The Maiden and the Mercenary

by Nicole Locke

  She slapped a hand over her mouth, laughter spilling over, the light in her eyes returning, but then she gasped.

  ‘Is that what you are? Not some usher, but a mercenary. What are you doing here? Who hired you?’

  Too much, she was too intelligent and he knew better than to hide the facts. ‘Not always.’

  ‘But you can...get my sister out.’

  ‘I can try. Let’s go.’

  She held up her hand. ‘Wait! You having skills doesn’t mean I trust you.’

  ‘Are you...negotiating with a mercenary, Biedeluue? What will you negotiate with?’

  Oh, he liked that wide-eyed wariness mixed with challenge in those unusual eyes of hers. He loved the way her round cheeks flushed and her hand went to her hip and then off again as if she, too, had several roles to play. What would they be like if they were themselves?

  ‘Can you just be...forthright?’ she said.

  Her words. She wanted him to converse, but her words heated his blood, tightened his body. They were so close; he liked this tiny room very much. And if his mind had to guess how’d they be, his body already knew.

  ‘I didn’t start as a mercenary.’

  Her eyes took him in and he let her. He wasn’t ready to tell her everything, but he wouldn’t lie to her. Not when she already had so much at stake with her sister here and needed to rely on him.

  Very slowly, keeping his gaze on hers, he engulfed her hand in his own. Traced the lines across her fingers, the folds along her wrist. He was fascinated by her hands. He was fascinated by her.

  ‘I truly did start by managing an estate.’

  ‘What...?’ She licked her lips. ‘What made you change?’

  He wasn’t prepared for that question, but she didn’t take her hand out of his as he scraped the tips of his fingers against hers. He was reluctant to let her go so, against his better judgement, he told her. ‘Her name was Mary and she was a tenant on my friend Nicholas’s estate. She had twelve acres of her own and a home. She was a widow. We were together for years, but I wasn’t the one for her.’

  ‘Were you too young?’ she said softly. ‘Not a good kisser?’

  He wanted to laugh, more at her tone than anything. But bringing up Mary, even in this context, even as superficial as telling a woman he didn’t know merely so she’d trust him, was too much. It wasn’t Mary herself that was the issue. In truth, it had been many years since he’d thought of her in any way. It was, however, what she represented that pained him. A home, a wife, peace. Something he yearned for, but which seemed out of his reach for ever. He wasn’t going to find that while on his friend’s estate, he’d only find it by creating his own. Which was the reason he’d left.

  As the silence stretched between them, Bied folded her fingers around his until he wasn’t certain if it was he who held her hand or she who held his. ‘Did she still love her first husband?’ she whispered.

  He refused to look up though he knew she wanted to gauge his reaction to her question. ‘My ego liked to think that. In the end, I knew others laid with her, ate at her table and slept in her bed. Sometimes the linens were still warm.’

  Her brows drew in. ‘Because she had to pay taxes?’

  ‘What?’

  A bang as a door slammed. They both looked at their closed door, listening to the beginnings of the day, voices, activity. This room was small, the shelves were mostly bare, but someone might need the few linens left. Might wrench the door open and see them in here.

  He released her hand and finally dared to look her in the eyes. ‘If we’re caught here, there will be no saving your sister.’

  She was so close he couldn’t hide anything from her, but he tried. And he knew he’d succeeded when her eyes lost that searching look and instead turned hesitant.

  ‘We can pretend we’re in here for...’ She swallowed, looked at his lips, then back into his eyes. ‘So we could...’

  He hoped she didn’t finish that thought. He hoped someone caught them so he could pretend, except it wouldn’t be anything but true.

  Reckless. Irrelevant to the danger. There wasn’t a breath of space between them and Bied kept gripping the shelf behind her, which only displayed every curve given to her. That gown might cover her skin, but not his imagination.

  What he wouldn’t do to grab the shelf above her head, to lean forward until the board bit into the curve of her back and he would need to press a hand there to soften their press of bodies which wouldn’t be soft at all. All so that he could kiss her as he should have yesterday. Not in anger, not in any emotion except for...this need.

