At the Warrior's Mercy

by Denise Lynn

  Beatrice jumped to her feet. When Gregor rose, she looked up at him. ‘I’ll be right back. I just need to...go for a walk. And I don’t need your help.’

  ‘Ah.’ He sat back down.

  Colin offered, ‘There’s a stream maybe twenty paces off the road to the left, just past the upcoming curve.’

  ‘Good. Thank you.’

  She walked quickly away from the gathering before Gregor decided he had to follow her whether she wished him to or not. Unfortunately, once she reached the road she discovered the curve ahead was a little further away than she liked. Although she was certain that if she didn’t return quickly her self-appointed guardian would come looking for her.

  The stream was also more than twenty paces off the road. Obviously the length of Colin’s stride was greater than her own—nearly double, because she counted off thirty-five paces before she heard the trickle of running water.

  A few moments later, as she bent down to swish her hands in the cold water of the stream, a branch snapped behind her. Without rising, or turning to look, she said, ‘I haven’t been gone that long.’

  ‘Longer than I like.’

  Beatrice froze. Her heart seemed to pause before painfully slamming against her chest, taking her breath away. Dear Lord, that familiar voice did not belong to Gregor. She jumped to her feet and spun around. ‘You followed me?’

  Charles leaned against a tree. ‘Of course I did. You could not have expected me to do otherwise.’

  ‘I would have thought you had learned your lesson and would stay away.’ Beatrice knew she wouldn’t be able to outrun him, so she started edging along the stream in the hopes she could buy herself enough time to either think of a way out of this, or delay until Gregor came looking for her.

  Charles stepped away from the tree and moved towards her. ‘Why would I stay away from my wife-to-be?’ His expression changed from bland unconcern to one of narrow-eyed, tight-lipped anger. ‘Even though she seemed to greatly enjoy being embraced by another man.’

  Oh, heaven help her, he had seen Gregor holding her. If Charles got his hands on her, he would likely seek her death. The only thing she could do was stall. Eventually help would come. She hoped that help came sooner rather than later.

  ‘Then you know nothing else happened. Even though I am not your wife-to-be, what difference does it make, Charles? He held me, it wasn’t as if I could fight him off. I wouldn’t win a fight with the man any more than you did.’

  His lips curved into a sneer at her reminder of his beating at Gregor’s hands. ‘Any fool can trounce an inebriated man.’

  That was his excuse? He’d been weakened from over-drinking? She knew that for the lie it was, since she’d witnessed him being beaten more than once in the past and those men hadn’t been experienced warriors—in fact, one had been a stable lad at Warehaven. The sound of shuffling leaves and snapping twigs warned her that they were not alone. A glance to her right made her stomach clench again. His two friends approached.

  She quickened her steps. But Charles did so, too. He cut off her escape by grasping her arms. ‘You aren’t getting away from me this time, Beatrice.’

  One of his companions rushed in and swept a foot against her ankles, knocking her to the ground in the worst possible position—on her back with Charles on top of her.

  Beatrice did the only thing she could, the thing she should have done the very moment she’d seen him—she screamed for all she was worth.

  Charles slapped her face hard enough to silence her cry, but she knew Gregor and his men had to have heard her. ‘Shut your mouth.’

  Through stinging tears, she warned, ‘You will pay for that.’

  He rose and then dragged her to her feet. ‘The only person here who is going to pay is you.’ He jerked her against his chest. ‘And trust me, my love, you will pray for death before I am done.’

  His friends’ evil laughter sent a shiver down her spine.

  She shoved against him. ‘Let me go!’

  Charles raised his arm. ‘I said shut up.’

  She flinched, turning away from the coming slap. She saw both of Charles’s companions hit the ground at the same time with a heavy thud. James and Colin, the older two of Gregor’s guards, stood over the fallen men with their arms crossed before them, casually looking up into the trees as if they’d no idea what had befallen what she hoped were the now-unconscious men on the ground.

  Beatrice heard Charles grunt and looked back at him. She wasn’t surprised to see Gregor resting the flat side his dagger against Charles’s throat. However, the absence of any emotion whatsoever—not anger, rage, irritation, simply nothing—on Gregor’s face did surprise her.

  In that very heartbeat, she knew that this was King David’s Wolf and also knew exactly how his enemies felt as they stared into the face of certain death. Even though she wasn’t at any risk of dying, a deathly, icy chill streaked down her spine to settle in her belly before its tendrils wrapped around her heart. This was why the man she’d come to know as kind was also called a heartless killer—he had the ability to completely shut down his emotions, an ability more frightening than his sword.

  ‘Release her.’ Gregor lifted his blade slightly, causing Charles to raise his head to avoid being cut. Thankfully, he followed the order and let her go.

  Beatrice moved away from the two men. Then, at the barely perceptible sound of a hushed hiss, she went towards Simon’s outstretched arm. She grasped the older man’s hand and stood at his side.

  ‘You were told to stay away.’ Gregor’s tone hadn’t changed. It was even, measured, and she had to strain to hear the softly spoken words.

  Charles’s face turned red as he nearly shouted, ‘She is my betrothed.’

