At the Warrior's Mercy

by Denise Lynn

  ‘You should have made your presence known to me.’ She moved into the alcove.

  ‘I wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘And so you did.’ Oh, yes, he’d most definitely succeeded in doing that.

  She sat down on the cold stone bench, motioning him to take a seat opposite her. Which he did, but then he leaned forward to clasp one of her hands between his.

  The moment he touched her, she wanted to scream. To pull away. But she forced herself to remain calm.

  ‘Are you happy to see me?’

  ‘Well, of course I am. How could I not be?’

  He smiled as if to himself and nodded. ‘I told Robert you would welcome me and my help. It was too bad he had to die in the fire.’

  Robert? Sir Robert was dead? Her heart sank to her stomach. Keeping her tone light, she asked, ‘And how do you plan on helping me?’

  ‘Now that your lover’s time is consumed clearing the rubble from the warehouse it will be an easy enough task to spirit you away just like Lady Isabella was.’ He leaned a little closer to ask, ‘Won’t it be romantic?’

  She now knew who was responsible for the destruction at the wharf—Charles. She felt safe in guessing that the scuffle she’d heard before Charles entered the chamber was the young Warehaven guard fighting with Gregor’s guards. She didn’t need to ask how Charles had entered the keep—he’d coerced the guard into letting him in through the tunnels that Gregor had most likely left unguarded since he knew nothing about them. And Charles had then killed the young man to keep his mouth shut.

  His hand tightened on hers. ‘Has he been a good lover for you?’

  Beatrice snapped her thoughts back to Charles. ‘I have no lover. I’ve been waiting for you.’

  He tightened his grip a little more. ‘You can’t lie to me. I smell him on you. Besides, you wear his clothing like a whore.’

  Charles pulled her to the edge of her seat and reached out to grasp the front of Gregor’s shirt, tearing the thin fabric down the front.

  The whoosh of a blade as it whipped through the air to rest against Charles’s neck had never sounded so welcome.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ Gregor ordered as he reached towards her with his free arm.

  Beatrice hesitated.

  Gregor repeated, slowly, ‘Give me your hand.’

  She placed her hand in his and when he pulled her away from Charles, she looked up at him, whispering, ‘He has lost his wits.’

  Gregor stared down at her and clenched his jaw. ‘Cover yourself.’

  She pulled the shirt closed. The sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor alerted her to the arrival of Gregor’s guards and she rushed to grab a cover off the bed to wrap around her body.

  Sir Simon entered the chamber at a run, coming to a rocking halt as he looked from Gregor and Charles to her. He used the side of his already drawn sword to clear a path through the guards gathering in the chamber. ‘My lady, come with me.’

  She looked at Gregor, not certain she should leave Charles to his care.

  Without turning around, Gregor ordered, ‘Go.’

  She followed Sir Simon out into the corridor and down to her chamber, where he suggested, ‘Wait here a moment,’ while he went inside.

  Finally, he came back to the door and beckoned her inside, asking, ‘Does this door lock?’

  Beatrice shrugged. ‘It has a lock, yes. But the key was lost long ago.’

  He glanced up towards the top of the door. The old iron holders were still in place. He turned around, his gaze settling on a tall floor sconce, which he lifted into the holders. ‘The fit is crooked because of the legs, but if you can reach it, it will work.’

  Beatrice retrieved a stool from the corner of the alcove. ‘I can stand on this.’

  He removed the sconce and handed it to her. ‘Secure the door behind me. Open it for no one except Lord Gregor. Do you understand me?’

  She nodded. As he turned to leave, Beatrice said, ‘I know who set the fires.’

  ‘So do we. It was your Sir Charles.’

  She bristled at the unspoken insinuation. ‘He is not my Sir Charles and his deeds were not done at my bidding.’

  Sir Simon made some type of indiscernible sound before leaving the chamber.

  Beatrice slammed the door closed behind him and then climbed up on the stool to wiggle the sconce down into the iron holders.

  She stepped off the stool, dropped the cover she’d wrapped around herself, then turned to place her fisted hands on her hips as she stared at the disaster that had once been her nice, neat chamber.

  At least she now knew where all the comforts which had once been in her parents’ chamber had been stored.

  She retrieved her patched and re-patched housecleaning clothes from a wall peg and some old stockings from her clothes chest. Once dressed, she went to work trying to uncover her bed and make some order out of her parents’ things.

  Hopefully the items would soon be returned to their rightful place and she would once again have use of her chamber. But in the meantime just dumping them in a pile was unacceptable.

  * * *

  She was folding the last sheet when a pounding on her door made her jump.

  ‘Open up.’

  She knew it was Gregor, but had to ask, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Open this door, now.’

  His surly tone of voice brought back her own disagreeable mood. She was tired of being ordered about, especially in her own home.

  So she ignored him.

  He pounded harder on the door. ‘Beatrice, open this door.’

  She stared at the door and shouted, ‘Try asking.’

  This time the pounding came from the bottom of the door. It moved on its hinges. ‘Open this damn door or I will kick it in.’

