by Lara Adrian
Ariana kept herself out of Braedon's path as he readied the cog to dock. The top of the sail had suffered a long tear during the storm and would have to be repaired, she heard him tell one of the fishermen on the quay. The bearded Frenchman pointed toward a squat little stone house just off the harbor.
"Claude the sail maker does honest work, monsieur. Ten deniers ought to mend your sail."
"And lodging?" Braedon inquired. "Where can we find a clean room and a good warm meal?"
Another gesture, this time toward a tall half-timbered building in a row of the same. "The Wolf's Head Inn. I'll take you there myself, if you like. You see, my cousin, he owns the place. He'll see that you and your lady are taken care of."
Braedon murmured his thanks, then shot Ariana an expectant look as he held his hand out to her. "A coin or two for this gentleman's help, my lady."
Ariana frowned at him, but did not protest the demanded expense. She was too busy worrying herself toward a swoon over what was in store for her once they docked. With nervous fingers, she dug into her small purse, withdrew a couple of farthings and handed them to Braedon.
"Come from England, have you?" asked the fisherman, his gaze flicking to Ariana before returning to Braedon and his offered coin. "The Channel is rough this time of year. You are fortunate to have arrived with merely a torn sail, monsieur."
"Yes, we were." Braedon replied, a note of impatience in his voice. He grabbed the cog's lines and lashed them to the dock, then retrieved a leather pack from the deck of the cog, the same one that had contained his food and wine of the past night. He disembarked, then held his hand out to Ariana to help her alight from the ship. "The inn, s’il vous plait," he said to the man, not quite an order, but curt enough to send the scruffy fisherman loping off ahead of them to show the way.
The Wolf's Head Inn was one of several such establishments that catered to the busy port of Calais. Fishermen, merchants, and an uncomfortable number of grizzled, hard-eyed seamen filled the inn's main room. It was not unlike the tavern in London, where Ariana and James had first met with Monsieur Ferrand, an ill-fated encounter that in this moment seemed to have happened much longer ago than just a mere couple of days. Indeed, how long ago it seemed. How far she had come since then.
Mother Mary, how far she still had to go.
And go it alone, she thought with a forceful resolve as she walked beside Braedon as he approached the innkeeper.
She waited obediently as he secured them lodging for the night, her mind working on how to escape his promised--nay, threatened--talk. He would not settle for more of her evasions. He would press her about her business until she broke, she knew that about him already. He was not a man to be refused. Likely not in anything he set his mind to.
How foolish was she, to have brokered with him to bring her there? Her desperation to reach Rouen had been her chief motivation, but now she wondered if she hadn't gotten herself into a much more hazardous situation than even the one posed by Monsieur Ferrand. Braedon had delivered her to France, as she asked. Now all that remained, as he had been eager to inform her, was her promised compensation. She could not make good on what he expected, of course. No gentleman would force her to fulfill so rash a contract.
A gentleman, she thought with a miserable sense of regret. He had given her no cause to suspect he subscribed to any edicts of chivalry or genteel behavior. To think this warring man with his merciless sword arm and savage countenance would grant her pardon in her foolishness was like as not to credit that a rangy wolf might spare a trapped and bleating lamb. And to think she had been so reckless as to allow him to kiss her!
Ariana was wincing, trying unsuccessfully to blot out a sudden vision of predatory carnage when Braedon sauntered over to her. He had paid for their accommodations with coin from his own purse, a purse she had not realized he'd carried. "I am a man of some means, demoiselle," he drawled quietly when she looked to him in mild surprise.
"This way," said the innkeeper as he came around to lead them down a hallway off the public room. He did not stop until they had reached nearly the end of the corridor, then he paused and opened the door to a darkened chamber. With a grunted "Good day," the portly proprietor trundled back up the hallway.
Braedon walked inside and dropped his pack on the floor. Ariana paused a moment before following him to the open door. She waited at the threshold, refusing to enter. Her stomach clenched in tight knot of apprehension. From halfway in the chamber came the snick of a striking flint, then the warm glow of flame grew golden bright as Braedon lit a squat tallow candle. "Come in and take off your wet mantle, Ariana."
