At The Warrior's Mercy. Denise Lynn
been without the oversight and guidance of your lady’s maid or at the very least a guard, you’ll tell them what? That you slipped away under the cover of darkness with your lover?’
Beatrice closed her eyes. He had a point. Since everything had gone awry so suddenly, leaving her more worried about her safety, she’d given no thought to tomorrow or the days after, let alone the day she’d arrive at Warehaven.
She most certainly wasn’t going to tell her parents that she’d run away from Montreau with Charles. With her luck they would force the two of them to wed just to save her reputation. She’d rather die than become Charles’s wife.
When she didn’t respond, he suggested, ‘You will lie to save face.’
She twisted the edges of her once-fine sleeve in her hand. ‘Yes, you are correct. I will lie to them. But not to save face.’
‘Oh? Then why? Surely not to save the man who so obviously caused you such distress that you ran away in the middle of the night.’
‘No!’ she nearly shouted. She swallowed, hoping to soften her tone before adding, ‘He can rot in Hades for all I care.’
At that comment, the man did laugh and, to her amazement, Beatrice found that she rather liked the sound of his mirth. It was deep and full, an honest laugh that seemed unforced.
‘Well, at least you hold no misguided hope that he’ll change his underhanded ways.’
‘That is not likely to happen.’
The man frowned and leaned forward to slowly study her before asking, ‘Did he harm you? Is there any reason I should go below and show him the error of his ways?’
‘You sound like my brother.’
‘I doubt that. I’m sure your family would go down there and soundly trounce the fiend long before they thought to ask your blessing.’
That much was true. She shook her head. ‘No, he did not harm me. I knocked him out with a water pitcher before he could do more than pull me into his tent and threaten me.’ Thankfully the rounded metal bottom of the ewer had made just the right contact with his head.
‘Ah, so he does need to learn the benefit of manners.’
When he rose, Beatrice frowned. What was he up to?
He headed towards the door and she gasped, guessing his intent. ‘No. Do not. He is accompanied by two other companions who are just as vile if not more so and I wish them not to know for certain that I am here.’
‘I heard him just as plainly as you did.’ He rolled his eyes before removing the timber bar from the door. ‘He already knows you are here. Either he saw you enter, or someone below told him about a woman seeking help. He and his companions aren’t going to leave without you in tow.’ He turned back to face her, adding, ‘I am not about to let that happen. Besides, three men who see fit to terrorise a defenceless woman will prove little threat to my well-being. Once I have finished with them they’ll think twice about not keeping their distance from you.’
His words only served to increase her confusion. ‘Why would you do that for me? I am not a member of your family. You know me not.’
‘You are a lady alone in need of help. Should I turn my back and leave you to your fate when I know how unpleasant that fate will prove? No. I have enough stains upon my soul without adding another that I could have easily prevented.’
Beatrice sprang from the bed and rushed to grab his arm. ‘No. Please. Do nothing. I’ve caused you enough trouble already.’
He easily shook off her hold. ‘Quiet yourself. I have every intention of returning you to your family and I’ll not have them question your safety while under my care.’
‘No. I—’
But before she could beg him not to confront Charles, he’d stripped off his tunic, tossed it on to the bench and was gone.
She wrung her hands. What was she to do now? She didn’t want him to put himself out for her, no matter how much she appreciated his kind offer of help. However, she didn’t want him to return her to her family, because then she’d have to explain everything to them and she wished to avoid that at all costs. On the other hand, she most certainly didn’t want to risk him losing a fight with Charles and his friends because that would only leave her at their not-so-tender mercy.
She raced back to the small table, grabbed the pitcher and then emptied the water out of the window. Instead of standing here fretting, the least thing she could do was be there to lend a hand if needed.
By the time she made it to the bottom step the fight was all but over. Charles and one of his friends were prone on the floor of the inn. The third man was winded and backing towards the door as her rescuer pummelled him with fists to the stomach and face. She blinked and nearly missed the punch to the man’s jaw that sent him flying from his feet, backwards out the door to the boisterous delight of those watching.
Beatrice didn’t know whether to be impressed with his strength, skill, the fact that he’d so easily defended her honour, or the muscles evident in his arms and shoulders beneath his thin shirt.
No! Not again. Had she not just learned that lesson? Judging a man by his looks was more than foolish—it was dangerous and it was something she’d vowed never to repeat.
She’d once asked her sister Isabella if her betrothed’s arms were strong enough to hold her if she swooned from his kisses, as if that was any trait on which to base a marriage. Isabella’s embarrassment when discussing the form of men had made her laugh. No more.
It was time she grew up. And it was far past time that she started thinking about her future like a woman, not a child. She needed to be more like her sister and consider something besides looks—things like strength, honour, truthfulness, a sense of humour and perhaps even kindness for a start. When had Charles ever shown her any of those qualities? Never.
Yet, this stranger walking towards her with his face devoid of any expression—not prideful ego at how he’d soundly trounced the other three men, nor regret that he’d done so—had shown not only strength, but he’d pulled her from the stream and offered her a place to get dry and warm. He could have walked away when he’d seen her in the water and she would never have known.
Not a word was spoken when he stopped before her, he simply extended his arm, motioning her to return upstairs. When she remained rooted to the bottom step, he walked past her up the stairs.
Beatrice turned and followed him, feeling oddly hesitant. Her pulse quickened with a nervous tension she couldn’t quite define. She shook her head at her sudden bout of uncertainty. My, my, wasn’t she just full of indecision at the moment.
This inability to decide was foreign to her. Before this night she’d easily made up her mind and acted, whether said decision—or action—was in her best interest or not.
What was it about this man that made her so...confused and off balance?
He once again closed the door behind them after she’d entered the bedchamber and then turned to stare at her, a single eyebrow arched in obvious question.
She looked down, in the direction of his stare and shrugged before waving the empty pitcher. ‘I thought perhaps you might need assistance.’
‘And you planned to toss water on us?’
‘Heavens, no.’ She tipped the pitcher on end. ‘I’d emptied it to use as a head smasher.’
‘Ah.’ The corners of his lips quirked. ‘I take it smashing heads is your preferred way of protecting yourself?’
Since he seemed in the mood to tease her, Beatrice lifted her chin and shot him what she hoped was a threatening glare. ‘Yes.’ She shook the pitcher at him. ‘And I’m very handy at it, too.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
She walked around the bed