by Sarah Hegger
Garrett held Breeze. The mare still quivered, her nostrils slightly flared.
Garrett spoke to the horse, running his hand over her neck. “What now?” The terrible anger had receded and he appeared calm.
“We ride.” Beatrice turned to the woman. “I am Beatrice.”
The other woman tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Ivy.”
“Will you come with us?”
“Aye.” Garrett’s tunic hung to her knees.
“Garrett?” Beatrice took Breeze’s reins from him.
“Aye, my lady?” His fingers brushed her hand.
“Would you help Ivy onto my horse? She is hurt.”
“Aye, my lady.” This time, he used her title with no mockery. He approved of her actions, his smile told her. It warmed her from deep, deep within.
“I have to put my hands on you, lass.” Garrett approached Ivy slowly.
Ivy nodded, and then he moved toward her.
Chapter 13
The road blurred before Beatrice, and she wiped her face. Wind and rain whipped the tree branches into a dizzying dance. Garrett’s storm had hit them. A spiteful wind lashed cold rain into their faces. Travel had been slower with Beatrice and Ivy riding double. Garrett and Tom were hunched shapes to her right. Breeze plodded through the nasty weather with her head lowered.
Ivy huddled behind Beatrice, keeping her back warm, but there was no respite from the driving needles of rain in her face. Their small party sloshed on miserably until an old crofter’s hut appeared a little ways off the road.
Garrett signaled their party to stop.
Beatrice halted, fisting her hands on the reins in frustration. He was right. They had to stop. The road beneath them was slippery mud, slowing them further. They were gaining almost no distance and merely exhausting animals and riders alike. The delay was like a tight band about her throat. London was miles away still.
Tom slid from Badger, pushing rain soaked hair off his face. She couldn’t share her concerns with him, he would only lecture her and tell he’d told her so. .
The hut was old and abandoned, but it also promised some shelter from the rain.
Beatrice dismounted before turning to assist Ivy.
Ivy’s pale face gleamed stark white in the gloom. She hissed and bit her lips as Beatrice steadied her descent. Beatrice wanted to soothe the hurt, but Ivy moved away the moment her feet touched the ground.
Garrett led them inside.
The respite was immediate and Beatrice pushed back her hood. She stamped to clear the mud from her feet.
A couple of wooden stalls to one side indicated other animals had been housed here. Tom took the horses, his shirt plastered to his broad back. Steam and the smell of wet horse seeped through the hut.
The place hadn’t been lived in for a long time. There was no furniture and the thatch had worn thin in patches, letting a steady seep of water form small puddles on the earthen floor.
Opposite the door was a broad stone hearth and the floor was dry on either side. Beatrice moved farther inside and Ivy trailed her.
Nobody spoke much. Everyone was relieved to be out of the rain.
Garrett shook his head like a dog, droplets sprayed around him. “We best get dry.” His borrowed tunic, tight across his broader form, clung to the ridges of his chest and belly.
Beatrice dragged her eyes away and shrugged out of her cloak. With nowhere else to drape it, she settled for a rusted hook against the wall. Her clothing had escaped the worst of the wet, but still, she was chilled to the bone. Her plait hung in a soggy rope down her back, making her shiver.
With no cloak to shield her, Ivy’s dark hair clung wetly to her head. She sat curled around her knees beside the hearth. Bare, mud-splattered feet peeked out beneath her hem.
She must be freezing. Beatrice searched for the words to make it all seem better and came up blank. Everyone getting warm and dry would be a start. She tugged her plait forward and rung water from it.
Garrett crouched by the hearth.
A small stack of wood rested against the stones, dusty but dry. It wasn’t much, but any sort of warmth would be welcome.
Why did he not light a fire? She couldn’t remember ever feeling quite this cold or damp.
Ivy concerned her more. The girl’s teeth chattered.
“I think it is blocked.” Garrett peered up the chimney.
“How would you tell?” Beatrice crouched beside him.
“I can light a fire and we can see if we are smoked out.”
