At The Warrior's Mercy
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A man’s mumbled curse set her heart to race even faster and drew another gasp from her lips. She backed away from his voice, slipped on the rocky bottom of the stream and, with a splash, landed once again in the icy cold water.
His curse this time was louder and decidedly less mumbled. She winced at the ungodly words spewing from his mouth as he strode into the water and reached a hand down towards her.
Uncertain of his intent, she pointed her weapon at him and stared, tipping her head back to look up at his face. The full moon provided enough light to see most of his features—at least enough to see that his returning gaze was more one of impatience and surprise than a threatening glare.
With his arm still extended, he tilted his head and cocked one dark eyebrow before asking, ‘Do you not find that water a little cold for a bath?’
Beatrice grasped his hand and before she could take a breath found herself held tightly against his chest as he spun her, along with her sodden clothing, out of the stream and on to the safety of the bank.
Beatrice closed her eyes and struggled to breathe. She wasn’t certain whether it was the hard, rapid pounding of her heart, the fact that her nose was pressed against his breastbone, or that said breastbone belonged to a man—a stranger who might prove more dangerous than Charles—that made breathing nearly impossible.
He released her, then tore the useless weapon she still held from her hand and secured it beneath the thick sword belt round his waist before cupping the back of her head with a large hand. ‘You are shivering.’
Of course she was shivering. The water had been frigid and the cool night air did little to lend any warmth.
He studied her, then asked, ‘Are you otherwise uninjured?’
She found his strangely accented, deep voice incredibly...soothing. A barely perceptible twitch low in her belly gave her pause. His voice was more than just soothing. With the speed and accuracy of an arrow sent flying silently through the night his voice calmed her to the point where she would willingly do whatever he bid.
Beatrice swallowed. This would not do. She would not be swayed by a deep, calming voice.
‘I am whole.’ She pushed against his chest, demanding, ‘Release me.’
He did so instantly, but the look of regret on his face matched the sudden twinge of loss flitting in her gut. Oh, yes, he was dangerous in more ways than she’d first feared.
He spread his arms before her with his hands—his very large, strong, capable-looking hands—palms up. Beatrice blinked and then dragged her gaze away.
He tore off his cloak and settled it about her shoulders, saying, ‘I’ll not harm you.’
At this very moment his harming her wasn’t what had her concerned. At least not in the manner he’d meant.
She gathered the skirt of her sodden gown and wrung out some of the water, as if that would help it dry faster, or make it more presentable, when in truth the garment would never dry in the dampness of the night and was beyond saving. What she’d truly sought was a moment to collect her thoughts. ‘I thank you for your assistance, but if you’ll kindly return my knife, I’ll be on my way now.’
He glanced around before asking, ‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
As she turned to leave, he said, ‘I can’t let you do that.’
‘You can’t stop me.’
‘Stopping you would be easy.’
He had a valid point, one she didn’t want to put to the test knowing full well she’d lose any physical tussle with him. She turned back to look at him. ‘I am not your responsibility. I know you not and I’ve no wish to remain in your company.’
‘True. But you are a lady alone in the middle of the night.’ He glanced down at the bedraggled skirt of her gown and added, ‘A very wet lady.’
Beatrice held out the skirt of her gown. ‘That is rather obvious.’
He dragged his pointed gaze from the top of her head to her toes and back up again, making her realise that holding her gown out from the side had only served to tighten the skirt against her legs. She frowned at him and plucked the fabric away from her body. ‘If you are finished staring, this lady needs to be on her way.’
His eyes widened in what she could only assume was shock and she groaned at her lack of manners. Dear heaven above, had she truly just admonished a grown man who was not related to her?
‘I apologise.’
He ignored her apology to ask, ‘Where are you going?’
The sound of a pebble or stone bouncing down the hill behind them drew her attention away from his question. That hadn’t dislodged by itself. Something—or someone—had kicked it loose.
He stepped closer to her and rephrased his question. ‘Who are you running from?’
