Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Annie Burrows

  Had she amused him? She wasn’t sure she wanted to. But at least now he’d turned to a guard and they were conversing. So his attention was—

  A burst of laughter from the two men and she jumped. Judging from the sneer of the guard nearest her, her fright had been noticed. And frightened she most definitely was.

  Ian of Warstone was dangerous.

  She hadn’t needed him to abduct her to know that. All it had taken was his reputation, rumours and the fact over a week ago she’d caught him in a darkened corridor with a dagger at a whore’s throat.

  She’d run before she’d known what had happened to that poor woman, but she hadn’t run fast enough not to be caught.

  Pretending to stretch, Margery tried to slow her breath. This was only nerves. She must just think of this situation like all the others she’d found herself in in her life. There was no doubting Lord Warstone was a bit more challenging than her past adversaries, but it was nothing she couldn’t resolve. She was still alive—which meant she’d lasted longer than she’d expected at least.

  ‘Is everything well?’ Ian said. ‘That palfrey isn’t any trouble, is she?’

  Not for the reasons he suggested.

  Margery patted its neck. ‘She’s lovely. I’m looking forward to seeing your home, that’s all.’

  He gave her an indulgent smile. ‘Of course you are.’

  What did he truly want with her? She hadn’t wanted to hear him talking to that woman about a missive to be delivered any more than he had wanted her to overhear it. She certainly hadn’t wanted to see terror in the woman’s eyes. In truth, she’d never wanted to live the life she was living, but there was no one to blame for that except herself and poverty.

  Her brothers tilled the fields, her eldest sister had left their village to find coin in other employment, and she...?

  She had agreed to Josse of Tavel’s offer to become his mistress. Then Josse’s gambling losses had resulted in her being sold to Roul. And living in Roul’s debauched residence had led to her stumbling across Ian of Warstone in a corridor late at night.

  For months she’d avoided everyone in Roul’s residence by never entertaining, by only eating in the privacy of her chambers or, when that wasn’t feasible, by sneaking into the kitchens late at night. She’d gone to find food when Ian had caught her. No one should have been up. She should have been safe.

  Yet if he was as evil as was reported, why hadn’t Ian slit her throat? Instead, after he had corralled her in a corner with a lone sconce, an arrested gleam flickered across his sharp features and settled in his unnatural gaze. A gleam she feared indicated something worse than a quick death. That gaze had contained something she’d been plagued with all her life: interest.

  Even as a child she had noticed people’s stares. Her sister Biedeluue had recounted when she was an infant, she had often been taken by the villagers just so they could hold and gaze at her.

  She knew it had had nothing to do with her soul or her demeanour, which at that tender age had consisted of eating, sleeping and relieving herself in linens, but everything to do with the lavender colour of her eyes, the flaxen colour of her hair, and perhaps the berry colour of her lips—or whatever fanciful colours she’d been described as having upon her birth.

  It had nothing to do with what she had done, only what had been given to her, and it was something within the very marrow of her bones she didn’t want. It had caused her nothing but grievances for her and her family.

  ‘Shall we continue?’ Ian urged his horse forward.

  The guards and her palfrey lunged forward as well.

  The sudden movement lurched her sideways. The horse didn’t acknowledge her imbalance, or her tight grip, but merely lumbered on, step after step, because the others did. She’d seen horses that were docile before, but this one practically slept whilst it was awake. She wished she could ease her thoughts so easily.

  On they went, past the orchards and into narrow streets which seemed to be closing in on her the farther they rode.

  What did Ian want?

  She feared she’d keep asking herself that question and would never come to an answer. When she’d asked him, he’d just smiled and ordered her away. Along the journey, whenever it had been time for bed, she’d undressed for him, but he had frowned and ignored her. She’d wandered around the camp, looking for opportunities to run, but always she’d been blocked by Ian’s mercenaries. He didn’t seem to want her like Josse and Roul, didn’t hold a dagger to her throat either, but still wouldn’t let her go. He threatened, but never harmed.

  To think she’d been frightened of indulgent Josse and cruel Roul. At least they’d wanted her in the way men always did. Ian never looked at her as a man would a woman. He played his own game and she didn’t know the rules!

  ‘Such a frown upon your face,’ Ian said. ‘Is there something wrong with the streets of this village?’

  This man observed too well. Living with Roul, a passively spiteful man, it had been essential not to give her emotions away, and it had worked. Roul hadn’t noticed anything of her moods. Of course he’d drunk and bedded much. Still, she knew she had some skill to distract men.

  She widened her eyes and gave him a beaming smile. ‘This village is charming.’

  Ian’s eyes narrowed. ‘Different from Pérouges?’

  Pérouges. The answer she gave as to where she was from. Of course it wasn’t where she’d grown up. But it was close enough to her home that if asked for details she could give them, and far enough from her family to keep them safe. She needed to keep them safe.

  Did Ian have a family? Were they in the courtyard even now? Maybe he didn’t have a family that cared...

  Hers did—very much—and she missed them terribly. The irony was her family had tried to protect her from just this kind of situation. Abduction. Men. And here she was. Although, in truth, she didn’t know how long they have could protected her.

