by Nicole Locke
‘Not until you report what you intend to do with us.’
Her voice was no longer accusatory nor was it frightened. But something in her green eyes was different. No anger there but studying him all the same. What did she see? A weakened enemy or a man?
Now was the time to tell her he wouldn’t do anything to harm her or his nephews. That he intended to set her free from his brother, and all he needed was a piece of parchment in return.
That was what he needed to say to her, but the pain wasn’t ending. There was something else he needed to understand first, something that was just outside his thoughts. Was it the way she looked at him now? Or the fact she’d run away from Ian? Did she know the worth of the parchment she’d stolen?
Games, and he hurt too much to think. All he knew was that he wouldn’t fully comprehend if he told her everything now in the condition he was in. He refused to believe it had to do with keeping her by his side.
‘I think that’s the question I should be asking you.’ He shoved back and leaned against the wall. ‘You’re the one who captured me.’
‘You kept following me,’ she said.
He closed his eyes as the next wave of pain arced through him. He must have struck the limb or maybe he had damaged it more when he’d caught the boy. It would take time for the limb to stop spasming.
‘It’s hurting, isn’t it?’ she said.
He opened his eyes and took her in. Dishevelled red hair, freckles making her pale skin look dark. Sharp cheekbones, lips that were turned down a little.
He didn’t like it that she wasn’t smiling, that there wasn’t happiness in those green eyes. But it didn’t matter, she was still beautiful to him. Time had been kind to her in the years she’d been away, but it was all the harder on his heart to ever give her up.
Not yours. Despite Ian, there were too many obstacles. Lies. His parents. The legend. The fact that no woman would want a disfigured mate. Something she knew about now since her eyes kept flitting down his arm.
Despite what he said, Balthus was hurting. ‘Your hand,’ she said.
‘I don’t have a hand anymore.’
He knew what she intended, but still he pushed. Was he being protective or was he being a typical Warstone? ‘Your arm where your hand was, it’s hurting.’
‘I fell into a pit. Twice,’ he said. ‘If you must know, it didn’t feel pleasant before or after it was chopped off.’
There was pain behind his words. ‘Are you telling me we’re not to talk about it?’
He looked around. ‘I smell vinegar. Was I sick?’
‘No, Pepin kept repeating it, so I brought some down and cleaned the area.’ Tilting her head, she watched him carefully. She risked so much if she proceeded to poison him. Well, not poison him, but he’d see it as so since he’d take the tincture against his knowledge and will. All to carve on his arm... Was she being brave or foolish to think he was different enough to sway?
‘I think Pepin kept repeating it because he was worried about you,’ she added.
Balthus dropped his head, and his good hand fell to the floor, where his fingers splayed and then clenched.
Did this Warstone have emotions? Could he care?
‘He was, Balthus,’ she said.
His head whipped up then, and a muscle spasmed in his jaw. ‘Are you attempting to tell me you are worried for me? You shouldn’t be. My arm is healed.’
‘Is the pain sharp, continual? Does it ever stop?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Are there villagers outside this hut blocking my escape?’
‘When you hit your arm, do you momentarily lose the ability to think or see?’
He indicated with his chin behind her. ‘You brought food.’
A change of subject. ‘I did. I also brought some willow bark tea with buttermilk and honey.’
‘Buttermilk? Do you think I’m elderly?’
Heat flushed her cheeks. He was a man in his prime and everything in her knew it. Even as she contemplated hurting him. Even while lying to him, she was always aware of their proximity. Of the familiarity of the way they talked, of his teasing tone right now.
‘My son fell on you, and you lost consciousness... I couldn’t wake you, and I thought it would help.’
‘You want to help me.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Are we soon to be attacked? Are there villagers who are preparing torches even now to burn me alive? I know you are worried for the villagers should anything happen to me.’
‘Why do you change the subject or try to distract me?’ she said.
‘How many other servants of Ian’s are here? Imbert and Sarah weren’t there at your family’s estate with you,’ he said. ‘Come, these questions can’t be worth your throwing a bucket at my head.’
Circles, they talked in circles. She was tempted to give him the tea now and be done with it. She was more than tempted to start answering the truth before he did and see what he’d do with it. ‘They’d been with me for many years.’
‘That’s not an answer, and I observed your home for a week before introducing myself in that hut. So I can only assume they lived here, and built you this pit. Do the rest of the servants in this village live here, as well?’
‘Why does it matter to you where servants are? I’m surprised you even notice them.’
He frowned. ‘Are the other servants posted all over France? Did you have other traps made?
‘Answer me this. Does the pain ever stop?’
‘I’m used to pain, as you well know,’ he said. ‘We’re raised with it.’
There, that was what she had been waiting for. That dimming in his eyes, that acknowledgement that he’d endured his parents’ torture but hadn’t exulted in it. Ian had talked as if it were the highest of honours. Balthus’s voice, the agitation in his eyes before he’d masked it. No, he didn’t think it an honour, he thought it a horror, as she did. He was trained to give nothing away, but his actions, his mannerisms told her all she needed to take the chance. To try and help him, to sway him to their side. He was different, and he just admitted to the pain.
