At the Warrior's Mercy

by Denise Lynn

  Gregor’s laugh against her lips made her realise her mistake. He now rested firmly between her spread legs.

  Beatrice fought to tear her mouth free from his. Finally able to gasp for breath, she cried out, ‘Gregor, no. Not like this.’

  He stared down at her. ‘Not like what, Beatrice?’

  ‘Do not take me by force.’

  ‘Take. You. By. Force.’ He said each word slowly. Then rose, untied her bonds and gently rubbed her chafed wrists. ‘Are we not both fully clothed?’

  ‘Yes.’ She tried unsuccessfully to pull her hands away from his too-gentle touch.

  ‘Then other than a kiss what exactly was I going to take?’

  She looked away, confused and embarrassed. ‘I thought...well, you were...we...’

  ‘Just stop.’ He placed a finger over her lips. ‘I have never had to force a woman to do anything she wished not to do. And I’m especially not going to force myself on a woman who is to become my wife.’

  ‘You are forcing me to become your wife.’

  ‘And I am being forced to become your husband.’

  ‘But I am not going to kill your father.’

  ‘And who is to say I will not lose in battle to yours?’

  Beatrice frowned. She hadn’t thought of that. It was a possibility—slight, but still a possibility.

  Gregor moved away from the bed. ‘You can stop smiling. I am well aware that my death will cause you no pain.’

  Something fluttered in her stomach at that idea. She didn’t want her father to die, but Gregor’s death wasn’t what she wanted either.

  ‘You do know that you showed outright defiance yesterday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you do know that you have to pay for that?’

  ‘I thought that’s what this imprisonment was.’

  His laugh drifted across the cottage. ‘Oh, no, that was just to get you here.’

  ‘Then what exactly will be my punishment?’

  He had his back to her as he did something at the table. ‘I am going to make you cry.’

  Cry? That was it? He wanted her to cry? Nervousness and relief collided. She burst out in nervous laughter. ‘That is the most ill-conceived punishment I have heard.’

  ‘You didn’t let me finish.’ He turned around with a bowl in one hand, and two goblets in the other and headed back towards her where he placed the items on a small table next to the bed. He picked up a pitcher that was already there and poured wine into both goblets.

  Handing her one, he sat beside her on the bed. ‘Before this day is done, you will cry. But it will be for release.’

  Beatrice swallowed hard before intentionally misunderstanding. She glanced towards the barred door. ‘I may want to be out of here, but I’m not about to cry for you to free me.’

  He held a grape to her lips. ‘Make jests all you wish. You know exactly what I’m talking about.’

  She parted her lips to accept the offered food and just stared at him as she tried to remember how to chew and swallow. This time the fluttering in her stomach settled low in her belly and the fear was for herself. Fear that he was serious and terror that he would succeed.

  He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his lingering touch light and too warm for comfort. ‘In case you are still confused, let me explain.’

  Gregor wrapped a hand around the one she had on the goblet and raised it to her lips. ‘Drink, Beatrice.’

  The wine was not watered, it was full-bodied and fruity, a combination that would soon go to her head. But she swallowed it, grateful for the moisture it left in her suddenly dry mouth.

  ‘I am going to seduce you. First with food.’ He held a piece of bread to her lips, not moving or saying anything else until she accepted that offering. ‘Food is a necessity of life. By feeding you, I tell your heart and mind that I am capable of providing the sustenance you require to live.’

  He once again brought the goblet to her mouth and, after she drank, he said, ‘And with wine because not only will it alleviate the dryness of your mouth, it will relax you and make every touch, every breath more sensuous.’

  Returning the goblet to the table, he then raised a hand to her face to cup her cheek briefly. ‘Then I will pay attention to you, to every part of you.’ He traced the edge of her ear, then trailed his touch down the side of her neck. ‘I will stroke and kiss the soft flesh of your neck. Paying close attention here,’ He lightly stroked the soft spot below her ear. ‘And here.’ His touch moved to the place where her neck met her shoulder.

  He inched away, reaching into the bowl, and came up with a slice of apple. He bit off half of the slice and chewed slowly, holding her gaze without blinking, and then held the other half up to her mouth.

  While she chewed, he ran his fingertips across her shoulder, down her arm and then to her breast. ‘I will caress your breast until your nipple cries for my touch.’ As if on command her nipple hardened and he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger.

  Beatrice whispered, ‘Don’t.’ But her body refused to back away, making her word appear nothing more than a meaningless sound as she leaned into his touch.

  A touch which he immediately removed. This time he fed her a bite of cheese before resting his hand on her chest. Drawing lazy circles, he mused, ‘I wonder if your skin here is as soft as that which covers your neck.’

  His touch fell lower, to trace more circles on her belly, before trailing his touch even lower. Beatrice froze and he reached over to pluck another grape from the bowl. Holding it to her lips he whispered, ‘Shhh, just eat.’

  When his hand returned to her body, it came to rest on her hip. His caress continued the length of her leg. ‘I can hardly wait to trace these luscious curves all the way to your ankles.’