‘A mangy cur who needs to be put down.’ Beatrice closed her eyes. What was happening to her? Why did this man’s nearness make her feel safe enough to speak her mind? He was a stranger and from his rugged looks more warrior than simple man.
‘Your husband?’
She swung her head to look up at him. ‘God be praised, no.’
His soft laugh made her smile. Clearly he’d heard the overwhelming relief in her breathless tone and found it amusing, not off-putting.
‘I sense a tale worth telling.’ He nodded downstream. ‘There is an inn in the village. You can hide there while sitting near the fire to dry and tell me your story. In the meantime, I can decide what to do with you.’
While he might think his plan sensible, Beatrice thought otherwise. ‘I can’t walk into an inn with you. We are not related, nor wed. You know what people will think.’
He slung a large, muscular arm about her shoulders, turned her towards the village and started walking, giving her little choice but to walk beside him. His thigh brushed her hip and she tried to sidestep, hoping that putting a little distance between them would ease the restless fluttering of her heart. Unfortunately, the small space was far too little.
‘Do you know the people in this village?’
Beatrice shrugged. ‘I am not even certain what village this is, so it’s doubtful if I’ll know anyone.’
‘Then what do you care what they might think?’
‘I have a reputation to think of and I already look quite dreadful.’
‘Ah, a rich heiress, no doubt.’
In truth she was. But she wasn’t about to admit something that could possibly put her in even more danger. It would be an easy task for him to take her hostage and then bleed her father of gold in exchange for her return. ‘Heiress or not, I still have to protect my reputation and future.’
He shook his head and made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chortle of disbelief. ‘Which is why you are running about at night alone.’
She bristled at his chastising tone and tried to pull away, but he only tightened his fingers over her shoulder, keeping her in place. She frowned at the warmth seeping into her at his touch before stating, ‘You are neither my father nor my brother and thus have no right to remind me of my shortcomings.’
He stared down at her. ‘You put your life and your precious reputation at great risk and you call that nothing more than a shortcoming? You need count yourself lucky I am not your father or brother, for if I were, I would use more than simple words to remind you of your place.’
She knew exactly what he meant, but little did he know that it wasn’t her brother or father who would be tempted to take a switch to her backside if they found out what she’d done. It was her mother who would be sore pressed not to do so. Beatrice knew that regardless of whether any punishment was meted out or not, her parents would be unable to trust her and, short of locking her in a cell, their only other choice would be to marry her off to the first man who showed up at their walls.
A fate she could have avoided had she acted with more caution, like her sister Isabella would have done, instead of being so impulsive. It was imperative that she learn to think things through before dashing off to follow her heart’s desire.
‘I know full well the foolishness of the risk I took. I’ve no need to be reminded of it.’
‘If you knew it was foolhardy, what made you take such a risk?’
Beatrice sighed. ‘I thought I did so for love.’
To her amazement, he didn’t laugh at her childish notion. Instead he simply shook his head, then said, ‘Since this shouldn’t be too difficult a mystery to solve, let me guess. Once alone he decided to take what he thought was his whether you agreed or not.’
She nodded in reply.
‘Did no one ever warn you about the wicked ways of men?’
‘Of course they did.’
‘But you thought he was different.’
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
‘Then perhaps you learned a hard lesson. All men are the same.’
‘Even though this wastrel proved to be a beast, I would say you are wrong. While I did learn a lesson that I’ll not likely forget, not all men are the same. Neither my father nor brother are vile animals.’
‘They are related to you, so of course they do not act like fools in your presence.’
Beatrice smiled at his statement. Sometimes her brother acted like the worst of fools, but she knew what this stranger meant. Still, what about him? ‘I disagree. You have not offered me harm when you could have easily done so.’
‘You do not fear me?’
‘Do I act afraid?’ Although, by all rights she should be afraid. Terrified, in fact, and she didn’t understand why she wasn’t. Her lack of fear confused her—it made no sense. She was alone in the company of what appeared to her to be a seasoned warrior.
