Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior by Glynnis Campbell Page B

rights, he could claim her life—she’d attempted to slay him underhandedly—but it was impossible for him to imagine raising a fist against her. She was a woman, for God’s sake. They were gentle creatures. They were to be protected. Even now, despite her crime, a wave of guilt washed over him as he thought about the wisp of a girl he’d imprisoned in a cold, dank tower cell by his own cruel hand.
    He fingered the hilt of his sword. For the first time in his life, his trusty blade felt like just a useless piece of steel, and he realized he had no idea what weapon to use against this perplexing foe.
    Burdened by frustration and anxiety, he cursed and left for the practice field, where his men were astounded by the rigorous bouts he made them endure the rest of the afternoon.
     
    Cambria leaned against the iron bars of her prison and counted the stars as they emerged gradually from the darkening heavens. She’d stopped dwelling on her failure now and begun to use her clever Gavin brain.
    Escape was possible. Just like his foolish little brother, Holden de Ware had made the mistake of underestimating her desperation and resourcefulness. Not only had he provided ample bread and pottage for her supper, but he’d generously sent the squire he’d promised to help her remove her armor, knowing she couldn’t very well sleep in it. This last kindness would cost him his prisoner.
    Without the heavy mail, she could squeeze through the bars at the window. Wearing only her linen undergarment, she tore her tabard into long strips, which she tied together. It was a simple matter to secure the rope of rags to the bars, letting it fall to the ground below.
    Taking a few deep breaths, she expelled all her air and squeezed painfully through the grille. The faint light of the crescent moon afforded her cover, mercifully dimming her downward view. Nonetheless, her belly tightened as she teetered on the narrow ledge and gazed down the long wall of the tower.
    She gave a testing tug on the rags, and then, clamping her eyes shut, swung out over the empty darkness. The rope twisted once, and she banged into the wall, bruising her shoulder, but the fabric held. She clung to the rags with trembling limbs and lowered herself inch by slow inch, not daring to look down into what seemed a bottomless black pit. Several times, she scraped her knees on the rough gray stone of the castle wall.
    At last, she felt the cold, damp earth beneath her bare feet. She edged cautiously from the shadow of the castle wall to the open field, then from the field to the forest. When she reached the haven of the trees, she cast aside stealth and ran as swiftly as she could in the thick black.
    All night she ran, to the hooting of owls and the skittering of mice, shivering in her thin garment as the cold mist wrapped cruel fingers around her body. Her heart pounded in her ears as she scrambled through the brush, scratching her arms and legs. But always she thought of the Gavin, of her ancestors who had run naked through this savage land and survived. If they had done it, she could do it.
    She was the Gavin.
    Hours passed, and dawn at last began to lighten the sky above the rolling, oak-studded hills that, with any luck, would lead her eventually to Robbie and his band. She paused for a moment at the crest of a grassy hillock, letting her knifelike breaths dull to a steady throb. She was weary and hungry and in need of sleep. But she had to push on. She couldn’t let the Wolf find her.
     
    “What?” Holden exploded, slamming his fist on the oak table. The impact startled the skittish servant and made his own watered wine splash up over the lip of its chalice. “Satan’s ballocks!”
    He ran his fingers through his uncombed mane in frustration and came to his feet, raking his chair across the rush-covered stones. He had to curse his own stupidity as much as the fey wench herself for the ease with which she’d escaped.
    To be honest, her ingenuity and