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At The Warrior's Mercy
Denise Lynn
Married: by order of the King!Deceived and alone, Beatrice of Warehaven is forced to flee – straight into the powerful arms of feared warrior, Gregor of Roul. He escorts her home, though not before a kiss ignites true passion between them.If Gregor is to gain his freedom, he must obey one last royal order – overthrow Warehaven and marry Beatrice. His betrayal will earn Beatrice’s hatred, but Gregor is prepared to go into battle with this stubborn beauty – and finish what he started with his innocent bride!


Married—by order of the king!
Deceived and alone, Beatrice of Warehaven is forced to flee—straight into the powerful arms of feared warrior Gregor of Roul. He escorts her home, though not before a kiss ignites true passion between them.
If Gregor is to gain his freedom, he must obey one last royal order—overthrow Warehaven and marry Beatrice. His betrayal will earn Beatrice’s hatred, but Gregor is prepared to go into battle with this stubborn beauty—and finish what he started with his innocent bride!
‘I am Beatrice of Warehaven.’
His reaction was immediate. A brief widening of his eyes followed by a frown.
Beatrice’s stomach fluttered uneasily. ‘Is something the matter?’
Gregor wasn’t at all certain how to react. He was on his way to take possession of Warehaven Keep—and its heiress. Of course fate would ensure that he should run into the heiress along the way.
To make matters worse, she didn’t appear to fear him in the least. For the first time since the disastrous event that had passed as his marriage he feared that he might eventually come to care for a woman….
Not just any woman, but this woman.
Author Note (#ua6723310-3463-5885-a74c-d4104ad8d139)
Over twenty years ago, in ‘story’ time, Randall FitzHenry and Brigit of Warehaven began their journey in Wedding at Warehaven from the Halloween Temptations anthology. Over the years they thrived and prospered, fortifying Warehaven, building a successful shipping empire and raising a family. That family consisted of three children: Jared the eldest who, after much grief, married his childhood love Lea of Montreau—the same woman who once left him at the altar and wed another—in Pregnant by the Warrior. Then there was Isabella who, while kidnapped and carted far from her home by Richard of Dunstan, discovered the love of her heart in The Warrior’s Winter Bride.
Now it’s time for Beatrice, the youngest of the family, to find her love in the least likely of places in the last Warehaven story At the Warrior’s Mercy. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about the Warehaven family even half as much as I’ve enjoyed creating their stories. Perhaps in this final tale we’ll discover the answer to the question that’s long bedevilled Beatrice—will her lover be strong enough to hold her should she swoon from his kisses?
Happy reading!
At the Warrior’s Mercy
Denise Lynn


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Award-winning author DENISE LYNN lives in the USA with her husband, son and numerous four-legged ‘kids’. Between the pages of romance novels she has travelled to lands and times filled with brave knights, courageous ladies and never-ending love. Now she can share with others her dream of telling tales of adventure and romance. You can write to her at PO Box 17, Monclova, OH 43542, USA, or visit her website: denise-lynn.com (http://www.denise-lynn.com).
Books by Denise Lynn
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
Warehaven Warriors
‘Wedding at Warehaven’
Pregnant by the Warrior
The Warrior’s Winter Bride
At the Warrior’s Mercy
Further Novels
Falcon’s Desire
Falcon’s Honour
Falcon’s Love
Falcon’s Heart
Commanded to His Bed
Bedded by Her Lord
Bedded by the Warrior
Visit the Author Profile page
at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.
To my family and husband with love, always.
Contents
Cover (#uf1fc632d-b1f7-5347-bb3d-4c8aaabc5ff4)
Back Cover Text (#u4475993c-763a-57ec-bf14-56bd2f31cb9e)
Introduction (#u42975f91-2e8d-5e00-a130-bb6075c5d680)
Author Note (#u31952db8-4306-50b1-8741-7e4d2c69f110)
Title Page (#uc41327fd-f2c7-5eeb-a0fa-25a60e5e320a)
About the Author (#u65dc7749-0908-5efc-afc2-7d957dc5e7d3)
Dedication (#u2bc6d319-4882-5cd4-ba4d-6fb549d06aa1)
Prologue (#uc110e8c1-64d3-5737-961c-ffcd82f46c65)
Chapter One (#u75fdfd0b-c42b-58f8-8dae-55f1d985c914)
Chapter Two (#u18f37243-615f-52ec-aeff-9c0f09da059a)
Chapter Three (#u1b4de4f1-dbe0-5cb4-bfb8-c31f612f16a2)
Chapter Four (#u78257286-98c0-52dc-8995-4a48c6622a7d)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ua6723310-3463-5885-a74c-d4104ad8d139)
Carlisle Castle—May 1145
‘It has come to our attention that Warehaven has been left too long without a lord.’
Gregor, second son of Roul Isle’s former lord, held the questions hopping around on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he focused on the sound of workers fortifying Carlisle Castle, making it bigger and stronger. Hopefully, sooner or later King David would get to the point of this discussion before the ceaseless drone of construction drove him mad with impatience—Gregor had been too long away from his own building project and the sounds of hammering and sawing made his hands itch to wield an adze or axe. Either tool would suit him fine since he’d rather be shaping or cutting lumber than standing here in the King’s court.
King David’s frowning countenance during his prolonged hesitation gave Gregor the sinking feeling that not only would it be a while before he could return to his half-built ship, but that this time he wasn’t going to like the task about to be placed on his shoulders.
Not that his liking would matter in the least. After nearly ten years he was still paying for his father’s sins in attacking the foreigner who had been given control over some mainland property just south of Roul Isle. Gregor failed to understand why his father had never been able to accept the fact that the King’s word was law, or why it mattered who held the mainland property. His father had been lucky to die an old man at home in his own bed instead of in a less pleasant manner for treason.
However, Gregor and his brothers hadn’t been quite as lucky. They’d found themselves paying the price for their father’s actions. Even now, his older brother Elrik, the current Lord of Roul, was off on some secret mission for the King. For the moment both Edan and Rory, his younger brothers, were at home. None of them had a choice in the matter. The alternative had been to hand over Roul Isle and leave Scotland for good. Since the only place they could go would be to Roul Keep, an unknown cousin’s fortress in Normandy, all four had agreed that leaving wasn’t a desirable option and had placed their lives in King David’s hands.
‘It was also brought to our attention that you’ve somehow reached your twenty-eighth year of life without a wife.’ King David paused to stare at him before adding in a less accusing tone, ‘Lad, a wedding ceremony which ends in death does not count as a marriage.’
Again Gregor held his tongue. What could he say? Everyone knew what had happened that day. A marriage arranged by the King had come to a bloody end mere moments after the new bride had discovered to whom she’d been wed.
Gregor had had so many hopes for the marriage. While he’d been warned that it wouldn’t curtail his service for King David, it would have provided him a welcome respite between the tasks. He’d been certain that, given time, he and Sarah would come to care for each other, create a home and a family together. He had envisioned cold winter nights spent in front of the fire, his wife at his side, while their children played at their feet.
He had looked forward to this marriage, never imagining how wrong he’d been. The day had started filled with hope and whispered promises of dreams soon to be fulfilled. It had ended moments after one of the guests had congratulated the Wolf for having snared a mate.
In that single heartbeat, time had slowed and he’d watched as his new bride’s eyes had widened, all colour leaving her face as if she’d been drained of blood. He’d reached for her, his fingertips barely brushing the sleeve of her gown as she’d gasped, turned and then run from the Great Hall.
He’d followed, but had been unable to catch up to her until she’d reached the battlements and climbed up on to a crenel. With her arms outstretched, Sarah stood with her palms flat against a merlon on either side. The wind had whipped the long skirt of her gown, as it had her hair—both billowing around her. She’d looked over her shoulder at him. Fear and dread had shimmered in her stare. A frown of what he liked to think was regret had wrinkled her brow. Perhaps she’d had a second thought as she’d perched so high above the ground. But then, in the next heartbeat, she was gone. Nothing but air filled the space between the merlons.
The accusations had started immediately—the Wolf had pushed his new bride to her death—he’d thrown her from the wall in a fit of rage. At first he’d defended himself and the accusations had tapered off to rumours circling behind his back. But nothing would ever rid him of the memory, or the guilt. As far as he was concerned he was guilty—of not being able to stop her from jumping, of not knowing her well enough to realise what she might do and of being so terrifying to her that she chose death.
