Читать книгу At The Warrior's Mercy - Denise Lynn - Страница 12
ОглавлениеWhile the noisy, smoke-filled inn had been an unexpected find, Gregor of Roul had been glad for the warmth and shelter it had provided him earlier when he’d sought to escape the company of his men for a few hours of time alone and had no aversion to being once again beneath its thatched roof.
He raised his cup, only to find it empty, and signalled one of the maids over to his rough-hewn table in the far corner near the fire.
She placed a jug of ale before him, then lingered to give him an assessing gaze—a look signalling that she didn’t know anything about his reputation or his identity.
He wondered idly what women saw when they looked at him before they realised who he was—when they gazed upon him as if he were just a man instead of a treacherous beast. Did they see that his once coal-black hair had started turning silver too early, making him look far older than his twenty-eight years? Or did the strand of silvery-white hair hanging across his forehead make them think of the wolves that populated his ancestor’s demesne lands in Normandy, giving them the name Roul?
Did they notice that his nose was crooked from one too many fights? Or the jagged scar that ran the length of his jawbone, accentuated now by the stubble from not shaving these last three days on the road. Did these imperfections make him appear a warrior to be pitied, or one to be feared?
He knew the very second she realised who she might be serving. Men would instinctively reach for their weapon and willingly choose avoidance if possible. But as happened more often than not with women, her smile vanished and the tell-tale shimmer of fear brightened her widening eyes and enlarged her pupils.
‘Will you be needing anything else?’ Her previous warmth cooled, leaving her tone curt and distracted as if she couldn’t get away quickly enough.
Gregor sighed. Had he been anyone else, she’d have followed her query with a saucy wink and lingering touch on his shoulder to let him know that if he was so tempted, she’d be more than willing to keep him company this night.
She was a fine-looking young woman, with blond hair that tumbled in loose waves down her back and a gown laced so snugly that nothing of her curvaceous form was left to his imagination.
But it wasn’t a blonde serving wench who filled his thoughts at the moment. Instead a dark-haired, headstrong, wayward lady flitted around in his mind. One with the take-charge spirit of a warrior, flashing green eyes full of curiosity, an impertinent mouth that begged to be kissed and a lack of fear that both fascinated and intrigued him.
He’d been intrigued from the moment she’d grasped his hand. Had she felt the same shocking spark of warmth flow through her at the contact as he’d experienced? Or during that brief moment when she’d rested against his chest, had she been struck by the rightness of it, as if that was where she belonged?
Even though it would make no difference, he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen when she discovered who had come to her rescue. A small part of him wished that, just for a moment perhaps, her impertinence could be far stronger than any fear.
He blinked. What was he thinking? The last thing he needed was a woman, especially one who had caught his interest, distracting him from the task at hand. It was bad enough that when he’d seen her tumble down the hill, then slip into the water he’d felt strangely compelled to lend assistance. It had gone from bad to worse when he’d grasped her hand to pull her from the water and had looked into her eyes—something inside him had sparked to life—something that was best left alone. He didn’t need to make things impossible by imagining things that could never be.
Forcing his attention back to the waiting maid, he added a couple of pennies to the charge for the ale, something extra for her, and shook his head. ‘No, there’s nothing else I require.’
She reached down with a trembling hand, scooped up the coins quickly and nearly ran from his table.
‘Please, someone, help me.’
Ah, he recognised that voice. She’d chosen to accept his protection after all. Not that she’d really had a choice as his intention had been to let her stew for a short time, then go and find her.
He shouldered his way through the now-gathering throng of men surrounding her and grasped her elbow. ‘Come with me.’
She followed him without hesitation, until he paused before his table and waved her to take a seat on the bench.
‘No. I cannot. There is no time.’ She paused to cast a furtive glance towards the door, adding, ‘I need to hide.’
Gregor adjusted his cloak that was still about her shoulders and pulled up the hood to conceal her features. He waved the maid over again to ask, ‘Is there an available room above?’ At her nod, he placed more than enough coins in her palm and said, ‘You’ve not seen either of us.’
Her eyes bulged at the amount in her hand, but finally she replied, ‘I’ll let the others know.’