The only explanation she had was that all of her fear was directed at Charles and his companions, leaving none for this man. Perhaps once her senses cleared and she regained the ability to do more than worry about those chasing her, she would find herself beset with the proper amount of fear.
‘Perhaps you should be afraid.’
‘And perhaps once I am safe and dry I will be afraid.’
‘How can you be so certain I am leading you to safety?’
‘I cannot. But if I am to die I would much rather it be at the hands of someone I know not, instead of one I thought I knew well.’
She felt his questioning stare and hoped he didn’t ask her to explain what probably seemed like a strange notion. She wasn’t certain she could find the right words to tell him that being harmed by a near stranger would only hurt physically and while it might take time to heal, she eventually would. Whereas any harm Charles inflicted would also linger in her heart, preventing her from ever healing fully.
‘There are worse things that could happen to you than being killed.’
Beatrice shivered harder, knowing he was right. ‘Is that your intention? To do things worse than death to me?’
He withdrew his arm from about her shoulders, pulled her dagger from behind his sword belt, then grasped her wrist, pressing his thumb into the soft flesh until she spread her fingers open, and then he slapped the grip of the weapon into her hand. ‘The only plan I have for you is to see you safely delivered to your home and family.’
The angry frown etched on his face seemed to hide something else. She parted her lips to apologise, but before she could utter a single word he marched off towards the village, leaving her to follow or not.
Beatrice hesitated, uncertain what to do. She had her dagger in hand and could head for Warehaven as she’d originally planned—on her own. A shiver of cold raced down her spine beneath the dripping clothing. Or she could accept his offer of a warm fire to sit beside while she decided what to do next.
Either option was a better choice than having remained with Charles.
Chapter Two
While the noisy, smoke-filled inn had been an unexpected find, Gregor of Roul had been glad for the warmth and shelter it had provided him earlier when he’d sought to escape the company of his men for a few hours of time alone and had no aversion to being once again beneath its thatched roof.
He raised his cup, only to find it empty, and signalled one of the maids over to his rough-hewn table in the far corner near the fire.
She placed a jug of ale before him, then lingered to give him an assessing gaze—a look signalling that she didn’t know anything about his reputation or his identity.
He wondered idly what women saw when they looked at him before they realised who he was—when they gazed upon him as if he were just a man instead of a treacherous beast. Did they see that his once coal-black hair had started turning silver too early, making him look far older than his twenty-eight years? Or did the strand of silvery-white hair hanging across his forehead make them think of the wolves that populated his ancestor’s demesne lands in Normandy, giving them the name Roul?
Did they notice that his nose was crooked from one too many fights? Or the jagged scar that ran the length of his jawbone, accentuated now by the stubble from not shaving these last three days on the road. Did these imperfections make him appear a warrior to be pitied, or one to be feared?
He knew the very second she realised who she might be serving. Men would instinctively reach for their weapon and willingly choose avoidance if possible. But as happened more often than not with women, her smile vanished and the tell-tale shimmer of fear brightened her widening eyes and enlarged her pupils.
‘Will you be needing anything else?’ Her previous warmth cooled, leaving her tone curt and distracted as if she couldn’t get away quickly enough.
Gregor sighed. Had he been anyone else, she’d have followed her query with a saucy wink and lingering touch on his shoulder to let him know that if he was so tempted, she’d be more than willing to keep him company this night.
She was a fine-looking young woman, with blond hair that tumbled in loose waves down her back and a gown laced so snugly that nothing of her curvaceous form was left to his imagination.
But it wasn’t a blonde serving wench who filled his thoughts at the moment. Instead a dark-haired, headstrong, wayward lady flitted around in his mind. One with the take-charge spirit of a warrior, flashing green eyes full of curiosity, an impertinent mouth that begged to be kissed and a lack of fear that both fascinated and intrigued him.
He’d been intrigued from the moment she’d grasped his hand. Had she felt the same shocking spark of warmth flow through her at the contact as he’d experienced? Or during that brief moment when she’d rested against his chest, had she been struck by the rightness of it, as if that was where she belonged?
