The Angel's Assassin

by Samantha Holt

  Nicholas aided Annabel down from the mount, his fingers linking briefly with hers. He dropped her hand quickly before motioning to the oak door that stood open in the base of the building and handing the reins to a stable hand. The smell of cooked vegetables and herbs wafted from it and Annabel took a grateful sniff, already dreaming of tucking into a hot meal.

  Nicholas’ leather covered hand touched her again, this time curling around her elbow, as he led her through the doorway. Almost possessively, he kept her close as she surveyed the room.

  The fire pit had been lit, radiating a glow that seemed to seep under her skin, instantly soothing her. The long tables and benches were rough, but clean, and several guests were tucking eagerly into supper.

  The innkeeper greeted them genially, his countenance probably stemming from a need to keep his rich patrons happy. He was a large man with a ruddy face and nose, and crooked teeth, but Annabel immediately liked him, sensing him to be honest and hardworking.

  Leading them back out of the dining hall, he escorted them up the stairs and along a hallway that spanned the length of the building. When they reached the end, he pushed open a creaking door to reveal their chambers for the night.

  Nicholas quickly dismissed the innkeeper with the slip of a coin into his palm and stepped in after Annabel, filling the room with his broad shoulders and dark presence.

  Annabel looked warily around the small room. It was pleasant enough, with two plump looking pallets and already lit candles, but Nicholas’ proximity disturbed her suddenly. She had never been in an enclosed space with him before and it heightened her awareness of him, her skin prickling with sensation.

  “Is all well, my lady?”

  She turned with a start to see him staring at her in confusion. What he had to be confused about, she knew not, but it was not the first time she had seen him watching her with a perplexed look upon his face.

  “Aye…” She bit at her lip. “Are we to share?”

  He nodded. “The innkeeper believes us to be husband and wife. ‘Twould not do for him to think otherwise.”

  “You are right, of course.” Still the thought of lying so close to him discomfited her.

  “We have spent much time alone together these past days, my lady. I know ‘tis improper but I cannot leave you alone.”

  “Nay, I suppose you are right. Besides, you are an honourable enough man, Nicholas.”

  He looked to the floor. “I fear you place too higher judgement on me, my lady. I am no more than a mercenary, a knight without honour.”

  She watched him for a moment, a slight smile playing on her lips. How odd he was, thinking himself without honour. She had met few men that treated her with as much respect and care as he did.

  “Well then, dishonourable knight, pray let me have a moment alone so that I may wash for supper.”

  He bowed his head briefly, the look of confusion coming over his face once more, before backing out of the doorway.

  As Annabel dipped her hands into the bowl that had been left for them, scrubbing the grime from her face and arms, her thoughts turned to Nicholas. As they frequently did, she admitted to herself. There was something about him that fascinated her. An innate feeling of comfort entwined with a simmering sense of danger stemmed from his company. The danger, she suspected, was likely to her heart.

  ***

  Nicholas paced as he waited, grinding his teeth with frustration. He didn’t like not being able to see her. He couldn’t say why, but his instincts warred within him, warning him of some hidden danger to her. Which was ridiculous. The only danger to Annabel was him.

  And now she thought him honourable? God’s blood, how blind she was to the truth of him. He struggled to comprehend how she could not see the inherent sin that sat in his soul.

  Not that it had ever weighed on him before. He had followed the path that life had given him, surviving, and then flourishing, in his role as a mercenary. Flourishing? Aye, mayhap not but he had gained riches enough.

  The door creaked open and he bit back a sigh of relief before blinking at the sight in front of him. Annabel’s face was dewy with water and her disturbing eyes arrested him, surrounded by wet lashes. He snapped back to attention as he realised she was speaking to him.

  “Would you like me to leave you to wash?”

  “Nay.” He strode past her into the room and shut the door behind him. “I’ll not leave you alone.”

  He was aware his manner was brusque but he hoped he could prevent her from arguing with him.

  “I’ll wait outside,” she said breathily as he began to unclasp his coif.