For a long time after that horrifying life-changing event, he’d thrown himself whole heartedly into the role of being King David’s Wolf in a wasted effort to avoid the nightmares haunting him. If a task required any measure of ruthlessness, the King seemed well pleased to call on Gregor. He’d answered those calls without question, leaving him with an enhanced reputation that made most people, especially women, give him a wide berth.
Sometimes late at night, or when the icy winds of winter threatened to freeze him to the bone, the useless dreams of a wife and family teased at his heart. Those fanciful thoughts were short lived and easily pushed aside, as being alone was for the best. He had too much blood on his hands, too many stains upon his soul. No woman deserved to be burdened with a husband who frightened her to death, or worse prompted her to choose death at her own hands over becoming his wife.
‘Are you listening to me, Wolf?’
Gregor turned his attention fully to his King. ‘Aye, my lord. Warehaven’s lord Randall FitzHenry seems to be absent and I have no wife.’
‘My niece is certain that she has a solution for both...difficulties.’
Considering how irritated the Empress Matilda was with him at the moment for nearly ruining a marriage between two of her noble families, Gregor couldn’t begin to imagine how dreadful her solution might prove. It was doubtful the Empress would ever forgive him for causing strife between Lady Emelina of Mortraine and Comte Souhomme. Obviously she was also irritated with her bastard brother, otherwise Warehaven wouldn’t be considered a difficulty.
Almost as an afterthought, the King added, ‘If you solve these difficulties, your service to me will be fulfilled.’
That promise picked up his spirits. Just the thought of no longer having to pay for his father’s crime was a relief that seemed nearly heaven sent. Gregor asked, ‘What of my brothers?’
‘It is time you think of yourself, Gregor, let them worry about their own service. However, the successful completion of this task might prove beneficial even to them.’
The weight that had been lifted at the mere mention of freedom from this service settled heavily back on to his shoulders. Gregor silently vowed that regardless of how irritated the Empress was with him, or how difficult the task put to him, he would do whatever was necessary to see this mission through to completion.
‘What would you have me do?’
Chapter One (#ua6723310-3463-5885-a74c-d4104ad8d139)
South of Derbyshire—July 1145
‘Do not fight me on this. You will not win.’
Beatrice of Warehaven stared in shock at the man confronting her so boldly in the privacy of his tent.
Charles of Wardham had been the love of her life. With his lean limbs, unblemished face unscarred by any wounds of war, fair hair and oh, so deceptively kind and caring manners, he’d easily won her heart.
How was it possible that this was the same man with whom she’d fallen so desperately in love nearly three years ago?
She stared harder into his pale blue eyes, trying to see through the fog of dismay clouding her vision. Once upon a time she’d wondered if it were possible to drown in his gaze. Now she would be amazed if she did not freeze to death beneath his unwavering icy glare.
Her heart hurt—physically hurt as if it had been splintered by a battering ram as she realised that her parents had been right in their assessment of this man. They trusted him not and were certain something darkly sinister lay beneath his mild exterior. She’d so foolishly been certain of their error in judgement. Certain enough that she’d given little thought to permitting him to escort her back to Warehaven without her family’s knowledge.
‘Come, Beatrice.’
Neither his steady, calm tone of voice, nor the smile that never reached his eyes, fooled her. Never again would she be so fooled by a man, any man—but especially not by this one. She knew there would be nothing gentle about his touch. Even had there been any hint at gentleness, she was not about to give herself to him before they were married and since now she was certain they would never be wed, sharing his bed was not an option.
A bitter coldness of betrayal flowed down her spine. She backed away from his outstretched arm and called out, ‘Edythe!’
Charles laughed at her cry, saying, ‘You waste your breath. Your handmaiden’s attention is occupied elsewhere.’
He parted the flap to the tent, letting the deep boisterous laughs of his two companions float into the stifling confines. Their seductive chuckles were joined by Edythe’s teasing response. Now she knew why Charles had insisted the younger Edythe accompany her instead of Agatha, her former nursemaid. He’d wanted someone who would turn a blind eye to his underhanded plans.
The heat of anger chased away the chill. Beatrice glared at him. Her show of displeasure only drew another laugh from him. ‘Did you just now realise your mistake?’
‘My family will kill you.’
He shrugged, replying, ‘While they may wish to do so, I highly doubt they will.’
‘They are not afraid of you.’
‘I never said they were.’ Charles slowly approached, his intent plain in his lecherous gaze. ‘However, they aren’t about to leave their pregnant daughter without a husband.’
‘I am not carrying your child.’
He wrapped a hand around her upper arm and leaned down to whisper, ‘Not yet, perhaps, but rest assured you will be by the time we leave here.’
She silently cursed her stupidity for giving him a reason to voice such a threat. ‘Why are you doing this? Why can’t you wait until we have a chance to convince my parents of our...devotion to each other?’
Devotion. She nearly choked on the term, but it was the only word she could think of at the moment that wouldn’t draw a humourless laugh—or a cry from her.
His brows rose as his smile turned into a smirk. ‘You think I haven’t noticed your displeasure these last two nights?’
There was much truth in his question. She’d been so disgusted by his drunken comments and those of his two companions that she was certain even one who was blind would have sensed her anger. The men spoke as if they’d been in the company of hardened soldiers on the battlefield. She’d heard milder words from her father’s shipboard crew.
‘I held my tongue because I had expected to be free of your friends’ influence once we arrived at Warehaven.’
‘Your expectations were sadly mistaken. I know you, Beatrice. I am aware of your headstrong nature and childish temper. I am not foolish enough to believe your patience would have lasted that long.’ He slid a hand down her arm, brushing his thumb against the side of her breast, causing a shiver that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with distaste and building fear. ‘Hence the quickening of our relationship.’
Without giving herself away, Beatrice scanned the contents of the tent while asking, ‘You would choose them over me?’
He pulled her tightly against his chest before moving towards his pallet. ‘For most things, yes. But not this. I am certain burying myself in the warmth of your body will prove far more enjoyable than anything they could offer.’
His obscene answer stung, but she wasn’t about to let him know that his foul words had hurt her as much as they had disgusted her. When they reached his bed, she pushed against his chest to no avail. ‘Charles, you are not going to have your way with me. Release me.’
His laugh grated against her ears. ‘Oh, my lovely Beatrice, save your demands. I see not how you can stop me.’
She reached down and grasped the handle of a metal ewer of water that sat on a wooden chest next to his bed and quickly, before he could determine her move, swung it against the side of his head.
His hands fell away from her, his eyes widening before he hit the floor of the tent with a thud. Beatrice leaned over him to make sure he still breathed, then whispered, ‘I will stop you just like that, Charles.’
Knowing that the others would soon realise no sound came from inside the tent, Beatrice grabbed the dagger from the scabbard at his side and slid it through the fabric at the back of the tent. She grimaced at the sound, but didn’t cease her actions. As soon as the tear was big enough to step through she stuck the dagger securely behind the belt wrapped low about her waist. At least she’d have some type of weapon at hand.
Beatrice exited the tent, then paused to determine which way to run. While the road they’d made camp alongside would be the easiest way back to Montreau, her brother’s keep two days north, it would also prove the easiest way for Charles and his companions to capture her.
She stared into the darkness of the woods, wondering what terrors would lie in that direction. The dagger at her side wouldn’t prove very useful if she truly needed to defend her life, but it gave her an odd sense of bravery.
‘Charles?’ Bruce, one of his companions, called from the front of the tent.
Knowing her time to decide was past, Beatrice grasped hold of her slender thread of bravery tightly and ran into the dark woods before anyone could notice Charles’s prone body or her absence.
Without looking back, she ran until her legs ached and her heart raced from the effort. The brightness of the full moon had provided some light for her desperate escape through the dense brush bordering the forest, but under this thicker canopy of trees she was unable to see clearly and tripped over yet another gnarled root. Her knees throbbed from the repeated times she’d fallen on to the hard ground and her shoulder burned from where she’d scraped against a tree trunk as she fell.
‘I must get away.’ She beat her fists against her legs, nearly crying in frustration.
A noise too close behind her prompted Beatrice to jump to her feet, gather the long skirt of her gown in one hand and once again resume her stumbling climb up the side of the hill. She knew not who was behind her. It could be Charles and his companions, an animal hunting for food, or it could be a roaming band of thieves and murderers who meant ill will to any they came across. Either way, she couldn’t let them catch her, as they were all equally dangerous to her safety.
