Denise Lynn - At The Warrior's Mercy

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.’