Iris Johansen - The Beloved Scoundrel

She stared at him, stunned.

“Come with me,” he repeated. His eyes glinted with recklessness. “It’s clear you were sent to me as a gift, and I never refuse a gift from the gods.”

She started backing away from him, looking at him as if he had gone mad. Well, he felt a little mad at the moment. Despair and anger had changed to hope, and that could be a heady brew.

“How can you take care of your Alex without help? He needs hot food and warm clothing. I can give it to you.”

She hesitated. “Why… would you do this?”

“Perhaps I wish to do my kindly Christian duty and aid two orphans,” he said mockingly.

Those clear blue eyes searched his expression. “But I think you’re not a kind man.”

“How clever of you to realize that fact, but you’re not entirely correct. I do practice kindness… when it’s convenient. It is convenient now. Isn’t that fortunate for you and your Alex?”

She shook her head, her gaze clinging to his.

He could see she wanted desperately to be convinced. All he had to do was say the words she wanted to hear. He tried to decide the best way to proceed. Persuading women to do as he wanted them to do had never been a problem for him. He had learned to charm and beguile before he left the nursery. Yet he was curiously reluctant to lie to this big-eyed waif. “You’re quite right. I’ve never been known to follow the path of duty. I’ve always found it an abysmal bore.” He continued crisply. “Very well, I do have a reason for wanting to help you, but I have no intention of divulging it at present. If you want to come with me, then you’ll do so on my terms. You’ll agree to obey me without question, and in return I’ll promise that there will be food and shelter and protection for both of you as long as you’re under my care. If you choose not to come, then you can stay here in these ruins and let your brother starve to death.”

He turned and started back up the aisle. It was a gamble. He had no intention of leaving her here even if it meant abducting her, but it would be simpler if she made the decision.

“Wait.”

He stopped but didn’t turn around. “You’re coming with me?”

“Yes.” She moved brusquely forward ahead of him. “I’ll go with you.” She added quickly, “For now. But Alex stays in the garden until I’m sure it’s safe. I’ll take food and blankets to him.”

“As you like. But you’d better make up your mind quickly. I intend to leave this town by sunrise.”

“That’s too soon,” she said, panic-stricken.

“Sunrise,” he repeated. “What did the boy call you? Marianna?”

“Marianna Sanders.”

“Sanders.” He opened the heavy door for her. “That’s not a Montavian name.”

“My father was English.” She slanted him a glance. “Like you.”

He recalled his outburst of profanity when he had seen the broken window. “And your mother?”

She looked away from him. “Montavian.” She asked quickly, “Why is an Englishman in Montavia?”

“Because he wants to be,” he said mockingly. “You’ve not asked me my name. I’m hurt you have so little interest when we’re to be fast companions.”

“Well, what is it?” she said impatiently.

He bowed. “Jordan Draken. At your service.”

A sharp gust of wind struck them as they started down the steps, and she frowned. “It’s getting colder. I need that blanket for Alex. I can’t leave him out there without-”

“Ah, Jordan, you were in the church so long, I thought you were taking holy vows,” a voice boomed.

Marianna stopped short on the steps as she saw the huge man coming toward them. She had thought Jordan Draken was tall, but this was a bear of man, towering almost seven feet.

The giant threw back his head, and his laugh again boomed out. “I should have known you would have found a woman to amuse you even in this deserted hovel.” As he drew closer, the moonlight revealed a face as intimidating as his great bulk. He must be near his fortieth year, and his face reflected evidence that those years had been spent in violence. His nose had been broken, and his gray-streaked black hair was a wild, tousled tangle framing cheekbones that looked as if they had been chipped from a mountain. A jagged white scar curved from his left eye, across his cheek to the corner of his mouth.

“Easy,” Draken said quietly. “It’s only Gregor. He won’t hurt you.”

How did she know that? she wondered wildly. She looked beyond the giant to the men who sat astride their horses at the foot of the steps. There were at least fifteen of them, several bearing flaming torches, and they all looked as wild as this Gregor. They wore black fur hats and strange, quilted bulky tunics trimmed with fox fur and sheepskin, their wide trousers tucked into high leather boots that reached their knees. Rifles were holstered on their saddles, and each man wore a huge sword at his hip. Why had she consented to come with Draken? She knew the answer. Alex was ill. Alex must have warmth and shelter, and it had seemed worth any risk to see if this man could give it to him.

“Stay where you are, Gregor.” Draken turned to her as the giant stopped on the fifth step. “No one will hurt you. I gave you my promise.”

And he had not lied to persuade her to come with him, she remembered. He had given her a choice, and she had made it. She mustn’t be a coward now. She threw her shoulders back and demanded, “Tell him to give me a blanket for Alex.”

An undefinable expression crossed his face. “Very well.” He said to Gregor, “Go fetch a blanket for the lady.”

He nodded his shaggy head and loped back down the steps to a giant of a horse. He opened a saddlebag and took out a sheepskin blanket. He turned, took the stairs three at a time, and stopped before Marianna. “Here.” He thrust the blanket at her and smiled with surprising sweetness. “I’m Gregor Damek, and I know I’m an ugly monster of a fellow, but I don’t eat children. I promise you.”

In that terrifying visage, his hazel eyes were gentle, and she felt the tiniest ripple of warmth go through her as she took the blanket. “My… name is Marianna,” she said haltingly.

“Take the blanket to your brother,” Draken said to her. “We’ll set up camp at the north edge of the town. There will be hot food and a warm fire for you both.” He turned and started down the steps. “If you decide to trust me.”

He had come for the Window. She couldn’t trust anyone who wanted the Window to Heaven. Yet he was English, and why would an Englishman want the Window except for the reason he had given her? Perhaps she could trust him… a little.

“Wait.” Her hand went to the fastening at her throat. “Your cloak.”

“Return it to me later.” He mounted his horse with loose-limbed grace and lifted his hand to his followers. He was not dressed as they were; his tight dark blue trousers, intricately tied cravat, and fine coat reminded her of the kind of clothes Papa had worn when he had visitors from England. Yet, curiously, he did not look out of place with these men. She had a sense he possessed that same wildness, but it was controlled, channeled, as theirs was not.

The hollow clatter of hooves echoed on the cobblestones as the horsemen turned north. He was leaving her, once again letting her make a choice. The knowledge brought a sudden lift of spirits as she clutched the sheepskin blanket to her breasts and hurried back up the steps.

What a frightened little dove.” Gregor’s expression was sad as he looked back over his shoulder at the doorway through which Marianna had disappeared. “There are so many wounded children in this land. It hurts my heart not to be able to help them.”