Shivering from the cold, she choked back a sob as she scrambled up a steeper section and cursed the impractical clothing she’d donned at Charles’s insistence. He’d wanted her to dress nicely for their evening meal. Since she’d packed little for her dash to what was supposed to have been the beginning of a new life with her love, other than the clothes on her back, she’d had only the clothing she was to have worn for their marriage. While beautifully bedecked with embroidered, gem-studded flowers and leaves, the thin linen layer of her gown and even thinner layer of the chemise beneath provided little protection against the inclement weather.
She wrapped her fingers tightly around the grip of the dagger with one hand and lifted the skirt of her gown with the other, wondering if cutting the length might make her journey easier. But the snapping of branches echoing through the darkness let her know there was no time for hacking at her gown. Oh, how she longed to be back at Montreau, sitting before a blazing fire where she’d be dry, warm and safe.
Gladly would she suffer her brother Jared’s demanding rules and the endless lectures from his wife, Lea. Beatrice knew that had she paid the least bit of attention to the rules or the lectures she’d not have found herself in this dire predicament.
Her parents had sent her to Montreau for her protection after her older sister Isabella had been kidnapped. Nobody had expected her to remain at her brother’s keep for so long, but at the same time of the kidnapping, her mother’s family in Wales had fallen on hard times, then they’d been beset by illness. So her parents had spent their time travelling between Warehaven and Wales while also searching for Isabella.
When the kidnapping had turned into a marriage that produced a child, their parents had left Wales and sailed to Dunstan—Isabella’s new home—for the birthing. After that, they’d immediately returned to Wales, leaving Beatrice with Jared and Lea.
The natural son of a former king, her father possessed the wealth and right to not only build, but also amass, a fleet of ships, so travelling with little notice was never an issue. Even though doing so was fraught with danger from the unforgiving sea and unpredictable weather, both of her parents preferred journeying by sea rather than over land.
However, their penchant for travelling to and fro had left her essentially stranded at Montreau. The lengthy stay had shortened her patience, which in turn had made Jared and Lea less accommodating. For the most part, they’d suffered in silence because they knew how much she longed to return home, but of late their suffering hadn’t been quite as silent.
Another crack of a branch prompted her to set aside her musings and pick up her pace. If she didn’t escape the monsters trailing her, listening to her brother and sister-by-marriage would be the least of her concerns.
A thorny bush snagged the back edge of Beatrice’s gown, nearly ripping it from her as she stumbled once again to the ground. Biting her lips to keep from crying out in pain and giving away her location, she staggered to her feet, using the dagger to free herself from the prickly bush before sliding it back in place. One step forward sent her over the edge of a steep embankment.
Certain this would be the moment of her demise, Beatrice prayed. ‘Please, Lord, let my death be swift.’
If now was her time to die, she’d prefer a quick end rather than one that would take days—or perhaps even weeks—of suffering.
Her rolling tumble came to a sudden stop at the grassy bank of a stream. Face down in the soft grass she groaned, grateful that she hadn’t stabbed herself with the unsheathed blade, then she stretched her arms and legs to ensure nothing was broken before dragging herself towards the sound of the rushing water.
Hoping the cool water would help to revive her exhausted body and muddled mind, she plunged her hands into the stream only to slide on the bank’s wet grass and splash face first into the shallow water. Unprepared for the frigid coldness drenching her clothing, she gasped in shock and staggered to her feet.
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 (#ua6723310-3463-5885-a74c-d4104ad8d139)
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.
‘Why is he so intent on finding you?’
She jumped at the sudden break in the quiet of this room. Uncertain how to respond, she remained silent.
‘You didn’t lie to me, did you? You aren’t a runaway wife?’
‘No, I did not lie. Thankfully, I am not his wife. But I could have been.’
Beatrice frowned. Why had she added that last bit? Maybe the gentleness of the stranger’s gravelly voice had lulled her into giving away information best left unspoken.
‘Perhaps now is the time to discover your story. How is it you could have been, but aren’t? Is he your betrothed?’
She shifted on the bed, so she could look at him, then shook her head. ‘My parents wouldn’t permit it.’
‘Mayhap they had their reasons?’
‘I am certain now that they did.’ She wished that they had shared their reasons with her, instead of just insisting he was not suitable.
‘Ah, but yet here you are without any chaperon at hand, being chased by him. Did he kidnap you and somehow you escaped?’
‘It was no kidnapping.’
‘So you went with him willingly and when he tried to take what was not his, you ran.’
‘Yes.’
‘Obviously you’d known this man for a while.’
‘Nearly three years.’
‘I suppose you thought that having conversed with him in the company of others made you believe you could trust him in private.’
She felt the flush rush up her neck to cover her face.
His soft laugh drew her attention, prompting her to ask, ‘What do you find so amusing?’
‘You,’ he answered simply.
‘Why me?’ As far as Beatrice was aware, she’d done nothing anyone could consider amusing in the least. Nothing about this day had been amusing.
‘I trust you do not gamble, for if you did, your face would give you away.’
What an odd thing to say. ‘How so?’
‘Your flushed cheeks tell me plainly that you and your would-be suitor were not always chaperoned.’
To her horror, her cheeks flamed again. ‘That is none of your concern.’
‘Concern is not my intent. I thought only to point out your inability to lie.’
‘Since I was not raised to do so, then perhaps my lack of skill is a good thing.’
‘Certainly. At least until you find the need to do so.’
‘Hopefully, I will never find myself in dire enough straits where I need to lie.’
He nodded, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch in what she assumed would be another laugh at her expense.
However, he didn’t laugh, or even smile, instead he said, ‘I would guess it is now your intention to return to the safety of your family.’
Since he was basically stating the obvious, she only nodded in reply.
‘And when they ask where you’ve been without the oversight and guidance of your lady’s maid or at the very least a guard, you’ll tell them what? That you slipped away under the cover of darkness with your lover?’
Beatrice closed her eyes. He had a point. Since everything had gone awry so suddenly, leaving her more worried about her safety, she’d given no thought to tomorrow or the days after, let alone the day she’d arrive at Warehaven.
She most certainly wasn’t going to tell her parents that she’d run away from Montreau with Charles. With her luck they would force the two of them to wed just to save her reputation. She’d rather die than become Charles’s wife.
When she didn’t respond, he suggested, ‘You will lie to save face.’
She twisted the edges of her once-fine sleeve in her hand. ‘Yes, you are correct. I will lie to them. But not to save face.’
‘Oh? Then why? Surely not to save the man who so obviously caused you such distress that you ran away in the middle of the night.’
‘No!’ she nearly shouted. She swallowed, hoping to soften her tone before adding, ‘He can rot in Hades for all I care.’
At that comment, the man did laugh and, to her amazement, Beatrice found that she rather liked the sound of his mirth. It was deep and full, an honest laugh that seemed unforced.
‘Well, at least you hold no misguided hope that he’ll change his underhanded ways.’
‘That is not likely to happen.’
The man frowned and leaned forward to slowly study her before asking, ‘Did he harm you? Is there any reason I should go below and show him the error of his ways?’
‘You sound like my brother.’
‘I doubt that. I’m sure your family would go down there and soundly trounce the fiend long before they thought to ask your blessing.’
That much was true. She shook her head. ‘No, he did not harm me. I knocked him out with a water pitcher before he could do more than pull me into his tent and threaten me.’ Thankfully the rounded metal bottom of the ewer had made just the right contact with his head.
‘Ah, so he does need to learn the benefit of manners.’
When he rose, Beatrice frowned. What was he up to?
He headed towards the door and she gasped, guessing his intent. ‘No. Do not. He is accompanied by two other companions who are just as vile if not more so and I wish them not to know for certain that I am here.’
‘I heard him just as plainly as you did.’ He rolled his eyes before removing the timber bar from the door. ‘He already knows you are here. Either he saw you enter, or someone below told him about a woman seeking help. He and his companions aren’t going to leave without you in tow.’ He turned back to face her, adding, ‘I am not about to let that happen. Besides, three men who see fit to terrorise a defenceless woman will prove little threat to my well-being. Once I have finished with them they’ll think twice about not keeping their distance from you.’
His words only served to increase her confusion. ‘Why would you do that for me? I am not a member of your family. You know me not.’
‘You are a lady alone in need of help. Should I turn my back and leave you to your fate when I know how unpleasant that fate will prove? No. I have enough stains upon my soul without adding another that I could have easily prevented.’
