by Denise Lynn
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
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.