Thankful for that bit of assistance from one so reluctant, he added more coins to what he’d already given her. ‘I thank you. See to it that everyone has a full cup.’ He paused for a quick glance down at the woman he sought to hide, then handed the maid even more coins, saying, ‘If you have any dry clothing available, it would be more than welcome.’
The woman’s eyes once again grew wide, but this time with shock instead of fear. She closed her fingers tightly over what must seem to her riches in her palm and nodded.
Gregor turned his focus back on the woman shivering at his side and placed a hand on the small of her back. ‘Come. You can hide above.’
She hesitated. He read the uncertainty in her piercing green gaze. He understood her indecision—even though they’d spoken by the stream, she truly didn’t know him and couldn’t be certain that he didn’t pose an even greater threat than those she wanted so desperately to avoid.
The door to the inn opened once again, letting a cold gust of wind enter and whip through to swirl around his ankles. Her stare jumped towards the door. Gregor leaned slightly closer to ask, ‘The wolves at the door, or the one at your side who has yet to have offered you harm?’
And her gaze darted once again, this time, as he knew it would, to the shock of silver now hanging low over his forehead. For whatever reason, she hadn’t been afraid of him before, but now he saw the flicker of fear in her eyes. He caught her uncertain stare with his own and held it, promising, ‘You can trust me, my lady.’
As three men entered the inn, she bolted for the stairs. Not wanting her to draw attention, Gregor draped an arm across her shoulders. ‘Slowly, as if we’re simply two lovers headed above.’
She stiffened momentarily at the insinuation, but slowed her steps.
Once they reached the upper landing, he lowered his arm and pushed open the first door. Ushering her inside, he closed the door behind them and then dropped the thick locking bar in place.
Beatrice’s breath caught in her throat at the sound of the timber falling securely into the iron holders. What had she done? While it was true that for this moment she was safe from Charles and his companions, she was now locked into a bedchamber with a man she did not know.
Outside of this inn he’d been oddly easy to talk to, but now the fear she’d not felt then welled to life.
He had jumped to her aid so quickly. Too willingly, perhaps? Had he done so out of chivalry? Had he done so for his own nefarious reasons? Reasons that would leave her in greater peril than she’d faced from Charles?
It mattered little now. Her fate was sealed. Whatever was going to happen was out of her hands as she had no way to escape. The only window in this room was nothing more than an un-shuttered narrow slit that she’d never be able to fit through and the timber bar across the door was thicker than her forearm. It would prove far too heavy for her to remove alone.
After once again mentally cursing her rashness in leaving Montreau, she took a breath and watched the man closely.
He walked around the edge of the room, keeping as far away from her as space would permit in this small bedchamber.
For that she was grateful, but she knew that it would take no more than a quick lunge from him to reach her.
He picked up the pitcher from the small table against the wall on the other side of the bed and poured water into the ready cup. After taking a swallow, he extended the cup, asking, ‘Thirsty?’
Even though her body was wet and cold, she was parched. While the water would quench her thirst, she worried that by accepting his offer she would put herself too close, enabling him to grab her. Beatrice shook her head, eyeing the water with longing. ‘No, thank you.’
He raised a dark eyebrow and set the drinking vessel back down on the table. ‘It is here if you want it later.’ And then walked back along the walls to take a seat on the small bench next to the door.
Beatrice’s glance returned to the water. Her mouth was so dry that she wondered if her tongue would stick to the roof of it permanently.
‘By the sound of it, your pursuer seems to be in no hurry to leave, so we’re going to be here a while. Drink the water. Remove that heavy cloak and sit near the brazier to dry before you catch your death of cold.’
Beatrice moved to the other side of the bed and raised the cup to her lips. The cool water quenched the dryness of her mouth. She shot the man a glance. He’d leaned the back of his head against the wall and closed his eyes. She let the cloak slip from her shoulders, trying not to sigh aloud at the absence of its over-warm weight and spread it out on the end of the bed where she could feel the heat of the coals. Careful to keep her soiled gown wrapped close about her, she sat on top of the cloak and stared down at her lap.
