by Nicole Locke
‘I’m thirsty,’ she said.
Nothing.
Did she dare ask again?
‘Can you ask if I can have some watered ale?’
Evrart pointed at the stairs.
She glanced up the staircase, which was neither dark nor light. There wasn’t any indication as to whether it would be safe or dangerous, and this man...somehow embodied both.
Which made little sense.
It was the fear of the journey, the exhaustion of the ride. She was seeing things that couldn’t be. This man? Safe? He was large, strong. If he was safe, it was for someone other than her.
With a frown, he pointed up again, and something in her snapped.
‘Oh, is that some sign that I’m to go up the stairs?’
A muscle ticked in his jaw; she tensed for the strike. Nothing again. There was no one else in the corridor. Not even voices to indicate that someone would hear her scream.
She could see no way out of this.
Gathering what courage she had, she ascended the staircase. At the top, the corridor was wide and slightly curved. On one side were arches open out towards the inner courtyard down below, and on the other side were several doors.
Before one of the closed doors, her new guard opened it to wave her in. She glanced around his body and saw furniture, some windows. But mostly she saw the latch on the door that had a lock.
‘I thought he needed a blacksmith?’
Her guard pointed to her left where another door didn’t have a lock.
‘So I’m to stay here now, and there later?’ She wasn’t ready. He might have to resort to physical violence to get her in there.
‘I need to relieve myself,’ she said.
He frowned. It wasn’t a nice frown.
‘He’ll fetch me some food,’ she said. ‘He might not fetch me an empty bucket.’
He kept his eyes on hers too long. Would he hit her now?
She braced herself, but his eyes flickered over her head and down the empty corridor.
She looked, too. ‘Is there...do you have an inside garderobe?’
He waved ahead, which she assumed was a signal for her to proceed down the corridor.
When Ian had said Evrart was like a wall, had he meant it literally? This man didn’t talk. But it didn’t matter how much waving he did, she didn’t want to walk any further down the long corridor either.
Mostly because she didn’t truly need to relieve herself. She’d hoped her request would lead them outside, or on some errand to fetch a bucket. Anything not to be corralled and cornered again. That had happened to her with Ian...that was how she’d been caught.
Ian wasn’t around now, but her terror wasn’t easing.
Could she run faster than him?
Not from where she was standing, and not with his size. He’d merely have to reach out and grab her hair. Even if she did dash past, how far would she get within the walls and gates?
She needed to keep walking forward.
The man kept his steps even with hers. They barely made a sound, and he made no other movement. Not a swing of an arm, not a brush of his tunic against the stone walls.
The mercenaries she’d travelled with had jeered, made every bodily sound possible, and when Ian hadn’t been looking they’d grabbed their cocks. They’d constantly talked, constantly gestured, and when they’d had a woman, they’d constantly passed her around.
She had been frightened every moment in their company—especially when she’d slept, or tried to sleep. This man...didn’t move. But that wasn’t comforting either. His restraint was disconcerting. He hadn’t stared like everyone else in the courtyard. He’d barely acknowledged her at all.
She was still overwhelmed by the fear she’d felt at the sight of Ian, haunted by the woman in the corridor who was now most likely dead. And she couldn’t stop her mind from replaying the memory like the iron crank of a portcullis.
But this man, keeping his silence, scraped across her already frayed heart and made it worse.
Slowly she proceeded down the corridor, which was solid on one side but resplendent with views on the other.
Another step. Was her guard still there? Of course he was.
Why was her heart pounding? Why were her feet stumbling? The trembles...
She couldn’t take another step. She stopped.
He stopped as well. He didn’t speak. He didn’t point.
She swallowed hard. ‘You’re very quiet.’
He said nothing.
She looked up...then up again. His arms were at his sides, his eyes steady, and all that stillness caused something to seethe within her. He was large, but then everyone was larger than her. It was how it had always been.
But being in this fortress, trapped and threatened by Ian of Warstone, wasn’t how it had always been. If only she could wave a sword or conduct her own threats.
The seething turned to roiling. If only she had some way to protect herself! Not just standing here staring out of a window, feeling waves of helplessness, as this man—this warrior, her guard—watched her tremble, heard her teeth chatter whilst he was constant stillness, relentless silence.
‘How will you guard me if you don’t speak?’ she asked.
His brow rose, and she swore she saw the corner of his lip twitch.
Maybe it was the terror, maybe it was because her reason had finally fled, but Margery laughed. It was a choked laugh. More strident than joyful. More sobbing than anything humorous.
And when his brows rose more and his eyes widened...when wariness that couldn’t just be wariness entered his eyes again...the noises she emitted came out harder, until tears sprang from her eyes and she had to brush them away.
She noticed the poor man hadn’t moved, but he seemed to be leaning back. Not with displeasure or cruelty. Not to smirk or laugh—though he should be because of her ridiculous question. But simply to stand there, a bit away from her. And whereas before she’d equated his silence with displeasure, his restraint with formidable trapping walls, now she saw it wasn’t. It truly wasn’t.
