At the Warrior's Mercy

by Denise Lynn

  ‘Not by me.’

  ‘No?’ He stared at her, capturing her as surely as a huntsman’s trap. ‘Before today, who was in charge of Warehaven?’

  Beatrice closed her eyes. ‘Me.’

  ‘Look at me when you answer.’ He waited until she opened her eyes to ask, ‘And who was responsible for all on this island?’

  ‘Me.’ Her answer came out as a breathless whisper.

  He shoved her gown down her arms, trapping her, then leaned closer, his lips against her ear and whispered just as softly. ‘Then, my lady warrior, you killed twelve of my men.’

  ‘No, Gregor. I would never—’

  He effectively stopped her from talking by brushing a knuckle across the curve of her exposed breast. ‘Everything in this keep, on this island, is mine.’ He tipped her chin up with a forefinger. ‘Including you.’

  One tug of his hand sent her gown and chemise sliding down the rest of her body to pool at her feet.

  Suddenly shy beneath the intensity of his stare, she tried to shield herself from his perusal. He pulled her arm away from her breasts and grasped the wrist of the arm reaching down to cover her mound.

  He pinned her arms behind her, easily holding both of her wrists in one hand. ‘You waste your time trying to fight me.’

  He glanced down at her body. ‘If I wish to look at you, I will and you will not naysay me.’

  Then he stroked a fingertip across one breast, down her chest and belly until she tried to squirm away from his touch. He slid his hand between her legs, cupping her, holding her still. ‘And if I wish to touch you, I will.’

  She despised the burn of tears in her eyes, but couldn’t stop them as she stared at him, asking, ‘Why are you doing this? Of what am I accused?’

  ‘Twelve of my men died in your fire. Three of my ships now rest at the bottom of your harbour.’

  ‘I had nothing to do...’ She paused. Had the fire been one of Sir Robert’s distractions? No. He wouldn’t be careless with her father’s property. ‘I had nothing to do with either your men, or ships.’

  His raised brow warned her that he’d noticed her hesitation. ‘You were responsible for all of Warehaven at that time.’

  ‘We were both at the cottage when the fire was started. I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘So you claim. Yet I’m not certain I believe you.’ He released her to scoop up her clothing and then headed towards the door. ‘Until I find the person or persons responsible, I hold you in their stead.’

  He was going to leave her in this chamber without clothing? That would prevent her from trying to find the culprit and from running the keep. ‘You can’t do this.’

  Gregor balled her clothing up in his fist and marched back to her. Standing toe to toe he nearly growled, ‘This is what happens when you seek to play a wolf false. I can do whatever I want, Beatrice, and there is nothing you or anyone else can do to stop me. It is time you learn that truth.’

  She gasped at the coldness of his voice and the utter lack of any emotion in his dark stare.

  Before she could say, or ask anything, he spun around and left the chamber.

  She stood in the centre of the room, brushing her hands up and down her arms for warmth. This was the reason every creature comfort had been removed from the chamber. She glanced at the bed, cursing at the single piece of furniture that would become her only way to stay warm.

  Gregor could hear her vile curse float through the door. He looked at his men. ‘Nobody enters, except by my order.’

  After both men nodded, he walked to what he knew had been her chamber and entered, tossing her clothing upon the already overladen bed. He’d stripped the master’s chamber and had stacked everything in here.

  He knew full well she hadn’t personally started the fire. They’d been...occupied with other things...at the time it’d been started.

  However, someone in her service had, he didn’t yet know who, although her odd pause made him wonder if she did. Had she known ahead of time it was going to happen?

  It was possible. Unlikely, but possible.

  Until he found the cur who’d caused such damage and death, she was going to remain in the master’s chamber unable to leave.

  By keeping her confined he would know where she was at all times. By having her under constant guard, he would know who spoke to her, or who tried to visit her.

  Not only would she quickly learn who now controlled this island, she would be safe.

  It was impossible to know the thoughts of those responsible for what happened at the wharf. While it was obvious the attack was against him, they’d also burned one of her father’s warehouses. Did that mean she might also be in danger?

  It was a risk he was not willing to take with the woman he would soon call his wife.

  He couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps her father was guilty. If that were the case, then it was even more imperative to keep Beatrice under guard. Otherwise she might attempt to find and join her sire.

  Gregor wasn’t about to let that happen.

  Not now.

  He’d taken her to his bed. Treated her as one would a wife. She could be carrying his child.

  He would die before he’d let anyone take that from him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beatrice huddled in the corner of the alcove, her teeth chattering, shivering from the cold. She would freeze to death before climbing beneath his covers. For hours she’d sat here, watching the darkness chase away the light of day.

  The chamber door opened and she glanced towards the entry way to see Gregor walk in carrying a trencher of food.

  His attention went first to the bed, making her snort in amusement, but also drawing his attention to her.

  She pressed tighter against the corner of the walls, hoping to disappear into the darkness.

  He said nothing, only shook his head, placed the trencher on the bed and walked towards her.