Beatrice sprang from the bed and rushed to grab his arm. ‘No. Please. Do nothing. I’ve caused you enough trouble already.’
He easily shook off her hold. ‘Quiet yourself. I have every intention of returning you to your family and I’ll not have them question your safety while under my care.’
‘No. I—’
But before she could beg him not to confront Charles, he’d stripped off his tunic, tossed it on to the bench and was gone.
She wrung her hands. What was she to do now? She didn’t want him to put himself out for her, no matter how much she appreciated his kind offer of help. However, she didn’t want him to return her to her family, because then she’d have to explain everything to them and she wished to avoid that at all costs. On the other hand, she most certainly didn’t want to risk him losing a fight with Charles and his friends because that would only leave her at their not-so-tender mercy.
She raced back to the small table, grabbed the pitcher and then emptied the water out of the window. Instead of standing here fretting, the least thing she could do was be there to lend a hand if needed.
By the time she made it to the bottom step the fight was all but over. Charles and one of his friends were prone on the floor of the inn. The third man was winded and backing towards the door as her rescuer pummelled him with fists to the stomach and face. She blinked and nearly missed the punch to the man’s jaw that sent him flying from his feet, backwards out the door to the boisterous delight of those watching.
Beatrice didn’t know whether to be impressed with his strength, skill, the fact that he’d so easily defended her honour, or the muscles evident in his arms and shoulders beneath his thin shirt.
No! Not again. Had she not just learned that lesson? Judging a man by his looks was more than foolish—it was dangerous and it was something she’d vowed never to repeat.
She’d once asked her sister Isabella if her betrothed’s arms were strong enough to hold her if she swooned from his kisses, as if that was any trait on which to base a marriage. Isabella’s embarrassment when discussing the form of men had made her laugh. No more.
It was time she grew up. And it was far past time that she started thinking about her future like a woman, not a child. She needed to be more like her sister and consider something besides looks—things like strength, honour, truthfulness, a sense of humour and perhaps even kindness for a start. When had Charles ever shown her any of those qualities? Never.
Yet, this stranger walking towards her with his face devoid of any expression—not prideful ego at how he’d soundly trounced the other three men, nor regret that he’d done so—had shown not only strength, but he’d pulled her from the stream and offered her a place to get dry and warm. He could have walked away when he’d seen her in the water and she would never have known.
Not a word was spoken when he stopped before her, he simply extended his arm, motioning her to return upstairs. When she remained rooted to the bottom step, he walked past her up the stairs.
Beatrice turned and followed him, feeling oddly hesitant. Her pulse quickened with a nervous tension she couldn’t quite define. She shook her head at her sudden bout of uncertainty. My, my, wasn’t she just full of indecision at the moment.
This inability to decide was foreign to her. Before this night she’d easily made up her mind and acted, whether said decision—or action—was in her best interest or not.
What was it about this man that made her so...confused and off balance?
He once again closed the door behind them after she’d entered the bedchamber and then turned to stare at her, a single eyebrow arched in obvious question.
She looked down, in the direction of his stare and shrugged before waving the empty pitcher. ‘I thought perhaps you might need assistance.’
‘And you planned to toss water on us?’
‘Heavens, no.’ She tipped the pitcher on end. ‘I’d emptied it to use as a head smasher.’
‘Ah.’ The corners of his lips quirked. ‘I take it smashing heads is your preferred way of protecting yourself?’
Since he seemed in the mood to tease her, Beatrice lifted her chin and shot him what she hoped was a threatening glare. ‘Yes.’ She shook the pitcher at him. ‘And I’m very handy at it, too.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
She walked around the bed and set the pitcher back on the small table before once again taking a seat on the cloak. ‘When the sun rises, I will take my leave.’
‘No. That’s not a good idea.’
‘But I need to return to my home.’ Without someone who could tell her parents what she’d done. Their last missive to Jared had said they’d be returning to Warehaven soon. She wasn’t certain if they’d returned yet or not, but it was a risk she didn’t wish to take.
‘I may have warned off those threatening you, but that doesn’t make it safe for you to head off on your own. I can’t in good conscience let a woman go traipsing about alone and unprotected. I will escort you.’
‘No. That’s not necessary. I’m certain they’ve learned their lesson and will bother me no further.’ Although, knowing how doggedly determined Charles could be at times, there was still a chance he hadn’t given up for good. It would not surprise her in the least if he showed up at Warehaven intent on telling her parents that she’d left Montreau alone with him, hoping to force her into a marriage to save her reputation. She could only pray that she arrived at Warehaven well ahead of him.
He shrugged. ‘They may or may not have learned their lesson. So, travelling alone is not wise.’
Somehow she had to dissuade him. ‘My home is a long way from here, I wouldn’t want to squander your time. I am certain I can hire someone to serve as a safe escort, someone with free time to spare.’ Actually, at the moment she had little idea how far away Warehaven was, other than it was still south, since yesterday the sun had passed over them from her left to her right.
He sat down on the bench and started to remove his boots. ‘I have nothing pressing at the moment, so you need not worry about squandering my time.’
This would not do. ‘And what do you think would happen should I show up at the gates escorted by you? How would I explain that?’
‘Fear not, I am under royal orders, your parents will believe whatever I tell them.’
That took her by surprise. She’d assumed he was a warrior, but a royal knight on business for his liege? She didn’t care to ask which royal because both King Stephen and the Empress Matilda were related to her family through her father, so one of their men escorting her home could prove disastrous—it would only encourage her parents to ask more questions than normal.
Regardless of which royal held this man’s allegiance, his travelling alone on some official business didn’t make sense to her. Normally he’d have a squad of soldiers and guards in his party.
She stared hard at him then asked, ‘Who are you?’
He toed off one boot, letting it thud to the floor. ‘Gregor of Roul.’
Beatrice closed her eyes in disbelief. This man was King David’s Wolf? Somehow, he wasn’t at all what she would have expected. He was too young, too comely and far too kind to be the dreaded warrior spoken of in tales of horror. She would have thought he’d be someone much older, more scar riddled, surly, completely without mercy and fearsome. But then wolves were a sly lot, were they not?
She opened her eyes to look at him and then sighed at the odd question that immediately sprang to her mind, since after all Roul meant wolf.
He narrowed his gaze at her briefly before loosening the ties of his remaining boot. ‘I can see the questions causing frown lines on your face. What do you wish to ask?’
She glanced at him to judge his mood. When he didn’t seem distressed in the least, she let the question roll off her tongue. ‘And how many times have you been called the Wolf of Roul?’
‘Too many times to count. It has been my name for my entire life.’ He let his other boot fall. ‘The silver in my hair doesn’t help in avoiding the question. And this bit—’ he flicked the finger-wide swath of silver hanging over his forehead ‘—has been there for as long as I can remember.’
‘Ah.’ He sounded as if he didn’t like the odd colouring. Did he not realise how strikingly pleasing it made him appear?
‘And still you don’t fear me?’
Beatrice frowned. Of course she’d heard the tales told of this man. If King David needed some distasteful or difficult task completed, he sent his Wolf. It mattered little how the deed was handled, once the order was given, no one escaped the Wolf’s grasp.
So, yes, she should be terrified of him. She should probably quake and wail in fear that he was about to add her to his long list of those he’d dispatched to their maker.
And while his reputation made her leery, there was no reason for King David to have ordered her death. Besides, this man had offered her no harm thus far. In truth, he’d lent more help than she would have expected from any warrior. Finally, she shook her head and admitted, ‘You are not what rushes to my mind when I overhear hushed whispers of King David’s Wolf.’
‘Did you expect blood to be dripping from my teeth?’
‘There is no cause to be so gruesome.’ She glanced around the room before stating the obvious. ‘I am completely at your mercy, yet you have offered me no harm.’
‘That doesn’t mean I won’t.’
Her judgement of men had been sorely taxed this day and had come up wanting. She was in no position to pass any judgement on him, a man she knew only by reputation. A reputation that claimed he was more than just ruthless. Yet she had seen no evidence offered to prove she was in any danger. ‘Are you seeking to intentionally frighten me?’
When he didn’t answer, she said, ‘I just watched you soundly thrash three men, all of whom lived. I would not have shed a single tear for any of them had they died. Yet contrary to the tales told of King David’s Wolf, you left them alive and breathing. But now I am to believe you will take my life without any cause whatsoever?’
‘You are a strange woman.’
‘Perhaps. But I have sorely misjudged a man I thought I knew well this day. Would it make sense for me to judge you based on hearsay alone?’
