. He took a step forward in her defense. But a sharp command from Roger set the hound of the still-slumbering knight upon Myles, growling and snapping at her young champion every time he moved a muscle. With rising desperation, Cambria cast about the room for an escape.

“Don’t move, wench!” Roger roared. “You’re mine!”

“Never!” she cried, racing to the stairs.

The hulking knight followed at her heels and caught her about the legs. She stumbled and fell heavily on the stair, wincing as she bruised her knee and rent her kirtle. She clawed at the steps, kicking him as hard as she could, dragging herself slowly upward. But escape eluded her. He coiled his fist around her damp braid and lifted her up by the waist with one thick-muscled arm.

“So anxious for my bed?” he laughed. “We’ll be there soon enough!”

She felt like a jester’s flopping puppet as he carried her ungracefully up the stairs and kicked open the bedchamber door. She beat at him with her fists, her voice shaking as she threatened him. “Lay one hand on me, you motherless cur, and I’ll kill you! I swear it!”

She cursed him, mostly to hide her very tangible fear. This was one battle she’d never been trained to fight. She didn’t even know what weapon to use against a man’s lust.

Roger slammed the door shut with his body, shoving the bolt home. Then he heaved her onto the crude pallet in the midst of the chamber. She scrambled to her knees, wishing to God she had her dagger.

“Don’t touch me!” she commanded, trying to regain some dignity by smoothing her garments.

He giggled and winked drunkenly at her.

She bit her lip. Her demands were not working. Perhaps she could shame him. “Is this the chivalry of an English knight?”

He ignored her and began to undress, humming to himself.

“Look, you bastard,” she hissed, “I’m not some harlot. I’m a virgin.” Surely he would leave her alone now.

“Are you?” he snorted carelessly. “Well, then…luck-, lucky you,” he said with a hiccough. “Ye’ll have the best teacher. Ye will. Ye’ll see.” With that, he pulled off his gambeson to bare a wide, hairy chest.

She searched wildly for a weapon, anything. There was a clay chamberpot beside the bed. It was heavy. It was hard. She reached for it, flung it with all her might. But as soon as it left her hands, she knew it was going to miss the target.

It shattered against the far wall.

Instantly, the massive knight was upon her. “Woman!” he shouted, pressing her against the plaster wall and spitting in his rage. “Don’t anger me!” He slurred his words. “I can make you suf-, suffer much in the losing of your virg-, your virg-, your maidenhead.”

She blanched.

He released his hold and pulled off the rest of his garments, leaving his huge body naked in the shadowy room. His golden face was fierce and his size frightening. She swallowed hard. He couldn’t mean to…

He weaved toward her. She clambered across the bed, heaving a bolster at him. He laughed and tossed it away. She picked up an empty wooden candle sconce and hurled it. It struck him on the shoulder.

“Son of a…!” he bellowed. In one lunge, he flattened her, crushing the very breath from her. She tried to worm away from him as he covered her face with sloppy, ale-soaked kisses. His body was clammy and so impossibly heavy that her ribs could barely expand to allow her air. When he finally eased his weight off of her, it was only to yank her kirtle all the way up under her arms. He pressed his wet lips to her bared breast, and she fought to wake from the nightmare of his touch.

“You whoreson!” she spat.

He bit her, and she shrieked.

“Holdjer tongue, wench—I’m warnin’ ye,” he said, slurring badly now.

She shuddered as his knee forcefully spread her legs. In a final effort, she brought her knee up hard against him, but it had no effect upon him in his drunken state. He mumbled something as his weight fell upon her again, as heavy as a dozen mail hauberks. She couldn’t move. Closing her eyes, she braced herself for the worst.

Within a few moments, she realized the worst had already happened. The lummox had passed out and was snoring loudly in her ear. She fought the desire to giggle with relief.

Struggling out from under the dozing hulk, she pulled her kirtle back down and ran shaky fingers through her tousled hair. Casting a wary eye toward her attacker, she crept to the door and lifted the bolt. She peered out.

Owen was still drinking and carrying on downstairs. She would never escape unnoticed.

Resignedly, she closed the door. She glanced at the huge golden knight and shuddered. She’d sleep sounder closeted with a bear. But she couldn’t leave just yet, not until the other men retired. Afraid to move him for fear he’d awaken, she left Roger where he was, taking a dark corner of the room for herself. She huddled against the cracked plaster and wrapped her arms around her knees. She had to think.

The windows were sealed shut. The men below were still sober enough to be vigilant. The innkeeper’s wife wasn’t going to help her. And yet, she sighed, what did it matter? Even if she could escape, what would prevent the knights from finding her again? Lord Holden didn’t strike her as the sort of man who’d give up easily. In fact, she thought with a shiver, he seemed the sort of man who’d search the ends of the earth for what he wanted. It would do no good to flee.

Still, she couldn’t bear the thought of facing the Wolf once more. The man was too dangerous, too powerful. His storm-green eyes seemed to invade the fabric of her thoughts and wreak havoc there. Nay, she’d no desire to see him in the flesh again. She shuddered, pulling her kirtle tighter about her legs. She supposed she’d just have to flee to the ends of the earth.

She never intended to fall asleep, propped against the sooty wall. She only meant to rest her eyes for a moment. But exhaustion overtook her, and she dozed off, mumbling a prayer that Roger wouldn’t awaken in the night.

Sir Roger didn’t awaken—that night, nor any other night.

Cambria roused with a start an hour before dawn, dismayed that she’d slept so long. The knight yet lay where she’d left him. But when she saw his condition, the breath was ripped from her in a rough gasp.