Reaching behind her, she grabbed the buckets and set them before her. ‘I’m hungry and thirsty and I’m certain you are, too.’
She wouldn’t hide the willow bark tea, hoping he’d take that for the pain, but the valerian would be tricky. She knew exactly how much to use. But she also knew he’d smell and taste it—there was no covering that. The willow bark, buttermilk and honey would help. The vinegar saturating the walls, too. Was it enough?
He pointed to the ladder. ‘You’re leaving the ladder here and there’s no one to protect you.’
‘I’m taking the chance you’re too weak to climb it.’ His words had been somewhat playful, so she tried to jest in kind. When she saw his troubled expression, when she remembered why she shouldn’t call him weak, a favourite word of his father’s, she whispered, ‘Balthus, are we past that now?’
His grey eyes were riveted to her before his brows drew in. ‘Why, because I have no hand?’
‘Because you saved Pepin, because until you knew Imbert was a friend, you tried to protect me. Because...you offered to help me with the kindling.’
He looked swiftly to the side and shifted. Torment was etched along the lines of his jaw, vulnerability in the shadows cast by his eyelashes.
Balthus wasn’t like Ian, who could, unless asleep, keep any and all emotion away. She’d had to guess everything when it came to him. Balthus was different, and she noticed it constantly.
He was like a predator, hurting, and all the time they talked she noted the way he said certain words or tilted his head. The way he almost tapped his left foot as if restless.
Her...awareness of him was more than physical, more than simply about the way he moved. It was also in the words he chose. They were more open, raw, rough around the edges, and that bewildered her, com
ing from such an assured man. And still her awareness was more and yet simpler than that: because Balthus felt, he made her feel, as well. Alarming. Seductive, when she hadn’t felt this way in a long time, or that she feared she hadn’t felt this way ever.
He was a Warstone, and they were cruel to her. She shouldn’t care that Balthus was in pain, or that she could help him. He was different, but it didn’t mean he was different enough. Still, right or wrong, for her childrens’ future, she’d take the chance.
Chapter Nine
Ever since he’d woken up, Séverine had been acting strangely. Balthus couldn’t quite understand it. It was as if she was testing him somehow. Their conversation was confusing. Why care if he was in pain? Why tell him truths when she’d fought it for so long?
Did he have anyone to blame but himself for the way she acted? It was like an odd dance with one step in and twenty paces away. But the look she gave him now was different from before. It was as if something had settled inside her and it made him wary. She was lying about something, but he didn’t know what. Her sudden ease with sitting next to him and the food made him oddly aware of his own nefarious actions.
He couldn’t make it right with her even if he spent the rest of his life trying to. This was past the point of his impulsive nature, or the fact he didn’t like to cooperate. It may be even farther than him simply wanting to spend time with her.
He needed to tell her the truth, but that was impossible without trust between them. If he simply told her about the parchment or Ian, she’d leave him here. Why would she stay? If he could build her trust, perhaps she’d help him find the parchment.
As for not telling her of Ian, that was both personal and strategic. Strategic because if she realised she had no enraged husband after her, she could run to her parents and gain their protection once again. His parents might fight for their grandchildren; thus, putting her parents in danger. Also, if she was within the confines of her parents’ home, how would he gain access to that foolish piece of tree that Reynold wanted?
Then there was the personal reason he didn’t tell her. Something that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him. She thought herself married so he could at least pretend she was, thus forcing some distance between them. The longer he spent in her company the less he wanted that distance. It wasn’t fair to his brother, he knew, but he was trying to do something good here...all to gain her trust.
Was that even possible when she ran from Warstones? He knew his family, but she’d hinted that she knew them, as well. Had they harmed her? His questions kept increasing, as did his fascination with her. A dangerous combination the longer he stayed. No, he needed to approach the situation with caution. Earn her trust slowly, start with perhaps acceptance that he wasn’t all bad. Time would benefit him here. When or if Henry arrived, he would help. Everyone trusted him. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen the butcher for the journey.
‘Have we no longer mistrust?’ he said. ‘Would you believe me now if I said I wouldn’t kill you? Or that you were safe?’
Wouldn’t it be easier to blurt the truth, tell her he was worthless and a liar, that he meant to use her for some foolish legend? Oh, and that her husband had hidden her to protect her from his parents and himself, because Ian had been going mad and known it?
If he wasn’t a coward, and said those words, she wouldn’t throw a bucket, she’d throw hot oil over the pit. Still, he asked, ‘I know little time has passed, but would you believe anything I say?’
Her body stilled, and he wasn’t certain either of them breathed while waiting for her answer.
‘I believe you when you don’t tell me things,’ she whispered.
Ian had underestimated his wife. If he’d picked her because he’d believed that she was malleable or naive, she’d proved that a false assumption.
‘You believe me with my actions?’ He waved his hand around. ‘Is that because I haven’t climbed the ladder or is it the way I shift my feet as I sit?’
She gave a small smile as if he’d answered her question. What had he said or done? Perhaps it would be wise if he simply stayed quiet.
‘I think we should eat,’ she said.
