Free Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior by Glynnis Campbell

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