In the still quiet of the room even her breathing seemed loud to her. Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck rose. That prickly sensation of someone staring at her, watching her, studying her, stalking her like prey chased warning shivers down her spine.
Beatrice hazarded a quick glance over her shoulder and met his intent blue-grey stare.
‘So now your fear has caught up with you.’
He hadn’t phrased it as a question, but she felt compelled to answer. ‘It seems that way, yes.’
‘Earlier outside with nothing but the moon as a witness you were not afraid. But here, with an inn full of people who would hear any scream for help, you are suddenly overcome with fear? Where is the sense in that?’
Beatrice shrugged a shoulder. How was she supposed to make enough sense of her emotions to be able to explain them to him when she could barely understand them herself? So much had happened this day that her thoughts and senses were all awhirl with confusion.
Finally, knowing he waited for an answer, she nodded towards the barred door. ‘Outside I had somewhere to run if needed. In here I am trapped by solid walls and a door I could not unbar no matter how hard I tried.’
She then patted the lumpy mattress beneath her. ‘And it is obvious that the place to do the deed if you chose is at hand.’
His bark of laughter surprised her. To her relief he remained seated on the small bench.
‘You truly are an innocent. Trust me when I tell you that while a bed might be more comfortable for you, I could just as easily make do with the ground.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘Or press your back against a tree, lift your gown and do the deed, as you call it, standing up.’
His eyes shimmered and a crooked half-smile curved his lips as if the thought of doing just what he’d described pleased him.
Unable to swallow or catch her breath, Beatrice tore her gaze from his and again stared down at her lap. The tremors racing along her spine now had nothing to do with fear or cold and her imaginative thoughts were making her much warmer than had the heavy cloak.
His deep, soft chuckle before he fell blessedly silent didn’t help at all. It only made her bite her lower lip to hold back a gasp at the heat now burning her cheeks.
It took more than a few moments, but finally her breathing returned to normal and she noticed the voices below filtering up through the floor. Charles was still below, his voice was loud enough to be heard clearly as he demanded she come out of hiding. A demand that would go unmet.
‘Why is he so intent on finding you?’
She jumped at the sudden break in the quiet of this room. Uncertain how to respond, she remained silent.
‘You didn’t lie to me, did you? You aren’t a runaway wife?’
‘No, I did not lie. Thankfully, I am not his wife. But I could have been.’
Beatrice frowned. Why had she added that last bit? Maybe the gentleness of the stranger’s gravelly voice had lulled her into giving away information best left unspoken.
‘Perhaps now is the time to discover your story. How is it you could have been, but aren’t? Is he your betrothed?’
She shifted on the bed, so she could look at him, then shook her head. ‘My parents wouldn’t permit it.’
‘Mayhap they had their reasons?’
‘I am certain now that they did.’ She wished that they had shared their reasons with her, instead of just insisting he was not suitable.
‘Ah, but yet here you are without any chaperon at hand, being chased by him. Did he kidnap you and somehow you escaped?’
‘It was no kidnapping.’
‘So you went with him willingly and when he tried to take what was not his, you ran.’
‘Yes.’
‘Obviously you’d known this man for a while.’
‘Nearly three years.’
‘I suppose you thought that having conversed with him in the company of others made you believe you could trust him in private.’
She felt the flush rush up her neck to cover her face.
His soft laugh drew her attention, prompting her to ask, ‘What do you find so amusing?’
‘You,’ he answered simply.
‘Why me?’ As far as Beatrice was aware, she’d done nothing anyone could consider amusing in the least. Nothing about this day had been amusing.
‘I trust you do not gamble, for if you did, your face would give you away.’
What an odd thing to say. ‘How so?’
‘Your flushed cheeks tell me plainly that you and your would-be suitor were not always chaperoned.’
To her horror, her cheeks flamed again. ‘That is none of your concern.’
‘Concern is not my intent. I thought only to point out your inability to lie.’
‘Since I was not raised to do so, then perhaps my lack of skill is a good thing.’
‘Certainly. At least until you find the need to do so.’
‘Hopefully, I will never find myself in dire enough straits where I need to lie.’
He nodded, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch in what she assumed would be another laugh at her expense.
