by Denise Lynn
What he had mistaken was her urgency. She had no wish to tarry. From the way she curled the fingers of her uninjured hand into his upper arm, the nails pressing into his skin, she had no desire to savour their time together.
Gregor scooped her into his arms and rolled on to his back. She sat up on him, straddling his hips, the wide-eyed look of surprise on her face nearly making him laugh. But her surprise soon faded as she set about mastering this new position. Awkward at first, she quickly found a rhythm that suited her need.
Unwilling to give up an opportunity to tease her further, Gregor stroked his hands along her legs, trailing imaginary paths on the top of her thighs with his fingertips, caressing her soft skin from knee to hip. All the while he watched the play of expressions flit across her face.
From surprise to determination, then to devilry once she’d found her rhythm and thought to torment him. His teasing touch at the juncture of her thighs gained him her heavy-eyed gaze of desire and lust.
When lust turned to frustrated need, he grasped her hips, holding her still, as he took them both swirling over the edge to fulfilment. Beatrice fell gasping on to his chest, her ragged breaths no steadier than his own.
Their bodies lax, they drowsed, savouring the fading ripples of desire. Gregor pulled the cover over them, Beatrice still resting warm and sleepy on his chest. Just as he was about to drift off to sleep, she moved her head, her lips near his ear, her breath warm against his neck, and whispered, ‘I love you, Gregor.’
He caressed the back of her head, holding her close, wishing for all the world he could give her the words she longed to hear.
But he couldn’t. He would risk much with the rising of the sun, he was not yet ready to fully risk his heart, too.
She moved off his chest, but to his relief did not move away. Instead, she rolled on to her side, the soft round fullness of her hips pressed against his groin, her back against his chest with her head tucked beneath his chin.
Just as they slept on the nights they’d spent together, she slipped a foot between his ankles and used his one arm as a pillow. The other arm he wrapped tightly around her abdomen, which she in turn hugged with both of her arms.
It was warm. It was comfortable. It felt...right. His sleep would be deep and restful. Whereas on the nights they didn’t share a bed, he awoke still tired, feeling as if something were missing.
He didn’t know if this was love, or a part of love. All he knew for certain was that this wife of his was brash, she was bold and, for right now, she was his.
* * *
Beatrice groaned. Something threatened to jar her awake. Refusing to give in to the urge to open her eyes, she lay there enjoying the fact that she finally felt rested and alive again. She’d slept through the night in Gregor’s arms, free of night terrors, free of bad dreams.
She reached out across the bed, searching for him with her fingertips. Finding nothing but cold, empty sheets, she opened her eyes, dismayed to see that the sun had barely risen. Why had he left so early?
The distinct sound of swords clanging against each other drew her up from the mattress with a frown.
Again, weapon met weapon and she turned to look towards the direction the sounds had come from. This time the noise of the weapons was joined by cheers and jeers of men shouting.
‘Beatrice!’
Her mother ran through the chamber door. ‘Do you hear that?’
Beatrice swung her legs over the edge of the bed and, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, walked to look out of the narrow window.
The sight that met her tentative gaze threatened to knock her to her knees.
Her ears hadn’t deceived her, there were indeed men fighting.
In the clearing, just beyond the main gate, two groups of bystanders had formed—one group from Warehaven, the other from Roul. Matilda and her guards stood at the entrance of a tent which had been erected a little further out.
In the centre of the bystanders, were two mail-clad, armed combatants. Beatrice didn’t need anyone to tell her that one was her father, the other her husband.
She grasped her mother’s arm. ‘What is happening?’
‘What we knew would eventually come to pass.’
‘But, I thought...’ She let her unnecessary words trail off. Obviously she’d thought incorrectly. Just because the two men had seemed to have been getting along didn’t mean anything had been settled.
‘Must they settle it in this manner? Is there nothing we can do?’
Her mother looked at her and Beatrice then noticed the red-rimmed eyes. The time for doing anything was past. Apparently her mother had tried unsuccessfully to talk her father out of this fight for Warehaven.
And Gregor had so expertly taken away her opportunity to try the same with him.
She closed her eyes and groaned. He’d so expertly distracted her that she’d told him of her feelings for him. How could she have been so foolish?
It had been one thing to realise that, yes, she did love her husband, but that was private, a secret she’d shared with nobody. Something she could think about, something she could test in her mind, on her heart. Something not quite real. However, sharing it had only given it strength and made it real. And that strength would only serve to make her pain very, very real should anything happen to him.
Another clang of swords caused her mother to jump and hide her face in her hands.
Beatrice swore softly. She wasn’t going to stand here doing nothing.
She grabbed her clothing and pulled it on. Not caring whether the gown was straight, she wrapped her belt about the waist and sat to tug on her stockings and soft boots.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like? I cannot just sit here worrying, Mother. It will only rob me of my senses.’
‘Your father forbade me to attend.’
Beatrice shrugged. ‘Nobody said a word to me.’
