Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (35 page)

It
had
been a week. Well, then, it was time to make amends.

Cambria stretched luxuriously across the thyme-scented pillow, then grimaced as a twinge lanced through her shoulder. Her arms ached from the rigorous training Sir Guy had put her through yesterday. She supposed she shouldn’t have worked so hard. But after such a long absence from the tiltyard while her body healed, it felt marvelous to have the blood surging through her veins again, to feel the healthy sweat of battle on her brow. It felt almost as good as…

Coupling with Holden. She sighed as lust flooded her veins. Every time she thought of him, molten heat blossomed in her belly and coursed relentlessly down her limbs, setting her flesh afire.

No woman could love a man so well. Her heart swelled with pride when he sat beside her at supper. Her breath caught when he winked suggestively at her from across the great hall. She never let him get within arm’s reach without reaching her arms out for him.

She felt alive. Part of it was the sultry warmth of summer and the peace the land enjoyed. Part of it was her healing and return to the tiltyard. And part of it was the sense of wholeness Holden brought to her.

His green eyes reflected pride when they gazed toward the Gavin wood. He belonged to Blackhaugh now. He knew the servants by name and had memorized all the best fishing spots. His feet no longer stumbled upon the uneven step at the bottom of the larder. Even his speech had altered ever so slightly, taking on the subtle lilt of the Borders. He belonged to the Gavins, and he belonged to Cambria. He completed her.

But there was another reason she felt so vital, so full of life, a reason she’d discovered only recently. And if she didn’t speak to Holden soon about it, she thought she might well burst with the news.

Holden had been too busy in the last several days to do more than murmur good day as they passed in the hallways. Now, in the delicious languor of the morning, her body remembered all too vividly everything about him—the hushed whisper of his breath beneath her ear, the soft brush of his lips upon her skin, the feel of his rough-haired thigh slung over hers, claiming her.

She flopped restlessly onto her back, kicking off the covers, and stared up at the ceiling, where sunlight stretched across the thick beams. Lord—how she missed him, craved him with all of her being. Lying in bed alone the past week, without his caresses, without his warmth, was slow torture.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine his face above her—his smoky green gaze, the subtle curve of his mouth, the spicy scent of his hair, the taste of wine on his tongue. She let one hand trace the neglected contours of her body, move over the places he hadn’t touched in days—the hollow of her throat where her pulse raced, the curve of her shoulder where he oft nestled his head, the crest of her breast that even now stiffened as she slid a thumb across the aching nubbin. She sighed and moved her hand lower, across the flat plane of her belly, toward the nest of crisp curls below, to the place where desire simmered like liquid fire…

Suddenly the latch of the door rattled from its bed. Her eyes popped open.

Holden! Her cheeks flamed. With a sound that was half-gasp and half-giggle, she yanked the coverlet up under her chin and slammed her eyes shut, feigning sleep.

The oak panel creaked open. His presence intruded into the darkened room like a burning brand. Her heart hammered at her ribs. But she didn’t dare open her eyes. If she looked at him, he’d know instantly what she’d been thinking, what she’d been doing.

Holden took a deep, measured breath as he ran his gaze along the length of the woman in his bed. She was naked beneath that coverlet. He knew it.

Seven days had been too long. They were practically strangers again. Here he stood with a platter of sweetmeats, like a squire come to beg the affections of a maid. It was like starting over. And the last thing his raging, snarling hound of a body wanted was to start over. Not when she was his wife. Not when she lay naked under there.

The telltale fluttering of Cambria’s eyelids belied her pathetic attempt at pretending sleep.

“You’re awake,” he accused, reining in the beast of his lust and easing the door shut behind him.

Her eyelids twitched, their lashes brushing soft and thick upon her pink cheek, but didn’t open.

“I’ve brought sweetmeats,” he crooned, unpinning his cloak with one hand and draping it across the chest at the foot of the bed. It was almost laughable, he thought. The Wolf de Ware was reduced to courting his own wife with sweets.

And still Cambria pretended to doze. She was holding her breath, but a rapid heartbeat pulsed in her neck. That slim, smooth column begged for a kiss.