  Unwilling to let that lie rest unchallenged, Beatrice said, ‘I am not—’ Simon tugged on her hand, stopping her interruption, and shook his head.

  Gregor didn’t even look her way. Still positioned behind Charles, his attention remained fully on the man. ‘She is under my protection. And you think to mock me by laying a hand on her?’ He turned his weapon so the sharp edge was now against Charles’s neck.

  ‘I thought only to rescue Beatrice from a man unknown to her and her family.’

  ‘By attacking her?’

  While his tone hadn’t changed, the volume had risen just enough so Beatrice no longer had to strain to hear him.

  ‘She fought me.’

  ‘She’s a woman. How much harm did you think she would cause you?’

  One of the two men on the forest floor groaned and started to move. James planted a booted foot on the man’s back, keeping him pinned to the ground.

  ‘I know she’s a woman. But that doesn’t make her any less dangerous.’ Charles fisted his hands at his side. Perhaps the memory of being bested by a woman still stung.

  ‘Your misplaced arrogance is the only thing that makes a weaker person dangerous.’

  Beatrice knew that was true. It had been Charles’s absolute certainty of being in control that had let his attention wander, gaining her the opportunity to slam the pitcher against his head.

  ‘You don’t know what she’s capable of the way I do.’

  ‘Had you treated her with a little respect, you’d have had no reason to discover whether she’d prove dangerous or not.’

  ‘Respect? Is that what you claim to be doing? It seems to me she is at your mercy.’

  Beatrice wondered if Charles had always been this witless.

  ‘My mercy? She is not my captive and is in no danger of being harmed.’

  ‘Perhaps not harmed, but you have taken advantage. I saw you.’

  Beatrice sucked in a breath at Charles’s stupidity. Was he intentionally trying to get himself killed? Did he have any idea who he was baiting?

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ Obvious
ly Gregor wondered the same thing.

  ‘The man who stole my woman.’

  His woman? Beatrice took a step forward, but Simon tightened his hold on her hand and pulled her back to his side. He leaned his head closer to whisper, ‘Stay out of this.’

  She just glared at him. This was about her. Didn’t she have the right to correct the lie being told about her? She turned her attention back to the two men and shook her head at herself. There was no need since Gregor didn’t appear to believe Charles.

  ‘Beatrice of Warehaven is currently under the protection of Roul.’

  It took a second or two, but the name apparently sunk into Charles’s mind. He stiffened and paled.

  The man currently pinned beneath Colin’s boot cursed softly. Beatrice couldn’t make out the words, but the meaning was clear—he was cursing their bad fortune. Hopefully, if these men were permitted to walk away, they would find it wiser to keep Charles away from now on rather than let him follow her again.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’ Fear had settled into Charles’s voice, leaving it weak and trembling.

  ‘Since you appear to be completely unable to follow orders, I see no choice but to slit your throat.’

  No. She couldn’t let that happen. Beatrice pulled free of Simon’s hold and rushed to the men. She placed a hand on Gregor’s forearm. ‘Please. Do not.’

  Without looking at her, he asked, ‘You beg for this man’s life?’

  ‘Only to save my own soul.’

  For a few heartbeats he said nothing, moved not a muscle, and she wondered what thoughts were circling in his mind.

  Finally, he said, ‘His death would not be your fault.’

  She couldn’t decide if his ability to know, or deduce, her thoughts was a good, or bad, thing. Not having to explain her reasoning was a relief, since there were times she wasn’t at all certain how to explain. But the idea of someone knowing her thoughts was disconcerting. It could possibly make it impossible to hide something if the need arose.

  Gregor’s unblinking attention reminded her that he awaited some type of response.

  ‘You may be right, but in my mind it would always be my fault.’

  He did nothing more than nod before ordering, ‘Leave us.’

  Leave them? She lowered her arm and stepped back. ‘Why? So that I will not be certain of your final decision?’

  He said nothing. But the look he turned on her felt like a wintry blast. What had been an emotionless visage before had turned impossibly frigid.

  Beatrice gasped softly at the animalistic glare piercing her as surely as any arrow. Moments ago she’d thought she had seen King David’s Wolf—she’d been oh, so wrong.

  Gregor twisted the dagger against Charles’s neck, barely nicking him.

  Beatrice shook, uncertain what frightened her more—the thin sliver of blood running down Charles’s neck, the man’s ear-splitting scream or Gregor’s focused glare.

  Without taking the time to sort through the reasons, she turned away and then ran back towards the camp.

  The minute he no longer heard the sound of snapping twigs beneath Beatrice’s racing escape, Gregor lowered his weapon and shoved Charles away from him.

  The man raised a shaking hand to his neck, then pulled it away to look at the blood on his fingertips. ‘You cut me!’

  ‘Had she not stayed my hand I would have done more than barely nick you.’

  ‘Obviously she cares for me.’

  Gregor looked down at the witless fool. ‘Obviously you suffer from some odd delusion if you believe she’s anything more than a woman with too tender a heart.’

  Charles shrugged his shoulders and smirked before saying, ‘We shall see.’

