Denise Lynn - At The Warrior's Mercy

In the space of a few hours, Gregor of Roul had done more to show he was decent and kind-hearted than Charles had in three years.

Perhaps she had little need to worry about the Wolf’s intent. Surely a man this thoughtful wasn’t planning any nefarious deeds for Warehaven. She had probably fretted for naught and could only attribute her unfounded fears last night to Charles’s underhanded actions and her subsequent escape from him.

‘My lady?’

The maid’s query drew Beatrice’s attention away from her thoughts and back to the maid. ‘Yes?’

The woman held a pair of soft boots and stockings. ‘Will you have need of these?’

She glanced down at her ruined slippers on the floor near the end of the bed. Even had they not been beyond repair, they would do her little good for the journey home. She snatched a handful of smaller gemstones from the bedside table. ‘Yes, I will, thank you. You are welcome to make use of whatever fabric you can salvage from my gown and these.’

The maid’s mouth fell open. She glanced at the gown hanging from a hook near the door to the gems in Beatrice’s outstretched hand. ‘No, that is too much. Your lord already overpaid for what we’ve provided.’

Overpaid? Charles would have demanded whatever he’d wanted and then haggled the cost down to nearly nothing—or even taken what he wanted without payment of any kind. ‘You will be doing me a favour. I have no desire to ever wear or see the gown again, but it would be a shame to have it thrown away or used for rags when there is quite a bit of fabric that could be used.’

She dropped the gems into the maid’s hands and gently closed the woman’s fingers over them. ‘And these are nothing more than flawed stones, just brightly coloured baubles to use for decoration.’

‘Thank you, my lady. I know not what to say. Is there anything else you need?’

Beatrice smiled at the woman’s obvious nervousness. ‘No. You’ve done more than enough already. Thank you.’

‘It has been my pleasure.’ The maid paused, then added, ‘Safe travels, my lady.’

Once the maid left, Beatrice finished dressing and getting ready for the day. She used a ruined stocking to tie her pouch of remaining gemstones to her belt, plucked the heavy cloak off the bedpost and headed below.

Gregor awaited her at the bottom of the stairs. She would know him anywhere by the glint of silver in his otherwise dark hair. He leaned against the wall, his back towards her, talking to one of his men.

When he turned to face her, Beatrice’s breath caught and she slowed her descent. The sudden, rapid beating of her heart took her by surprise. How was it possible that a man clad in chainmail could be so striking?

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