Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Annie Burrows

  Ian’s reason was slipping day by day, which made his time away all the more concerning. Who would Ian be upon his arrival, and why had his schedule been disrupted? It either meant celebrations or punishments. The latter was more probable. Thus, if he wasn’t in position where he was expected, Ian would take his wrath on him.

  It wouldn’t be the first time. Such would be his life until his death. And it wasn’t for the coin, or the position, or the power.

  Oh, he’d amassed some fortune for himself in the ten years he’d been with Lord Warstone, after Ian had trained him to be his personal guard. More coin than he’d ever wanted or desired. However, unlike his two older brothers, Yter and Guiot, Evrart had been content to stay at the village and help his surviving mother and youngest sister. He hadn’t wanted to go anywhere.

  It wasn’t loyalty that kept him. It was Ian of Warstone’s threat of a brutal death to his mother and sister if he was ever betrayed. Evrart didn’t question the threat. If a Warstone made such a statement it was fact—like the sun rising and setting.

  So, though he loathed every moment in his employ, he did it. He did it and would do it until he rotted in some unmarked grave.

  Rushing through the back gate, he bolted around the south tower into the courtyard.

  The front gates were already open.

  He was late.

  Ian had already dismounted, and men surrounded him. Horses were being led away by stable boys. Some of the men wore Warstone colours; some did not. A few Evrart did not recognise. But it wasn’t the men who held his attention. It wasn’t Ian either, though the Lord acknowledged the distance between them with a raised brow.

  No, what held his attention was the child on a palfrey. The cloak looked like one of Ian’s and it swallowed the poor creature.

  Ian had a wife and two boys, all of whom he had taken away six years ago. They had never returned. Rumour was that his wife had taken the children and run somewhere that Ian wouldn’t find them.

  This creature was too small to be Ian’s wife, and yet she didn’t peer around the hood with the curiosity of a child.

  Whoever she was should be inconsequential to him within the thick stone walls and heavy gates of the fortress surrounding them. Insignificant to the duty of his sword and him sword arm. Whoever was on top of that horse shouldn’t hold any meaning in Evrart’s world—but she did. Merely because she had been brought here by Ian of Warstone, and Ian didn’t bring anyone here who wasn’t a guard or a mercenary...who wasn’t meant for battle, death, or to serve him his wine.

  With a sweep of his arm towards the diminutive shape, Ian grinned. The mad Lord was showing off.

  Something vigilant and dark struck deep through Evrart’s bones, and he strode through the parting crowd to enter Ian’s circle.

  The fact many had to scurry around him was not his concern. He was Ian’s guard. He was expected to be close to the Lord. He knew whoever rode the palfrey was either dangerous...or in danger.

  Ian grasped the creature around the waist, parting the cloak to reveal a gown underneath. When her feet touched the packed dirt, her hood fell to her shoulders.

  Reeling, Evrart widened his legs. Ian had brought back a woman, but she was not his own. Her hair was light, her eyes were clear, innocent... She didn’t belong to Ian—to whom did she belong?

  Ian’s arm went out and she placed her hand on it, separating the enormous cloak from her body, revealing gently curved breasts, a sharply indented waist above ample hips. A woman finely wrought. But innocent? She couldn’t be—not if she was here.

  Something wasn’t right. They were...awkward with each other. Something that went beyond the formalness of Ian’s mannerisms, and her stiff-backed response. She smiled, and so did Ian, but both smiles were forced, both were playing a role. With certainty this was another game then. Perhaps she was innocent, perhaps she was here by force—but that wasn’t what alerted him.

  In truth, something had eased within him when he saw she was a woman, not a child. Though he couldn’t quite shake that feeling of vigilant protectiveness. But that would go soon once the newness of her arrival had disappeared.

  Ian was speaking now, introducing her as his mistress. Margery.

  In ten years Ian had had no woman, no mistress, and never had he lain with his own servants.

