She huffed—some sound between amusement and frustration.
‘Why do you keep laughing?’ he asked.
Her brows drew in, but her mouth still held that soft smile. ‘You keep being humorous.’
He’d never been accused of such a thing in his entire life. ‘You’re not afraid of me.’
‘Am I supposed to be?’
Everyone was. Maybe not when he was but a boy in the field, maybe not to his own mother. But since he was grown, since he’d gained skills, everyone but Ian treated him as if he was deadly...always.
For ten years it had served its purpose. He was to protect Ian—his reputation assisted that.
But with her... Did he need to protect her from Ian, or from himself?
His instinct said she was innocent, that Ian had trapped her in some game of his. But when she walked, she looked around her as if she was surrounded by enemies. She did it less now than when she’d arrived, but it was still there, and it didn’t seem as if she knew that she did it. That kind of habit meant there was something in her past. As if she’d had enemies all her life. Innocent people didn’t do that.
‘How do you know Ian?’
‘I don’t,’ she said quickly, turning to gaze out through the archways again.
The slight breeze brushed her hair about, casting almost a halo glow around her head.
‘You’re his personal guard?’
‘I am.’
‘And now mine?’
He wouldn’t lie to her. ‘My loyalty must lie with him.’
‘Must...’
She mulled that word over, but he saw no problem with what he’d said until she continued.
‘Then you’re in a similar predicament to me,’ she said. ‘Trapped here?’
For his family’s sake, he could not side with this woman. ‘I’ve been with Lord Warstone for almost a decade.’
‘That long? Is there no hope for me?’
Evrart let his breath out slowly, trying to gather his thoughts, which were chaotic. It was because of the desperation in her voice, the worry, and the fact he wanted to help her when he couldn’t help himself.
‘Do you want to leave?’
‘You mean I shouldn’t? Is it because of the fine food or because Ian might kill me?’
He pulled back from the archway in case anyone looked up. It would do no good if they were spotted conversing.
She did the same. ‘You must know his intentions for me.’
Ian’s cryptic words about her suitability still made no sense to him. ‘I don’t.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘If you did, would you tell me?’
He should have said no immediately. His response should have been instant loyalty to Warstone, who held his family in the palm of his hand. But he wasn’t certain if that was true.
‘Does he know of your family?’ he asked.
She tilted her head. ‘I told him I lived in Pérouges.’
‘But you don’t?’
She looked away.
It didn’t matter if she told him or not. ‘I won’t tell him, but that won’t deter him for long.’
‘So they are in danger?’
He didn’t have to answer that.
‘Is he a threat to your family, too?’
It had been a mistake to talk to her. It was more of a mistake to believe he could help when he knew he couldn’t.
‘How many are there?’ he asked.
She narrowed her eyes, but that did no good.
‘Your expressions are as open as the sky. Ian can’t have questioned you else even your silences would have given you away, and if he hasn’t questioned you, he doesn’t care to know.
‘So you do talk,’ she said. ‘I have two brothers and two sisters, all older than me. My father... My mother isn’t well...’ She gasped.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s difficult remembering them. There are matters I need to...’ She looked away. ‘I can’t do anything about it now.’
He could tell she was close to her family. That there was pain in her past, and too many family members she cared about to escape Warstone’s notice.
‘They are all together?’
She glanced at him again, but her gaze didn’t stay with him. ‘No.’
‘What aren’t you telling me?’
‘If I leave soon, it won’t matter.’
She wouldn’t be leaving—but he shouldn’t be asking her questions. It would only complicate matters since he was always the one who carried out Ian’s terrible deeds. How much innocent blood had he shed? If he knew her, would he be able to spill hers?
‘Help me escape,’ she whispered. ‘I mean no harm.’
‘You could be tricking me,’ he said.
‘Do you believe that?’
There was always an ulterior motive with the Warstones. Margery was Ian’s mistress—but he hadn’t slept with her. She was to have the honour of his private chambers, to eat the finest food and have whatever she wanted—except she was to be banned from all other rooms and escorted to the garderobe at the convenience of a lowly boy from a poor village.
‘There you are being quiet again,’ she said.
He hadn’t been talkative as a child. As a man, he had trained himself to be quiet.
‘Are we to stare outside for the rest of the day? Or will you shove me back in the room?’
‘You’re not safe running about.’
‘So you keep saying—and I wasn’t running about,’ she said. ‘I was using the garderobe.’
‘And heading to the stairs.’
Her eyes darted. If this woman had schemes, she wouldn’t be able to hide them. ‘You can’t lie easily.’
‘How would you know? And I’d be a fool not to attempt an escape.’
Or ask him to help her. People didn’t usually ask him for anything nor did they talk to him for any length of time.
‘I’m still not scaring you.’
‘Why do you keep asking me that?’
Her eyes never left his. For once, he didn’t look away. He needed to know.