Their faces were close enough she could see the lighter flecks of brown in his eyes. His smile was like sun through the miserable day. Of all the smiles he gave her, this one she hadn’t seen. It warmed his chiseled features and invited her to join, open and guileless.
“Do you have a second idea?” She wanted him to look at her this way always. It made honey of her insides in the most wonderful way.
It disappeared and his expression grew sensuous. “Aye.” He cupped her cheek with his palm. “But I do not think Master Tom would find favor.”
The change bothered her. He went so quickly from one to the other. She searched his face for the answer. “You have many faces, Garrett.”
He dropped his hand. Tipping his head, he studied her.
“I am concerned about Ivy.” Beatrice grew uncomfortable under his gaze and she didn’t know what to make of the uneasy pinch in her chest. She needed to think on it. “I believe she is hurt.”
“Poor lass.” Garrett looked past her to the other woman. “The hurts done her will take a long time to heal.” He cleared his throat and stood. “She will want to bathe. I will fetch some water and Tom and I will make ourselves scarce.”
“I will help her.” Beatrice rose to stand shoulder to shoulder with him.
Together, they looked at the huddle of flesh and bone that was Ivy.
Beatrice got the uneasy sense Ivy wasn’t really with them. Bodily, for certain, but her tightly closed expression was as effective as miles of distance. “If she will let me,” Beatrice said, more to herself than Garrett.
“She will need time. And a gentle hand to help her put back what they took from her.” He strode over to Tom.
The depth of his empathy surprised her. He shifted and changed like a free streaming storm and left her befuddled in his wake.
Garrett conferred with Tom in low tones. His spine snapped straight suddenly.
Tom glowered and shook his head.
Oh, dear, trouble brewed again. Could they not see now was not the time for one of their disagreements?
Garrett straightened his shoulders, seeming to swell in size. The frightening stranger from the fight was back.
This appeared a mite more serious and Beatrice’s shoulders tensed.
Garrett spoke again, thrusting his hand toward the door.
Tom’s jaw tightened; he narrowed his eyes and stuck out his chest.
Garrett stepped into Tom.
Beatrice hurried closer to them. The gathering violence prickled over her skin.
“It is pouring,” Tom said.
“We leave, now.” Garrett’s voice was implacable.
“I will turn my back.”
“Nay.” Garrett snapped. “Stand beneath a big tree.”
“We can take shelter right here. I am not going out in that storm for a—” Tom caught Beatrice’s gaze and dropped his head.
“For shame, Tom.” Anger rose up, swift and strong. “Look at her. Look what they did to her. I only ask you to give her a private moment to clean those men from her skin.”
He took a step back at her vehemence. “I already fought for her. How much more do you want?”
Beatrice followed him, struggling to keep her voice down. “You have no idea what she has suffered.”
“She is a whore, Beatrice. There is not enough water to clean all the men off her.”
It was like a blow to her middle.
“You dare to say such a thing.” The air rushed out of her lungs.
“Get out.” Garrett’s eyes were dead, his face frozen, his expression pure menace.
The air snapped tight between the two men.
Tom took a reflexive step back.
The rage throbbed from Garrett’s rigid body.
Fear swept away her anger, and Beatrice leapt between them. Her heart thundered in her ears.
“You did not mean that, Tom.” Her voice shook. Garrett looked ready to kill. “I know you could not have meant to sound heartless.”
Garrett’s menace pulsed against her back.
“Move, Beatrice.” He went to step around her.
Beatrice whirled and blocked his path. “Go, Tom. Return when you are more yourself.”
Tom paled. He clenched his fists by his sides as he glared over her head at Garrett, taunting.
Garrett nudged her shoulder to pass her.
“Now, Tom.” Beatrice stepped in front of Garrett.
He kept coming.
Desperately, she grabbed both of his arms. Her hands couldn’t encircle the breadth, but she dug in her fingers and clung. “Leave, now.” She hoped to God Tom listened because she couldn’t hold Garrett much longer.