  Once he reached her ankles, he moved his hand to the inside of her leg, sliding it along her calf and up her thigh. ‘But it will be my lips that follow these curves until I come to rest here.’ He stopped, his hand cupping her, not moving, yet not moving away either.

  Eyes closed, Beatrice drew in a breath, waiting, wondering what he was going to do, wishing he would stop tormenting her, yet hoping he would never stop this seduction.

  He rested his forehead against hers long enough to say, ‘I’ll not have you fearful, Beatrice. Look at me.’

  Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and desire, but she forced herself to meet his unwavering gaze.

  ‘A few days ago you found pleasure in my kiss. When I kiss you here...’ he pressed his fingers against her once ‘...you will weep with pleasure.’

  She trembled beneath not just his touch, but his intense stare and his deep, throaty voice. She grasped his wrist. ‘Stop.’

  Once again he placed his forehead against hers. ‘Sweeting, any other time you cry stop I will obey. But not this night.’

  He lowered his lips to hers. ‘Today is for us, just you and me. There is no Warehaven, no Roul, no King David or his orders. Nothing outside of this cottage exists. Until the sun rises tomorrow, you are mine and I am yours.’

  Beatrice moaned. ‘Please, Gregor. Torment me no more. I ache for you.’

  His lips met hers and she wrapped her arms about his shoulders, drawing him closer, more than willing to have one day and night of bliss with the man she would soon learn to hate.

  Chapter Eleven

  Beatrice sighed. Right here, in his arms, was where she had longed to be. Yet...something wasn’t right. Was she making yet another mistake? Hadn’t she already proven to herself that her ability to judge men and their intentions was flawed? Did she need yet another hard lesson?

  She pulled away. ‘No.’ Shaking her head, she repeated, ‘No, no, no, no, no.’

  Gregor leaned back on his elbows. ‘No, what?’ His tone remained steady, giving her no hint at his m
ood. ‘I’ve already warned you that saying no will gain you nothing.’

  Beatrice moved quickly off of the bed. ‘I don’t trust you.’

  ‘Why should you?’

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. He didn’t appear angry, or even impatient. But then she’d found that judging his moods by the expression on his face was an impossible task at times.

  Crossing to the other side of the cottage, she asked, ‘What makes you any different from Charles?’

  ‘For one thing, instead of leading you on with false words, I have told you exactly what is going to happen here. And for another, I haven’t laid a hand on you in anger.’

  Oh, yes, he’d taken great care to explain what he intended to do to her. The ripple of anticipation started at the base of her skull and raced its way down her spine. She tried to ignore the shiver of pleasure by slicing away at the block of cheese on the table.

  And, no, he hadn’t physically hurt her. It was odd that such a meek man as Charles would resort to force, yet the warrior they called Wolf would most likely be the last person to ever raise his hand to her in anger.

  Frustrated by her confusion, she stabbed the tip of the knife she’d been using into the top of the table.

  ‘I would prefer that you not destroy the property of another.’

  ‘But it is fine if you do so?’

  ‘What property have I destroyed?’

  She spun around, shouting her accusation, ‘You took my keep.’

  ‘Last I saw my men were still gathered outside the walls.’

  His softly spoken reply made her feel like an imbecile. She hated the way he left her flustered and confused by her own thoughts.

  ‘You killed three of Warehaven’s men.’

  ‘The guards who committed those acts have already been dealt with severely. Payment will be made to the families.’

  ‘So you will simply trade gold for blood?’

  ‘I am certain the loss of those men will be felt by their families. The gold is not to replace their loved ones, but to ensure they do not go without a roof over their heads or food in their bellies.’

  The same as her father had done for the families of those lost at sea. And again she felt like a fool.

  He slid off the bed and approached her slowly until they stood toe to toe. Gregor placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘Beatrice, what is this?’

  She shook her head. There was so much confusion, so many tumbling thoughts and emotions that she could make neither head nor tail of anything.

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, then paused, adding, ‘Yes, but not of you.’

  ‘Then of what?’ He drew a thumb along the line of her jaw. ‘Or of whom?’

  ‘Of myself. Of what I feel, what I want. I fear caring too much when I know that tomorrow, or the day after I will suffer unbearable pain. Right now my heart, my body desires a wolf more than life itself, while my mind is well aware that eventually he will tear me asunder.’

  It wasn’t until he brushed at her tears that she knew she’d been crying. ‘You are stronger than this.’

  ‘Apparently, I’m not.’

  ‘Ah, but you are, Beatrice. You have the strength of a warrior and a warrior might become confused or frustrated, but they don’t cry about what may or may not happen.’

  Beatrice leaned against him with a small laugh at his absurd comment. ‘Thankfully, I am not a warrior.’

  He rested his chin on top of her head and slid his arms around her. ‘Whose idea was it to hoist a red flag from the perch above the high tower as a warning to any who approached?’

  ‘Mine.’ So he’d noticed the warning for her parents.

  ‘And who studies the walls, guards and placement of the enemy in the morning, afternoon, evening and again late at night?’