  Another intrigue, then...and brought to his home. She must be a powerful ally, but Evrart didn’t recognise her name. Her clothing was fine, so it was possible she was from a noble family, but he’d never seen her before at any residence or castle.

  However, it appeared everyone around him knew something of her that he didn’t.

  Then he knew what was wrong. It was the crowd...they seemed rapt with attention. As if they were witness to some display of great entertainment. The woman again? But why? Her features were fine, with almost a perfect symmetry between her nose, her mouth and her eyes. She had two arms and legs and hands...

  But someone gasped and pointed. One child clapped, and a few of the guards at the gates, who hadn’t travelled, were elbowing each other and looking at her meaningfully.

  Was his own poor background to blame for why he didn’t recognise her? Or was it something older, and established before the decade he’d been here?

  It was a possibility.

  However, the two little girls giggling at her, and being shushed by their mother, made no sense. They wouldn’t know who she was, and yet they appeared to be beside themselves with delight at her appearance here.

  Was it that Ian had brought back the woman because she caused such a reaction? Another possibility, since Ian had stayed faithful to his wife, Séverine. But these possibilities were all guessing. There was nothing that should cause him concern, and yet he felt it. Those raised hairs on the back of his neck weren’t going away.

  Evrart swept his gaze farther afield, to the ramparts and the various buildings that butted against the great wall, to any movement around the chapel’s garden. All was as it should be.

  Most of the crowd had disappeared now. The horses were gone, and Ian was talking with the woman. Her gaze was going from one man to another, to him, to the cordwainer at his side, to the child next to the pantler.

  He waited until her gaze swung to him again. Everyone looked at him. Then her eyes gentled as she looked at the kitten clenched in the child’s hands.

  He waited some more, and matters changed again. It was quieter, and there was an air of expectation. Evrart stopped looking at this woman, this... Margery...and looked instead at Warstone, who was looking directly at him. He realised that Ian had asked him a question, and he needed to answer.

  When he didn’t, Ian’s smile became sharper. ‘See, my dear? Evrart’s as silent as the walls of my castle; you won’t notice him being your guard whilst I’m gone.’

  Her guard while Ian was gone.

  There—right there—was the danger.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Margery kept the smile on her face, her hand gently resting on Ian’s arm. All the while her heart thumped and her body shook.

  Staring at the kitten had felt like a reprieve—until Ian’s words had registered. She was to have a guard.

  She was days away from anything and anyone she knew. She could barely ride a horse. Roul certainly hadn’t fought for her to stay—she knew he wouldn’t be coming after her. Now she was in a castle courtyard, with enormous stone walls and mercenaries surrounding her. And she had...a guard. Right next to her. This man—this Evrart.

  Ian had been correct. He was silent like the fortress’ massive walls. And just as cold and unfeeling.

  Except... There was a flash of something in eyes that were blue but wanted to be brown. Or were they brown and almost blue?

  Margery had seen many hazel eyes before; they were often a blending or mixture of colours. But Evrart’s were different. Distinctive in that parts of them were blue, ot
hers were brown. She could almost trace the swirling...

  The longer she looked, the more she noted other things about him: the broadness of his nose, the heavy weight of his brow. Everything about him was brutally carved except for his lips, which looked soft, and his ears which peeked out from his oddly cut dark brown hair.

  His expression had turned wary at her scrutiny and he looked away. No, it was not wariness, most likely displeasure. She needed to stay strong.

  For all she knew Evrart was indeed like the walls, and that meant he was only good enough to secure her and no good for anything else. That would bode well if he was to be her guard. She’d need some freedom if she was to escape—and she would escape.

  She might be terrified now, but that couldn’t last. She’d been frightened, but resolute when she had accepted Josse. Then betrayed and angry when she’d been forced to accept Roul’s bed, but she had survived that.