‘Since I can hardly climb the ladder in my weakened condition, perhaps we should,’ he said.
Her hands jerked in her lap and she exhaled slowly. ‘That insult works with you as well as Ian?’ she said. ‘I presume your father said it to you all. Were none of us spared?’
He was starving, but that was not what occupied his thoughts. It was her bringing up her husband’s name. It was the confession she’d made that the cruel words his parents used on their sons they’d also used on her.
‘Was Ian there?’ he said, adjusting himself. The rest of his body was settling after he’d crashed to the ground, but his arm continued to throb.
‘Was Ian where?’
‘When my father said that to you.’
She pulled her gown around her. ‘It shouldn’t matter to a Warstone, should it?’ she said. ‘Nothing of any import. Simply a typical day of harsh words and harsher deeds.’
At some point, most likely the day of the announcement, his family had wronged her. There was only he and Reynold left to make it right, and since he was the only one here, he bore the responsibility.
So be it. He was the last of the Warstones, who’d borne the brunt of not only the parents but the three elder brothers. His brother Reynold would say he had been protected from the true terror, but even the horror he had not seen had been felt. He was the stone on the floor that soaked up the blood spilt.
Sometimes, talking of those cuts and cruel words did little to help ease them. Other times, it helped to show understanding. She wanted to know of his pain? He’d tell her.
‘My arm hurt when it healed, but...when it hardened over like this it became worse.’
She inhaled sharply, her eyes flashing to the ugly limb.
‘It’s a circle of pain that won’t ever stop, isn’t it?’
How did she know? His heart and his body were agony. And because they’d shared some words, he gave her the truth in one quick nod.
Her green eyes shone, and that glint of tears felt like truth to him. Before he did something foolish, he reached for the buckets, pulled the linens aside and handed out the food she’d brought.
Her brows drew in, but her mouth curved. ‘I can’t imagine Ian serving anyone. He wasn’t kind to his servants.’
In this he’d answer truthfully, as well. ‘I doubt I was. I had some men under me when I was out and about, but mostly I stayed at my parents’ residence. I treated them as they had always been treated, though perhaps I was a bit kinder than Guy.’
‘Guy dismembered cats,’ she said.
‘He favoured dogs.’
She lifted one of the leather flagons from the bucket, sniffed the contents and poured, then she did the other. ‘Dogs didn’t fare that much better, did they?’
He eyed the ale she’d poured into her cup, but with his eyes on hers he took the buttermilk and honey tincture. It was bitter. He never liked the taste of willow bark, but even this was foul.
‘I’m told his death was over a dog,’ he said.
She pointed her cup towards the wooden cup in his hand. ‘You’re drinking it?’
‘I thought it might make me more agreeable.’
She blinked, opened her mouth. Closed it. ‘You shouldn’t be in pain, Balthus,’ she said softly.
Yes, he should, but he believed that she wanted it differently, and stared into his cup to avert his gaze before she guessed what those words meant to him. ‘So, is this what we’re to do now? Talk?’
‘You saved my son.’ Her eyes slid from the wooden cup in his hand to the bucket and set her own cup down. ‘A conversation and food seem hardly adequate as repayment.’
He shook his head hard; she’d have him begging soon
for her forgiveness. ‘You owe me nothing. My family... I wasn’t there, but I can guess how they were, and there aren’t enough lifetimes to correct what my family did to you.’
She wiped a tear from her face.
He watched more tears pool and one slip down her face before she wiped that away, too. ‘Balthus, I...’ Her eyes went to the buckets and around the pit before she straightened her spine. ‘Why did he pick me?’
He took a deep draw and poured some more of the concoction to avoid pulling her into his arms. ‘People notice you, Séverine.’
‘Because of my hair,’ she said, and frowned. ‘I should have had it bound and covered that day. Maybe he wouldn’t have seen me in the crowd then.’
He blinked. ‘You think it’s your hair people notice? It’s unique, but—’
‘My father’s wealth certainly doesn’t hurt.’
‘There is that.’ He yawned.
‘Why were you looking at me that day? You wouldn’t have noticed my wealth.’
He grabbed some bread, but he didn’t feel like eating it. There was no wealth or power that equaled the way she’d looked at him that day. ‘I thought we were talking of my hand?’
‘Can you not simply say something straight for once?’ she said.
He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Why do you care about my lost hand?’
‘I never said I cared. I am curious.’
She looked at his wrapped arm. ‘Did...?’ She plucked the roll in front of her, and clasped it in her lap. ‘Did Ian do it?’
Ah, this was what she was getting at. Had his brother, her husband, caused him harm? Did that mean she cared for him?
‘It was my mother. It’s not that she burned it to that point. It was merely in contact with the fire longer than usual and never healed.’
He couldn’t believe he was talking about his life, but Séverine would understand, at least to a point, and hiding from her was tiring. He felt exhausted.
It was too much to add that he’d held it to that flame far longer than his mother requested to prove his loyalty, since it was in question. Ian, by that point, had attempted to murder him, and he’d begun planning to sever his ties with Ian and his parents and align himself with Reynold.