  ‘Me.’ She knew he’d been watching her last night, but hadn’t realised he kept such a close eye on her.

  ‘Who shoulders the responsibility for all in Warehaven?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Who took charge and brashly threatened King David’s Wolf with a well-aimed arrow?’

  She groaned at the reminder. ‘That would be me.’

  ‘Then I would have to surmise from your answers that you are a warrior and, as such, you don’t cry. Instead, you could try telling me what is wrong.’

  ‘Even if you are what is wrong?’

  His hands were warm as he cupped her cheeks to tilt her head back. Staring down at her, he said, ‘But I thought I was the right man.’

  She’d suspected that he had heard her whisper that last night on the road. Now she knew for certain that he had. ‘I thought so. My heart swallowed your lies. I let myself believe that was true. But then you showed up at my gates prepared to take all from me.’

  ‘Your heart was given no lies.’

  ‘What would you call it, then?’

  He arched an eyebrow. ‘What would you have done? If roles were reversed, how would you have proceeded?’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t have stayed. I would have left me at the inn.’

  Gregor rolled his eyes. ‘And left you alone to wait for Charles and his friends to arrive?’

  ‘Yes.’ She pulled away from his touch. ‘No. I don’t know.’

  He sat on the corner of the table. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered who you were, I couldn’t have left you defenceless against three men.’

  ‘I am defenceless against you.’ She paced the width of the cottage, hoping the movement would help drain her growing tension.

  He watched her closely. ‘How so?’

  ‘You could snap me as easily as you could a twig.’ She glanced at him. ‘Stop that.’

  He jerked back slightly. ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Stop watching me.’

  He just smiled and shook his head. ‘Are you ever going to tell me what’s wrong?’

  ‘I thought that’s what I was doing.’

  ‘No.’ He reached out and caught her wrist as she passed by and stopped her ceaseless movement across the floor. ‘All you’ve done is look for an argument. Tell me what frightens you and don’t say nothing, because something does.’

  Beatrice closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You simply refuse to look at it.’ Gregor eased her closer, pulling her between his legs. ‘Worrying and fretting will only give it teeth. You are not alone. I am right here. I am going nowhere.’

  ‘But you are.’ Beatrice’s heartfelt whisper surprised her. From where had that admission come?

  ‘No. I’m not. Even if the worst thing you could ever imagine were to happen, I will still be here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Willingly or not, you will be my wife.’

  She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her. He held her fast, asking, ‘What?’

  ‘I will only be your wife because it was ordered.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Why did his one-word answer cause her pain and sadness? She pushed against his chest. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘No.’ Gregor grasped her upper arms, holding her in place. ‘This is not some fanciful tale of love sung about by the troubadours. This is real. This is our life, the one we will share together. Can we not make the best of what we’ve been given?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What would be the harm in trying?’

  When she didn’t answer, he said, ‘I am tired of talking.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’ Since sadness had replaced her tense frustration, she agreed, this talking was getting them nowhere.

  He released her arms, only to sweep her off her feet and into his arms. Startled, she clung to his neck, and asked, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What do you th
ink?’

  Since he was headed back to the bed, she didn’t need to think too hard. Her heart picked up its pace along with her breathing. Her stomach fluttered. When he turned his head to look at her, she felt the flush of embarrassment and uncertainty fire her cheeks.

  His soft laugh didn’t help. She buried her face against his shoulder.

  ‘Warriors don’t hide.’

  Without moving her face away from his body, she repeated her earlier claim, ‘Thankfully, I’m not a warrior.’

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, holding her on his lap. ‘It’s going to be hard to kiss you if you keep your face hidden.’

  She lifted her head to glance at him and, before she could turn her face away again, he cupped the back of her head and drew her close for a kiss.

  She wondered if she would always surrender so easily to this thought-stealing caress. It would be all too simple to crave the feel of his lips and tongue on hers.

  Distracted by his kiss, her mind barely registered the touch of his hand on her leg. The calloused warmth caressed her ankle, moving to calf. Beatrice frowned. His touch was flesh to flesh. When had he discarded her shoe and stocking?

  His hand swept to her other leg, which was also bare. He was either very, very sly, or had far too much experience. She quickly pulled her mind away from that thought, it would only pose questions she didn’t want answered.

  Gregor eased her off his lap to stand before him and tugged at the belt wrapped low about her waist, then dropped it to the floor. ‘Is this your finest gown?’

  Suddenly dizzy at the implication of his question, she steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I guess a knife is out of the question. I will make a bad lady’s maid.’ He touched the tight sleeves by her wrist. ‘Will we be able to get this off?’

  ‘It went on, so I’m certain it’ll come off.’ She tugged at the sleeve, folding her hand to pull the tightly gathered fabric over it. ‘You are going to have to help.’

  He fought with the other sleeve, but once he had pulled it over her hand, he grasped the hem of the gown and lifted it over her head. To her relief he didn’t drop it on to the floor, instead he hung it from a wall peg.