However, he didn’t laugh, or even smile, instead he said, ‘I would guess it is now your intention to return to the safety of your family.’
Since he was basically stating the obvious, she only nodded in reply.
‘And when they ask where you’ve 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 and set the pitcher back on the small table before once again taking a seat on the cloak. ‘When the sun rises, I will take my leave.’
‘No. That’s not a good idea.’
‘But I need to return to my home.’ Without someone who could tell her parents what she’d done. Their last missive to Jared had said they’d be returning to Warehaven soon. She wasn’t certain if they’d returned yet or not, but it was a risk she didn’t wish to take.
‘I may have warned off those threatening you, but that doesn’t make it safe for you to head off on your own. I can’t in good conscience let a woman go traipsing about alone and unprotected. I will escort you.’
‘No. That’s not necessary. I’m certain they’ve learned their lesson and will bother me no further.’ Although, knowing how doggedly determined Charles could be at times, there was still a chance he hadn’t given up for good. It would not surprise her in the least if he showed up at Warehaven intent on telling her parents that she’d left Montreau alone with him, hoping to force her into a marriage to save her reputation. She could only pray that she arrived at Warehaven well ahead of him.
He shrugged. ‘They may or may not have learned their lesson. So, travelling alone is not wise.’
Somehow she had to dissuade him. ‘My home is a long way from here, I wouldn’t want to squander your time. I am certain I can hire someone to serve as a safe escort, someone with free time to spare.’ Actually, at the moment she had little idea how far away Warehaven was, other than it was still south, since yesterday the sun had passed over them from her left to her right.
He sat down on the bench and started to remove his boots. ‘I have nothing pressing at the moment, so you need not worry about squandering my time.’
This would not do. ‘And what do you think would happen should I show up at the gates escorted by you? How would I explain that?’
‘Fear not, I am under royal orders, your parents will believe whatever I tell them.’
That took her by surprise. She’d assumed he was a warrior, but a royal knight on business for his liege? She didn’t care to ask which royal because both King Stephen and the Empress Matilda were related to her family through her father, so one of their men escorting her home could prove disastrous—it would only encourage her parents to ask more questions than normal.
Regardless of which royal held this man’s allegiance, his travelling alone on some official business didn’t make sense to her. Normally he’d have a squad of soldiers and guards in his party.
She stared hard at him then asked, ‘Who are you?’
He toed off one boot, letting it thud to the floor. ‘Gregor of Roul.’
Beatrice closed her eyes in disbelief. This man was King David’s Wolf? Somehow, he wasn’t at all what she would have expected. He was too young, too comely and far too kind to be the dreaded warrior spoken of in tales of horror. She would have thought he’d be someone much older, more scar riddled, surly, completely without mercy and fearsome. But then wolves were a sly lot, were they not?
She opened her eyes to look at him and then sighed at the odd question that immediately sprang to her mind, since after all Roul meant wolf.
He narrowed his gaze at her briefly before loosening the ties of his remaining boot. ‘I can see the questions causing frown lines on your face. What do you wish to ask?’
She glanced at him to judge his mood. When he didn’t seem distressed in the least, she let the question roll off her tongue. ‘And how many times have you been called the Wolf of Roul?’
‘Too many times to count. It has been my name for my entire life.’ He let his other boot fall. ‘The silver in my hair doesn’t help in avoiding the question. And this bit—’ he flicked the finger-wide swath of silver hanging over his forehead ‘—has been there for as long as I can remember.’
‘Ah.’ He sounded as if he didn’t like the odd colouring. Did he not realise how strikingly pleasing it made him appear?
‘And still you don’t fear me?’
Beatrice frowned. Of course she’d heard the tales told of this man. If King David needed some distasteful or difficult task completed, he sent his Wolf. It mattered little how the deed was handled, once the order was given, no one escaped the Wolf’s grasp.
So, yes, she should be terrified of him. She should probably quake and wail in fear that he was about to add her to his long list of those he’d dispatched to their maker.
And while his reputation made her leery, there was no reason for King David to have ordered her death. Besides, this man had offered her no harm thus far. In truth, he’d lent more help than she would have expected from any warrior. Finally, she shook her head and admitted, ‘You are not what rushes to my mind when I overhear hushed whispers of King David’s Wolf.’
