At the Warrior's Mercy

by Denise Lynn

  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 s
ilver 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

  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.