Page 27 of Warrior’s Lady

He watched as Thomas escorted Violet inside and Orrin dismissed the men. When that task was complete, Orrin joined Camden near the gate.

"The man is a lunatic."

"That may be true, but he's one lunatic we will likely see again. He might claim to want to help with Lady Violet's training, but I am certain he has an ulterior motive." Camden said. "Whatever we do, we must keep my niece safe."

"The two of us along with your army will be all the protection she needs." Orrin's face took on a look Camden had seen so many times before — the look that dared anyone to prove him wrong. It was that look, and his fighting skills that had kept him alive during their captivity.

Camden's thoughts moved away from the bishop and turned to Rhiannon. Was she the insider who had delivered information about Violet to the bishop? "I'm not so certain my army is all that is needed here."

"You think the bishop has that much power?"

Camden nodded. "Aye. We both know the power that lies behind a holy man."

Orrin's brow darkened as he, too, battled memories of their past together. "Then what are we to do?"

"We need to lure the bishop into exposing his true plans before anyone else is harmed," Camden said as darkly as the clouds billowing overhead.

Orrin met his gaze. "What will you do?"

"I need to speak with our new nursemaid. There is a connection between her and the bishop. I need to find out that connection and decide once and for all if she can be trusted."

Camden strode into the castle and up the stairs. At the door of Rhiannon's bedchamber, he dismissed Hamish and Travis, then entered the room after a brief warning knock. "Rhiannon, we must talk."

She lay upon the bed above the coverlet, asleep. He moved silently to her side and gazed down at her, seething with frustration. He should wake her up. He had every right to do so. And yet he hesitated.

Candlelight flickered over her pale blonde hair and stroked the silken smoothness of her cheeks and neck. She lay curled on her side, her cheek buried in the pillow, her pink lips slightly parted. All thoughts of finding the truth about her connection to Bishop Berwick faded as a different emotion took its place.

Desire.

Wanting hardened every muscle of his body as he gazed at the soft shadows that the long lashes cast upon the curve of her cheeks. The long exposed column of her neck led down to the fullness of her breasts as they rose and fell against the bodice of her gray gown with each breath.

Just beneath the fabric of her gown he could make out her hardened nipples. The thought of stroking the sensitive buds sent his heart thudding against his ribs.

He bent closer, until the soft scent of lavender filled his senses. His blood pounded in his veins and the quickening in his loins hardened to an almost unbearable force. Why not wake her and take from her what he could? He had every right to take anything he wanted from his enemy. His own father had taught him that rape and pillaging were the rewards of overcoming one's enemy in times of war. He had pillaged many wealthy enemies in the Holy Land, but had never resorted to rape … yet.

He frowned at the direction of his thoughts. This was no war — only a battle between himself and Rhiannon Ruthven. And despite the fact he wanted to be the victor, he did not want her to yield to him because he had forced her.

Nay, he would prefer a slow surrender, one willingly given. With an effort, he straightened and backed away from the bed. He would wait to speak with her until the morning, just as he would wait to take from her everything she unwittingly offered.

He blew out the candle. Aye, he would wait until the time was right.

Death was all around him. Blood turned Jerusalem's rocky sand into a slick bog. Men who continued to fight found it difficult to find purchase and feared falling among those who were slain by the sword or trampled by horses.

Camden spilled his own share of blood. He fought back to back with Orrin in the way of their countrymen, startling the Moors who attacked. And that brief hesitation was all it took to find their advantage.

They would not die. They would know injury and pain, but neither of them would leave this world surrounded by strangers. He did not think about that during battle. All thoughts centered on a cold, calculating way to kill the man before him, hold on to his fierce determination, and cripple his enemy's offense.

He would return home in just three years.

Home. Scotland. Freedom.

Camden startled awake. Another dream. He'd had them more regularly of late. Ever since the Stone had come back into his life. He knew it wasn't the Stone itself that caused his memories to return. It was what it represented — a link to his past — to the Holy Lands, and his capture, and the holy man, Shaykh Haashim.

Forcing the memories back into the recesses of his mind, he tossed his bedcovers back and got out of bed. He dressed quickly, watching the golden glow of light that seeped beneath his door. He knew the source of light came from Rhiannon's room across the hall. Thoughts of her stirred his blood once more, tempting him. Until he remembered his decision to make her come to him, to drive her to a need so fierce she would capitulate of her own will. That day would come. Sooner rather than later, if he had anything to say about it.

As the first rays of dawn streaked across the sky, Camden left his bedchamber to pace the battlements and try to assuage his growing lust. The crisp morning air would do him good and clear his senses before he accused Rhiannon of any treachery.

Fresh snowflakes settled on his head and his shoulders as he stepped outside. Snow continued to fall as it had all night. Camden gazed out across his land. Snow blanketed everything for as far as his eye could see.