“Well then,” he softly announced, creeping close, “since you’re not awake to protest…” He lowered his head to hers until he could see the nervous quiver of her nostrils. “Perhaps I’ll steal a kiss from you, and—“

Her eyes snapped open.

“Ah,” he breathed, mildly disappointed. “You
are
awake. Have a sweetmeat then.”

He popped a honeyed walnut between her astonished lips and stuffed another into his own mouth. Sweet syrup bathed his tongue, but the flavor paled in comparison to the honey of Cambria’s kiss.

As if she could read his thoughts, Cambria flicked out her tongue to lap up a stray drop of honey from her lower lip. And then, because she could hide nothing from him, he saw it in her eyes. Desire. Naked, pure, powerful desire.

Instantly, all the molten lust bottled up for seven lonely days surged within him. He ached to press his lips to hers, to hold her against his hungry flesh, to couple with her. And she wanted it as well. Her gaze was hot and liquid, her skin flushed with longing. Her eyes lowered to his mouth.

He sighed her name. She closed her eyes. The platter of walnuts clattered to the floor as he lowered his mouth to hers. It was as sweet as coming home. Her lips softened at once in eager welcome. Her arms pulled him close, and he caught the curious, wonderful fragrance of her hair—a blend of thyme and leather and the sweet woodruff of her bath. He tangled his hand in the thick tresses, deepening the kiss, grazing the tips of her teeth with his tongue, then plunging into the honey-sweet recesses of her mouth. She tasted of heaven and summer and the wild hills of Scotland, of freedom and youth and desire.

He snagged the upper edge of the coverlet and slowly drew it back to her waist, feasting on her at first with his eyes and then his lips, until he’d baptized every inch of bared skin. His heart pounded as he hastily wrenched away his clothing.

And then, sliding the coverlet down, he lay upon her, flesh to fevered flesh, groaning with the pleasured pain of it. She was perfection—warm, yielding, and female. Her body cleaved to his like fine chain mail, caressing his shoulders, enveloping his chest, molding to his thighs. He shivered as delicious, fiery waves of lust rocked him.

Cambria moaned breathlessly. What she’d imagined before was nothing compared to the reality of Holden’s touch. Where his fingers lingered there was fire. Where his lips brushed…

She drew in great draughts of his male scent—smoke and leather and spice. She tasted the salty tang of his muscles as she feverishly kissed his shoulder and lapped at the pillar of his neck. She was hopelessly drunk with desire, but she didn’t care if he thought her wanton or witch. She only knew she wanted this. Needed it. This closeness, this soul-forging intimacy. Now.

Her heart hammered insistently, urging her on, compelling her to quench her growing thirst. Her body strove upward against his hot flesh, as if with a will of its own, arching her toward her destiny, toward what must be.

And then he sank into her, hot and strong and true as a lance, filling the hungry place inside her, and the breath was raked from her throat. This was the melding she’d desired, the joining of their bodies until there wasn’t a whisper’s breadth between them, the summoning of her heart by his until they beat in tandem.

He drew back then, prolonging the agony of separation as his flesh pulled slowly from hers. And just before she could sob in protest, he sheathed himself once more. Firmly. Deeply.

A low cry of passion was wrung from her lips. Every inch of her body felt charged with lightning. She peered through lead-heavy lashes at the forest-dark eyes above her. They were half closed, glazed with need, shadowed with purpose. They told her he knew exactly what he was doing, and nothing on heaven or earth would stop him. She closed her eyes and surrendered.

Holden feared it would be over far too soon. Never had he felt so aroused. But the woman beneath him deserved more. She deserved his patience. She deserved his restraint. He tried to think of her needs, lapping delicately at the shell of her ear, tracing the curve of her breast, grazing slowly across the nubbin of flesh that was the center of her lust. But the more she responded, the more demanding his own body became, like a runaway warhorse charging to its natural rhythm.

And then they were galloping together. She clutched at his mane, and he whispered meaningless commands against her hair. Faster and harder they rode, climbing the mountain of desire, striving upward with muscle and sinew and quivering flesh until the pinnacle was in sight.

Cambria gasped as she crested the top of the hill. A lush, fertile valley seemed to stretch out before her, taking her breath away, promising its bounty, filling her with awe. Holden must have felt it, too, for he paused on the precipice. And then they were racing down the hill together, bounding, falling, tumbling—wild and free and alive with joy.

