Page 55 of Warrior’s Lady

Chapter Sixteen

Days. Mere days remained of battling yet another army with a Saracen sword. Camden and Orrin charged into the melee at each other's sides. They were no longer the gawkish boys who had been foreigners in a foreign land. Now they were men, battle seasoned, ruthless, and desperate to remain alive. Freedom would be theirs in a few more days.

He and Orrin fought together in the midst of the carnage, bonded as brothers by all they had suffered; they stumbled over dead men, dying men, slipped on blood-soaked ground, their voices raw from the Scottish war cries they had never left behind.

The holy man who had held them prisoner for six years, three hundred sixty-one days, had sworn to release them. A part of Camden wondered if Shaykh Haashim would keep his word. And still he fought on. He would survive. He would protect Orrin.

This would be the last battle among the great enemy … the last battle.

Camden awoke with a start, staring into the darkness, willing his heart to steady its wild cadence. It was only a dream he told himself. He was no longer in the Holy Land. He was no longer a slave. He and Orrin had earned their freedom. Camden lay in his own bed, thousands of miles away from Shaykh Haashim's mad desires. It was only a dream.

The walls of his chamber seemed to be drawing closer. He drew a calming breath, then got up and quickly dressed. He had to leave the chamber, go outside on the wall, walk and look at the land, breathe the fresh, heather-scented air he had come to associate with home. Aye, that was what he needed. Just the thought brought peace to his soul, banished the tumult, blurred the memories he longed to forget.

In that instant, another scented image came to mind — one of lavender and lemons. Rhiannon. Perhaps instead it was her scent he needed. Perhaps having her warmth in his arms would vanquish his dreams of the past with the joys of the present.

A knock sounded on the bedchamber door. Rhiannon sat up in the bed and tossed the woolen coverlet aside, wondering what emergency would bring someone to her room so late at night. She snatched up the coverlet and wrapped it about her shoulders, then tucked her newly healed feet into a pair of slippers Mistress Faulkner had provided before she raced across the room and threw open the door.

Camden stood in the hall, dressed in fawn-colored breeches, tall boots, and an ivory linen shirt. His hair was combed back away from his face. The sight of him sent her heart pounding.

He frowned. "You shouldn't open this door to just anyone."

Rhiannon narrowed her gaze. "With Hamish and Travis guarding my door, I doubt anyone with ill intent could make it into the bedchamber."

"You have a point," he replied, stepping inside.

She closed the door softly behind him.

"Were you asleep?" he asked, watching her closely, his gaze a soft caress.

Her breath caught at his expression. "I'm still too unsettled."

"How are your burns? Do they pain you much?"

She shook her head. "It's the most amazing thing." She almost pulled the edge of her nightrail to reveal her shins, then thought better of it. "Whatever was in that tonic you sent to the room made the burns all but disappear."

"Good," he said striding toward her, and slowly encircling her hips with his hands. He pulled her closer, as he had in the cottage.

"If you hadn't arrived when you did..." Her words trailed off as a warm glow rippled through her. Her body wanted desperately to melt against his. Her mind warned her to keep her distance. "I never thought I'd meet my end that way."

"Hush." He pulled her against his chest. Her cheek pressed against the linen of his shirt. His fierce voice vibrated low beneath her ear. "It is in the past."

"I'll be haunted by the memory for the rest of my days," she said.

He pulled back to stare down at her. He simply stared, as though trying to find the right words to say. "Talk about it, then put it to rest."

She hesitated. "What good will that do?"

"Tell me," he persisted.

And so she did, haltingly at first, then in a rush. The words tumbled from her. Her fear. Her feelings of abandonment. Her pain.

He listened, his face impassive, his gaze fixed upon her.

Her words finally slowed, then ceased. And she felt lighter somehow, less burdened. Sharing her terror with him had lessened it. "Thank you for listening."

He said nothing, simply pulled her back into his arms, crushing her to him. She could feel the beat of his heart, as though he'd run for miles instead of standing perfectly still. He buried his fingers in her hair, gently stroking, soothing, until his heart slowed. "Things will be different now. I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she whispered against his chest.