She huffed again. ‘You don’t scare me when you’re not quiet. Or when you move.’
He opened his mouth, closed it. ‘My quiet scares you?’
She shrugged.
He wanted to stay here longer. Ask her more questions. But he’d do it not to find out her purpose here, but because he wanted to know her.
Forcing himself, he faced the room behind them and opened the door.
Something like disappointment flitted across her eyes. ‘I thought we were past that.’
‘We’re not past the harm that could come to you, and until then...’
She raised a brow. ‘There is an “until then”?’
He could make no such promise. Ian had said matters would be ‘interesting’ whilst he was gone. Evrart couldn’t shake the idea that whatever was happening inside him, whatever was changing because of her, was part of it.
He couldn’t let it be! He’d been part of Warstone’s schemes once, when he had been brought here, but he refused to be part of them anymore. Simply talking with Margery was likely a trap, and one he slowly was falling into.
Thus, it was a relief when, without another glance, Margery entered the room and he locked the door once again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘What are you doing?’
Margery stopped with the spoon halfway up to her lips. It took her a moment more to close her mouth and straighten. Another moment to realise the contents of the spoon were dripping and set it down.
It would take more than a moment for her to find some semblance of calm when the object of her entire morning’s thoughts stood on the opposite side of the table where she sat.
Evrart.
It had been a few days since Jean
ne had left that door open for her, and she hadn’t done it since. Margery had specifically asked her not to, and there had been no mistaking Jeanne’s relief.
Margery was simply happy she hadn’t been punished. The guard, however, who had escorted Jeanne, had been banished from the fortress. Margery didn’t know what that entailed, and thought it prudent for her ability to sleep not to ask Jeanne nor Evrart, whose expression now looked as formidable as ever.
He must have come straight from the lists. Someone most likely notified him she was dining in the Great Hall, and he didn’t look pleased.
From her window, she could admire his training—the sweep of his arm as he extended his sword, the way he crouched and dug his heels in so no man could move him.
Outside, he looked implacable. Fierce. However, something between them had changed since that day in the corridor.
It wasn’t so much his allowing her to use the garderobe, though they did exchange a few words now, it was the way he looked at her.
Unlike when she had first arrived, his gaze lingered now. Stares from men she was used to, but Evrart’s were different.
He looked at her as if she was something unusually intriguing, and he never stared at her hair or her eyes. No, when she caught him he was usually staring at her wide hips.
She could almost swear his neck would flush, but couldn’t be sure. However, just thinking it so set her imagination off in ways she hadn’t expected.
Men were men, and she tried desperately to avoid them. Josse, her first lover, was much older than she, and he had been gentle. As far as doing what she’d had to to gain coin, it hadn’t been as terrible as she’d thought. Roul, however, was cruel and liked pain.
Though both men had treated her differently, both had had the same territorial gleam in their eye. The same one Ian had had the night he’d caught her: a look of cold interest that had nothing to do with her as a person, and everything to do with her as a possession.
Evrart had never, not once, looked at her that way. If she hadn’t been so certain he’d ignore her question, she would have asked him about it. Because not knowing what was in his eyes when he looked at her and failing to contain her own wonderings about it was keeping her up at night. And instead of worrying about escaping, or Ian’s return, or her family, she thought and dreamed of Evrart.
He’d caught her escaping in the corridor, but he hadn’t punished her, or raised his voice. Instead he’d asked her questions of her family. She could think of no purpose for that except he thought he could help them. He was Ian’s personal guard...but she was beginning to believe he was something for her, too.
She no longer avoided the window but stared outside constantly—not just at the lists, but elsewhere, in the hope of catching a glimpse of him. And now here he was, mere feet away.
Up close, she was enticed by the dusting of dirt, the sweat of the man. The way his skin glistened and his chest heaved. She could hear the cracking of his neck as he snapped his head to the side and she scented hot iron, some herb he’d bathed with, and him.
Before she knew what she was doing she inhaled again, drawing in that scent a bit more, until there was a tightening inside her. Her body had reacted the same when she snuck into his room the day before and lifted his abandoned tunic to her nose before she caught herself. And all the while he watched her, his eyes moving from her slightly parted lips down to the table.
Was he frustrated not to be able to see her hips? She’d always thought her body an odd shape. Unlike her sister, who was round all over, she was small on top and large on the bottom—something no gown could completely disguise. No man had ever commented on her flaws, but Evrart appeared to like them.
What colour were his eyes? That strange cross between brown and blue? His hair, damp with sweat, was a much richer brown, and cut brutally short in places, but left oddly long in others. As if he cut it for his own purposes and not for any fashion. It suited him.
It suited her. A section that she could run her fingers through, and another she could lay her palm along to feel the prickle and tingle that would begin but wouldn’t end there.