When he once again didn’t answer her question, she said, ‘I told you before that I would rather die at a stranger’s hand than one I thought I knew well. I cannot stop you, so if it is my blood you wish to shed, then do so and be done with it.’
He rose slowly, filling the space in the small chamber, towering over her even from across the room. Then he furrowed his brow and glared at her, giving the impression of targeted rage.
Beatrice felt her eyes widen as her heart kicked hard inside her chest before settling back down into a more normal rhythm. Oh, yes, she imagined that he could be very intimidating when he wished.
From his harsh expression, she also imagined he could be quite deadly when the situation required. She’d already witnessed his accuracy and speed with his fists when he’d fought with Charles and his companions, so she doubted if he’d be any less accurate with a sword, mace or a battle axe.
However, if he thought his stance and glowering countenance would make her quake in fear of her pending death, he was wrong.
She was a warrior’s daughter and another warrior’s sister. She’d grown up playing at the docks and shipyard. She’d seen men lose their tempers, become enraged more than once and had witnessed the grisly outcome of many a fight. Even so she knew if he were to make a move to attack her she’d quickly find herself shaking from fright. However, the events of this day, combined with the simple fact that his eyes glimmered far too much for one seeking to instil fear, made it impossible to take him seriously.
When he deepened his scowl, she burst out laughing.
He sat back down on the bench. ‘Not quite the reaction I had expected.’
‘I...am sorry...truly sorry...please...’ Beatrice managed to choke out what she hoped sounded like an apology before she gave up to wave a hand in the air, then wiped the tears from her eyes as she fought to catch her breath. ‘I do apologise, nothing this day has been expected. I assure you, I am normally not this...this...’
‘Brazen?’ Gregor supplied.
She did her best to temper her mirth before it once again escaped. Never before had she actually laughed so rudely at someone. Her mother would be horrified by her behaviour. Beatrice knew that in truth both of her parents would be horrified by everything she’d done the last few days.
Thankfully, Gregor didn’t appear horrified, or angry at her outburst. She really did need to treat him with a bit more respect. It would also be wise if she was a little more wary around him considering who he was and how she’d placed herself at his mercy.
That thought helped lessen her humour. She folded her hands in her lap, took a deep steadying breath and once again said, ‘I am sorry for laughing at you.’
He sighed, his shoulders heaving as if in defeat. ‘You’ve no need to apologise. I was intentionally seeking to make you feel at ease by acting like a fool. Apparently I underestimated my abilities.’
She felt her lip quiver and turned her head away, praying she’d not burst into laughter once again.
Certain she could retain control over her emotions, she turned back to look at him.
He leaned against the wall. ‘Now that you know who I am, it’s your turn.’
‘I suppose it’s only right that you know who you defended so handily.’ She found herself oddly nervous at the idea of divulging something as personal as her name. Shaking off her sudden qualms, she said, ‘I am Beatrice of Warehaven.’
His reaction was immediate. And strange.
A brief widening of his eyes was followed by a frown which he tried to cover by rubbing a hand across his forehead.
Beatrice’s stomach fluttered uneasily. ‘Is something the matter?’
Chapter Three (#ua6723310-3463-5885-a74c-d4104ad8d139)
Gregor wasn’t at all certain how to react, so he rubbed his temples in an attempt to gain enough time to respond.
If this wasn’t some sort of jest devised by Satan himself, he didn’t know what was. The complete irony of this situation would make his two younger brothers hoot like drunken fools. His older brother Elrik would shake his head and claim that it was Roul’s curse coming to life once again.
He and Elrik had both lost wives in horrific manners, but his brother had also lost a child along with his wife. So when Sarah had chosen to end her life rather than be his wife, Elrik had claimed they were cursed never to have wives or families.
Gregor didn’t know if he believed they were cursed or not—he’d chosen not to believe. What he did know was that no one could ever accuse him of relying on luck, since it had never run to his favour. Because he was on his way to take possession of Warehaven Keep and its remaining heiress, of course luck would ensure that he would run into the heiress along the way.
To make matters worse, the fiery lass didn’t appear to fear him in the least. For the first time since the disastrous event that passed as his marriage, he feared that he could eventually come to care for a woman.
Not just any woman, but this woman.
She was too easy to be near. Far too easy to look at and talking to her was quickly becoming something he could get used to doing—especially when they could make each other laugh.
More than that, he’d seen her nervous tension around him. The lady was far too innocent yet to realise it, but that tension had nothing to do with fear, but with interest. He’d recognised it because he felt it, too. And knowing that within a matter of days her world would come crashing down around her, ending with her marriage to him, did nothing to quell the budding desire—in fact, it only made it worse.
This was not good—for either of them.
If he was only going to Warehaven to force her hand in marriage, she might somehow be willing to eventually forgive his actions. But that wasn’t at all the case. He was going to intentionally harm this young woman’s family, perhaps bring about the death of someone she loved. At the very least he would take everything her family had worked for, steal her future and break her heart.
There was no way of knowing what she would do—no way for him to tell if she would resort to the same actions as Sarah had. He couldn’t afford to care about her. More importantly, she could not be given the chance to care about him.
It would do neither of them any good.
The one mission where his ability to feel nothing would be his strongest armour was in jeopardy. No, he corrected that thought. The success of the mission was not in any danger, it would just be harder to complete. His focus would need to be more well defined.
It would have to be more finely honed than his sharpest blade, all because this slip of a woman wasn’t afraid of him, but found him desirable, and because he was oddly attracted to the sound of her laughter—even when it was directed at him. It had raced across his heart warm and inviting. The sound had soothed him while at the same time left him wanting more.
More was something he couldn’t have—not from her. The only thing he would gain from her was hatred.
‘Gregor?’
He took a deep breath and rose on suddenly shaking legs.
She tipped her head and studied him with obvious concern, causing him to clench his teeth at the sharp prick to his heart.
A soft knock on the chamber door stopped him from having to say anything. ‘My lord? I am putting the things you requested right outside the door.’
He opened the door to find the waiting pile. Gregor picked up the stack and after quickly sorting through what seemed serviceable enough clothing, he tossed them on to the bed. ‘Not as fine as you are used to, but they’ll be dry. I’ll step out while you put them on.’
Before she could once again question his obvious change in mood, he grabbed his boots, walked out of the chamber, slamming the door closed behind him, and headed below. It was doubtful any amount of ale would make tomorrow bearable, but a throbbing head would provide a good excuse to avoid her, or to be surly enough in her presence that she’d wish to avoid any conversation.
For now, that seemed the best course of action.
* * *
Beatrice flinched at the coldness in his tone which he’d punctuated by slamming the door closed on his hasty exit.
What was wrong with the man?
She frowned, mentally going over everything they had said since coming back up to this bedchamber. And yet, rehashing their conversation repeatedly provided her with no answer.
True, she’d laughed at his display of aggression, but he’d not seemed angered by her lack of composure, a little surprised perhaps, just as he had when she hadn’t quivered in terror at knowing his identity. Neither of those things had brought about a change in his demeanour.
That hadn’t happened until she’d told him her name.
Why?
Somehow she was going to have to reason this out on her own, because it was doubtful he was going to tell her.
She pulled the pile of clothing closer to her and shook her head. The wool gown and serviceable shift were every bit as fine as what she wore at Warehaven. Did he think she always dressed in fine-spun linen and silk bedecked with embroidery and gems?
If so, then he obviously didn’t know the workings of a large keep, or the women who saw to its day-to-day operation. If she’d shown up in the kitchens dressed in such finery, Cook would have sent for her lady mother long before Beatrice could stir a pot or knead a loaf of bread.
To her great relief, she found a large towel mixed in with the garments. She stripped off her ruined slippers and stockings, then glanced at the door. It was doubtful that Gregor would barge in on her, but there were others about. Knowing she’d never be able to fit the bar into place, she dragged the bench in front of the door. It wouldn’t stop anyone from entering, but the noise it would make as the door shoved it across the wooden floor would warn her of the intruder’s presence.
Anxious to once again be dry and warm, Beatrice struggled with the laces of her gown. The wet knots refused to give and she knew she’d never be able to gather the skirt and pull it over her head.
She cursed through gritted teeth, then spied the small dagger. With no one to help her, there wasn’t any choice in the matter of removing her wet clothes.
