Читать книгу: «At The Warrior's Mercy»

Chapter One

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.