Read Online Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior by Glynnis Campbell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Glynnis Campbell
Tags: Romance
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but the forest would at least provide a screen. And if she could find a stream to follow, she might throw the hound off her scent.
Her hopes withered quickly.
Tearing through a grove of oaks, she nearly collided with another pair of mounted knights, more of Holden’s men. These two she remembered all too well from the Blackhaugh massacre—the big golden knight, Roger, and the dark rat of a man who’d stolen her father’s sword.
Roger guffawed, clearly surprised. “So, you’ve made my work easy; you have come looking for me !” He whistled a loud signal and galloped toward her.
Her heart pounding, she whirled and bolted for the thick brush, all too aware she was only delaying the inevitable. She stumbled clumsily, aimlessly through the dense foliage, whimpers of panic rising in her throat.
Then she heard the command to unleash the hound. Faith, it would flush her out like a rabbit! Her lungs ached, but when she heard the dog’s crazed yelp, she forced her legs to pump harder, unable to quell her instincts to survive.
Clearing the edge of the wood, she glimpsed freedom. But the only escape was into an open field of thistles. She hesitated. The weeds were thick and sharp.
The hound bayed again.
Out of options, she loped forward, ignoring the thistles catching at her shift, gasping as the spines cut her bare feet.
The mongrel caught up to her in no time, snapping at her heels, and she stumbled to the earth. Wincing in pain, she tried to scramble away from its eager jaws.
Just as she felt the hound’s dank breath on her skin, the black-bearded man spoke sharply to the animal, calling it back. He tethered it with a heavy chain, and then tossed it a scrap of meat. The hound tore into its supper ravenously.
Cambria swallowed dryly, frozen with terror on the ground, her cheek pressed against the weeds, her breath coming in short, burning gulps.
“Take her, Myles,” Roger ordered smugly.
A young knight dismounted and bent to help her to her feet. Her strength was nearly spent, but she still struggled against his kindness. Undaunted by her resistance, he gallantly removed his cloak and wrapped it about her naked shoulders, regarding her with sympathetic gray eyes.
It was more than her weakened spirit could stand. To her horror, her eyes welled with moisture. Mortified, she twisted out of the young knight’s grasp and turned on him, casting the cloak away.
“Your garment stinks of England!” she cried. “I’d rather die from the Scottish cold!”
Displeasure flitted across the man’s face as he retrieved his cloak. Stiffly, he listed her onto his steed and then mounted up behind her. The four horses turned back through the trees.
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 hopes withered quickly.
Tearing through a grove of oaks, she nearly collided with another pair of mounted knights, more of Holden’s men. These two she remembered all too well from the Blackhaugh massacre—the big golden knight, Roger, and the dark rat of a man who’d stolen her father’s sword.
Roger guffawed, clearly surprised. “So, you’ve made my work easy; you have come looking for me !” He whistled a loud signal and galloped toward her.
Her heart pounding, she whirled and bolted for the thick brush, all too aware she was only delaying the inevitable. She stumbled clumsily, aimlessly through the dense foliage, whimpers of panic rising in her throat.
Then she heard the command to unleash the hound. Faith, it would flush her out like a rabbit! Her lungs ached, but when she heard the dog’s crazed yelp, she forced her legs to pump harder, unable to quell her instincts to survive.
Clearing the edge of the wood, she glimpsed freedom. But the only escape was into an open field of thistles. She hesitated. The weeds were thick and sharp.
The hound bayed again.
Out of options, she loped forward, ignoring the thistles catching at her shift, gasping as the spines cut her bare feet.
The mongrel caught up to her in no time, snapping at her heels, and she stumbled to the earth. Wincing in pain, she tried to scramble away from its eager jaws.
Just as she felt the hound’s dank breath on her skin, the black-bearded man spoke sharply to the animal, calling it back. He tethered it with a heavy chain, and then tossed it a scrap of meat. The hound tore into its supper ravenously.
Cambria swallowed dryly, frozen with terror on the ground, her cheek pressed against the weeds, her breath coming in short, burning gulps.
“Take her, Myles,” Roger ordered smugly.
A young knight dismounted and bent to help her to her feet. Her strength was nearly spent, but she still struggled against his kindness. Undaunted by her resistance, he gallantly removed his cloak and wrapped it about her naked shoulders, regarding her with sympathetic gray eyes.
It was more than her weakened spirit could stand. To her horror, her eyes welled with moisture. Mortified, she twisted out of the young knight’s grasp and turned on him, casting the cloak away.
“Your garment stinks of England!” she cried. “I’d rather die from the Scottish cold!”
Displeasure flitted across the man’s face as he retrieved his cloak. Stiffly, he listed her onto his steed and then mounted up behind her. The four horses turned back through the trees.
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
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