  Unwilling to listen to any more of this braggart’s chatter, Gregor waved his dagger. ‘No. We will see nothing. This is the last time you will leave my presence breathing.’ Then, before Charles knew what was happening, he punched him on the chin, knocking him out.

  Gregor motioned to his men. ‘Let them up.’

  Once the men rose, Gregor pointed at Charles. ‘Now, get him out of here and keep him away. If I see any of you again, you all will die. Understand?’

  The two men nodded, approached Charles cautiously, as if expecting Gregor to tear their beating hearts from their bodies, and then grabbed their companion’s arms before making haste to leave, dragging the man between them.

  When they’d disappeared from sight, Gregor called his men over. ‘Follow them, make certain they leave the area.’ As they turned to follow his order, he added, ‘Alive.’

  Colin grunted. James nodded.

  In truth, Gregor didn’t care if they lived or not, he simply wanted them gone, just as he would a pesky gnat. He would prefer Charles met his maker, but contrary to what he’d expected, Beatrice hadn’t agreed. That had surprised him. He would have thought she’d have welcomed the death of the man who’d bedevilled her so much that she’d run away from him for her own safety.

  ‘You should have killed him.’ Simon interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘I don’t disagree, but he’s done nothing to me.’

  ‘He didn’t follow your previous order to stay away from the lady.’

  ‘He poses no threat.’

  ‘No, he’s just the fool who thinks to take your future wife as his own.’

  Gregor snorted in disbelief that Simon would say such a thing. ‘You mean the woman you recently suggested I let die along with her father? That woman?’

  ‘You should be the one to decide her fate, not some craven coward.’

  He would if it came to that, but he’d prefer she decide her own fate. Thankfully, that decision was yet a few days away. ‘Yes, well, before I can decide anything for her, I need to ensure she’s not now cowering in the shadows.’

  ‘Letting her cower for a bit might prove more beneficial.’

  Gregor doubted very much if letting her dwell on her fear would prove a good thing. He headed back towards the camp. ‘Simon, you deal with your women any way you wish and I’ll handle mine in my own manner.’

  The older man followed him. ‘But I don’t have—’

  Before the man could finish saying he didn’t have any women, Gregor said, ‘Exactly my point.’

  Chapter Seven

  Arriving back at the camp, Gregor was relieved to see that Beatrice was not hiding somewhere. She sat on the ground before the fire with her back resting against the log.

  When he stopped in front of her, she looked away. He frowned, debating his next move. He could be kind and gentle. However, she’d thought to argue an order he’d given, worse, she’d done so before his men in what could have been a dangerous situation. That was unacceptable and, to be honest, he would have thought she knew better.

  Besides, he caught the sound of Simon’s whispers and knew he was filling the other two guards in on the events at the stream. The three of them would be waiting to see how he dealt with Beatrice.

  They’d be sadly disappointed.

  Gregor extended his arm, offering her his hand. ‘Come with me.’

  Without looking at him, or saying a word, she batted his hand away.

  He caught his smile before it reached his lips. Apparently whatever fear she’d experienced had been replaced by anger. For that he was grateful. But it didn’t change anything.

  He crouched down next to her, to softly say, ‘You can either come with me willingly, or I can toss you over my shoulder. The choice is completely yours.’

  Now she looked at him, her eyes wide and mouth open in shocked surprise. Finally, she blinked, then shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘I’d prefer not to do so, but, yes, I would.’ He stroked a finger down the length of her arm, noting the slight tremor at his touch. Even when angry, h
er body instinctively reacted to him. ‘Does that idea interest you so much that you are tempting me?’

  ‘No!’ She scrambled away and rose to her feet.

  Gregor stood up and took her hand. On the way to the back of the clearing, he grabbed a blanket from the pile of supplies.

  He led her behind the stacked boulders at the rear of the camp and spread the blanket on the ground before stretching out on top of it. ‘Join me.’

  She sat down on the far edge of the blanket, just out of his reach.

  Gregor was willing to ignore that for now. He was certain he’d be able to coax her closer soon enough.

  ‘You are angry with me.’ Her voice was so soft that, had he not been paying attention, he would have missed her words.

  ‘I was, yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For the same reason your father or brother would be if you presumed to question a direct order in front of their men.’

  ‘I never...’ She frowned at him over her shoulder, then turned her attention to the leaves on the ground, saying, ‘Oh, yes, I did.’

  ‘It won’t happen again, Beatrice.’

  ‘Since we’ll only be in each other’s company another day or two, I suppose it won’t.’

  He didn’t correct her mistaken assumption. Instead, he told her, ‘He is alive.’

  She kept her face averted as she picked at another leaf. ‘Who?’

  ‘Your betrothed.’

  ‘He is not my betrothed.’

  ‘So I’ve heard you say. Yet he follows you about like a puppy.’

  ‘That is not my doing.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘How many years have you led him about by the nose, telling him that you’d eventually get your parents to agree to a marriage?’ When she didn’t answer, he added, ‘I don’t care either way, Beatrice. I’m just telling you that I know for a fact that your Charles is not a leader. He’d be hard pressed to lead a barn cat around by a string let alone men, or you. So, the only person who kept the hope alive for a marriage was you. He simply followed your lead, hoping to take whatever advantage he could.’