by Muir, L. L.
“Whoa, there. Vous n’este pas dans danger, madesmoiselle. Je vous assure.” You are not in danger. I assure you.
An Englishman, no matter his lack of accent. The mixture of English and French made it clear enough. The hunter had become the hunted; they’d noticed her after all.
Fighting would hardly be wise, but struggling came naturally. They wouldn’t hurt her. She’d been watching them so long, she felt as if she already knew them. But she’d be damned if she would concede control of her person to anyone.
The one she fought against had to be the large one they called Ash who always wore black and spoke not half as often as his friends—the man whose posture tensed when she came near, the man who invoked a bit of tension in herself, truth be told. And the more she struggled, the closer he held her.
She stilled, the realization much more disturbing than being held against her will. She was pressed against his chest, her head turned with her ear against his heart. Heaven help her but he was a tall drink. And wide as well. She was squeezed up against the center of him but there was room to both sides. He could likely hold two of her just as easily.
A rather stirring scent tickled her nose and not at all unpleasant. She refused to take a deep breath of him, however. Not only would she give away the fact that he had some effect on her, but she suspected she might enjoy his scent so much she’d never be able to scrub it from her memory. And scrub it she would. The horrors of war and the search for Martin were memories she soon planned to load onto a ship with her brother and send away.
Blair huffed, as much to expel the stranger from her nose as to let him know she was finished with being held down.
“Parlez Anglais?” he asked.
“Oui.” She let him know two things with her strained answer, that she did speak French, and that he was holding her too tightly.
He loosened his hold, but only just.
“Forgive me, Mademoiselle. For all I knew you would run me through with your impressive blade before I had a chance to speak.”
Impressive? When had the man ever seen Wolfkiller?
It was a question she would not voice. Instead, she asked, “The lobby would not do well enough for a conversation?”
He laughed, his low voice rumbling deep in his chest and into her own.
“I’m going to move you away from the door, now. I’ll not have you escaping before I have the chance to light a candle. And I must remove your weapon. Surely you can understand why.”
She took up struggling again, but it impeded him not at all.
Slowly, but easily, he moved her hand away from her pocket, then grasped her wrist with his other hand, completely controlling her with one arm alone. Slowly, without a bit of conscience, he slid his free hand down along her side.
She gasped. “Ye wouldna dare!”
His hand froze, but she suspected it wasn’t her words that gave him pause, but her accent. He’d thought her French and she’d just let her brogue slip what with the shock of having a man dare to put his hands on her. He took a slow breath, then another, his chest inflating against her each time he did so.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, but his hand resumed its path down her side. When his fingers searched the folds of her skirt for her pocket, she fought with everything she had left, finding to her surprise that his presence inspired more strength than the bit she’d walked through the door with. But she couldn’t simply stand there and allow him to find the hole in her pocket.
She could no longer afford to fight like a lady.
“Get yer hands from me ye great bloody bastard!”
If he was shocked by her language, it failed to slow his search. He spun her around and pressed her against the wall with his body, still holding tight to her hand, which pinned her arm between her body and the wall. She screamed, for all the good it would do her. Any who heard her voice would likely assume she’d seen a wee mousie, or a rat.
The lack of comment from his friends told her they were not in the room.
She was alone, in the dark, with the man they called Ash. The fascinating one. The man who slayed the dragons of her nightmares and stomped out the evil faeries who’d taken her brother and had come for her.
The man whose hand was roaming up and down her leg!
He finally found the pocket, then reached beyond it, and she realized the man must have been watching her closely indeed to know where her best weapon lay.
Then she remembered his first words to her. “So, you are a woman.”
He hadn’t been surprised she was a woman. He’d known!
She clamped her mouth tight and bucked against him, then froze when she realized such a move would be the most foolish of all.
The weight of him was suddenly gone, as was the weight of her dagger. She hadn’t even noticed him touch her leg. Also gone were his hands and the heat from his proximity. Blair was simply grateful for the darkness that concealed her blush, for she was blushing. Her cheeks burned as if she’d laid a hot coal to each of them.
“Seat yourself,” he said quietly, his voice further away, perhaps near the table with the candlestick and flint box—against the far wall.
Since the only seat was the bed, he couldn’t be surprised when she remained standing. Instead, she began inching her way silently toward the door, intending to run. She began searching her pocket for the key.
Of course she’d been prepared for a confrontation with her Englishmen. If it came down to it, she’d planned to ask for their aid in finding her brother, explain why she believed the men who took Martin were the same men who had kidnapped their friend. But at the moment, she could only be outraged at being. . .handled. Though she could not honestly say he’d caused her any pain, she was fashed at being handled so. . .completely. He’d taken all control from her. She would never forgive him for it.
She’d been relieved that the creature in the darkness had proved to be this man and not the hotel attendant, or some other Frenchman with evil intentions. And that relief, combined with her outrage, then combined again with her uncontrollable fascination with him, left her emotions fairly rioting in her chest.