Just imagining how it would feel was causing her body to react, her breaths to feel a bit short, her nipples to tighten for want of soothing. That spot on his head...she’d cradle it when she tugged him closer, when she—
His gaze swung back up to her face, his eyes holding a question that darkened the colour there. Was her food of any interest, was she?
The hall was silent. Jeanne had left after setting the different plates in front of her just so...after Margery had asked her all the questions she’d been able to think of to keep Jeanne close for company. Today the topic had been parts of the fortress she couldn’t see. Information she’d need to escape. None had been forthcoming, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.
And she’d keep trying, because she had more of a chance to leave now with Ian of Warstone not here, than when he returned. She had more of a chance of escaping when she wasn’t locked in her room.
Something this man—this warrior—seemed to understand as he stood there, his gaze changing from questions to something more forceful, more demanding.
What was he demanding? Margery looked at the multitude of dishes before her as if they could answer. They could. Ah, yes, he’d asked a question.
‘What am I doing? I’m eating fresh cheese,’ she replied. ‘It’s newer than most and requires the spoon as well as bread to not waste any.’
‘And that?’ he pointed.
She didn’t look down. ‘Beans.’
He breathed in deep and exhaled roughly, as if whatever he’d been thinking had tightened something inside him as well. She could tell nothing of his thoughts from his expression, though.
‘Cooked with wine?’ he said.
This was what he wanted to question her on? No, he wanted something else—she could almost see it. But what?
‘Ale, and I requested extra buttered onions to top them.’
‘Buttered?’
‘I find the taste of oil flavourless.’
As if she could ever get used to such luxury as olive oil! She’d eaten well with Josse and Roul, but the Warstone wealth was unsurpassed. Perhaps the King of France ate such fare, but she couldn’t get used to it, and it wasn’t what she craved.
It didn’t hurt that asking Jeanne for different dishes also kept her close, so more questions could be asked. She truly wished they could be proper friends...
‘How many meals has Jeanne provided to you today?’ he said.
She tried to keep a straight expression. ‘Ten.’
His lips tightened. ‘How many did you refuse.’
‘Nine.’
‘Jeanne has other duties.’
Margery was certain she did—but that didn’t suit her purposes.
‘How did you get to the hall?’ he asked.
‘I suggested it would be more prudent for me to eat my meal here as it’s closer to the kitchens, and she could do her other duties.’
Sweeping his gaze around the cavernous room, he pulled out a bench.
There was ample space along the giant table, but when Evrart sat down the space between them wasn’t more than the length of her spoon, and when he rested his arm on the thick oak table it shook.
‘Do you want some?’ she said.
He eyed the heavy, thick bread, vastly different from the fluffy buttered raston Jeanne had first offered her and grabbed a roll. She pushed the bean dish over, and he dipped.
He was merely eating, but she felt as if something was in the balance. Something she needed to understand. Because she didn’t want to lose this small victory...didn’t want him locking her up even more than she was already. Ian had several chambers, and the garderobe was down the corridor. But she was aware she could be locked into only one room with no opportunity to be outside it ever again.
/>
‘I’m not outside,’ she said. ‘The private chambers are just up that staircase.’
He chewed, swallowed, dipped his bread again.
‘If I stepped outside, you’d see me because you’re always in the lists.’
He stopped chewing, stared at her. When his eyes narrowed and he audibly swallowed, she realised what she’d just confessed.
That she watched him. Not simply looked outside, but at him. That she knew exactly where he was, and what he was doing.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do about her blush.
Evrart grabbed the cup in front of Margery and downed the liquid. He wasn’t surprised it was ale, given the food in front of her. But he was surprised, greatly, that this woman had been watching him.
Him.
Not the lists or the guards. She’d mentioned nothing of the weather, nor the fact the pen around the pigs had been broken by some boys playing, and there had been squealing hogs running loose. They had caused chaos during training, though with one order from him the men had got in line.
Evrart set down the empty cup, but didn’t take the final bite of the roll. His ravenous body was suddenly not interested in food. It was wanting something different—something also at this table but not for his consumption. So tiny, but not delicate. He wanted to devour her.
When people first noticed him, they stared. Most didn’t blink, and some were bold and walked up to test their height against his before they even introduced themselves.
When Margery had first seen him, her eyes had swept over him the same as everyone else. When Ian had assigned him to her, he’d been treated as no more or less than Jeanne. She talked to him the same way, she touched him the same way. Now she had invited him to sit and dine with her.
Who was she? It was not the first time he’d asked himself that question, and it wouldn’t be the last. There was still more to know about her. Anything she’d told him could be a lie. Perhaps she did know Ian, and she was here for some other purpose. Maybe she was a spy Ian had planted whilst he was gone.
Yet none of that mattered as it should because...she’d watched him.
The true question was: did she want to know about him? Not as a conquest or to gain position in the household, but him as a man?
Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 49