  For half a second...half a heartbeat, she wondered if he could. But when the door bowed once again under the force of his kick, she yelled, ‘Stop. I’ll open the damn door.’

  Once she removed the sconce and stepped away, he shoved the door open so hard that it sent the stool flying across the room, bounced against the wall and then swung back to slam closed on its own. He barrelled through the instant it opened, not stopping as he marched up against her, pushing her backwards across the room until the wall on the far side stopped their progress.

  She stared up at him. ‘What is wrong with you?’

  ‘Did you order Charles to set those fires?’

  She shoved against his chest. ‘Have you lost your wits, too?’

  ‘Answer me.’

  Speechless, she said nothing.

  Gregor grabbed her upper arms. ‘I said answer me.’

  He was beyond angry, had gone far past irate. His face was expressionless, his eyes as dark and lifeless as midnight. The only emotion she could read was in his voice and that contained only rage.

  Beatrice instinctively knew that this moment was going to set the tone for the rest of her life with this man. No matter how much she wanted to cower and beg him to believe her, this was not the time. A show of weakness at this moment would only make matters worse now and for the future.

  Whether he realised it yet or not, he needed her right now. He needed someone safe to rail at, someone who could face his rage without flinching, or running a sword through him. He could take nothing from her that she hadn’t already freely given him. And as hard as it was to convince her whirling mind and trembling heart, he was not going to abuse her physically.

  He was seeking to frighten her and was determined to show her who was now in charge. He’d succeeded at both tasks, but he didn’t need to know that. He was angry at the senseless loss of life and property. And she didn’t blame him. She shared that anger.

  She took a deep breath, stiffened her spine, ignored the shaking of her body an
d met his hard, unfeeling stare. ‘Do whatever it is you must to spend this rage, Gregor. You cannot break me.’

  ‘You think you know me?’ He spun her away from the wall and forced her towards the bed. ‘You think you know what I will or will not do?’

  He pushed her down on to the mattress and leaned over her, a hand on either side of her head. ‘Break you? I could kill you with one hand.’

  Beatrice knew she was about to tempt fate, but she couldn’t help herself. She reached up and placed a hand against his cheek. ‘I die a little with every touch and each kiss.’

  His eyes widened. And finally—finally she saw a flicker, a shimmer of life in the dark orbs. Thankfully, she’d been right.

  He pushed off the bed and stared down at her. ‘Woman, you will get yourself killed one day.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She grasped the hand he extended to help her from the bed. Once on her feet, she placed her palms against his chest and gazed up at him. ‘But not by you.’

  With a heavy sigh, Gregor turned away. ‘You never answered my question.’

  She couldn’t believe he had to ask her such a thing. Had she ordered Charles to torch the warehouse and ships? As much as she wanted to rail against his mistrust, she knew better than to bedevil him further. Repeatedly poking the Wolf with a stick might not kill her, but it could possibly gain her the feel of his fangs.

  ‘It matters not who is lord here.’ She kept her voice as steady as possible, fighting the urge to scream.

  He turned back to look at her, so she continued, ‘This is still my home. These are still my people. I would never do anything to bring harm to either. I am insulted that you could for one heartbeat assume otherwise.’

  She stood silently, holding his stare until he nodded. Relief flooded her with a force that made her knees weak. She wanted nothing more than to sit down on something sturdy before she fell.

  Gregor walked over to the door and tested it to be certain it was not broken. Seemingly satisfied, he said, ‘I need to see to my prisoners.’

  Prisoners? He hadn’t killed the man already? ‘Charles is still alive?’

  ‘And another.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Randall FitzHenry.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Beatrice stared at the now-closed door. Unable to catch her breath, she held a hand to her chest, praying her heart didn’t burst through flesh and bone with its wild beating.

  He had her father.

  ‘No. No. No. No. No!’ What had started as a whispered plea ended as a scream.

  She jerked opened the door, only to find her way blocked by two guards. ‘Let me pass.’

  When they remained frozen in place, their shields and bodies preventing her from exiting, she screamed, ‘Let me pass!’

  ‘Let her pass.’ Gregor’s voice echoed up the stairs.

  Her way cleared, she nearly flew along the corridor, trying to reach Gregor before he could get to his prisoners. She stumbled down the stairs, catching herself from falling twice before her feet hit the floor of the Great Hall.

  He hadn’t stopped and was halfway across the hall. She raced as fast as she could to catch up. Not knowing what she would say, or what she would do, and not caring who watched, or what they thought, she sped around him and threw herself on the floor at his feet.

  ‘Gregor, I beg you, don’t do this.’

  When he tried to step around her, she wrapped her arms around his ankles. ‘Please, please, don’t.’

  ‘Get up.’

  She ignored his order to cry, ‘Take my life instead.’

  He stared down at her in shock. He’d expected a display of emotion from her. But never this. ‘Get on your feet.’

  Again she ignored him. Through the sound of his heart thudding in his ears he heard her ragged cries and realised she was sobbing too hard to hear anything.

  He wanted to gather her close and tell her that all would be well, but that would be a lie and he couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t give her hope when he didn’t know if any existed. His men had captured her father and he’d not yet had a chance to speak to the man.