  Small space, distracting thoughts. Even looking at the floor wasn’t safe when he saw their feet almost touching. Touching her hand was a mistake, revealing anything of him was a mistake. Not taking the danger seriously was a mistake.

  He knew she didn’t understand what was at stake and, if all went well, she never would. It was up to him to remember the danger. To be resolute.

  Her lips were slightly parted now, wet from her tongue that she darted out. Her eyes heavy lidded as if he’d already kissed her. He wanted—

  ‘Where did you get that scar under your left eye?’ she said, rushed, light, all too feminine.

  ‘In the fields, teaching some boys,’ he said. The flush in her cheeks was calling to him. ‘Where did you get that one under your chin?’

  ‘A hot turnip,’ she said.

  He parted his own lips to ask, but she looked at his lips again and he was lost.

  ‘Biedeluue,’ he said, cupping the back of her head, her hands and arms immediately reaching behind his neck. Her fingers cool against his neck, his body shuddered as he wrapped his other arm around her back and pressed her against him.

  He wanted, needed to kiss her. She needed to stay safe. Breathing out to settle his body, he said the words that needed to be said. ‘We need to leave this room. Now. Separately.’

  When she nodded, when he could release her, he added, ‘I have one favour to ask—stay in the kitchens. Stay there even when everyone leaves. I can’t offer much protection, but I’ll stay close by as long as I can.’

  One hand gripped the latch, the other a linen, when she told him, ‘There’s something you should know about me—I hate the kitchens.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Usher,’ a voice commanded.

  Louve fought the urge to pivot immediately. If he did, it would only look as though he had something to hide. And right now, he didn’t. His thoughts, however... Biedeluue and the way he felt about her must stay hidden. If Ian of Warstone knew he was beset by the kiss they’d almost shared that morning, Ian would make Bied’s death the evening’s entertainment. Or worse, the parents would make it theirs.

  All day, his heart had beat unsteadily, his senses staying on alert, as the Lord and Lady Warstone surrounded Balthus and never left his side. If he watched too long, he swore he could see them circling their son like vultures. But Ian, who was reported to be the favourite at least with the father, was always out of reach.

  Oh, he was sitting in the same room and conversing with them, but by the angle of his body, the position of the chairs or simply by the way they stood showed that his parents didn’t dote on him as they did Balthus.

  Which made up, down and nothing safe. Louve questioned everything. Balthus in Troyes apologising to Reynold, reporting that Ian had attempted to murder him. Vowing that he’d do anything to bring down the Warstones. Now it appeared as though he’d been welcomed back into the fold.

  Who was the villain? Did he have any allies left or should he depart at first dark and leave the parchment behind? With the full fortress, there was no opportunity to search for it. There was no one to watch his back and if he let his thoughts drift this way, he’d certainly go mad. He had to trust his friendship with Reynold, needed to give some faith to Balthus. Or else...

  The
poor servant standing in front of him was quaking and Ian was still waiting to be acknowledged. Louve spit out a few more instructions as he pointed behind him, as if the boy needed to know where to go. But he took the hint well enough and left immediately.

  When Louve turned, Ian was at his back.

  ‘Balthus is occupied.’ Ian’s pale eyes were without emotion. ‘My parents rest and we need to talk.’

  Where was Balthus? Louve didn’t hesitate to follow Ian to more private chambers. From the back he so reminded him of Reynold. Slim build, black hair, clothes that cost what a tenant made in a year or two.

  It was far past time that he and Ian came face to face without an audience. Now it was a matter of if the game continued. He’d learnt to play this game by waiting. He needed for all their sakes to keep the upper hand.

  Except, after sharing that one kiss with Bied and being left wanting more, the game didn’t hold any allure for him right now. Distractions. There were too many players and Bied and her family needed to be taken off the board, immediately. Negotiating with the eldest Warstone brother was the only way to do that.