  Nicholas glared at her. “You will not.”

  Her eyes narrowed briefly but she relented under his hard gaze, slumping herself down onto the straw mattress with a humph. “I appreciate that you are trying to do your duty but surely…”

  She trailed off as his chainmail landed on the floor with a clatter and he began to untie his gambeson. Her eyes flew wide, clashing with his own hard gaze. Nicolas felt his pulse kick and he turned abruptly, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

  Even as he tore off his padded jacket and shirt, he could feel her eyes follow him. Why did she watch him with such fascination? His body was riddled with scars, each one telling a tale of survival and a life hard lived. There was little to interest a woman of Annabel’s delicate nature.

  With haste, he went through his ablutions, his ears picking up Annabel’s soft breaths as he scrubbed at his chest and torso. He ached to turn and see if her silvered eyes were still on him but he forced himself to remain facing the wall, even as he donned his dark shirt. Only when he had laced the collar did he find the strength to face her once more.

  Her eyes were still attached to him but they held a turbulent quality, the intrinsic trust having been replaced with something that he couldn’t define. As he reached for his gambeson, she held up a hand.

  “Don’t.”

  He paused, even as his mind fought against the control that she seemed to have over him.

  Annabel flushed. “I mean…will you not be more comfortable without your armour? ‘Tis warm enough tonight to forgo it, surely?”

  Nicholas’ brow furrowed. Why should she care what he wore? He reached again and still she gave him cause to stop.

  “Pray I have asked little of you, Nicholas. Will you not do this one thing for me?”

  His chest constricted slightly, the unfamiliar feeling disturbing him enough to submit to her request.

  “As you bid, my lady.”

  She offered him a wide smile and he shook his head with confusion as he swung his mantle over his shoulders and he tied his belt, shoving his sword into it.

  Opening the door, Nicholas motioned for her to leave the room. “Let us go to supper.”

  Annabel brushed past him in a haze of soft skin and sweet fragrance and Nicholas felt his exasperation increase as he followed her out, By God, some mercenary he was. He could not even argue with a mere woman.

  ***

  Annabel found supper to be a fun and lively affair, a far cry from her lonesome meal in the convent. The fellow guests were already getting into the Hocktide spirit and the wine and mead flowed freely. Annabel had never tried mead before, only used to drinking watered down ale, but she found that she enjoyed the sweet warmth after her first timid taste.

  Indeed, the only person not enjoying the festivities was Nicholas, whose gaze remained focused on his meal as he ate. She was aware she had disconcerted him by asking him not to wear his hauberk but she had been so struck by the change in his demeanour without it. Gone was the fearsome warrior and, although he was no less impressive, he seemed softer and certainly more vulnerable. She suspected his reticent manner stemmed from this feeling of vulnerability. For Nicholas, his work defined him and without his armour he was just a man. But it was that man that sparked her curiosity and she hoped she could work beneath his hard shell tonight.

  With their supper finished, they strolled outside and followed some o
f the other guests towards the centre of the village. A huge fire had been lit near the well, and already people were dancing and drinking with great relish. Huge casks of drink sat scattered around and villagers had dragged battered tables and chairs from their homes. Though the fare was basic, they had obviously spent much time preparing the dishes which were almost as heavily fragranced with herbs as the meal that she and Nicholas had just shared.

  Some travelling minstrels had struck up a tune and a few villagers joined in, their inebriated voices causing Annabel to laugh in delight. Her eyes lit at the sight of such enjoyment but she was aware of Nicholas standing stiffly to her side.

  Heat suffused her cheeks as the image of his bare torso fluttered through her mind. She had been unprepared for the pure beauty of him. His coarse appearance belied the smooth masculine magnificence of his body and Annabel freely admitted that he had quite an effect on her. Though scattered with dark hair and small scars, his hard form was truly captivating, each move of his muscular physique drawing her eye.