‘Did you expect blood to be dripping from my teeth?’
‘There is no cause to be so gruesome.’ She glanced around the room before stating the obvious. ‘I am completely at your mercy, yet you have offered me no harm.’
‘That doesn’t mean I won’t.’
Her judgement of men had been sorely taxed this day and had come up wanting. She was in no position to pass any judgement on him, a man she knew only by reputation. A reputation that claimed he was more than just ruthless. Yet she had seen no evidence offered to prove she was in any danger. ‘Are you seeking to intentionally frighten me?’
When he didn’t answer, she said, ‘I just watched you soundly thrash three men, all of whom lived. I would not have shed a single tear for any of them had they died. Yet contrary to the tales told of King David’s Wolf, you left them alive and breathing. But now I am to believe you will take my life without any cause whatsoever?’
‘You are a strange woman.’
‘Perhaps. But I have sorely misjudged a man I thought I knew well this day. Would it make sense for me to judge you based on hearsay alone?’
When he once again didn’t answer her question, she said, ‘I told you before that I would rather die at a stranger’s hand than one I thought I knew well. I cannot stop you, so if it is my blood you wish to shed, then do so and be done with it.’
He rose slowly, filling the space in the small chamber, towering over her even from across the room. Then he furrowed his brow and glared at her, giving the impression of targeted rage.
Beatrice felt her eyes widen as her heart kicked hard inside her chest before settling back down into a more normal rhythm. Oh, yes, she imagined that he could be very intimidating when he wished.
From his harsh expression, she also imagined he could be quite deadly when the situation required. She’d already witnessed his accuracy and speed with his fists when he’d fought with Charles and his companions, so she doubted if he’d be any less accurate with a sword, mace or a battle axe.
However, if he thought his stance and glowering countenance would make her quake in fear of her pending death, he was wrong.
She was a warrior’s daughter and another warrior’s sister. She’d grown up playing at the docks and shipyard. She’d seen men lose their tempers, become enraged more than once and had witnessed the grisly outcome of many a fight. Even so she knew if he were to make a move to attack her she’d quickly find herself shaking from fright. However, the events of this day, combined with the simple fact that his eyes glimmered far too much for one seeking to instil fear, made it impossible to take him seriously.
When he deepened his scowl, she burst out laughing.
He sat back down on the bench. ‘Not quite the reaction I had expected.’
‘I...am sorry...truly sorry...please...’ Beatrice managed to choke out what she hoped sounded like an apology before she gave up to wave a hand in the air, then wiped the tears from her eyes as she fought to catch her breath. ‘I do apologise, nothing this day has been expected. I assure you, I am normally not this...this...’
‘Brazen?’ Gregor supplied.
She did her best to temper her mirth before it once again escaped. Never before had she actually laughed so rudely at someone. Her mother would be horrified by her behaviour. Beatrice knew that in truth both of her parents would be horrified by everything she’d done the last few days.
Thankfully, Gregor didn’t appear horrified, or angry at her outburst. She really did need to treat him with a bit more respect. It would also be wise if she was a little more wary around him considering who he was and how she’d placed herself at his mercy.
That thought helped lessen her humour. She folded her hands in her lap, took a deep steadying breath and once again said, ‘I am sorry for laughing at you.’
He sighed, his shoulders heaving as if in defeat. ‘You’ve no need to apologise. I was intentionally seeking to make you feel at ease by acting like a fool. Apparently I underestimated my abilities.’
She felt her lip quiver and turned her head away, praying she’d not burst into laughter once again.
Certain she could retain control over her emotions, she turned back to look at him.
He leaned against the wall. ‘Now that you know who I am, it’s your turn.’
‘I suppose it’s only right that you know who you defended so handily.’ She found herself oddly nervous at the idea of divulging something as personal as her name. Shaking off her sudden qualms, she said, ‘I am Beatrice of Warehaven.’
His reaction was immediate. And strange.
A brief widening of his eyes was followed by a frown which he tried to cover by rubbing a hand across his forehead.
Beatrice’s stomach fluttered uneasily. ‘Is something the matter?’