For a heart stopping moment, Tom hesitated. Then, he spun on his heel and stalked outside.
Beatrice kept her grasp on Garrett. He could chase down Tom and pound him into the mud. “He does not mean it.” Beatrice dared not look at him. The anger pulsed through his clenched muscles. She aimed her words at his chest. “He is not himself. I have known him all my life, and I know he does not mean what he said.”
“You can let go now.” Garrett’s arms flexed beneath her fingers.
Beatrice dug deeper. Her fingers ached from the effort to contain the power clenched beneath them. “I think not. If I let you go, you will go after Tom.”
“He deserves no less.”
“Aye.” Prickly heat broke out over her body. “You are right, but I still cannot let you go.”
“And you intend to hold me here and stop me?”
“Aye.”
He twisted and his arms came free. Snatching her around the elbows, he hauled her up onto her toes. His face was stone.
Beatrice’s mouth went dry.
“What did I tell you about putting yourself in the path of danger?”
Images of Garrett battling Ivy’s attackers flashed through her mind. “Tom does not always mean the things he says.”
“Then he should not say them.”
“You are right. Of course, you are right. But he is angry with me. He is upset by all of this. Tom is not an unkind person. When I found this puppy left behind the keep near the midden heap, I could not get to it and Tom, he was kind, because he is kind, and he took off his boots—”
“Hush.” He gave her a small shake.
Beatrice hushed.
He released her elbows.
Her feet sank back onto the floor. Beatrice peeked up at him.
His face was still set but not as rigid.
Her legs went limp. Angry but not murderous was a definite improvement.
He shook his head and stalked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Beatrice scrambled after him.
“Nay.” He whirled around and she slid to a halt. “I am going to fetch water.”
“Water?”
“For Ivy.”
“Oh.”
“Go and see what you can do for Ivy. I will bring her some water.” He dropped his head forward. When he looked up again, the awful grimness had receded from his expression. In truth, the tiniest of smiles threatened to take possession of his face.
Thank God, the immediate danger had passed. She wanted to sit on the floor and cry. This was not, however, the time for indulging. She raised her shoulders and lifted her chin “Beatrice the Brave,” she muttered.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
His mouth definitely softened before he slipped into the wet evening.
Beatrice approached Ivy carefully. “Garrett will fetch some water for you to bathe.”
Ivy shivered.
“We are afraid to light a fire for fear it will smoke us out. So, I am sorry to say, the water will be cold.”
Ivy gave a stiff nod.
“Come.” Beatrice held out her hand to the other woman. “Let us get you tended.”
Ivy used the wall to push herself up. She swayed and recovered her balance.
They must be close in age, but Ivy looked no more than a defenseless, broken child. Beatrice trusted her instinct. “Tom and Garrett will remain outside until you are settled.”
Ivy stared at the doorway and bit her bottom lip.
Tom and Garrett were nowhere in sight. The trees outside strained in the direction of the wind.
One of the horses stamped and whickered.
The door had long since rotted and caved in. Slanting rain stretched across the opening and splashed up from the ground.
Of course, how could she not have seen it? Ivy was worried about the exposed doorway. “I will stretch one of our blankets over the beams here. See.” Beatrice pointed to a row of nails, which had probably held household implements. “I will string it between those and you will be quite snug within.”
“He is right,” Ivy said. “The flaxen-haired one. I am a whore, and I deserve no more than what happened to me.”
Beatrice was halfway toward where Tom had stacked their belongings, but she jolted to a stop. If Tom were here, she would strangle him. She took the time to calm herself before she turned. “Nay.” She wanted to yell the words, but Ivy looked as if the force of her anger would blow her out of the room. “Tom could not be more wrong. No woman deserves to be so ill-used.”
Ivy uttered a strange, guttural cry, as if a sob caught in her throat. Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth worked. Moisture flooded her eyes and Ivy blinked rapidly.
Beatrice stepped toward her. She ached to comfort the other woman.