  Down a long corridor they walked to a room Louve had never entered. It was dark, unlit except for the slice of light coming in from the archer’s window where Ian strode to look outside. Louve kept his back to the door and closed it without turning around. Warstones struck at a moment’s notice. He wouldn’t give Ian the chance.

  ‘You walk like your brother, though your movements are less refined than his,’ Louve said.

  Ian turned on a chuckle. ‘I didn’t know what to make of you.’

  ‘You think one sentence provides you with the answers?’

  ‘It eliminates some lies, which helps reveal a truth. Or at least the truth for now, which is all we ever get.’

  ‘Do you read the great philosophers as well?’ Louve said.

  Shaking his head, Ian said, ‘No, nothing like my brother. How is Reynold?’

  ‘Alive.’

  Ian raised a brow. ‘Loyal, but I already knew that.’

  ‘You asked me here—what do you want?’

  ‘Impatient. Which I didn’t know.’

  Louve crossed his arms and leaned against the door. If they played word games, it would be an excruciatingly hazardous conversation. One where either of them was bound to make a mistake and expose a vulnerability.

  Ian sighed. ‘I want to be your friend.’

  Louve just bit back his laugh. It would not have been one with any humour and completely out of place, but the words...from a Warstone!

  ‘I see you’re surprised. Perhaps friend was too strong of a bond?’

  This man as an ally? Never. ‘You say the word friend and all I’m waiting for is a dagger to be thrown.’

  Ian stared, his brows drawing in. ‘Would acquaintance do? Or ally?’

  Louve shook his head. ‘All are equally unacceptable and completely without merit. What am I doing here, Ian of Warstone?’

  ‘Aren’t I to ask the question of why Reynold sent you here? I have guessed it has to do with my death.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘Here I am.’

  The temptation was there. ‘Why did you allow your Steward to leave and your parents to arrive?’

  Ian smirked. ‘My Steward is off obtaining my favourite goblets, of course. But his sudden absence was clever of me. Whatever you’re doing here, you’d need more of a challenge. Distractions such as the Steward’s departure are useful, but deadly ones are better. And my parents are deadly, don’t forget.’

  Something wasn’t right about the Steward’s departure. He’d been eager to leave the fortress before he had talked to Ian to gain permission to do so. Perhaps it was always Ian’s intent for the Steward to leave when Louve arrived, but it was too convenient. The Steward’s mystery, however, could wait.

  ‘Your parents seem attentive to Balthus at the moment,’ Louve said.

  ‘That bandage has been too long on his hand—I hope it is not ruined. But at least he has the other one, hmm?’ Ian held up both hands for Louve to inspect.

  The deep scar made from flames on the left hand was there like on all the brothers. Except Ian had one on his right hand as well. Both hands held to fire to prove Warstone loyalty.

  Standing near the lone torch, Ian waved one hand after another over it. His expression was pleasant, as if this was some pastoral day with blue skies and birdsong. The room filled with the stench, but Louve refused to comment.

  For years, he’d surmised the Warstones were mad. The risks they took, the games they played. He feared he’d go mad merely playing along with them. But with utter certainty, Ian of Warstone was conflicted.

  ‘My mother burned my hand so frequently, I can’t feel anything,’ Ian said. ‘I was the first, you see, and she did it differently with me. Not for as long as my brothers, certainly not like Balthus, but more frequently. I’ve kept my movement as a result, but now anything could happen to these hands and it wouldn’t matter.’

  That woman was in this house, with Biedeluue, with Tess, with a red-headed boy and the cook who grieved. The need to protect burned through Louve, shocking him with the intensity and the rightness of it. But he feared anything he said would reveal that, so he kept quiet.

  ‘Do you know what it’s like to feel nothing?’ Ian said. ‘I suppose you don’t. You weren’t raised by monsters.’

  What he had seen of Ian’s father... He seemed jovial, almost happy to be in his sons’ company. His mother had the imperious voice and needs of the privileged. Monsters? He hadn’t seen it, but apparently, he hadn’t been looking closely enough.