And it wasn’t as if she was ever going to wear this gown again—she wanted nothing that would remind her of Charles. Perhaps, once it was washed and dried, there would be enough decent fabric left for someone to use. If nothing else, they could pick the gems free from the embroidery. Surely that would be payment enough for the clothing the maid had brought.
Beatrice stuck the tip of the blade through the neck edge of the gown and cringed. She’d spent a goodly amount of time on not just the sewing of the gown, but on the trim work, too. With a determined stroke, she sliced the gown down to her waist.
It took some doing, but after slitting the shoulders and tops of the sleeves, she managed to pull her arms free of the wet, clingy fabric and let the gown fall to the floor at her feet.
However, she wasn’t as willing to destroy the fine pleated chemise. It was her best one and she wasn’t leaving it behind for someone to salvage. Gathering the long skirt in her hands, she leaned over and peeled it from her body. It was thin enough that it would dry quickly by the brazier.
While drying herself off, she kept glancing towards the door. Other than her name she’d said nothing that could account for the swift change of Gregor’s mood. What was it about her name that had put him off so quickly?
As one of King David’s men, he had to recognise the name Warehaven, since King David and her grandfather King Henry were brothers by marriage and King Henry had never hidden her father’s identity as one of his natural-born sons.
King David was also Matilda’s uncle and the Empress, her father’s half-sister, had recently been demanding more ships from Warehaven. Demands that Beatrice knew her father had ignored. It was highly likely that David thought to defend his niece by sending his own demands to Warehaven, using Gregor as the messenger.
Perhaps once King David learned the reason for her father’s refusal he would understand Warehaven’s reluctance. Matilda and her husband Geoffrey’s ill use of the ships and men had resulted in the loss of three vessels along with the souls of all the men aboard. A horrible blunder that her father hadn’t taken lightly, one he refused to chance repeating. Those men had had families. Wives and children for whom he now felt responsible. Besides, he had worked too hard for what he had and wasn’t about to hand it all over to Matilda for her ongoing fight to wrest the throne from King Stephen.
If Gregor was acting as a messenger for King David, it would explain why he was travelling without an armed escort, since he would travel faster on his own.
Beatrice slipped into the dry clothing and then sat down on the bed with a soft gasp of exasperation. All of this was only speculation on her part, but if he was headed to Warehaven it was going to be difficult to slip away from him. She was not going to risk showing up at Warehaven’s gate in the company of a man not related to her.
He might consider that a minor obstacle easily overcome with words, but she knew better. Her parents wouldn’t care who he was, or why he was there. They wouldn’t listen to his explanation. The only thing they would see was that their daughter had been alone with him, unprotected, unguarded for days.
By the time her father finished blustering and her mother ceased harping, she and Gregor would find themselves together in their marriage bed trying to determine how they got there.
A flush warmed her cheeks. Just the thought of being in any bed with Gregor made her dizzy. She couldn’t begin to imagine what she’d do if it were to ever happen.
Beatrice patted the mattress beneath her. It was soft, not too lumpy and the covers appeared to be clean. She glanced out of the narrow window. The sun wouldn’t rise for a couple of hours yet and she had no desire to head off in the dark again.
She slid further back on the bed to stretch out and froze. King David wouldn’t squander his Wolf on simply delivering a message. If Gregor was headed to Warehaven, and from his reaction upon hearing her name she was convinced that was his destination, it was to deliver more than a message.
Perhaps his presence was meant to ensure that whatever request, or demand, made was met.
And what would happen if it wasn’t?
Her stomach knotted. She knew how badly her aunt the Empress wanted those ships. How far would King David go to ensure their delivery?
If her father once again declined to supply them, would Gregor simply try to take them?
Her father would see him dead first.
An icy finger of dread skipped down her spine. That was a fight she didn’t want to happen. She didn’t want to witness her father risk his life to defy his half-sister. This war between King Stephen and Matilda had been going on for nearly ten years without an end in sight. Her father would rather set sail to parts unknown before taking sides. He’d come of age with Stephen at Henry’s court and Matilda was family. As the old King’s son, even a natural-born one, he was able to make such a choice that another lord would not be permitted.
She loved her father dearly, but she didn’t want to see anything happen to Gregor either. He had been kind and he’d stood up to Charles for her when he didn’t have to do so. Outside of her family, Gregor had been the only man who’d ever shown her the meaning of honour. He was honourable—to a fault. He’d sworn to see her safely home whether she wanted him to or not.
She needed to make haste for home—preferably arriving before Gregor. Beatrice swung her legs around to sit on the side of the bed. How was she going to accomplish that feat?
According to the last missive her father had sent to Jared at Montreau her parents weren’t back at Warehaven yet—but they would be soon. She needed to warn them about the possible visit from King David’s Wolf.
Sneaking away from her unwanted escort wouldn’t be easy. Nor would it be wise. As much as she hated to admit it, he was correct. Travelling by herself was dangerous, not to mention foolhardy, especially since she wasn’t certain what Charles’s next move might be.
Earlier she’d told Gregor that she could hire an escort. Could she find someone else willing to escort her to Warehaven? There might be someone below she could bribe. Beatrice glanced down at her gown and smiled. While flawed, surely the numerous gems sewn on to her gown still had some value. There were enough to leave some for the maid and hopefully to pay a willing escort.
She picked up the gown from the floor, rose to get her knife from the table and then took a seat near the brazier. By the time she finished slicing through the thread work on the edges of the neck, sleeves and hem, she had enough stones to fill both of her hands, but nothing to carry them in safely. With a sigh of regret, she cut a square from the bottom of her chemise large enough to hold the gems securely. Now, to find someone who appeared trustworthy enough to act as her guard for the journey, but with Gregor below it would be impossible to do so.
She rose to look out of the narrow window opening. The moon was high in the night sky. The sight made her yawn as she realised she’d had no sleep yet this night—a lack that would leave her dull-witted on the morrow.
A glance towards the bed was enough to convince her to head in that direction. She lay upon the bed and stared up at the ceiling, wishing she’d never left Montreau in the first place.
* * *
Gregor pushed his half-full cup across the table and waved the owner of this establishment away when the man thought to bring him more ale. His earlier idea of drinking until he could stand no more had quickly evaporated at the thought of riding with an aching head.
There were only a couple of men left in the inn besides him and he kept them at bay with a hard scowl. The last thing he wanted was company of any sort. He’d taken a seat at the far table to be away from those still gathered so he could reason out what to do.
Another draught of cool, damp night air raced across him and he turned to look at the newcomer who’d just entered. He groaned. Of course Simon would find him. The man was like a dog on the trail of a hare. A nod in Simon’s direction brought him to his table.
‘This is the last place I expected to find you.’
Gregor glanced up at his captain. ‘The role of nursemaid doesn’t suit you.’
‘I think I would make quite a handy nursemaid.’ Simon took a seat across the table. ‘Especially for charges who think to slip away unnoticed.’
‘If this is the last place you thought to find me, why are you here?’ Gregor motioned the owner to pour another cup of ale that Simon retrieved, then brought back to the table.
‘Because it was the only place we hadn’t looked.’
‘We?’
Simon took a long drink of the ale, before explaining, ‘I have two of the men out scouring the countryside for word of their lord.’
‘Ah, well, here I am, safe and sound. You can gather the others and go back to camp now.’
‘Safe and sound for now, perhaps. But I hear tell from the three battered men who passed through our camp earlier you are breathing your last.’
Gregor snorted. ‘You believed them?’
‘No, but I couldn’t wait to hear this tale so I came looking for you.’
That made more sense since Simon, like the rest of his guard, loved nothing more than a good tale. Especially one they could embellish and then share with others. Gregor’s reputation was partly owed to their retelling of tales. A fact he’d discovered too late to do anything about.
‘There isn’t much to tell. I rescued the woman those three men had thought to abuse.’
Simon’s eyebrows rose. ‘Do tell.’
‘I just did.’
His man looked around the inn. ‘Where is she?’
‘Above, in a chamber.’
‘And you are down here?’ Simon leaned forward, to ask in a near whisper, ‘Did you let the Wolf frighten her so quickly?’
‘Quite the opposite. The maiden above is Beatrice of Warehaven.’
Simon’s cup hit the table. It teetered, then fell, letting the remaining contents spill across the wooden plank. ‘You are jesting.’
Gregor waited until the owner finished cleaning up the mess Simon had made. Once he replaced his man’s drink with another and left, Gregor said, ‘I wish I were.’
‘Which Warehaven lass would this be?’
