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

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.
    A jagged blade protruded from Roger’s chest. His blood, drying in rivulets on his pale skin, spattered the furs and white walls and flecked his golden beard with scarlet-brown.
    All her senses told her to run, but she stood frozen in morbid fascination. Somehow, while she lay sleeping, soundlessly and in the space of a heartbeat, Roger had been murdered. It was as if some silent spirit had done the deed.
    Finally she broke free of her paralysis. Crossing herself superstitiously, she took a faltering step backward and slipped quietly out the door. Fortunately, the knights and the hound below slept heavily after their evening of carousing. She carefully descended the complaining wooden stairs and inched to the front door of the inn, picking her way in the dark through the dozing bodies.
    Suddenly the candled shadow of the innkeeper’s wife fell across her. The woman was carrying a huge pot of water. Both froze for only an instant, but the look they exchanged spoke volumes. The woman nodded knowingly and continued about her labors as if she hadn’t seen Cambria.
    Had the old woman murdered Sir Roger? Had she had a change of heart and helped Cambria after all? It didn’t seem possible, yet there was no other explanation.
    Cambria sighed gratefully, then opened the door with painful stealth and edged through the crack. Shivering with the morning frost, she clutched the kirtle tightly about her and stole into the shadowy forest. The moss was still damp beneath her bare feet, and her breath came out in moist plumes.
    She’d traveled only fifty paces from the inn when a twig snapped behind her. She spun in time to see a dark figure looming up. Wasting no time as the follower’s footfalls closed the distance in the leaves behind her, she turned and fled through the mist-shrouded trees. The cold air sliced through her lungs, but she ran desperately into the thickening gorse, cursing the fact she had no weapon.
    All at once, her luck and the narrowing path ran out. She was trapped in dense underbrush, like a boar cornered for the kill. She wheeled to find a dark knight brandishing a sword, her father’s sword.
    Owen.
    As he came grimly forward to claim his prey, she searched the thicket for any way out. He swept his blade up to touch her throat. She gasped and began to retreat. He followed her with the cold blade and colder eyes until she was pressed against the brambles and there was nowhere for her to go.
    “You won’t escape this time, you murdering bitch,” he growled.
    The point of the sword nicked her chin, threatening to spill her life’s blood at any moment.
    “I didn’t murder