She stood firm, half in trepidation, half in haughty indignation. "What is the meaning of this?"
"It is a room, demoiselle. A warm, dry place with a bed and a hearth, as I didn't expect you'd like to sleep another night on the cog."
"You know what I'm asking, sirrah. Why did you secure just the one room?"
"Because it is the last available." He gave her a slightly mocking grin. "And because I like to protect my investments. Now come in, and get out of your wet clothes."
Not waiting for her to argue or comply, he stalked to the far wall of the room where a fireplace yawned, black and cold. There was a small supply of wood on the hearth, though not nearly enough to last the night when winter was shaking the shutters and chasing a chill breeze across the rush-littered plank floor. Ariana stepped inside warily, watching as Braedon dropped down on his haunches and built a nice fire. The brittle logs crackled to life, throwing a bright, welcoming warmth into the musty little room.
Despite her wariness, Ariana surrendered to the inviting glow of the fire and walked farther within, eager to chase away some of the ice that permeated through her clothing and into her very bones. She drew off the heavy weight of her cloak and held it in her hands, uncertain what to do with the sodden garment. Braedon took it from her, and dragged a wooden chair closer to the hearth. He folded her mantle over the back, fanning the large swatch of fabric out so it could better dry.
"Thank you," she murmured sullenly.
"Sit." He directed her toward the chair with a tilt of his beard-shadowed jaw. "It's time we had ourselves a little talk, my lady."
She could tell from his tone that he fully expected her to obey him, and she did, although it piqued her that he seemed to think she required such handling. It was not her nature to be difficult. Indeed, she was a quite reasonable person--perfectly sensible and forthright, she liked to think--under normal circumstances. But these were hardly normal circumstances. Nay, nothing had been normal in her life for quite some time, she reflected soberly in the moments of silence that descended while Braedon rocked back on his boot heels and stared at her, his muscular arms crossed over his chest in expectation.
Girding herself for the worst, Ariana's gaze trailed over Braedon's light-gilded silhouette before the fireplace. She couldn't hold his piercing stare, nor could she look at the broad expanse of his shoulders and torso without knowing a sense of dread that he could keep her trapped in the tiny room for as long as he deemed necessary. Her gaze slid wearily lower, to the dark stain that seeped through his tunic sleeve. His wound must have reopened while he fought the storm in the Channel. It should be cleaned again, and the bandages would need to be changed. "You're bleeding," she pointed out quietly.
He scarcely flinched. "And you are stalling, demoiselle. Do you wish to know my terms?"
She was very certain she didn't.
"First, you're going to tell me about your brother--about your true business here in France--and you are going to tell me now."
Ariana bristled at his high-handed command, feeling like an unruly child who'd been dragged before the castle chaplain for discipline over a transgression she had not committed. True, she had involved Braedon in her plight against his will, and true, she probably did owe him an explanation for that at least. After all, that he was standing there before her now, bleeding afresh from a wound suffered in protecting her, certainl
y earned him some measure of consideration.
But, saints forgive her, she couldn't give it. Not in full. As much as she appreciated Braedon's assistance thus far--reluctant as it was--her loyalty was first and foremost with Kenrick. Her commitment was centered wholly on his safety, and his safety now depended on the set of explicit rules laid down by his captors. Rules that demanded her expedience and forbade her from confiding in anyone about the danger he truly was in at Rouen. Rules she dared not break.
Despite the logic that told her Braedon would make an apt ally in her quest to save her brother, one she could sorely use, she could not permit him to get close to the truth. Not when she was mere leagues away--a few days' travel at most--from freeing Kenrick from the villains who held him. She would have to dance around the truth as best she could, and if Braedon pressed her too far, she would simply have to lie.
"Very well," she relented with a sigh that was nearly as defeated as it sounded, "I will endeavor to answer your questions, even if they are none of your affair."
"You can start by telling me about this brother of yours."