Even though it would make no difference, he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen when she discovered who had come to her rescue. A small part of him wished that, just for a moment perhaps, her impertinence could be far stronger than any fear.
He blinked. What was he thinking? The last thing he needed was a woman, especially one who had caught his interest, distracting him from the task at hand. It was bad enough that when he’d seen her tumble down the hill, then slip into the water he’d felt strangely compelled to lend assistance. It had gone from bad to worse when he’d grasped her hand to pull her from the water and had looked into her eyes—something inside him had sparked to life—something that was best left alone. He didn’t need to make things impossible by imagining things that could never be.
Forcing his attention back to the waiting maid, he added a couple of pennies to the charge for the ale, something extra for her, and shook his head. ‘No, there’s nothing else I require.’
She reached down with a trembling hand, scooped up the coins quickly and nearly ran from his table.
‘Please, someone, help me.’
Ah, he recognised that voice. She’d chosen to accept his protection after all. Not that she’d really had a choice as his intention had been to let her stew for a short time, then go and find her.
He shouldered his way through the now-gathering throng of men surrounding her and grasped her elbow. ‘Come with me.’
She followed him without hesitation, until he paused before his table and waved her to take a seat on the bench.
‘No. I cannot. There is no time.’ She paused to cast a furtive glance towards the door, adding, ‘I need to hide.’
Gregor adjusted his cloak that was still about her shoulders and pulled up the hood to conceal her features. He waved the maid over again to ask, ‘Is there an available room above?’ At her nod, he placed more than enough coins in her palm and said, ‘You’ve not seen either of us.’
Her eyes bulged at the amount in her hand, but finally she replied, ‘I’ll let the others know.’
Thankful for that bit of assistance from one so reluctant, he added more coins to what he’d already given her. ‘I thank you. See to it that everyone has a full cup.’ He paused for a quick glance down at the woman he sought to hide, then handed the maid even more coins, saying, ‘If you have any dry clothing available, it would be more than welcome.’
The woman’s eyes once again grew wide, but this time with shock instead of fear. She closed her fingers tightly over what must seem to her riches in her palm and nodded.
Gregor turned his focus back on the woman shivering at his side and placed a hand on the small of her back. ‘Come. You can hide above.’
She hesitated. He read the uncertainty in her piercing green gaze. He understood her indecision—even though they’d spoken by the stream, she truly didn’t know him and couldn’t be certain that he didn’t pose an even greater threat than those she wanted so desperately to avoid.
The door to the inn opened once again, letting a cold gust of wind enter and whip through to swirl around his ankles. Her stare jumped towards the door. Gregor leaned slightly closer to ask, ‘The wolves at the door, or the one at your side who has yet to have offered you harm?’
And her gaze darted once again, this time, as he knew it would, to the shock of silver now hanging low over his forehead. For whatever reason, she hadn’t been afraid of him before, but now he saw the flicker of fear in her eyes. He caught her uncertain stare with his own and held it, promising, ‘You can trust me, my lady.’
As three men entered the inn, she bolted for the stairs. Not wanting her to draw attention, Gregor draped an arm across her shoulders. ‘Slowly, as if we’re simply two lovers headed above.’
She stiffened momentarily at the insinuation, but slowed her steps.
Once they reached the upper landing, he lowered his arm and pushed open the first door. Ushering her inside, he closed the door behind them and then dropped the thick locking bar in place.
Beatrice’s breath caught in her throat at the sound of the timber falling securely into the iron holders. What had she done? While it was true that for this moment she was safe from Charles and his companions, she was now locked into a bedchamber with a man she did not know.
Outside of this inn he’d been oddly easy to talk to, but now the fear she’d not felt then welled to life.
He had jumped to her aid so quickly. Too willingly, perhaps? Had he done so out of chivalry? Had he done so for his own nefarious reasons? Reasons that would leave her in greater peril than she’d faced from Charles?