  ‘We all have parents who are different,’ Louve said. ‘What is the point of this conversation?’

  Ian took his hand off the flame and sat on the lone bench. ‘Aren’t you tired of it all?’

  ‘Tired of what?’

  ‘All the games.’ Ian rested his hands, palms upwards, on his knees. ‘Every day. Every breath taken has been a game. I have had to ask since I was three—will this be the last time I see the sky? I’m the one who married and had children first. I’m the one who wants something better. If I die...what is to become of them?’

  ‘Why tell me this, and not your brothers? Balthus is right here.’

  Ian studied him in that Warstone way. ‘You’re cunning. That’s a surprise. I thought it was your loyalty Reynold saw in you, but there’s more, isn’t there?’

  Louve stayed quiet, all too used to Warstones voicing their reflections. To others it would seem like mere intimidation or very one-sided conversations. But after years in Reynold’s company, he realised that it was indeed how they talked. As if they enjoyed revealing a little of their madness. It was the direction of their private thoughts, the ones they never voiced, that terrified him.

  ‘I can’t simply interact with my brothers. Guy was the worst,’ Ian continued. ‘I could not approach the mercenaries surrounding his gates, let alone the man himself. Balthus is too trusting and so can’t be trusted. Not until he knew I was sincere. And it might take some time for Balthus to forgive me after I sent the archer after him.’

  ‘What of Reynold?’

  ‘I tried to contact Reynold.’ Ian raised his brow. ‘You don’t believe me? I know he received my messages and I know what he did afterwards. Just this year, in Paris, I let him know I was near in case he wanted to talk.’

  ‘You sent no message to Paris. I was there, why would you lie?’

  Ian’s brows lowered. ‘No lie. It was my arrow that felled that messenger by his gates. My brother would have known that that was my arrow for I made the notches myself.’

  Louve felt sick. Even after all this time, and all the acts he had committed to survive, in the hope for something better, this one act almost brought him to his knees.

  Eude, a fellow mercenary and friend, was always restless and needed the long journeys Reynol
d required of him. He was a good warrior, an excellent rider and absolutely begged not to do stable duty.

  ‘You killed a man because you wanted to leave a message?’ Louve sneered. ‘Isn’t that the most idiotic logic I’ve ever witnessed? Your brother never saw that arrow because I disposed of his body. He didn’t learn of your presence until long afterwards.’

  ‘Pity,’ Ian said. ‘That was as close as I ever dared to reach Reynold personally.’

  No light of remorse or shame. Ian’s eyes were as dead as they’d ever been and Louve wanted to slam his fist into his jaw until Ian’s teeth disintegrated.

  ‘Anger?’ Ian said. ‘You are fascinating. Especially since you’ve repeatedly insulted me.’

  ‘Friends insult each other,’ Louve said.

  ‘So do enemies,’ Ian said.

  ‘Enemies don’t tell each other of their family life,’ Louve said. ‘Would it help for you to know I came from a happy one? My mother sang, my father liked when the pork skin was extra crispy. When they died, I grieved. But my grandmother’s calloused hands ruffled my hair and she could make this soup that tasted of home.’

  Huffing, Ian stretched his arms and legs as if the chair was suddenly too tight. ‘That wasn’t nice.’

  ‘We all have broken homes, Ian. Not all of us become the human that you have.’

  ‘I’m eldest, I was the first they experimented with. They made mistakes with me that they didn’t make with the others.’ Ian shrugged.

  ‘Guy’s reputation was infamous. Are you saying he was a gentler soul?’

  Ian laughed low. ‘Guy scared me. His mode of cruelty wasn’t taught. Some dogs in the pack are more rabid than others. That is also true of all families, no? Of course, I am no better. My reasoning slips year after year, so I trap myself in a fortress away from my wife, away from my children. It’s why they stay away from me. I have become unpredictable even with them. Games have their own penalties.’

  If true, what did that make the Warstone family? What did that make him as he played their game?