  A commotion at the rear of the hall caught his attention. An older man had shoved his way past Gregor’s guards and was now striding determinedly in his direction.

  Gregor’s hand instantly flew to the grip of his sword, wavering when he saw the man was unarmed and from the way he scowled at Beatrice knew that it had to be FitzHenry—her father. Gregor raised his arm, silently ordering his men to hold their weapons.

  Stopping to stand over her, the man shouted, ‘Beatrice, get on your feet.’

  To Gregor’s surprise, she freed his ankles and rose to throw herself against her father’s chest, still sobbing and now babbling incoherently.

  FitzHenry grasped her arms to pull her away from his chest, ordering, ‘Cease.’

  When her cries didn’t lessen, he raised his hand as if to slap her.

  Rage rushed to the fore, firing his blood, clouding his vision with pure red. Gregor pulled his sword free of the scabbard and held it to FitzHenry’s neck. ‘Touch her and I will kill you.’

  The man raised an eyebrow and stared from Beatrice to Gregor and back before he released her.

  Not only had she finally stopped crying, she was now standing silent, her hands folded together in front of her as she looked down at the floor.

  In that instant, Gregor knew two things—she could be broken and he never wanted to see her this submissive again.

  Her father brushed aside Gregor’s blade, then reached out to cup her cheek and shook his head. He then kissed her forehead. ‘Oh, how I’ve missed you, child.’

  ‘Father, Sir Robert is...he died in the fire.’

  ‘I heard, he will be greatly missed. Beatrice, go up to your chamber and stay there.’

  She nodded and walked towards the stairs without a backward glance.

  An invisible hand closed around Gregor’s heart at the sight of his little warrior looking so defeated and forlorn. He replaced the point of his weapon against the older man’s chest. ‘I could kill you for that.’

  ‘You could try.’

  The two men stared at each other, neither willing to stand down. Gregor knew he faced an opponent who would not go down easily. But neither would he.

  ‘If you so much as think to raise a hand to her again I will gut you. Slowly and with great pleasure.’

  FitzHenry looked towards the stairs, then back to him.

  He said nothing, but Gregor could feel his assessing stare. Taking a step closer, so there was no doubt in the older man’s mind, he said, ‘She is mine.’

  The man relaxed, his shoulders visibly lowering. Responding to Gregor’s comment, he said, ‘It is about damn time.’

  Gregor lowered his weapon and stepped back to motion for Simon.

  When Simon arrived at his side, he handed Gregor a missive. ‘This came a few minutes ago.’

  Gregor barely glanced at the Empress’s wax seal before breaking it to unroll the small scroll. He read the note quickly and then cursed. Knowing his man was awaiting his orders, he said, ‘Secure him in the cell next to our other guests until I can make proper arrangements.’

  Without waiting to see that his orders were carried out, he took the missive to the small chamber off the rear of the hall, stowed it in a chest and then turned to head back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He paused outside Beatrice’s chamber door, seeking to calm this unfamiliar concern running through him.

  Once certain he was again in control of himself, he opened the door and entered the chamber. He scanned the room and, not seeing her, went into the alcove. The only things there were the items from her parents’ room.

  He frowned—where was she? Where would she have gone?

  A gua
rd waylaid him as he left the chamber. ‘If you seek Lady Beatrice, she’s out on the wall, my lord.’

  Gregor followed the corridor to the open door leading out to the wall walk. He breathed a sigh of relief to see that she hadn’t gone far, she stood just beyond the door, leaning into a cut-out portion of the crenellated wall.

  ‘Beatrice.’

  She straightened and leaned away from the wall to look at him. His anger grew anew at the sight of her reddened eyes, but it was hard to determine who he was angrier with—her father, or himself.

  ‘Is he alive?’ she asked softly.

  Gregor walked to her side and stared out over the far edge of the clearing. ‘For now, yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He wanted to scream his ire aloud at the soft, flat tone of her voice. Instead, he gripped the edge of the wall. How was he to coax her out of this melancholy? And why did it matter so much to him? Shouldn’t he be pleased to know she could be so easily controlled?

  That question made his stomach churn until he had to swallow hard to steady the sickening twisting.

  She traced the veins on the top of his hand. ‘What is wrong, Gregor?’

  He shook his head.

  Beatrice leaned against his arm. ‘I can count on one hand the number of times my father has raised a hand to the three of us. He is not cruel. I am fine.’

  He frowned down at her. How did she know what bothered him?

  She smiled. ‘I heard you. On my way up the stairs, you threatened to kill him if he raised a hand to me again. I think the threat was to gut him, slowly and with great pleasure.’

  ‘You were far from fine.’

  She stroked his hand. ‘He is my father, Gregor. I am not going to argue with him the way I will with you.’

  ‘Do you fear him?’

  ‘Heavens no. I fear hurting him, or causing him distress, that is all.’

  ‘Would you say that you love him?’

  ‘Well, of course I do.’

  ‘If that is love I’ll have none of it.’

  Even though the air was warm, she shivered and he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close.