It was the way he blinked, and his careful movements as he straightened himself. He was disconcerting because for days she’d been plagued with violence and threats. For months...years...before that, she’d had Josse, Roul, the mercenaries who’d leered and calculated.
When her hood had fallen, he hadn’t elbowed the man next to him. He’d simply looked at her as he looked at her now. Like...a person. And maybe it wasn’t wise, maybe she was wrong, maybe she truly had lost her reason, but she didn’t care that he was quiet. It didn’t mean she had to be.
Resting her hand on his forearm, she said, ‘Don’t mind me—truly. I am harmless. Well, maybe not completely, but I’m not likely to cause any permanent wounding.’
Patting his arm before releasing her touch, she brushed her hands down her skirts, gathered herself, and gave him as reassuring a smile as she could. He wasn’t like Ian or those other guards. Maybe he was like that man with the bloodied apron—the butcher who’d had a happy smile. Maybe they could start again.
Maybe they couldn’t.
His eyes were the size of the moon and his hand gripped his forearm where... She was right. His hand was gripping his arm, right where she’d touched him. His knuckles were white.
With anger?
Was he injured and she’d inadvertently harmed him?
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Did I hurt you?’
He said nothing, but his eyes grew intent. She felt terrible.
She grabbed his fingers to pull his hand away. ‘Here, let me see it.’
She didn’t know what she’d do, but there she’d been, laughing because she couldn’t harm him, and then she had. She was worried, terrified, but this man hadn’t done anything to her and here she was—
‘No,’ he said, and pulled h
is hand away from her.
All the while he kept his gaze on her. His hands were rough, his fingers felt thick, but his touch was inordinately gentle.
It was his voice, though, that made her shiver. Deep, gruff. Exactly the voice she’d expected from a man with shoulders that could protect her from a storm.
She held still. ‘Say something else.’
He stared at her so hard she thought he would see to the other side of her before that corner of his mouth quirked again. Was he trying to smile but couldn’t?
‘No,’ he repeated.
Something came over her. Something that wanted him to smile. What was wrong with her? She didn’t need to laugh with this man or ask if he was hurt. His hair might be wet as if was like everyone else who bathed, and he might look vaguely annoyed rather than cruel, but she needed to escape!
As if he’d guessed her thoughts, he abruptly let her hand free and pointed again.
Resolved to do what she must, she continued down the corridor. Before she closed the garderobe door, though, she said, ‘And you’ll stand out here? Then take me to that room and lock me in?’
When he crossed his arms, she answered herself.
‘Of course you will.’
Chapter Four
Evrart closed the door to the chamber he’d left Margery in and opened the adjacent one.
He wasn’t surprised that Ian was already at his desk. He’d heard noises down the corridor when Margery had been in the garderobe, and Ian spent most of his time behind that table, scribbling on parchment or standing at the few windows surrounding it.
‘What is it, Evrart?’
Evrart knew better than to answer. Ian was too manipulative with conversations. Evrart might say he liked the colour blue, but Ian would construe that to mean he liked the colours of another family. Back home, he’d taken after his mother and been the quietest of his siblings, but now he knew silence was how he stayed alive and kept his family safe.
Ian wrote his message and handed it to the man standing patiently by his side. Evrart waited until that nameless man had left the room before he looked again at Ian, who had leaned back in his chair.
Evrart stayed still.
‘This is about my mistress,’ said Ian.
Evrart nodded.
‘You secured all the doors?’
As much as he could. All the rooms here, save for his, were Ian’s private chambers, most of those were connected by inner doors. Some hallway doors had locks, one did not. She was in the locked room next to this one, which was also attached to his. Something that shouldn’t have mattered but did. He felt her there.
He nodded again.
‘You have questions on my wants and needs?’
No, but he did have questions of his own. She’d touched him—freely, and without an agenda. And she’d looked at him as if he was no different from the cordwainer, who was half his size. That kitten had received more of her attention than he.
It had been...startling. But that didn’t compare with when she’d laughed, her eyes filled with fear, and he had felt that need to protect. He’d leaned away, to put some distance between them, but the brush of her fingers against his had riveted him next to her. Made his body burn and made him question if he had any reason.
She was danger—or she brought danger. She wouldn’t be in a Warstone fortress, as a prisoner of Ian’s, if she wasn’t, and yet... He knew if she touched him again, he’d let her. He’d never been so irrational before. He was questioning himself on his response to Ian’s mistress, but he wouldn’t ever question Ian. He wasn’t a fool.
‘Never.’
‘This is about your role.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
He shouldn’t be anyone’s guard except Ian’s. Until this last year he’d hardly left Ian’s side. Now his men questioned his position and his role in this fortress. If Evrart was Ian’s personal guard, how could he be left behind? Almost worse was the rumour that he’d fallen out of favour with the Lord of Warstone. Not that Evrart cared for idle gossip, but his job of training the Warstone soldiers was made easier if they believed he had Lord Warstone’s ear.