Even if there were a proper light and proper seat, she had no intention of carrying on an intelligent conversation when the last thing she felt was intelligent. She wasn’t certain she could speak clearly enough to berate him, let alone discuss the reason she’d been following him. She might well end up in a puddle of tears.
No. Better to run and fight another day, when she was in fighting condition. Perhaps after she’d had a good night’s sleep, a good meal. . .and her brother at her side.
Her traitorous boot scratched the floor.
He struck a flint. The sparks arced, and then died.
She had to get out before the light caught!
“If you continue toward the door,” he growled, “I will have no choice but to tie you to the bed before I continue. And I’ll do it even though I have your key.”
She held her breath in surprise, then chided herself for believing him. He was a gentleman, after all. No gentleman would—
“I advise you not to test me on this.”
Blair stomped her foot—a habit from childhood she sought to leave behind, but resurfaced when she was particularly frustrated. It only served to embarrass her.
He chuckled darkly and resumed his assault on the flint.
She frantically searched her pockets, but found nothing. Then she groped for the door and pulled at the doorknob to no avail.
When the flame took to the candle, she pulled up her hood, tugging it too far forward for the light to reach her face. She drew her cloak tightly about her before she turned back to him. She’d be damned if she’d allow him a good look at her, and he’d be damned to Hell if he tried to put his hands on her again. But even Hell wouldn’t be able to hold him, she thought. If she killed this man, he would haunt her mercilessly. And she was haunted enough.
Heaven help her—when had she become such a monster she would think so lightly
of killing a man?
She pushed the thought aside. In her current predicament, examining what was left of her soul would need to wait.
He lifted the candle.
She turned her head aside.
He sat the candle on the table. When she turned back, he gestured toward the bed.
“Sit.”
She didn’t move.
He huffed out a breath, then pointed to bed again.
“Please, sit. I assure you I shall remain standing. You have my word as a gentleman.”
Again, she made no response. His honor be damned.
Finally, he nodded, as if he’d given her permission to refuse his direction. She nearly sat just to spite him.
His attention fell to the dagger in his hand and he lifted her precious Wolfkiller into the weak light to inspect it.
“Viking,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t know its name, I suppose?”
“Wolfkiller.”
His brows rose. One corner of his mouth lifted. “Where did you come by it?”
If she said nothing, he might well believe she’d stolen it and assume it only fair to take it from her. But if she admitted she inherited it, he might learn who she was. And her secrets were the only things she could keep from his control.
“It’s mine,” she finally said, in the same tone she’d used with the stable hand in Sedan.
He nodded, as if he’d just worked something out in his mind. He laid the weapon on the table as if it had become too much of a distraction for him, then flipped the triangular hilt once so one of the three edges of the blade lay flat.
He glanced briefly at her skirts in a way that made heat flush through her body to the roots of her hair. But when she realized where he was looking, she suspected he wanted a close look at Wolfkiller’s scabbard, and that was all.
She folded her arms in what she hoped was a clear message—someone will get hurt if ye try.
He shook his head and shooed the idea away with his hand, smart man. A lock of hair across his forehead vied for her attention, but she resisted.
And there they stood, facing off. Her back was to the door that would not open. His back was to the small window that looked out upon the stable yard, or rather, would have if one could see through the dirt. As the only covering for the window, however, the dirt was fine where it was.
The bed was small and wedged against the wall to allow enough room for the door to swing wide. Her large bag sat at the foot. She might have hidden it beneath the bed if she didn’t fear small animals might make off with her things while she was out during the day.
The hearth was a square of blue miss-matched tiles that barely reached her knee. The hole in the middle had no grate and might hold a single log, though it didn’t look like it had been used for quite some time. The only other piece of furniture was the small table. The only source of warmth was the candle.
Well, the candle and the tall man standing beside it.
She was suddenly embarrassed by the room, as if it defined her somehow, and not as someone who would ever have conversation with her noble visitor.
He turned his head to the side. “I feel it my duty to inform you, lass, that by holding your cloak so tight around you. . .”
When understanding dawned, she let the cloth loose and leaned back against the wall, refusing to show her mortification, hoping her knees would hold out until she could get the man to leave. Then she would drag her bed over to the door and tie the knob to the bedpost. She’d no ken how he’d gotten inside—
Unless the attendant had let him in! No wonder the other man had smirked at her when she’d asked for her key. She’d laughed at his advances, then turned out to be the sort of woman a rich man would seek out for. . .
Well, no wonder.
“I’ll take my dagger, if ye please,” she said, bringing his attention back to her. She realized he’d looked away while she’d adjusted her cloak.
Ever the gentleman. Well, the gentleman had bloody better give her back her weapon!