It mattered little now. Her fate was sealed. Whatever was going to happen was out of her hands as she had no way to escape. The only window in this room was nothing more than an un-shuttered narrow slit that she’d never be able to fit through and the timber bar across the door was thicker than her forearm. It would prove far too heavy for her to remove alone.
After once again mentally cursing her rashness in leaving Montreau, she took a breath and watched the man closely.
He walked around the edge of the room, keeping as far away from her as space would permit in this small bedchamber.
For that she was grateful, but she knew that it would take no more than a quick lunge from him to reach her.
He picked up the pitcher from the small table against the wall on the other side of the bed and poured water into the ready cup. After taking a swallow, he extended the cup, asking, ‘Thirsty?’
Even though her body was wet and cold, she was parched. While the water would quench her thirst, she worried that by accepting his offer she would put herself too close, enabling him to grab her. Beatrice shook her head, eyeing the water with longing. ‘No, thank you.’
He raised a dark eyebrow and set the drinking vessel back down on the table. ‘It is here if you want it later.’ And then walked back along the walls to take a seat on the small bench next to the door.
Beatrice’s glance returned to the water. Her mouth was so dry that she wondered if her tongue would stick to the roof of it permanently.
‘By the sound of it, your pursuer seems to be in no hurry to leave, so we’re going to be here a while. Drink the water. Remove that heavy cloak and sit near the brazier to dry before you catch your death of cold.’
Beatrice moved to the other side of the bed and raised the cup to her lips. The cool water quenched the dryness of her mouth. She shot the man a glance. He’d leaned the back of his head against the wall and closed his eyes. She let the cloak slip from her shoulders, trying not to sigh aloud at the absence of its over-warm weight and spread it out on the end of the bed where she could feel the heat of the coals. Careful to keep her soiled gown wrapped close about her, she sat on top of the cloak and stared down at her lap.
In the still quiet of the room even her breathing seemed loud to her. Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck rose. That prickly sensation of someone staring at her, watching her, studying her, stalking her like prey chased warning shivers down her spine.
Beatrice hazarded a quick glance over her shoulder and met his intent blue-grey stare.
‘So now your fear has caught up with you.’
He hadn’t phrased it as a question, but she felt compelled to answer. ‘It seems that way, yes.’
‘Earlier outside with nothing but the moon as a witness you were not afraid. But here, with an inn full of people who would hear any scream for help, you are suddenly overcome with fear? Where is the sense in that?’
Beatrice shrugged a shoulder. How was she supposed to make enough sense of her emotions to be able to explain them to him when she could barely understand them herself? So much had happened this day that her thoughts and senses were all awhirl with confusion.
Finally, knowing he waited for an answer, she nodded towards the barred door. ‘Outside I had somewhere to run if needed. In here I am trapped by solid walls and a door I could not unbar no matter how hard I tried.’
She then patted the lumpy mattress beneath her. ‘And it is obvious that the place to do the deed if you chose is at hand.’
His bark of laughter surprised her. To her relief he remained seated on the small bench.
‘You truly are an innocent. Trust me when I tell you that while a bed might be more comfortable for you, I could just as easily make do with the ground.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘Or press your back against a tree, lift your gown and do the deed, as you call it, standing up.’
His eyes shimmered and a crooked half-smile curved his lips as if the thought of doing just what he’d described pleased him.
Unable to swallow or catch her breath, Beatrice tore her gaze from his and again stared down at her lap. The tremors racing along her spine now had nothing to do with fear or cold and her imaginative thoughts were making her much warmer than had the heavy cloak.
His deep, soft chuckle before he fell blessedly silent didn’t help at all. It only made her bite her lower lip to hold back a gasp at the heat now burning her cheeks.
It took more than a few moments, but finally her breathing returned to normal and she noticed the voices below filtering up through the floor. Charles was still below, his voice was loud enough to be heard clearly as he demanded she come out of hiding. A demand that would go unmet.