  Her family were poor, and against their wishes she had accepted coin from men like Josse, like Roul. She had never regretted her decision to go with Josse, but she had been hurt by his recklessly throwing her away to Roul. Yet none of that compared to this journey with Ian of Warstone.

  ‘Your village is very much different from mine,’ she said. ‘Pérouges has all those stifling walls. This is very...winding.’

  His eyes scraped across her—searching, no doubt, for truth—before dismissing her for the landscape instead.

  Releasing her held breath, she tore her gaze from her abductor to three scampering dogs and the boys running amongst them. Trailing far behind them, a much smaller child attempted to catch up. Ian, and even the sneering guard next to her, slowed to give the child room.

  It was one of the best-kept villages she’d ever seen. Not many houses—she expected that most people lived inside the castle—but there were well-tended land and fields.

  The Warstones were wealthy, but in her experience wealth did not equate with well-tended anything. Josse’s estate provided him with a heavy purse, but his tenants wore threadbare clothes. Roul hadn’t seemed inclined to survey his property, but his servants kept to the corners and did their duties so as not to be seen.

  Here, there was no fear in the people’s eyes, and the children had shoes. Finding sympathy from any of them to hide or protect herself from a despicable lord seemed unlikely, since the villagers who came out were reserved, but respectful.

  Which begged the question: what maliciousness was Ian of Warstone hiding? Was his evil reserved for darkened corridors and mysterious missives? Did these people only know him in daylight?

  ‘I am pleased you are pleased with my...’ Ian trailed off, his eyes going distant, almost melancholy, before he shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want my mistress to believe I don’t care for my tenants.’

  He did this. Spoke in half-sentences, on inconsistent topics, and then looked off
into the distance. When he’d first forced her upon this journey, she’d tried to hide from his notice. When harm hadn’t immediately come to her, she’d realised she might live. Then she had wondered if there would be a chance for escape on those occasions when he muttered to himself and strode away, as if he meant to do something but had forgotten what it was. He always came to himself before she found the courage to flee. But flee she must.

  She didn’t know whom she feared more. This man who seemed to hold no reason, or the cold, malevolent predator who had held a dagger to a woman’s throat.

  They’d somehow reached the open gates, but her horse had stopped. Was it only now listening to her hints?

  It was too late for that—and it was too late for her to take back what she had done before they’d left Roul’s residence.

  Trapped and guarded by Ian, that morning he had left her side only once. She had assumed he’d done so to bargain with the man who’d won her in a game. At the time she hadn’t known of either Ian’s cunning or his distraction. She had been acquainted only with his arrogance and the knowledge he could kill her.

  So she’d stolen a piece of torn parchment, ripped it again, and hastily written two messages. One to her brothers, to tell them she was in danger, the other to her sister, to tell her that she was well and having a grand time with a charming man.

  Would her sister receive the letter that should keep her away? Would her brothers receive theirs, telling them to rescue her?

  She moved in her seat to urge the palfrey forward. It still didn’t budge. Sweat prickled under her arms. It was too late for the horse to back away now!

  Too late not to have sent those messages.

  The guards were going through, hails were being shouted, and she watched as Ian realised she wasn’t directly behind him. She saw the deep frown, the cold eyes before he turned his horse around to stand beside hers.

  ‘What is the matter? Am I not benevolent?’ Ian said. ‘I could have simply killed you.’

  She felt again the terror of being cloaked in his benevolence. ‘It’s my horse...’ she choked out through a throat that was closing.

  ‘I should have killed you,’ he went on, as if he didn’t hear her. ‘I even let you out of my sight whilst I took care of...’ He trailed off. ‘Unfortunate circumstances...foolish ones.’

  Had it been foolish to beg her brothers to come to her aid? She was beginning to believe so. Maybe her brothers wouldn’t receive her message. Maybe Biedeluue wouldn’t be protective and check up on her at Roul’s.

  She knew these were maybes. The most she could hope for was that the messages would never be received. Her siblings always came to her rescue, and Biedeluue was the worst—or the best.

  Always, if Margery so much as snagged the end of her gown on a twig, Biedeluue was there to sweep her up and carry her away from any harm. She loved her sister for it, and understood why she did it. As a child, one moment Margery had been safe in her basket, the next Biedeluue hadn’t known where she’d gone. But her sister was stifling.

  For once Margery wanted to carry her family away from harm. That was why she’d gone with Josse. And it was why she was trying to find a way to escape Ian without their help.

  His eyes narrowed on her, as if he’d guessed her thoughts. ‘I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight. Fortunate for you that my men reported you spoke only to servants who had already been there and remained there.’

  That was because she’d asked the young man not to deliver her messages until they’d left. The coin she’d given him had been enough for twenty messages, which had helped, but there was no certainty he’d done it.

  She wouldn’t have sent them had she known how little reason but how much fierce cunning Ian seemed to have. For all she knew, he’d left someone behind at Roul’s to watch for messengers, and she’d risked that poor man’s life.