“You may have it when our business is concluded,” he replied. “I would not leave you defenseless.”
No, of course he wouldn’t leave her that way, but as long as he was there, it was how he wanted her.
“Oh,” she said, “and haven’t ye done just that?”
He waved away her concern.
She wanted to break his flippant fingers.
He lowered his chin and stared into her eyes as if he knew exactly where they were in the shadows of her cowl.
“You have been following us since we reached Reims. You will tell me why.”
Blair’s wee spit of anger died. She didn’t have the strength to keep it up. But no matter, it was foolish to make war with the man when she so desperately needed his help. Perhaps it was her own desperation she was angry over.
Wedging herself against the door was the only detail that kept her from puddling on the floor. Well, that and a bit of stubborn pride in her bones. Eventually, she gave that up too.
“My brother was kidnapped near here. I was instructed to take his ransom to an abandoned monastery, but no one approached me. I felt someone watching, but none would answer when I called out.”
“Did you have the money?”
He sounded skeptical, which she found slightly offensive. She wished she could tell him she had money aplenty, but there was no reason to lie. One look about her room was enough to tell him the truth.
“Nay. I had no way to raise a ransom, but I thought perhaps they might be willing to negotiate. In any case, when I overheard ye and yer friends talking of another kidnapping, I hoped your man and my brother had been taken by the same lot, that if ye found the villains, I’d find my brother.”
“And your brother’s name?”
She shook her head. “I’ll not have ye tossing it about where the kidnappers might hear, aye?”
“You can trust me not to.” His voice rang with promise, the timber of it rattled her very bones.
She ignored both. “I’ll not be in yer way. But I will follow ye about, aye? As long as there is hope. . .”
As she spoke, his frown deepened.
Finally, she shrugged. “Ye doona believe me?”
He shook his head. “I believe you, lass. We had just hoped. . .” His voice grew faint at the last and he cleared his throat. “We had hoped you had been sent by the villains. That you might finally approach us with new ransom demands. That we might be able to find him. . .through you.”
She grimaced. “When it was I who hoped to find my brother through ye.”
He stepped forward suddenly. She jumped in reaction, then calmed when he held out the hilt of her dagger. She took it, then turned to the side while she slid it through her pocket and into its sheath.
He stepped back again and released a heavy breath as if he were trying to blow out an entire candelabrum of candles. Since he seemed to have something of import to say, she gave him her attention.
“We have only one place left to look, I’m afraid. We’ll leave at first light. If we find nothing by tomorrow evening, I do not know what we will do.”
Blair stepped forward, closing the distance between them, then pushed back her hood. “Ye canna give up. Ye’re all the hope I have.”
He smiled, then reached out to slide a finger along the side of her cheek, quite near her rather visible beauty mark. And the thought struck her—perhaps they were called beauty marks because she felt rather beautiful when he touched her there.
“Well, I cannot crush the hopes of a fellow countrywoman, can I?”
She tried to ignore the way her body vibrated in time with his baritone.
“Nay, ye canna,” she teased. “I’m certain there is a rule, somewhere.”
He smiled all the way to his eyes, but never removed his finger from her face. “I must confess I’m relieved you are not in league with the blackhearts. It would have been a pity to hang you.”
Her breath caught. “Wou
ld ye truly hang a woman?”
“I would bring anyone to justice who dared harm a friend of mine.”
She smiled. “That sounds rather nice.”
He frowned. “I just admitted I would see a woman hanged and you see something nice about it?”
She laughed. “No. It must be nice to have a friend such as ye. Someone who would so fiercely protect ye against all others, as a brother would.”
“As I am certain your brother will protect you once again.”
She tried not to roll her eyes at the thought. Poor Martin had been the one needing the protecting. How her father ever thought her brother should go to war without her watching his back was a mystery. But if she hadn’t been so crowding him, her brother might never run off to gamble that night—the night he’d never returned.
“And of course,” the Englishman’s voice demanded her attention once again, “we can protect you well enough I should think, until your brother is found.”
She smiled her appreciation, if only for the token of hope. Then for the life of her, she could think of nothing further to say. He seemed to have the same problem. And still, his finger remained.
Their gazes locked. Their breathing adjusted to the same cadence. And finally he drew the digit out toward her chin, which she lifted without thought. His face was slowly lost in shadow as he leaned down, slowly, as if he might press his lips to hers.
Fascinating.
She held still and breathed ever so carefully.
When he was close enough for his own breath to flutter across her cheek, he paused. It was impossible to tell what he might be thinking. But then suddenly, he straightened.
She’d been around war enough to know a retreat when she saw one. But still he couldn’t seem to release her completely, allowing that finger to drop to her cloak, just over her collar bone, where it toyed with the curl of hair that lay against it. Then his touch was gone.
The contact was far too brief for her liking, even though it left her quaking on the inside. His hands disappeared behind his back, but he held his ground.