If the guards questioned him, he quickly met them in the lists, but still... He might not like his role in this household, but it was his role, and he would do it well until he could find an end to it.
Ian steepled his hands. ‘You didn’t question me in front of my men when I told you to bring her to my rooms.’
‘No,’ he replied. Again, he knew when to keep his silence, and was rewarded when Ian’s mouth curved into a smile.
‘After all these years...still saying so few words to me,’ Ian said. ‘Did it ever occur to you that if you said more, I might let you go. I do like to understand my guards, and at this pace I’ll never understand you.’
A rhetorical remark Evrart would never answer.
Ian did flash a grin, but then his brows drew in and he looked to the side.
Evrart stood his ground. Ian hadn’t been stable for many years, and his condition had rapidly deteriorated since he’d packed up his wife and two children and deposited them in an undisclosed location. He’d always liked Séverine and Clovis, and the infant Pepin was adored by all. But it had been years since anyone had seen them. Ian’s thoughts weren’t good, and since last year, they had grown darker yet. Right now, Ian could order his death or ask him to play chess.
When his gaze slid back to Evrart, he looked no more or less like a cunning wolf.
‘She interrupted me when I was persuading a messenger to gather information whilst a certain man was suitably occupied. The task of delivering a message she had no issues with—the method of getting the information she refused. Naturally, she had to be persuaded... Margery happened upon me during our negotiations.’
Did that mean Margery wasn’t his mistress but was inadvertently involved in a Warstone scheme? No wonder she’d fought being locked in a room. No wonder she’d given such a fearful laugh. That didn’t excuse his response to her, though...
‘You look surprised,’ Ian said.
He looked no such thing. He knew better than that. But then this could be simply another rhetorical question.
‘I, too, am surprised not to have killed her. I actually had to negotiate with Roul for her services.’
That grabbed Evrart’s attention. Roul was the youngest son of a noble family and he amused Ian. Evrart couldn’t recall what he looked like because his face was always buried in some woman’s breasts.
And this Margery had been under his care? Was Roul the reason she frequently looked over her shoulder?
‘Said he won her in a game of chance, but that man can never be trusted. Still, it was a fool who lost one such as she, since she is utterly beautiful—don’t you agree?’
When people talked of beauty, Evrart never saw it. He looked at form, or deeds, and since he’d become older, he’d realised he had another skill most did not have. He could determine someone’s character. He had known immediately not to work for Ian of Warstone, but being able to determine character did not mean he had any power.
He wondered if this Margery had any power. Had the scheme being played started with Ian or Roul? Because Ian, one of the worst men Evrart had ever known, thought Roul couldn’t be trusted.
The woman appeared innocent, but she couldn’t be if she was Roul’s mistress. This would bear some thought.
‘Her beauty, whether it exists or does not, isn’t my concern,’ he said. ‘My concern is my duties. For ten years I have trained the men you have brought into your home. Even now you have brought new recruits. Now you have asked me to oversee a mere woman. I simply want to understand my role.’
Ian shook his head. ‘I truly don’t understand your preference in women, nor why you cannot see beauty. I am happily married, but to call Margery “a mere woman” is astounding. As to the rest—your role
is to ensure she doesn’t talk. To anyone. She can use Jeanne for a servant, but that is the only person she’s to have contact with.’
‘Is she to remain in your chambers?’
They were large and consisted of several rooms. When Ian was in residence he often stayed in the rooms and didn’t venture to the Great Hall for meals. Busy with schemes, and untrusting, he rarely interacted with anyone in residence.
Ian nodded. ‘Tomorrow I will be journeying. I’d like to see my children soon.’
Evrart looked out through the window behind Ian as quickly as he could. There was no hiding his surprise this time. As far as he knew Ian had tried a few times, unsuccessfully, to find his wife, but now he seemed certain. He could be wrong, but—
‘Oh, you are very surprised!’ Ian chuckled. ‘You should be. There will be changes soon, though I’d wish for it differently. My brother is forcing my hand.’
Evrart swung his gaze back. Talking with Ian was like fighting a bog. ‘Is she to begin these...changes?’
‘No, but that is an interesting proposition. Do you think her beauty would be enough?’
Evrart said nothing. A bog would be less murky than Ian’s thoughts, and he’d be foolish to step into either one.
‘Quiet again... You are fascinating. I do wish you’d give me some suggestion whether you think her suitable or not.’
Suitable for...him? If she was beautiful, as Ian purported her to be, she wouldn’t be suitable for—
Ian shoved back his chair and stood, then looked down at his desk and swept everything off to crash on the floor. The ink arced for a moment, but the pot stayed intact.
Brows drown, Ian tsked and picked it up to set it back on the desk. ‘I hate wasting words.’
Evrart stayed still.
‘They’re all wasted now—did you know? That fool of an Englishman my parents hired lost the dagger again. Not his fault, he told them. How could he know it had been switched? That red-haired clan figured it out, but they don’t have it either. No one does. And that’s supposed to comfort me because Reynold doesn’t have it. But he’s after it—so where’s the comfort in that?’