‘The young, as yet unmarried one.’
‘Dear Lord above. How did this happen?’ Before Gregor could respond, Simon raised his hand. ‘Never mind. Only you could have such ill-fated luck.’
Not able to disagree with the obvious, Gregor shrugged. ‘I know. Sometimes it is truly amazing.’
‘Does she know?’
‘Well, of course upon discovering who she was the first thing I did was to tell her that right after I kill her father and take command of his keep and ships, she is going to become my wife.’
‘So, you left the chamber without saying anything?’
‘Yes.’ There was no need to lie about it, not to Simon. The older man had been his father’s captain-at-arms and his older brother’s captain until Elrik decided he could no longer deal with the man’s tendency to play nursemaid. The man might be old, he might also be a frightening-looking nursemaid, but he had been with the Roul family since before Gregor could walk and there was no one more worthy of his trust.
‘This one is going to make a fine retelling.’
‘The only retelling that is going to happen is that you are going to go back to camp and tell the men to keep their mouths shut about this entire mission. I am escorting her to Warehaven and I don’t want her to discover what is going to happen ahead of time.’
‘And how are you going to handle that?’
‘I don’t know as yet. But I have until the sun rises to make a plan.’
‘Well, then, you’d best hurry, because—’
‘Yes, I know.’ Gregor cut him off. ‘The night is half over.’
Simon stared down into his ale. His forehead creased, his eyebrows pulled together making a long grey caterpillar above his eyes.
Gregor sighed. ‘I recognise that look well. What are you wondering about?’
‘What is she like, this Beatrice of Warehaven?’
The memory of her laughter ran through Gregor, leaving him warm and wanting. Finally, he admitted, ‘Someone who would probably make a fine wife for someone in want of one.’
‘Ah. So she didn’t cringe and cower at discovering your name?’
‘No. She bluntly told me that I wasn’t who she expected to be David’s Wolf.’ Before he could stop himself, he added, ‘And she laughed at me.’
Simon frowned for a long few moments, then asked, ‘My lord, is it necessary to kill Warehaven?’
‘Do you think he’s going to let me take his keep and ships from him without a fight?’
‘No.’
‘Then, no, I see no way around it. Given the order came from his family, it would be a waste to take him hostage as I doubt they would pay ransom.’
He didn’t add the simple fact that he had no choice in completing this mission. His future and that of his brothers depended on him doing precisely as King David and the Empress wanted.
‘She will hate you, lad.’
‘Tell me something I don’t already know. But there is nothing I can do about it except to sleep with one eye open the short time I’ll be at Warehaven.’
Simon frowned, then asked, ‘The short time?’
‘King David ordered me to take Warehaven and marry the heiress. He said nothing about living there with her. Once the island is under my control it shouldn’t take long to install enough of my men to keep order, marry the woman and get her with child.’
‘And then what? You’ll just leave?’
Gregor shrugged. ‘I can either take up residence at the shipyard on Warehaven, or at the one back home. It doesn’t matter to me.’
‘Are you sure it will be that easy?’
Easy? No, he wasn’t sure, but it was the only plan he could devise. ‘The only thing I am sure about is that the night is wasting. You need to gather the men back at camp and give them the order to keep their mouths closed. The first one who so much as whispers a word about our mission will find himself lacking a tongue.’
Simon rose. ‘And you?’
‘Need to devise some lie to cover why I bolted upon learning her name.’
After his man left the inn, Gregor talked the owner into supplying him with some lukewarm stew, bread, cheese and a pitcher of water for a price. He then headed back up to the bedchamber with the food.
He pushed against the door with his shoulder, only to find it blocked by something weighty from the other side. Apparently she’d already found reason to mistrust him and had used the bench, since it was the only thing in the chamber with any weight besides the bed to keep him from entering.
Setting down the food, he shoved the door open, hearing the sound of wooden legs scraping against wood floor. Once the opening was wide enough, he slipped through, moved the bench back to its original spot alongside the wall, retrieved the food and came back into the chamber.
Gregor placed the food on the bench and then secured the door. He turned to glance at the woman on the bed. She must have been exhausted, because she still slept even after he’d made so much noise getting into the chamber.
He walked further into the room. She’d been busy during his absence. Her wet gown was a lump on the floor near the brazier and he noticed a hastily made pouch on the small table near the bed that hadn’t been there before.
Reaching out, he touched the chemise she’d hung over the bedpost nearest the brazier. He removed the now dry garment, noting the square hole cut from the hem, folded it and placed it on the foot of the bed. Retrieving his still-damp cloak from a peg by the door, he hung that from the bedpost. She would need something to keep her warm and dry during their journey over the next two or three days and his cloak would have to do.
Warehaven’s maiden mumbled something he could barely make out. A step brought him to the side of the bed. She still slept, but her shivers would soon have her awake. He leaned over her, reaching across to pull the free side of the covers she slept upon over to cover her body.
She turned in her sleep. The warmth of her breath brushed lightly across his cheek, sending a tremor of nearly forgotten longing racing down his spine. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms and hold her close until he chased the cold away.
Gregor tucked the edge of the cover beneath her shoulder and quickly stepped away, silently cursing his stupidity. What was he thinking? Had one missed night of sleep left him so dull-witted that he believed things best left alone could come true on a whim? What made him think just because this woman was interested that she would allow him such liberties?
He needed to face the facts. He was never going to have the marriage or future he’d long desired. Especially not with Warehaven’s heiress. Once all was said and done, not only would she never permit him such closeness, he’d be surprised if she sought anything other than his death.
While he didn’t know her well, he was fairly certain that she would devise some slow and painful way to send him to his grave.
Chapter Four (#ua6723310-3463-5885-a74c-d4104ad8d139)
Beatrice blinked her eyes open, squinting against the shaft of sunlight streaming in through the narrow window across her face.
She sprang upright on the bed, fighting off the lingering traces of sleep that left her uncertain of her whereabouts.
‘Good morning.’
The deep timbre of the voice greeting her to the day brought it all flooding back. She sank back down on to the bed, silently cursing her lengthy slumber. The intent had been to rise early so she could sneak away and find someone else to escort her to Warehaven.
Now with that chance lost, she would have to devise another plan that would permit her to arrive at Warehaven without his escort. In the meantime being rude would not serve her well.
‘And a good morning to you, too. I see you returned.’
‘Yes. You were asleep when I came back and I had no wish to wake you. So, let me now apologise for leaving so abruptly. It was troubling to find myself responsible for such a high-born heiress.’
Something about his explanation didn’t sit right, but she wasn’t going to argue with him about it. Instead she forced a laugh and sat back up. ‘Oh, yes, I am certain you find King David’s court lacking in high-born ladies.’
‘Ah, but I rarely find myself personally responsible for any of them.’
Beatrice swung her legs over the side of the bed away from him. ‘You are not responsible for me.’
Hadn’t she just decided not to be rude, or argue with him? Yet here she found herself eagerly fanning the flames of an argument. Why? If she were to be honest with herself, she was doing it for no reason other than the fact that she liked the sound of his voice, especially now when it had a gravelly tone as if he, too, had just been roused from sleep.
‘Oh, but I am. I would be remiss in my duties if I were to knowingly permit a granddaughter of old King Henry’s to travel without so much as a guard.’
Beatrice rolled her eyes, and stood to shake out her gown. ‘A grandfather I met but twice.’
‘I would imagine your grandfather had a few more important things to tend to than playing with his grandchildren.’
She couldn’t help smiling at the memory his comment drew forth.
‘What do you find amusing now?’
‘Amusing? Nothing really. I was just remembering the first time he came to Warehaven.’
‘It must have been an enjoyable visit to produce such a smile.’
‘I think I was three or four at the time. The only thing I actually remember is sitting on his lap and playing with a small wooden horse he’d given me. He was the brave knight on the horse coming to rescue the Princess Beatrice.’
Gregor frowned. ‘Not exactly an image I can fathom.’
She shrugged. ‘He wasn’t at court and, besides the ship’s crew, he had only brought a few guards with him, so I’m certain the time spent at Warehaven had been more of a break from his usual responsibilities than any official visit.’
‘While that is a nice memory for you, King Henry is not here to take responsibility for you. As unworthy as I may be, I am all you have and I will see to my duty.’
Obviously he was as eager to argue as she. Turning to face him more directly, she put her hands on her hips and shook her head. ‘As a warrior for King David you are far from unworthy and I cannot have someone in such an exalted position act as a mere servant. Surely you have more important matters to attend for your King. I can find someone more suited to the position of guard. Someone of less...importance.’