She stormed across the chamber and pulled open the door, surprised that the entry wasn’t blocked by guards.
Turning back to look at her mother, she stated, ‘You can stay here if you wish. But I can’t. I simply cannot.’
Chapter Eighteen
Not wanting to take the time to go down the stairs, to the Great Hall and then out to the wall, Beatrice went up the tower steps, her mother following right behind. She pulled open the door leading out to the wall walk—her way was blocked.
Sir Simon looked at her, asking, ‘Is there something you require, Lady Beatrice?’
‘Yes. I need you to get out of my way.’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.’
Beatrice took a deep breath, stood up as straight and tall as possible, threw back her shoulders and ordered, ‘Stand aside.’
Sir Simon studied her for a moment, then pressed his back against the wall to let her by. ‘You don’t leave this wall, do you understand me, my lady? I have my orders.’
She nodded. ‘I hear you.’
‘That isn’t what I asked. Do you understand me?’
Gregor’s man was getting to know her far too well.
She brushed past him, answering, ‘Yes.’
She and her mother came to a stop near the main gate tower. Sir Simon was right behind them. They leaned over a cut-out in the wall to watch.
Beatrice held her breath and swallowed hard to keep down the threatening churn of her stomach, as they watched two well-experienced warriors battle.
Both men were about the same size, her father’s chest a little bigger, a little rounder. But where her father had more experience with a sword, Gregor was younger and quicker on his feet.
Neither wasted any movement. There was no wild swinging of their weapon. No unnecessary jabbing. They circled each other, but neither one of them wasted time
posturing or posing.
Gregor lunged. Beatrice and her mother gasped. Her father raised his shield, held his attacker off and pushed him away with a blow to the side of the head.
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. Something wasn’t right.
Then her father lunged and the movements were repeated—Gregor raised his shield, fending off the attack, pushed her father away and while her father’s guard was down, Gregor slammed his fist against her father’s head.
Now her mother narrowed her eyes and looked at Beatrice.
While the two men fought back and forth in the same manner, she watched them, closely. And again thought the same thing. Something wasn’t right.
Whenever each of them had the opportunity to end this fight, they didn’t. While it looked legitimate, appearing viciously and earnestly fought, something was off just enough to catch her attention.
For one thing, how many times had her father told them that the nasal piece of a helmet was the weakest part? He’d said that if you wanted to kill your opponent, or incapacitate him, you must hold tight to the grip of your sword and slam that mail-covered fist straight into the nasal piece.
The narrower length of metal would break and if the blow didn’t shove the broken bit into your enemy’s face, killing them, it would so injure them that you could then end the fight with either a death blow, or move in to quickly disarm them and take them prisoner.
Each of them had just had more than a couple of chances to do just that. But neither one had.
Her mother nudged her shoulder, mouthing, ‘Look.’
They had dropped their shields and were now fighting in close contact with each. To her amazement, from this distance, it appeared as if they were actually speaking to each other whenever they came close enough to communicate.
She could be wrong, but Simon’s softly issued curse behind her led her to believe she was correct.
Beatrice looked over her shoulder at the man and from the hard scowl etched on his face, he was not at all happy with his liege lord at the moment.
Her attention flew to the Empress. If she and her mother could see that something wasn’t right, surely Matilda could, too. However, her aunt was half-turned away from the fight, talking to someone inside the tent. So only part of her attention could have been on the battle.
Beatrice wondered what the men all thought. The groups gathered seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, just as they would have had this been a true fight. So, there was nothing odd there.
The two men pushed away from each other. To her horror, Gregor raised his weapon, the blade turned flat at shoulder height pointed straight at her father’s throat. Before she could think to scream, he rammed the weapon home.
What had seemed to her nothing more than a ruse had turned lethal. Her father hit the ground, blood pooling beneath him. The gathering surrounding them fell silent immediately.
Gregor approached Matilda and threw his bloodied weapon at her feet.
Beatrice’s scream finally escaped and she raced down the ladder, out the gate and across the field to beat her fists against Gregor’s chest. With each blow, she could feel the shattering of her heart. It ached inside her chest.
‘You lied!’ she shouted, ignoring the stares of those gathered. ‘How many times did you tell me to trust you?’
Stoic, he remained silent beneath her verbal onslaught.
‘You are a liar, Roul.’ Her voice rose, the shouts tore at her throat. ‘You vowed to protect me, but I am not safe, I am not unharmed. I will never trust you.’
When he still said nothing, she lowered her voice. ‘I was wrong. I do not love you. I could never love you.’ Beatrice gasped at the pain lacing through her. ‘I never want to see you again.’ She shoved her hands against his chest. ‘Go back to your precious King and leave me alone. I’ve no need for your protection and do not desire any more of your lies or the pain you so readily inflict.’
His silence infuriated her. She glared at him, tearing her wedding band from her finger. She threw it at him, screaming, ‘I hate you, Roul! I wish to God I had never met you. I would have suffered less had you left me to be tortured by Charles and his friends.’