“Nay.” Ivy held up a shaking hand. “I cannot.” Ivy’s jaw clenched, her chest heaved. “You must not.”
“I cannot imagine how you must feel.”
“Nay, you cannot.”
Suddenly, Beatrice understood. Ivy didn’t want compassion. Compassion would weaken her. So she forced herself to remain where she was while Ivy fought for composure.
Thunder rumbled overhead. A heartbeat later, lightning flickered. The horses whickered nervously.
Ivy’s face stiffened into hard and bitter lines. Her eyes went dead as the tears disappeared.
Beatrice fetched the blanket and secured it to the hooks. Tears would’ve been better than Ivy’s unnatural stillness. Nurse would’ve known what to say to Ivy. Mother or Faye would be better than she at this. None of them were here, however. Ivy had her. She would have to do.
Garrett had found some old buckets behind the hut. Most were broken and useless, but two were in fair enough condition to contain some water.
At Anglesea she had a big, linen-lined tub. It took three men to fill it with water. Nurse would’ve put soothing herbs in the hot water. As it was, Ivy would have to make do.
Beatrice took the buckets behind the blanket.
Ivy hadn’t moved. She allowed Beatrice to help her remove Garrett’s tunic.
Beatrice dragged her eyes away from dark, angry bruises against Ivy’s smooth skin.
“You should not see this.” Ivy looked down at her body. “A young lady like yourself.”
Beatrice couldn’t speak. Her throat was so tight and her chest so full of conflicting feelings even drawing breath was hard. She motioned Ivy to turn around. Dull, russet streaks ran the inside of Ivy’s thighs. Blood. Those evil men had done this. The horror of the morning nearly overwhelmed her. Beatrice’s hand shook as she dipped a
rag in the water and handed it to the other woman.
Beatrice slipped to the other side of her makeshift hanging, giving Ivy her privacy. She needed to do something, anything, or she would burst with the welter of emotion within. She scooped up the remains of Ivy’s dress. The bliaut was ripped beyond repair and blood stained the fabric brown in spots. It made her shudder just to hold the bliaut, a visceral reminder of what Ivy had suffered.
Beatrice had two dresses within her belongings. Ivy was a much smaller woman, but she could tighten the laces.
Garrett huddled beneath the eaves, trying to keep out of the rain.
Beatrice handed the bliaut to Garrett. “She cannot wear this.”
He nodded and jogged out into the rain.
Outside, the storm turned the ground to mud.
Water swished from the other side of the blanket. Beatrice pushed her dress and a chainse around the barrier. The noises stopped.
“I cannot wear these.” Ivy’s voice held the tiniest bit of animation.
“The gown will certainly be too long,” Beatrice said. “And you look to have more bosom than I, but the clothes are clean and warm.”
“My lady, these are too fine.”
Fine? Beatrice’s heart twisted. It was a plain wool gown she’d passed to Ivy. She’d brought it because it was the simplest of her gowns and she didn’t want to draw attention to herself with the fineness of her raiment. Her life was leagues removed from the people she’d met. Not two full days travelling and she was in an entirely different world. “I am more comfortable riding in my chausses,” she said. “And you cannot wear your old gown.”
Behind the blanket, the gentle swish of water began again.
Beatrice lost count of the buckets of water she passed between Garrett and Ivy. Garrett steadfastly replaced the used water with fresh.
Finally, Ivy emerged dressed, with the gown trailing about her feet. Her skin was reddened from scrubbing and her hair hung wet down her back.
Beatrice found a comb and handed it to her.
Ivy got to work on her long, dark hair.
Beatrice tried not to stare.
With her delicate face scrubbed clean, Ivy was still pale and a large bruise marred her cheek. Her hair was near black and her eyes a deep, mossy green. She was beautiful enough to rival Faye. Faye’s beauty had earned her a powerful husband. Ivy’s had led her to a different sort of fate altogether. The result had been vastly different, but their path hadn’t been dissimilar—Faye’s and Ivy’s. Both were lovely women whose beauty had been traded like coin.
