Denise Lynn - At The Warrior's Mercy

He’d followed, but had been unable to catch up to her until she’d reached the battlements and climbed up on to a crenel. With her arms outstretched, Sarah stood with her palms flat against a merlon on either side. The wind had whipped the long skirt of her gown, as it had her hair—both billowing around her. She’d looked over her shoulder at him. Fear and dread had shimmered in her stare. A frown of what he liked to think was regret had wrinkled her brow. Perhaps she’d had a second thought as she’d perched so high above the ground. But then, in the next heartbeat, she was gone. Nothing but air filled the space between the merlons.

The accusations had started immediately—the Wolf had pushed his new bride to her death—he’d thrown her from the wall in a fit of rage. At first he’d defended himself and the accusations had tapered off to rumours circling behind his back. But nothing would ever rid him of the memory, or the guilt. As far as he was concerned he was guilty—of not being able to stop her from jumping, of not knowing her well enough to realise what she might do and of being so terrifying to her that she chose death.

For a long time after that horrifying life-changing event, he’d thrown himself whole heartedly into the role of being King David’s Wolf in a wasted effort to avoid the nightmares haunting him. If a task required any measure of ruthlessness, the King seemed well pleased to call on Gregor. He’d answered those calls without question, leaving him with an enhanced reputation that made most people, especially women, give him a wide berth.

Sometimes late at night, or when the icy winds of winter threatened to freeze him to the bone, the useless dreams of a wife and family teased at his heart. Those fanciful thoughts were short lived and easily pushed aside, as being alone was for the best. He had too much blood on his hands, too many stains upon his soul. No woman deserved to be burdened with a husband who frightened her to death, or worse prompted her to choose death at her own hands over becoming his wife.

‘Are you listening to me, Wolf?’

Gregor turned his attention fully to his King. ‘Aye, my lord. Warehaven’s lord Randall FitzHenry seems to be absent and I have no wife.’

‘My niece is certain that she has a solution for both...difficulties.’

Considering how irritated the Empress Matilda was with him at the moment for nearly ruining a marriage between two of her noble families, Gregor couldn’t begin to imagine how dreadful her solution might prove. It was doubtful the Empress would ever forgive him for causing strife between Lady Emelina of Mortraine and Comte Souhomme. Obviously she was also irritated with her bastard brother, otherwise Warehaven wouldn’t be considered a difficulty.

Almost as an afterthought, the King added, ‘If you solve these difficulties, your service to me will be fulfilled.’

That promise picked up his spirits. Just the thought of no longer having to pay for his father’s crime was a relief that seemed nearly heaven sent. Gregor asked, ‘What of my brothers?’

‘It is time you think of yourself, Gregor, let them worry about their own service. However, the successful completion of this task might prove beneficial even to them.’

The weight that had been lifted at the mere mention of freedom from this service settled heavily back on to his shoulders. Gregor silently vowed that regardless of how irritated the Empress was with him, or how difficult the task put to him, he would do whatever was necessary to see this mission through to completion.

‘What would you have me do?’

Chapter One

South of Derbyshire—July 1145

‘Do not fight me on this. You will not win.’

Beatrice of Warehaven stared in shock at the man confronting her so boldly in the privacy of his tent.

Charles of Wardham had been the love of her life. With his lean limbs, unblemished face unscarred by any wounds of war, fair hair and oh, so deceptively kind and caring manners, he’d easily won her heart.

How was it possible that this was the same man with whom she’d fallen so desperately in love nearly three years ago?

She stared harder into his pale blue eyes, trying to see through the fog of dismay clouding her vision. Once upon a time she’d wondered if it were possible to drown in his gaze. Now she would be amazed if she did not freeze to death beneath his unwavering icy glare.

Her heart hurt—physically hurt as if it had been splintered by a battering ram as she realised that her parents had been right in their assessment of this man. They trusted him not and were certain something darkly sinister lay beneath his mild exterior. She’d so foolishly been certain of their error in judgement. Certain enough that she’d given little thought to permitting him to escort her back to Warehaven without her family’s knowledge.

‘Come, Beatrice.’

Neither his steady, calm tone of voice, nor the smile that never reached his eyes, fooled her. Never again would she be so fooled by a man, any man—but especially not by this one. She knew there would be nothing gentle about his touch. Even had there been any hint at gentleness, she was not about to give herself to him before they were married and since now she was certain they would never be wed, sharing his bed was not an option.

A bitter coldness of betrayal flowed down her spine. She backed away from his outstretched arm and called out, ‘Edythe!’

Charles laughed at her cry, saying, ‘You waste your breath. Your handmaiden’s attention is occupied elsewhere.’

He parted the flap to the tent, letting the deep boisterous laughs of his two companions float into the stifling confines. Their seductive chuckles were joined by Edythe’s teasing response. Now she knew why Charles had insisted the younger Edythe accompany her instead of Agatha, her former nursemaid. He’d wanted someone who would turn a blind eye to his underhanded plans.

The heat of anger chased away the chill. Beatrice glared at him. Her show of displeasure only drew another laugh from him. ‘Did you just now realise your mistake?’

‘My family will kill you.’

He shrugged, replying, ‘While they may wish to do so, I highly doubt they will.’

‘They are not afraid of you.’

‘I never said they were.’ Charles slowly approached, his intent plain in his lecherous gaze. ‘However, they aren’t about to leave their pregnant daughter without a husband.’

‘I am not carrying your child.’

He wrapped a hand around her upper arm and leaned down to whisper, ‘Not yet, perhaps, but rest assured you will be by the time we leave here.’

She silently cursed her stupidity for giving him a reason to voice such a threat. ‘Why are you doing this? Why can’t you wait until we have a chance to convince my parents of our...devotion to each other?’

Devotion. She nearly choked on the term, but it was the only word she could think of at the moment that wouldn’t draw a humourless laugh—or a cry from her.

His brows rose as his smile turned into a smirk. ‘You think I haven’t noticed your displeasure these last two nights?’

There was much truth in his question. She’d been so disgusted by his drunken comments and those of his two companions that she was certain even one who was blind would have sensed her anger. The men spoke as if they’d been in the company of hardened soldiers on the battlefield. She’d heard milder words from her father’s shipboard crew.

‘I held my tongue because I had expected to be free of your friends’ influence once we arrived at Warehaven.’

‘Your expectations were sadly mistaken. I know you, Beatrice. I am aware of your headstrong nature and childish temper. I am not foolish enough to believe your patience would have lasted that long.’ He slid a hand down her arm, brushing his thumb against the side of her breast, causing a shiver that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with distaste and building fear. ‘Hence the quickening of our relationship.’