Beatrice ignored the hushed gasps from the gathered crowd. She lowered her head, unable to look any longer at the man she’d married. Her mother came to her side and took her arm. ‘Come with me. I have need of you.’
Sir Simon, James, Colin and Harold got her father on to his shield and then carried him to the keep.
She looked back into the now-dispersing crowd. Where had Gregor gone? Why did she care? She’d told him to leave and he had. She should be grateful. Yet gratitude wasn’t the emotion churning in her stomach.
Beatrice followed her mother into the keep and up to the chamber she’d just last night shared with Gregor—the chamber where she’d foolishly declared her love for the man who’d just destroyed her life.
Her breath caught on a sob. How was she to live with the knowledge that she’d been the one to bring David’s Wolf to their door?
Beatrice fought back the tremors rippling down her spine. She needed to learn how to be a warrior as cold and heartless as the one she’d wed. Otherwise it would be impossible to face the coming days.
Her mother stood inside the doorway, waiting for the men from Roul to leave, before storming across the chamber to smack her husband’s shoulder.
‘Damn, woman! That hurt. I am injured after all.’
‘I will injure you. Get off of that bed so I can remove your armour.’
Beatrice stood unmoving by the door through this incomprehensible conversation.
‘Come, child, help your mother.’ Her father drew her over to him.
Her mind in a whirl, unable to make sense of what her eyes had seen and were now seeing, she helped remove his mail silently. She had no words. Too many thoughts were crowding her mind at once.
Beneath the mail was a padded shirt soaked with blood that still dripped from high on his shoulder. Her mother pulled a knife from her father’s scabbard and attacked the drenched garment.
‘You have lost the ability to reason completely.’ She cut away at least three inches of additional padding from the shoulders of his shirt, then withdrew a small bag that she threw to the floor. She rested her head against her husband’s forehead, asking, ‘Pig, sheep, or goat?’
‘Chicken.’ Her father shrugged. ‘It was all we could get without being seen.’
Beatrice looked from her parents to the bag on the floor. Picking it up, she realised it was nothing more than a blood-filled bag made from the intestines of an animal.
Rage made her stagger before she caught her footing and threw the bag at her father. ‘This was a ruse? A jest played out at my expense?’
Her mother grabbed her arm and pulled her to the bed. Pushing her down on the edge of the mattress, she said, ‘Not now, Beatrice. Do not make an issue of this now. Wait.’
‘Wait?’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘Wait? I sent my husband away because I thought he’d killed my father. I chose Warehaven over Roul. That is not something I can simply take back with an apology. And you wish me to wait?’
She turned on her mother. ‘You were in on this, too?’ Beatrice sprang off the bed, unable to sit still. ‘Am I the only one who was made to appear the fool?’
Her father’s reddening face warned her that he was losing patience. She didn’t care. He had just helped to successfully destroy any chance she had for happiness. He could be as angry as he wished.
‘Girl, sit down and listen.’
She took a seat on the small stool near the alcove.
‘King David wanted bloodshed. Matilda knew that, since in a fit of anger over ships I refused to give her, she’d put him up to making the request. He issued the order to Gregor, one of his Wolves, knowing it would be carried out without
question. He hadn’t expected this interference of Matilda.’
Her mother chimed in, saying, ‘You know your aunt. Her temper may catch fire at times, but when it comes to your father, it eventually cools. It was too late to call a halt to David’s order. However, she suggested perhaps Gregor and your father put their heads together. So they did.’
‘But we couldn’t let anyone else, especially those who will return to David, suspect anything was afoot. They had to believe all was real. The only other thing Matilda demanded was that blood was shed.’
‘I never said what kind of blood.’ Matilda entered the chamber and looked down at the bag on the floor, adding, ‘But once it was done, I handed the signed documents transferring Warehaven to Gregor over.’
Beatrice’s father asked, ‘They were signed by everyone?’
Matilda nodded. ‘Yes, they were. Even Stephen.’
Her father breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you.’
Beatrice knew that Warehaven had not been entailed to the crown since King William had worn the crown. But when her father had taken control of Warehaven and after his father had died, he had convinced Stephen and Matilda both to honour and reconfirm his right to Warehaven.
Beatrice rose and looked at all of them. ‘None of this was even necessary. Gregor placed his future, and the futures of his brothers at risk for nothing. You could have simply betrothed me to him and the outcome would have been simpler, cleaner, but in the end the same.’
‘No.’ Matilda stepped forward. ‘Your precious Gregor ruined the marriage between Lady Emelina and Comte Souhomme, by rescuing her from something that had been none of his concern. He cost me much gold and many men that I needed for this war with Stephen—gold and men that I still need desperately. I was angry and demanded revenge through my uncle. Gregor had no choice but to accept this mission. You marrying the man, keeping Warehaven in the family, was not my doing.’
Beatrice sat heavily back down on the stool, uncertain her legs could keep her upright.