At The Warrior's Mercy. Denise Lynn
you think of yourself, Gregor, let them worry about their own service. However, the successful completion of this task might prove beneficial even to them.’
The weight that had been lifted at the mere mention of freedom from this service settled heavily back on to his shoulders. Gregor silently vowed that regardless of how irritated the Empress was with him, or how difficult the task put to him, he would do whatever was necessary to see this mission through to completion.
‘What would you have me do?’
South of Derbyshire—July 1145
‘Do not fight me on this. You will not win.’
Beatrice of Warehaven stared in shock at the man confronting her so boldly in the privacy of his tent.
Charles of Wardham had been the love of her life. With his lean limbs, unblemished face unscarred by any wounds of war, fair hair and oh, so deceptively kind and caring manners, he’d easily won her heart.
How was it possible that this was the same man with whom she’d fallen so desperately in love nearly three years ago?
She stared harder into his pale blue eyes, trying to see through the fog of dismay clouding her vision. Once upon a time she’d wondered if it were possible to drown in his gaze. Now she would be amazed if she did not freeze to death beneath his unwavering icy glare.
Her heart hurt—physically hurt as if it had been splintered by a battering ram as she realised that her parents had been right in their assessment of this man. They trusted him not and were certain something darkly sinister lay beneath his mild exterior. She’d so foolishly been certain of their error in judgement. Certain enough that she’d given little thought to permitting him to escort her back to Warehaven without her family’s knowledge.
‘Come, Beatrice.’
Neither his steady, calm tone of voice, nor the smile that never reached his eyes, fooled her. Never again would she be so fooled by a man, any man—but especially not by this one. She knew there would be nothing gentle about his touch. Even had there been any hint at gentleness, she was not about to give herself to him before they were married and since now she was certain they would never be wed, sharing his bed was not an option.
A bitter coldness of betrayal flowed down her spine. She backed away from his outstretched arm and called out, ‘Edythe!’
Charles laughed at her cry, saying, ‘You waste your breath. Your handmaiden’s attention is occupied elsewhere.’
He parted the flap to the tent, letting the deep boisterous laughs of his two companions float into the stifling confines. Their seductive chuckles were joined by Edythe’s teasing response. Now she knew why Charles had insisted the younger Edythe accompany her instead of Agatha, her former nursemaid. He’d wanted someone who would turn a blind eye to his underhanded plans.
The heat of anger chased away the chill. Beatrice glared at him. Her show of displeasure only drew another laugh from him. ‘Did you just now realise your mistake?’
‘My family will kill you.’
He shrugged, replying, ‘While they may wish to do so, I highly doubt they will.’
‘They are not afraid of you.’
‘I never said they were.’ Charles slowly approached, his intent plain in his lecherous gaze. ‘However, they aren’t about to leave their pregnant daughter without a husband.’
‘I am not carrying your child.’
He wrapped a hand around her upper arm and leaned down to whisper, ‘Not yet, perhaps, but rest assured you will be by the time we leave here.’
She silently cursed her stupidity for giving him a reason to voice such a threat. ‘Why are you doing this? Why can’t you wait until we have a chance to convince my parents of our...devotion to each other?’
Devotion. She nearly choked on the term, but it was the only word she could think of at the moment that wouldn’t draw a humourless laugh—or a cry from her.
His brows rose as his smile turned into a smirk. ‘You think I haven’t noticed your displeasure these last two nights?’
There was much truth in his question. She’d been so disgusted by his drunken comments and those of his two companions that she was certain even one who was blind would have sensed her anger. The men spoke as if they’d been in the company of hardened soldiers on the battlefield. She’d heard milder words from her father’s shipboard crew.
‘I held my tongue because I had expected to be free of your friends’ influence once we arrived at Warehaven.’
‘Your expectations were sadly mistaken. I know you, Beatrice. I am aware of your headstrong nature and childish temper. I am not foolish enough to believe your patience would have lasted that long.’ He slid a hand down her arm, brushing his thumb against the side of her breast, causing a shiver that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with distaste and building fear. ‘Hence the quickening of our relationship.’
Without giving herself away, Beatrice scanned the contents of the tent while asking, ‘You would choose them over me?’
He pulled her tightly against his chest before moving towards his pallet. ‘For most things, yes. But not this. I am certain burying myself in the warmth of your body will prove far more enjoyable than anything they could offer.’
His obscene answer stung, but she wasn’t about to let him know that his foul words had hurt her as much as they had disgusted her. When they reached his bed, she pushed against his chest to no avail. ‘Charles, you are not going to have your way with me. Release me.’
His laugh grated against her ears. ‘Oh, my lovely Beatrice, save your demands. I see not how you can stop me.’
She reached down and grasped the handle of a metal ewer of water that sat on a wooden chest next to his bed and quickly, before he could determine her move, swung it against the side of his head.
His hands fell away from her, his eyes widening before he hit the floor of the tent with a thud. Beatrice leaned over him to make sure he still breathed, then whispered, ‘I will stop you just like that, Charles.’
Knowing that the others would soon realise no sound came from inside the tent, Beatrice grabbed the dagger from the scabbard at his side and slid it through the fabric at the back of the tent. She grimaced at the sound, but didn’t cease her actions. As soon as the tear was big enough to step through she stuck the dagger securely behind the belt wrapped low about her waist. At least she’d have some type of weapon at hand.
Beatrice exited the tent, then paused to determine which way to run. While the road they’d made camp alongside would be the easiest way back to Montreau, her brother’s keep two days north, it would also prove the easiest way for Charles and his companions to capture her.
She stared into the darkness of the woods, wondering what terrors would lie in that direction. The dagger at her side wouldn’t prove very useful if she truly needed to defend her life, but it gave her an odd sense of bravery.
‘Charles?’ Bruce, one of his companions, called from the front of the tent.
Knowing her time to decide was past, Beatrice grasped hold of her slender thread of bravery tightly and ran into the dark woods before anyone could notice Charles’s prone body or her absence.
Without looking back, she ran until her legs ached and her heart raced from the effort. The brightness of the full moon had provided some light for her desperate escape through the dense brush bordering the forest, but under this thicker canopy of trees she was unable to see clearly and tripped over yet another gnarled root. Her knees throbbed from the repeated times she’d fallen on to the hard ground and her shoulder burned from where she’d scraped against a tree trunk as she fell.
‘I