  Although neither of them was like Ian of Warstone. Neither had threatened her life, her family, nor held a dagger to a woman’s throat. When they’d left that afternoon, she hadn’t seen Roul or that woman. Ian killing them both—killing her—wasn’t outside the possibilities.

  She needed to get around this guard and escape.

  With an enigmatic look towards her, Ian swung away. Evrart was immediately at his side. They were steps away before she realised she was meant to follow them across the open outer courtyard and through another wall opening into a smaller courtyard.

  She faced an imposing castle, numerous buildings, unusual sounds and then the abrupt lack of them. Margery looked to the people hastily jostling for a better view. None of them came up, as they had in the village, except one man, the steward, whose reedy voice gave her goosepimples.

  Ian treated him horribly, and from Evrart’s expression he didn’t like him either. Still, the man scraped and bowed before he was dismissed.

  Other eyes were not so oily...most were curious. One large man, with his arms crossed over a bloody cook’s apron, looked almost friendly. None looked prepared to rescue her, though, and Margery dutifully climbed the steps into a great hall. Here, she slowed her steps to gaze at the tapestries, the ornate carvings, but Ian only hurried his pace, and then suddenly stopped.

  ‘I need to gather my men,’ he said to her, before turning to Evrart. ‘Take her to my chambers. Secure her in the room with the bed. You’ll need to set a guard until we get a blacksmith to fashion something of a lock for the outside. But do it now.’

  She was to be locked in a room? ‘Do I not get fare to eat, or somewhere to clean my hands?’ she asked.

  Ian gave one of those smiles he gave when they were being watched. ‘I’ll have something sent, my dear. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’

  Margery stood at the bottom of the stairs along with Evrart as Ian went swiftly out through another archway.

  She felt the weight of his stare, heavy against the back of her neck. What now? She’d asked for food, to get clean. How else to delay?

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ she said.

  Nothing.

  Did she dare ask again?

  ‘Can you ask if I can have some watered ale?’

  Evrart pointed at the stairs.

  She glanced up the staircase, which was neither dark nor light. There wasn’t any indication as to whether it would be safe or dangerous, and this man...somehow embodied both.

  Which made little sense.

  It was the fear of the journey, the exhaustion of the ride. She was seeing things that couldn’t be. This man? Safe? He was large, strong. If he was safe, it was for someone other than her.

  With a frown, he pointed up again, and something in her snapped.

  ‘Oh, is that some sign that I’m to go up the stairs?’

  A muscle ticked in his jaw; she tensed for the strike. Nothing again. There was no one else in the corridor. Not even voices to indicate that someone would hear her scream.

  She could see no way out of this.

  Gathering what courage she had, she ascended the staircase. At the top, the corridor was wide and slightly curved. On one side were arches open out towards the inner courtyard down below, and on the other side were several doors.

  Before one of the closed doors, her new guard opened it to wave her in. She glanced around his body and saw furniture, some windows. But mostly she saw the latch on the door that had a lock.

  ‘I thought he needed a blacksmith?’

  Her guard pointed to her left where another door didn’t have a lock.

  ‘So I’m to stay here now, and there later?’ She wasn’t ready. He might have to resort to physical violence to get her in there.

  ‘I need to relieve myself,’ she said.

  He frowned. It wasn’t a nice frown.

  ‘He’ll fetch me some food,’ she said. ‘He might not fetch me an empty bucket.’

  He kept his eyes on hers too long. Would he hit her now?

  She braced herself, but his eyes flickered over her head and down the empty corridor.

  She looked, too. ‘Is there...do you have an inside garderobe?’

  He waved ahead, which she assumed was a signal for her to proceed down the corridor.

  When Ian had said Evrart was like a wall, had he meant it literally? This man didn’t talk. But it didn’t matter how much waving he did, she didn’t want to walk any further down the long corridor either.

  Mostly because she didn’t truly need to relieve herself. She’d hoped her request would lead them outside, or on some errand to fetch a bucket. Anything not to be corralled and cornered again. That had happened to her with Ian...that was how she’d been caught.