  ‘Leave me alone.’ Beatrice pointed a shaking finger towards the door. ‘Just go back to where you came from.’

  He pushed her arm away and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her against his chest. ‘If I had wanted you dead, I’d have taken care of it in a much less hurtful manner.’

  To her horror, she found herself drawn to the warmth of his body, realising too late that she had instantly curled against his chest without so much as a thought.

  He climbed on to the bed, his back pressed up against the wall, his knees bent, with his booted feet on the bed, holding on to her tightly, keeping her in place, and pulled a cover over her body.

  ‘What were you thinking, Beatrice?’

  ‘That I would rather die than be your prisoner.’

  ‘There are other ways to accomplish that than sitting in a cold room.’

  ‘I thought about jumping out of the window, but I didn’t think I’d fit through the opening.’

  He glanced at the window, then back at her. ‘I’m certain you would have.’

  ‘How do you know? Did you measure just in case the idea seemed feasible?’

  ‘No. But the opening appears to be about the same size as the one my first wife threw herself from.’

  She whipped her head up to look at him. His expression hadn’t changed from the emotionless visage she’d seen before. His tone was flat.

  ‘Forgive me.’ Beatrice sighed before resting her cheek against his shoulder. ‘I was simply being...’

  ‘Disagreeable.’ He finished the sentence for her. ‘I am well aware of that. Since it was unlikely that you’d perish from the chill in this chamber, you sat in that corner simply to make me feel bad for so mistreating you.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not in the least.’ He chastely kissed her forehead. ‘So not only did you waste your time, you only succ
eeded in making yourself uncomfortable.’

  ‘I hate you.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  She pushed away from his chest. ‘I meant, I really hate you.’

  ‘Be still my heart.’ He leaned his head back against the wall with a forced sigh. ‘I am not at all certain I can bear your tender words.’

  ‘You could leave.’

  ‘This is my bedchamber. I have a bed, warm covers and a soft woman at my disposal. Why would I go elsewhere?’

  ‘I am not at your disposal.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  He dropped his legs to the bed, tore the fur cover from her and motioned towards the alcove. ‘You are free to go sleep on the stone if that is your truest wish.’

  Beatrice stared at the darkness of the alcove and shivered. She leaned back against the warmth of his chest. ‘Now I really, really hate you.’

  He pulled the cover back over her and held it fast by tightening his arms around it, before bending his knees once again, securing her in a warm cocoon. ‘That is too bad.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had other ideas for warming you.’

  She groaned softly. His simple words created images in her mind that left her heart racing.

  To dispel those thoughts, she said, ‘I thought you were angry with me.’

  ‘I am. But that does not mean that I don’t still desire you.’ He reached up to stroke the side of her neck. ‘I am quite capable of doing both things at the same time.’

  ‘Then we are lucky that I am too angry with you to do anything else.’

  His laugh rumbled in his chest before escaping.

  ‘What do you find so amusing?’

  ‘The woman sitting naked on my lap issuing such a tempting challenge.’

  ‘I offered no challenge.’

  He lifted his head away from the wall and looked at her. The second he raised one eyebrow, Beatrice pushed against his chest, thinking only of the need to escape.

  Before she could fully formulate a plan to free herself from his embrace, he removed the cover, dropped her to the bed on her back and leaned over her, resting on his elbows while his body half covered hers. ‘Are you angry with me, Beatrice?’

  ‘Very.’ She cringed, knowing she should have kept her mouth shut.

  He smiled before lowering his lips to hers. ‘Show me just how angry you are.’

  She narrowed her eyes. No. She was not going to play this game with him. Instead, she remained still, refusing to return his kiss.

  Gregor lifted his head, warning, ‘I will win at this game, too.’

  She closed her eyes as if ignoring him. But it was soon impossible to ignore the feel of his hands caressing her breasts, teasing the tips with his fingers before covering them with his mouth. And she knew he’d won the moment he pushed his hand between her tightly clenched legs and stroked the warmth she’d tried to keep hidden.

  She reached for him. ‘Gregor.’

  ‘Hmmm?’ His voice warmed her ear. ‘Something you want, Beatrice?’

  ‘You.’ Had this been another time, another place, she’d have laughed at the breathless tone of her voice.

  Thankfully, he didn’t laugh. Nor did he laugh when she moaned in pleasure as he entered her, or even when she cried out with her release.

  He saved his soft, deep chuckle for afterwards when they lay beneath the covers, wrapped in each other’s arms.

  ‘That was not quite the welcome I’d expected.’ He lifted his head to glance down at the floor. ‘And I hope you aren’t hungry.’

  Beatrice pulled his head back down to the pillow. ‘Not in the least.’ Adding, ‘At least not for food.’

  ‘Brash and wanton.’ He settled her more securely against his chest. ‘I couldn’t be a luckier man if I tried.’

  * * *

  Beatrice had woken up once during the night and listened to the sound of his deep breathing. It wasn’t loud or obnoxious like her brother’s, but more of a gentle rumbling that lulled her back to sleep.

  When she woke up again the sun had risen, filling the chamber with light and blessed warmth. Gregor was gone and from the coolness of the sheets he had been absent for a while.