Cambria didn’t remember drifting off. But the next thing she knew, she was drowsily rousing to find Holden easing his weight from her, tucking the coverlet in around her, and moving toward the window to gaze at the countryside beyond. Sunlight burnished the contours of his body, accentuating the wide curve of his chest, the casual sling of his hip, the rounded swell of his shoulder. Every inch of him exuded power.

And yet he was capable of infinite tenderness. His touch could be iron firm or as delicate as the wing of a butterfly, and the way he caressed her breast… Already she wanted him again.

Holden turned from the fire and dusted his hands. He glanced toward the pallet. His beautiful Cambria was awake. Her hair was artfully tousled. Her skin glowed like a pale candle. Her eyes glimmered behind sultry lashes. And she was looking at him
that
way again. Damn, she tempted him. She was an angel in his arms—warm and soft and sweet.

But he couldn’t let her distract him again. He had building to supervise. The new floor had to be…

She pushed herself up onto an elbow. One coy pink nipple peeped innocently out from beneath the fur coverlet.

He cleared his throat. There were important matters waiting. It was imperative that…

She ran her tongue quickly over her lips. And Holden’s good intentions fled quicker than a baker caught with short loaves.

Twice more she drained him of his strength and all sense, until he lay limp as seaweed on the sand.

“Laird Gavin,” Holden murmured wearily, “are you quite finished with me?”

She giggled low, cuddling into the crook of his arm. “There’s one more favor I’d ask of you, Lord Holden.”

“Ask,” he sighed, “and it’s yours.”

She grinned and drew a circle on his chest with her finger. “Could spare a carpenter to build a special piece of me?”

“What do you require?” he asked, closing his eyes to soak up the wonderful warmth of her body. “A wooden chest? A cupboard? A pedestal to set me upon?”

“Vain oaf.” She took a playful swat at him. “Nay, a cradle.”

“A cradle? But why…”

The breath froze inside him. It seemed the whole world ground to a wrenching halt, and the room suddenly darkened, as if a black cloud covered the sun. Her words and his thoughts hung in the air, like lethal arrows caught in midflight, and for a blessed space of time, he was unable to make sense of what he’d heard. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, but saw nothing.

And then the earth stirred, slowly resuming its turn, only now his breath felt oddly altered, dense, unrecognizable, as if he’d somehow crossed into a foreign clime where the air was thicker, perhaps poisoned. His heart beat like a leaden tambour, and his throat was too clogged to speak.

Surely she wasn’t… He swallowed hard, afraid to look at her, afraid he’d find what he feared most in her eyes.

“Holden?”

“A cradle,” he repeated.

“Mm-hmm.” Cambria grinned wide. Sometimes men could be so blind. “Don’t you want to know why?”

“You’re…”

“I’m with child, Holden.” Just saying it aloud made her feel aglow with happiness.

But Holden offered no reply. He only stiffened against her.

“Holden?” Sudden misgiving threatened to sour her joy. “Did you hear me?”

“You’re with child.” His voice was gruff, cold, distant. What was wrong with him?

“Holden, is something…?” A moment ago, she’d floated on angels’ wings. Now she was Icarus, careening toward the earth. “You know… you know the child is yours?”

“Oh, aye,” he said, his tone as bitter as rue. “It was I who did the deed.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit her lip to still its tremor. “Aren’t you pleased?” she whispered.

He disengaged himself from her then, sparing her not a glance, and got up from the bed, the bed where they had made love only moments before. He dressed with careless haste.

Her heart crumbled like a sapped castle wall. “Do you not…love me?”

He rounded on her, his eyes fierce with pain and rage and something else she couldn’t name. “Love you? I love you more than life itself! More than…” His voice broke, and with a curse, he stormed from the room.

Stunned and hurt and utterly bewildered, she clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling the sobs that racked her body, sobs that refused to subside until it was far past morning and Holden was far past forgiveness.

The season ripened, and summer-burnished leaves began to litter the forest floor. Heather splashed across the hill in muted golds and crimsons and purples. Berries swelled round and red in the wood, and the world glowed with the mellow light of autumn.