  Ian wasn’t around now, but her terror wasn’t easing.

  Could she run faster than him?

  Not from where she was standing, and not with his size. He’d merely have to reach out and grab her hair. Even if she did dash past, how far would she get within the walls and gates?

  She needed to keep walking forward.

  The man kept his steps even with hers. They barely made a sound, and he made no other movement. Not a swing of an arm, not a brush of his tunic against the stone walls.

  The mercenaries she’d travelled with had jeered, made every bodily sound possible, and when Ian hadn’t been looking they’d grabbed their cocks. They’d constantly talked, constantly gestured, and when they’d had a woman, they’d constantly passed her around.

  She had been frightened every moment in their company—especially when she’d slept, or tried to sleep. This man...didn’t move. But that wasn’t comforting either. His restraint was disconcerting. He hadn’t stared like everyone else in the courtyard. He’d barely acknowledged her at all.

  She was still overwhelmed by the fear she’d felt at the sight of Ian, haunted by the woman in the corridor who was now most likely dead. And she couldn’t stop her mind from replaying the memory like the iron crank of a portcullis.

  But this man, keeping his silence, scraped across her already frayed heart and made it worse.

  Slowly she proceeded down the corridor, which was solid on one side but resplendent with views on the other.

  Another step. Was her guard still there? Of course he was.

  Why was her heart pounding? Why were her feet stumbling? The trembles...

  She couldn’t take another step. She stopped.

  He stopped as well. He didn’t speak. He didn’t point.

  She swallowed hard. ‘You’re very quiet.’

  He said nothing.

  She looked up...then up again. His arms were at his sides, his eyes steady, and all that stillness caused something to seethe within her. He was large, but then everyone was larger than her. It was how it had always been.

  But being in this fortress, trapped and threatened by Ian of Warstone, wasn’t how it had always been. If only she could wave a sword or cond
uct her own threats.

  The seething turned to roiling. If only she had some way to protect herself! Not just standing here staring out of a window, feeling waves of helplessness, as this man—this warrior, her guard—watched her tremble, heard her teeth chatter whilst he was constant stillness, relentless silence.

  ‘How will you guard me if you don’t speak?’ she asked.

  His brow rose, and she swore she saw the corner of his lip twitch.

  Maybe it was the terror, maybe it was because her reason had finally fled, but Margery laughed. It was a choked laugh. More strident than joyful. More sobbing than anything humorous.

  And when his brows rose more and his eyes widened...when wariness that couldn’t just be wariness entered his eyes again...the noises she emitted came out harder, until tears sprang from her eyes and she had to brush them away.

  She noticed the poor man hadn’t moved, but he seemed to be leaning back. Not with displeasure or cruelty. Not to smirk or laugh—though he should be because of her ridiculous question. But simply to stand there, a bit away from her. And whereas before she’d equated his silence with displeasure, his restraint with formidable trapping walls, now she saw it wasn’t. It truly wasn’t.

  It was the way he blinked, and his careful movements as he straightened himself. He was disconcerting because for days she’d been plagued with violence and threats. For months...years...before that, she’d had Josse, Roul, the mercenaries who’d leered and calculated.

  When her hood had fallen, he hadn’t elbowed the man next to him. He’d simply looked at her as he looked at her now. Like...a person. And maybe it wasn’t wise, maybe she was wrong, maybe she truly had lost her reason, but she didn’t care that he was quiet. It didn’t mean she had to be.

  Resting her hand on his forearm, she said, ‘Don’t mind me—truly. I am harmless. Well, maybe not completely, but I’m not likely to cause any permanent wounding.’

  Patting his arm before releasing her touch, she brushed her hands down her skirts, gathered herself, and gave him as reassuring a smile as she could. He wasn’t like Ian or those other guards. Maybe he was like that man with the bloodied apron—the butcher who’d had a happy smile. Maybe they could start again.