Denise Lynn - At The Warrior's Mercy

More was something he couldn’t have—not from her. The only thing he would gain from her was hatred.

‘Gregor?’

He took a deep breath and rose on suddenly shaking legs.

She tipped her head and studied him with obvious concern, causing him to clench his teeth at the sharp prick to his heart.

A soft knock on the chamber door stopped him from having to say anything. ‘My lord? I am putting the things you requested right outside the door.’

He opened the door to find the waiting pile. Gregor picked up the stack and after quickly sorting through what seemed serviceable enough clothing, he tossed them on to the bed. ‘Not as fine as you are used to, but they’ll be dry. I’ll step out while you put them on.’

Before she could once again question his obvious change in mood, he grabbed his boots, walked out of the chamber, slamming the door closed behind him, and headed below. It was doubtful any amount of ale would make tomorrow bearable, but a throbbing head would provide a good excuse to avoid her, or to be surly enough in her presence that she’d wish to avoid any conversation.

For now, that seemed the best course of action.

* * *

Beatrice flinched at the coldness in his tone which he’d punctuated by slamming the door closed on his hasty exit.

What was wrong with the man?

She frowned, mentally going over everything they had said since coming back up to this bedchamber. And yet, rehashing their conversation repeatedly provided her with no answer.

True, she’d laughed at his display of aggression, but he’d not seemed angered by her lack of composure, a little surprised perhaps, just as he had when she hadn’t quivered in terror at knowing his identity. Neither of those things had brought about a change in his demeanour.

That hadn’t happened until she’d told him her name.

Why?

Somehow she was going to have to reason this out on her own, because it was doubtful he was going to tell her.

She pulled the pile of clothing closer to her and shook her head. The wool gown and serviceable shift were every bit as fine as what she wore at Warehaven. Did he think she always dressed in fine-spun linen and silk bedecked with embroidery and gems?

If so, then he obviously didn’t know the workings of a large keep, or the women who saw to its day-to-day operation. If she’d shown up in the kitchens dressed in such finery, Cook would have sent for her lady mother long before Beatrice could stir a pot or knead a loaf of bread.

To her great relief, she found a large towel mixed in with the garments. She stripped off her ruined slippers and stockings, then glanced at the door. It was doubtful that Gregor would barge in on her, but there were others about. Knowing she’d never be able to fit the bar into place, she dragged the bench in front of the door. It wouldn’t stop anyone from entering, but the noise it would make as the door shoved it across the wooden floor would warn her of the intruder’s presence.

Anxious to once again be dry and warm, Beatrice struggled with the laces of her gown. The wet knots refused to give and she knew she’d never be able to gather the skirt and pull it over her head.

She cursed through gritted teeth, then spied the small dagger. With no one to help her, there wasn’t any choice in the matter of removing her wet clothes.

And it wasn’t as if she was ever going to wear this gown again—she wanted nothing that would remind her of Charles. Perhaps, once it was washed and dried, there would be enough decent fabric left for someone to use. If nothing else, they could pick the gems free from the embroidery. Surely that would be payment enough for the clothing the maid had brought.

Beatrice stuck the tip of the blade through the neck edge of the gown and cringed. She’d spent a goodly amount of time on not just the sewing of the gown, but on the trim work, too. With a determined stroke, she sliced the gown down to her waist.

It took some doing, but after slitting the shoulders and tops of the sleeves, she managed to pull her arms free of the wet, clingy fabric and let the gown fall to the floor at her feet.

However, she wasn’t as willing to destroy the fine pleated chemise. It was her best one and she wasn’t leaving it behind for someone to salvage. Gathering the long skirt in her hands, she leaned over and peeled it from her body. It was thin enough that it would dry quickly by the brazier.

While drying herself off, she kept glancing towards the door. Other than her name she’d said nothing that could account for the swift change of Gregor’s mood. What was it about her name that had put him off so quickly?

As one of King David’s men, he had to recognise the name Warehaven, since King David and her grandfather King Henry were brothers by marriage and King Henry had never hidden her father’s identity as one of his natural-born sons.

King David was also Matilda’s uncle and the Empress, her father’s half-sister, had recently been demanding more ships from Warehaven. Demands that Beatrice knew her father had ignored. It was highly likely that David thought to defend his niece by sending his own demands to Warehaven, using Gregor as the messenger.

Perhaps once King David learned the reason for her father’s refusal he would understand Warehaven’s reluctance. Matilda and her husband Geoffrey’s ill use of the ships and men had resulted in the loss of three vessels along with the souls of all the men aboard. A horrible blunder that her father hadn’t taken lightly, one he refused to chance repeating. Those men had had families. Wives and children for whom he now felt responsible. Besides, he had worked too hard for what he had and wasn’t about to hand it all over to Matilda for her ongoing fight to wrest the throne from King Stephen.

If Gregor was acting as a messenger for King David, it would explain why he was travelling without an armed escort, since he would travel faster on his own.

Beatrice slipped into the dry clothing and then sat down on the bed with a soft gasp of exasperation. All of this was only speculation on her part, but if he was headed to Warehaven it was going to be difficult to slip away from him. She was not going to risk showing up at Warehaven’s gate in the company of a man not related to her.

He might consider that a minor obstacle easily overcome with words, but she knew better. Her parents wouldn’t care who he was, or why he was there. They wouldn’t listen to his explanation. The only thing they would see was that their daughter had been alone with him, unprotected, unguarded for days.

By the time her father finished blustering and her mother ceased harping, she and Gregor would find themselves together in their marriage bed trying to determine how they got there.

A flush warmed her cheeks. Just the thought of being in any bed with Gregor made her dizzy. She couldn’t begin to imagine what she’d do if it were to ever happen.

Beatrice patted the mattress beneath her. It was soft, not too lumpy and the covers appeared to be clean. She glanced out of the narrow window. The sun wouldn’t rise for a couple of hours yet and she had no desire to head off in the dark again.

She slid further back on the bed to stretch out and froze. King David wouldn’t squander his Wolf on simply delivering a message. If Gregor was headed to Warehaven, and from his reaction upon hearing her name she was convinced that was his destination, it was to deliver more than a message.

Perhaps his presence was meant to ensure that whatever request, or demand, made was met.

And what would happen if it wasn’t?

Her stomach knotted. She knew how badly her aunt the Empress wanted those ships. How far would King David go to ensure their delivery?

If her father once again declined to supply them, would Gregor simply try to take them?