  She sat up stretching and saw that one of the small tables had been returned. It held a bowl of still-steaming water, soap, a wash cloth and a towel. A chamberpot sat alongside it on the floor.

  All welcome items to be sure, but she wished he’d have remembered a comb and maybe something to wear. She flung back the covers and frowned at the sound of something hitting the floor by the bed.

  Beatrice leaned over to look and saw a comb lying next to one of his shirts and the belt from her gown sticking out from beneath the shirt. She rose and retrieved the items, holding the shirt up in front of her. The sleeves would be a bit long, and the body a bit short, but it would be better than nothing.

  She quickly finished with her morning necessities, pulled the shirt over her head, capturing the pleated width with the belt, and sat down on the edge of the bed to comb the tangles from her hair.

  The opening of the door surprised her and she jumped to her feet to see Almedha enter holding a trencher of food and a pitcher of something to drink.

  ‘Thank goodness.’ Beatrice rushed towards the woman, stopping when Almedha shook her head and glanced over her shoulder at the guards standing in the open doorway.

  Apparently, speaking to anyone other than Gregor wasn’t permitted. An assumption that was confirmed when one of the guards warned Almedha, ‘No speaking to the prisoner.’

  She sat back down on the edge of the bed and waited for Almedha to hand her the trencher. The woman leaned low to give it to her, whispering, ‘Are you well?’

  Beatrice just rolled her eyes.

  ‘His lordship is working hard to find those responsible for the fires.’

  His lordship? He’d also been working hard to establish himself as lord and master of Warehaven. Beatrice sighed. What was wrong with her this morning? Perhaps this forced confinement was working on her nerves more than she’d realised.

  While she didn’t want the woman to get in trouble with the guards, she also had no desire to be rude to one who was only seeking to help her. She touched the older woman’s hand. ‘I know he is. Thank you.’

  After Almedha left and the guards closed the door, she picked at the food. She wasn’t hungry, nothing piqued her appetite. In truth, she was...tired. Which made no sense since she’d had plenty of sleep last night.

  She placed the trencher and pitcher with the other items on the small table and went to stare out of the window. Not even the activity outside the keep held her interest.

  A scuffle outside the chamber door caught her attention. Curious, she slowly crossed the room, heading towards the door. A hard thud against the wood brought her to a halt in the centre of the chamber.

  The door swung open and she jumped back at the intrusion. To her dismay, Charles stepped over the prone body of a young guard from Warehaven to enter the room.

  She stared at the guard before raising her gaze to him, asking, ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I’ve come to your rescue.’

  Not even with some miracle from God could Charles have defeated the guards. Beatrice prayed her disbelief didn’t show on her face. She backed away. ‘Do I look like I need to be rescued?’

  He ran his gaze around the chamber before focusing on her and answering, ‘Yes.’

  Perhaps her question should have been phrased differently. He’d been at Warehaven countless times and knew this chamber was normally furnished in a more lavish manner.

  For a reason she couldn’t determine, she felt it important to make up some explanation for the condition of the room. ‘With my parents still away, I thought it the perfect tim
e to gut and clean their chamber before their return.’

  He cleared his throat and she focused on his open expression of lust. He hadn’t given the chamber’s furnishings a single thought. His mind was elsewhere as evidenced by the look on his face. Eyes half-closed as if he’d either just risen from bed, or was going there directly. His mouth was half-opened, as though he was ready to devour something sinfully luscious.

  When his sleepy-eyed gaze fell to her legs she realised she was standing there in nothing but Gregor’s shirt. It came down only to her knees, with a neck opening that was slit to the V of her breasts. To make matters worse, she’d tightened the waist with her belt.

  From the lewd, hungry look settling on his face and the warmth at her back, she also realised that the sunlight streaming through the window emphasised the thinness of the shirt, leaving little, if anything, to his imagination.

  Beatrice moved slowly toward the alcove—away from the sunlight and away from the all-too-available bed.

  Surely someone had seen Charles enter the keep and by now had alerted Gregor to their uninvited visitor’s presence.

  She wanted to shout at him. To loudly question his reason for tempting his own death. But again, something held her back. It might have been the odd glint in his eyes, the strange jerkiness of his movements, but something warned her that all was not well with Charles’s state of mind. And she wasn’t about to discover that something alone with him in a bedchamber.

  Instead, she tried to act as if nothing untoward had happened between them—as if he hadn’t tried to attack her not once, but twice—as if he hadn’t threatened her, or thought to force her into a marriage.

  ‘When did you arrive on Warehaven?’

  He moved along with her, his steps just as slow, never once taking his lewd stare off her breasts. ‘A few days ago. The same day as you.’

  So the fool had followed her again. It was apparent he wasn’t going to leave her alone. Ever.

  That was something she would deal with in all due time. Right now she wanted to know how he had been here without her knowledge. Why had nobody told her of his arrival? As far as anyone on Warehaven knew, Charles was a potential betrothed. They didn’t know anything about what he’d done, or had tried to do.