Ariana mentally summoned a list of Kenrick's finest qualities and fed them to her brooding interrogator one by one. "My brother is the most honorable person I have ever known. He is honest and courageous, kind, considerate. He is intelligent and worldly, and as righteous as the day is long."
Braedon hardly waited for her to take a breath before he lifted one black brow and scoffed. "A veritable saint, is he?"
"As a matter of fact, 'Saint' is what his friends called him growing up," Ariana answered, meeting Braedon's dubious gaze with a smart look of her own. "Kenrick had very noble aspirations as a boy. He wanted to serve God. He tutored under our local chaplain and was prepared to take his vows of priesthood once he was of age."
He listened in watchful contemplation, as though measuring her every word. "He didn't complete his vows?"
"No." Ariana glanced down at the floor and shook her head, recalling the night Kenrick came home to Clairmont from the abbey where he'd gone as a novice but a week before. He had arrived that chilly night on foot, looking as though he'd run the whole way. She had not been privy to what was said between her father and his only son behind the closed door of the castle solar, but she had sensed the pall of shame, the rise of panic, in the air. She had sensed the close-held anguish in her brother's stoic good-bye that next day, when he stood in the bailey, his face stern and blanched of color as he held the reins of his mount and prepared to leave home again. He rode through Clairmont's barbican gate without turning back, a sixteen-year-old boy heading out alone to become a soldier.
"Kenrick gave up his vows and decided to join the Knights of the Temple of Solomon instead."
"A Templar?" Braedon's sardonic mouth pursed slightly, as though the word held an unsavory taste. "Those warrior monks are not exactly known for their piety, my lady."
Ariana lifted her shoulder in acknowledgment. Of course, she had heard stories of the Templar knights and their severe vows of poverty and chastity. She had also heard it said that those sacred vows were forsaken more often than not. They were a tight-knit brotherhood, whose arcane rituals and whispered rumors of evil-doing had worsened of late to the point of outright heresy. That Kenrick was one of them troubled her, but she trusted in his honor implicitly. Whatever he was involved in now, whatever his captors wanted with him, she was certain he was guilty of no wrongdoing.
Braedon chuckled as he turned to stoke the fire. "So the saint took up the sword. For profit, or for glory?"
"Neither, I'm sure," Ariana insisted. "My father encouraged him to go. I didn't see him again for eight years."
Not until the summer past. He came home to Clairmont a changed man, obsessed with his journals and note-keeping. He had shut everyone out--his friends, his father, and Ariana. Kenrick, who had for so long been her strongest ally, was no longer willing to be bothered by the little sister who still adored him and was so thrilled to have him home. Later that autumn he was gone again, back to France, Ariana would learn only when the messenger came with news of Kenrick's abduction. Her father had passed away soon after Kenrick had left that last time. A blessing, for it would have broken his heart to learn that his only son had met with harm.
"And that's what brings you to Rouen in the dead of winter?"
Braedon was looking at her quizzically, awaiting her answer. "T-to Rouen?" she stammered, inwardly cringing at the stutter that crept into her voice whenever she was nervous.
"The Templar fort in Rouen, demoiselle. Is that not where you are headed?"
"Oh. Yes," she replied, unaware there was such a holding in the city. Her actual destination in Rouen was less illustrious than that, but she sent a silent prayer heavenward for the serendipitous information. "'Tis just as I told you, Kenrick invited me to come and see him in Rouen."
"Urgently," Braedon added, his tone and his expression challenging. "You had to come see him urgently, was that not what you also told me when we were back in London?"
Ariana had managed to evade the need to lie to him, but he was knitting her into a corner by letting her talk freely. She held his piercing gaze and adopted what she hoped was a look of deep concern. The latter wasn't too difficult, for she truly did fear for Kenrick's life. Holding Braedon's flinty gray gaze was another matter altogether. She could almost feel him dissecting her story with each heartbeat he stared at her. Predatory, penetrating, Braedon's eyes were nearly entrancing in their intensity. "Y-yes," she stammered at last. "It is urgent I see him. Extremely urgent. I have reason to fear for my brother's...health."