He rose from his seat on the bench, not bothering to smother his laugh as he had last night. ‘Perhaps someone less apt to inform your parents of what you’ve done?’
Oh, this Wolf was quite cunning. ‘Well, yes, there is that.’
‘Since doing so would only direct their focus to me, fear not as I have no intention of informing your parents of this little...journey. And as I am more than suited to guard the safety of Warehaven’s daughter, I am...’ he paused to bow before finishing ‘...willingly at your service, my lady.’
‘I wish not to deter you from your duty to your King, as this journey would do.’
‘Since I am already on my way to Roul Keep in Normandy to visit my brother, a side-trip to Warehaven will in no way deter me from my duty.’
His statement confused her. ‘Your lands are in Normandy?’ How was it then that he served King David instead of Matilda, or her husband Geoffrey of Anjou?
‘No. My home is a small isle off the coast of Scotland.’ Gregor shook his head. ‘It came as a surprise for me to have recently learned that my older brother Elrik has been granted the Norman earldom of Roul and I plan on finding out how that came about in person. So you see, you are in no way keeping me from any service to my King.’
She’d known full well before embarking on this verbal chess game she wasn’t going to win. However, his dogged determination to see her to Warehaven was beginning to bring her worries to the fore once again.
‘You travel all the way from King David’s court to Normandy alone?’ Granted, Matilda was in control of the lands south from Oxford and east of the Thames, but there was much of Stephen’s land to cross between Carlisle and Oxford. It would be risky for him to do so alone even if he had a writ of safe passage.
He opened the door to the chamber, letting the sound of men talking flow more freely into the room. ‘My men are below.’
‘Yet mere hours ago you were alone.’
‘No. Like you I had escaped.’ He shrugged, then explained, ‘I have a penchant for desiring time alone when I need to think or to plan.’
His response set her heart racing. What was this Wolf up to that required such secretive planning on his part?
Before she could ask, he said, ‘I am but a lowly shipbuilder by trade. None of my men would be of any use in the planning phase of my projects. In truth they would prove more of a hindrance, so on occasion I slip away to do nothing more than dwell on my own projects.’ One expressive eyebrow rose and he asked, ‘Can you now understand my willingness to visit Warehaven?’
Beatrice studied him. A warrior and a shipbuilder. No wonder his muscles were so well honed and his hands calloused. While he could be telling the truth about his reason for wanting to visit Warehaven—it was, after all, a very valid one for someone who built ships—a nagging worry in the pit of her stomach cautioned her to be wary.
He’d told her that her expression would give away any lie she might attempt to tell. However, his expression rarely changed—other than a winging of a brow, or the twitch of amusement teasing at his lips, she couldn’t determine whether he spoke the truth or not. And after her experience with Charles, she had no business trying to judge any man’s honesty. Since he’d done nothing thus far to cause alarm, the only thing she could do was to take his words at face value—for now.
‘I grant you leave to escort me to the coast. But I think your visit to Warehaven would be better suited for a time when my father was present. He could more ably discuss ships better than anyone else there.’
He only nodded, then headed towards the door. ‘I will give you a few moments to ready yourself for the day.’ A frown creased his brow. ‘I’m sure you are able, but I must ask to be certain, can you ride a horse?’
‘Of course I can.’ Even if she’d never ridden a horse before she’d not have said so. After being confined inside a mule-drawn cart for two days she would welcome the change. When they’d first set out from Montreau, she’d believed Charles when he’d explained that he’d procured the cart for her comfort. Now she realised he’d not been thinking about her comfort at all, but of her ability to more easily escape on horseback.
‘Good. Then I will await you below.’
Before he left, she asked, ‘Might I obtain some food before we leave?’
He pointed at the small table. ‘This is at your disposal.’
‘Oh.’ She hadn’t noticed the food-laden plate, pitcher or mug before. When she looked back in his direction to thank him for his thoughtfulness, she found nothing but an empty doorway.
Her rumbling stomach begged her to set aside her surprise at his silent, near-instantaneous departure and to focus on the food instead. A plea she readily fulfilled since she’d not eaten since early yesterday evening before she’d escaped from Charles.
One whiff of the waiting food set her mouth to watering. How on earth had she missed these aromas upon waking? The only explanation she had at hand was that she’d been distracted by arguing with Gregor. Not a bad distraction, but still a distraction none the less.
It took all of her willpower to eat like a lady and not shovel the pieces of fish, cheese and bread into her mouth.
The baked fish could have used an additional dusting of spices, but it was good. The bread was like heaven—soft inside with a crust baked to perfection. It would have been welcome at her father’s table.
She washed it all down with milk from the pitcher before taking a bite of the apple. Fruit in hand, she walked over to the narrow window. The breeze coming in let her know that the day would be mild. Thankfully the sun was unobscured by clouds and would lend warmth to the ride.
A knock on the door frame caught her attention. Beatrice turned to see the barmaid from last night standing in the doorway and waved her into the room.
The woman gathered the dishes from the table. ‘I am relieved to see the food did suit you after all.’
Beatrice blinked. ‘Why would you think otherwise?’
‘His lordship brought stew up with him last night and it came back untouched earlier this morning.’
‘Oh.’ As the woman’s words set fully in her mind, Beatrice repeated, ‘Oh! I was asleep when he returned, so I knew nothing about the stew.’
‘Martha will be relieved to hear that. She takes great pride in her cooking.’
‘As well she should.’ Even though Beatrice agreed with the maid, her mind wasn’t on the quality of the food.
Instead one thought ran round and round in her head. He had thought to bring her something to eat. The ruthless, heartless Wolf had taken the time...no, he had actually considered the needs of someone he barely knew. This supposedly cruel henchman of King David had taken her needs into consideration and acted upon them.
It was such a small thing, but it gave her pause. This was the type of action that defined a worthy man. Not his face, his form, his looks, or even his kindly spoken words. Because as she was well aware, even the kindest of words held little weight if they were nothing more than lies, or spoken merely for the purpose of manipulating her.
In the space of a few hours, Gregor of Roul had done more to show he was decent and kind-hearted than Charles had in three years.
Perhaps she had little need to worry about the Wolf’s intent. Surely a man this thoughtful wasn’t planning any nefarious deeds for Warehaven. She had probably fretted for naught and could only attribute her unfounded fears last night to Charles’s underhanded actions and her subsequent escape from him.
‘My lady?’
The maid’s query drew Beatrice’s attention away from her thoughts and back to the maid. ‘Yes?’
The woman held a pair of soft boots and stockings. ‘Will you have need of these?’
She glanced down at her ruined slippers on the floor near the end of the bed. Even had they not been beyond repair, they would do her little good for the journey home. She snatched a handful of smaller gemstones from the bedside table. ‘Yes, I will, thank you. You are welcome to make use of whatever fabric you can salvage from my gown and these.’
The maid’s mouth fell open. She glanced at the gown hanging from a hook near the door to the gems in Beatrice’s outstretched hand. ‘No, that is too much. Your lord already overpaid for what we’ve provided.’
Overpaid? Charles would have demanded whatever he’d wanted and then haggled the cost down to nearly nothing—or even taken what he wanted without payment of any kind. ‘You will be doing me a favour. I have no desire to ever wear or see the gown again, but it would be a shame to have it thrown away or used for rags when there is quite a bit of fabric that could be used.’
She dropped the gems into the maid’s hands and gently closed the woman’s fingers over them. ‘And these are nothing more than flawed stones, just brightly coloured baubles to use for decoration.’
‘Thank you, my lady. I know not what to say. Is there anything else you need?’
Beatrice smiled at the woman’s obvious nervousness. ‘No. You’ve done more than enough already. Thank you.’
‘It has been my pleasure.’ The maid paused, then added, ‘Safe travels, my lady.’
Once the maid left, Beatrice finished dressing and getting ready for the day. She used a ruined stocking to tie her pouch of remaining gemstones to her belt, plucked the heavy cloak off the bedpost and headed below.
Gregor awaited her at the bottom of the stairs. She would know him anywhere by the glint of silver in his otherwise dark hair. He leaned against the wall, his back towards her, talking to one of his men.
When he turned to face her, Beatrice’s breath caught and she slowed her descent. The sudden, rapid beating of her heart took her by surprise. How was it possible that a man clad in chainmail could be so striking?

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