  ‘Now you refuse to ride into my home whilst my people are watching?’ Ian hissed. ‘Perhaps I might have given you some leave, but since you abuse the freedom I’ve given you, no more! You’ll stay in my private chambers. Never to see anyone else. Never to go outside again. Yes, I like that very much. For your slight that is fitting, isn’t it?’

  Margery felt the mercenaries’ anticipatory stares. They expected violence. As if she was in some trap or waiting for a flogging.

  ‘It’s my horse,’ she repeated, almost begging. She spoke louder, hating the almost strident tone, but Ian’s eyes were wide, wild... ‘She’s stopped moving. It’s not me!’

  Ian stared at the palfrey, then at her, and then at his men. He looked back at her...then, slapping his thigh, he chuckled.

  There were dots before her eyes, and her heart beat so weakly she thought she’d faint. She wasn’t used to this constant fear...wasn’t used to threats. His laughter was terrifying.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Ian laughed again, as if they’d drunk the heartiest of ales and told the bawdiest of tales. The men around them laughed as well.

  No, Ian wasn’t distracted...he was mad.

  Grabbing the palfrey’s reins from Margery’s frozen fingers, Ian tugged.

  Margery felt that tug as if she truly was being led towards a public flogging, and as she went under the portcullis she was certain she’d entered the place of her punishment, perhaps her death.

  She couldn’t help but wish she hadn’t been hungry that night, or that she’d run faster so as not to be caught. She regretted sending those letters, which might harm her brothers if they came, and yet she hoped they’d get here as soon as they could to rescue her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Evrart knew before the announcement was made that Ian of Warstone was returning to Warstone Fortress.

  It wasn’t the shouts from the different sentries along the path, or the franticness of the steward as he organised the household. Nor was it the old porter who hobbled across the courtyard to open the doors. It wasn’t even the village boys, who usually raced down the slight hill, trying to be first to notify him because if they did they’d get a treat, or food, or a trinket they could gloat upon for weeks or months to come.

  It was the damn hairs on the back of the neck that warned him. Some shift in the air.

  It was always a turbulent time when the Lord returned from his missions, having left Evrart to defend the fortress, but never more so than now—because he wasn’t anywhere near the fortress courtyard but in the lake behind, scrubbing off mud, blood and sweat.

  Bathing in the middle of the day would be a perceived shirking of his duties that wouldn’t escape Ian’s observant eye. It didn’t matter that he’d spent hours in the lists that morning and had worn out Ian’s men. It wouldn’t matter that he was just getting clean. It would matter that Evrart wasn’t there when the Lord arrived. Appearances were everything to Ian of Warstone.

  Sluicing water over the remaining soap on his body, Evrart shook his head to release the excess. The lake was outside the fortress walls, near the back gate, but not close. It would take him some time to return and be in position.

  Swiping the too-small linen from the rock, he rubbed the cloth over as much of his body as he could.

  One factor worked in his favour. Ian always liked to arrive at his residence slowly, for the greatest attention. Evrart could only hope this would be the case today. After all, the Warstones were one of the most formidable families in France and England, but they hadn’t gained their fame by fair deeds or their coin by good fortune.

  Tossing the soaked linen to the ground, Evrart wrapped his braies and tugged on his breeches. No, the Warstones and their four sons—Ian of Warstone being the eldest—weren’t revered because of any goodness. In the ten years Evrart had worked as Ian’s personal guard, he hadn’t got used to it—not once, not ever. Just when he thought he’d seen enough intrigue or horror, they’d surprise him.

  Which begged the question: why didn’t he leave his p
osition as Ian’s guard and find employment elsewhere?

  He pulled his tunic over his head, tied his belt, and sat on the largest rock to lace his boots. Evrart wasn’t of noble blood or good connection. He was nothing more than the third youngest of a poor family, and who had been tilling a field on the outskirts of the Abbey of St Martial when Ian spotted him.

  His entire family were often noticed, because there were trees smaller than his father and houses smaller than his mother. His sister, oddly enough, was finely boned, as if whatever had made up the rest of their family was trying to correct itself. Unfortunately for his ears, or any continued peace, when last he’d seen her, Peronelle had been taller than any of her friends—a fact she bemoaned to no end.

  Evrart strode across the land towards the castle. The watchguards on the ramparts were already conversing and positioning themselves along the walls.

  He ran.

  Such was his life now. Castles and swords. Ramparts and great halls. All he wanted was a fine plough and some oxen. A thick roof and a well-stoked fire.

  Ian had been gone longer than he’d reported. Anything out of the ordinary with Ian was concerning. Ten years of being his personal guard, and Evrart had seen many changes. But not like the ones over the last year.

  Ever since his brother’s Guy’s death, Ian’s behaviour had turned from merely cold-hearted to terrorising. Frequently, he’d left Evrart behind. Going off on missions, leaving Evrart to hear rumours of legends, of treasures, of betrayal. Recently, he’d become certain Ian had tried to have his own brother, Balthus, murdered, and lately he’d looked at his steward in a way that didn’t bode well for the old man. He talked more frequently of his wife and children, how they had been lost and saved.

  And something about a dagger had been lost and found but lost again. That appeared to agitate him the most and Evrart had had to step in once or twice to save a wayward strike towards a servant.