His brow quirked at that, so Ariana rushed on to expand on the notion. "H-he was not a hearty lad growing up, you see, and winters were often difficult for him. Our dear mother perished of fever one winter when we were children." That much was true, she reflected sadly, but pushed her emotions aside upon noting the dubious twist of Braedon's mouth. "And Kenrick often doesn't take care of himself, particularly when his mind is fixed on other things. So, you can see why I would be concerned," she added hopefully.
But Braedon only grunted, no doubt scenting even this mild distortion of fact. "So concerned, Lady Mayhem, that you are willing to risk your own health to get here?" He slanted her an uncompromising look. "Willing to risk something more than that, were you not?"
That he would stoop to remind her again did not surprise Ariana in the slightest. Braedon was likely many things, chief among them shrewd and perceptive, and it would take more than this weak attempt at deflection to throw him off the trail. Her mind raced, considering and discarding a host of falsehoods and tales that she could tell him to help explain herself. Unwanted suitors, money troubles, feuds with neighboring landholders--she cast them all aside as ridiculous, knowing Braedon would see through her the instant she opened her mouth.
She was best to tread as close to the truth as possible, for as long as she was trapped with him in Calais. Pray God, it would not be long. The moon would turn in just a few weeks' time, and she had every intention of being in Rouen that night, alone, with Kenrick's ransom, as demanded by his captors. For now, she needed to be the picture of cooperation and candor. She needed to work at putting Braedon's curiosity at ease until he transported her to Honfleur as planned. From there, she would gladly part company with her dark deliverer and continue on to Rouen on her own.
A soft rap on the door jolted her from her flimsy plans and wrung a knowing smirk from Braedon's harshly carved mouth. "I expect that will be the innkeeper. I asked him to send us up a meal. While you're chewing on your thoughts, you might as well fill your belly, too."
He strode to the door and permitted the rotund little man entry to the room. He shuffled in with a nod to both of them as he carried in the tray of steaming food. Fragrant ale sloshed over the sides of two tankards when the innkeeper set the tray down on a chest near the bed. "Will that be all, monsieur?"
"A warm bath and a supply of dry towels, too, if you have them."
"Oui,
monsieur."
As wonderful as the thought of soap and warm water sounded, Ariana tried not to think about what Braedon's intention might be where the bath was concerned. Bad enough that she be forced to dine privately with a man she hardly knew--perhaps even share the same room with him for the duration of what was sure to be the longest night of her life--but if he thought to dip so much as one naked toe into a tub of water while she was present, he was well and truly mad.
Her mind conjured the image all too readily, providing her with a mental picture of Braedon stripping off his leather gambeson and tunic to stand before her bare-chested and immodest. It wasn't hard to imagine his broad shoulders and massive arms gilded by the firelight. Nor was it difficult to suppose what the rest of his muscular body would look like, divested of its clothing. She easily recalled the sight of him at Rob and Peg's, when she had assisted with his bandages.
In a flash of fancy, scandalous enough to enflame her cheeks with heat, Ariana envisioned the wide planes of Braedon's bare chest, the tapered tautness of his abdomen cutting a firm line to his trim hips and indecently lower....
The metallic clack of the latch on the door snapped her out of the wicked imagining as the innkeeper left the room and closed them into solitude once more. Still warm from her wayward thoughts, she watched as Braedon grabbed the edge of the wooden chest and slid it nearer to the fire.
"Not exactly a seven-course supper on the dais at Clairmont, but I trust it will suffice."
The aroma of spiced meat pie, fresh brown bread, and herbed, boiled potatoes steamed off the tray of viands to wreathe around Ariana's nose. Her stomach growled, piqued for the first time since its fit of revolt on Braedon's cog. With a sigh of eager surrender, she scooted off her chair and onto the floor beside the food. She broke the round loaf of bread and took a piece into her mouth, sumptuously munching on the dark sourdough while Braedon placed another log on the fire.