  A mug of drink was thrust into her hand by a young village girl, ending her reverie. Already feeling the warm effects of the mead from supper, Annabel took a large sip under the disapproving eye of Nicholas. A spark of rebellion lit inside of her and she eyed him as she took a great gulp, shuddering as the fiery drink trickled down her throat.

  Annabel watched the dancers with envy as they danced with a freedom that Annabel rarely felt. Her role as mistress of Alderweald confined her in so many ways. She would not have it any other way, she conceded. She loved Alderweald, and the people in it, and they would always be her first priority, no matter how much she wished for the occasional night of freedom.

  A group of women, similar in age to her, danced past and noticed the tapping of her feet and interest in their dancing, so they beckoned to her. Annabel hesitated and then realised that this could be her one night of freedom. If any good could come of being turned out of her home, then this was it.

  She was about to join them when she remembered her mother’s necklace, still tucked snugly inside her bodice. Drawing it out, she handed it to Nicholas, who frowned at the slim gold chain.

  “Will you put this on for me? I do not wish to lose it. ‘Tis my mothers,” she added.

  Sensing his reluctance, she drew her hair up and waited patiently, not allowing him the chance to refuse.

  His rough touch startled her, even though she had expected it, as he clumsily hooked the delicate necklace. It seemed to her that he took longer than necessary and his fingers danced very briefly over the sensitive skin of her neck.

  Annabel faced him, mayhap hoping to see some sign of what he was thinking, but he remained expressionless, his mouth drawn into a straight line.

  Emboldened by the mead, she brushed a finger across his mouth and he stared at her incredulously.

  “Nicholas, you do frown overmuch. Has the life of a knight errant jaded you thus that you cannot even summon a smile?”

  He offered up no answer, just continued to stare at her, and Annabel turned with a slight smile before joining the dancers.

  She danced with great abandon, relishing the sense of inhibition that filled her. As Annabel danced, she became aware of a change within Nicholas. She glanced over at him as she skipped about, following a young girl. He was scowling at her. That in itself was unusual; normally he regarded her with an impassive expression. However, it was not the glower that caught her attention, but the change in his eyes. Their darkened depths took on a new quality. While Annabel didn’t consider them softer as such, the scintillating ghost of something deeper smouldered in them and it tugged at her heart.

  The feel of his fingers on her neck haunted her, and the memories of all the other times he had touched her came flooding back. Though they were only small, meaningless touches, suddenly they seemed vitally important and her body filled with awareness.

  Becoming breathless and heated from the exertions and her unbidden thoughts, she danced over to his side once more. She yearned to understand the sudden change within herself and to find out if he too was having the same thoughts.

  Annabel was flushed with exhilaration, her eyes dazzling in the torch light. Nicholas could feel his scowl deepen as his thoughts became more muddled by her presence.

  “Do you never drink, Nicholas?”

  “Never,” he told her bluntly. “And neither do you, my lady.”

  She giggled as she wobbled slightly. “‘Tis true, it is rare indeed that I indulge, but pray, do I not deserve a little respite?”

  “Respite from what?”

  “From my cares.”

  “Cares? You have none.” He was being terse but her close proximity frightened him and part of him hoped that by throwing up a defence of callousness she would cease to look at him with such reverence.

  She gave him a tight smile. “Ah, so you think of me as others do - a silly girl with naught to do with her days but to find new ways to entertain herself. ‘Tis a shame for I thought you an astute man and far more able to see beneath the surface than others.”

  Although Nicholas was sure the drink was making her tongue glib, he could see the genuine hurt there. No doubt she had battled much, becoming the sole heir to a large demesne at such a tender age, and that she still managed to continue on with such fortitude was a testament to her strength.

  “Forgive me, my lady. I intended not to imply such. Indeed, I hold you in high esteem. There are few noble ladies who could bare such trials with as much grace as you do.”

  Nicholas realised that it was true. He thought highly of her - an odd thought, for he usually paid heed to no-one but himself. He sighed inwardly; life was becoming more and more complex with this woman around. He tried to push back the thought of how the problem of Lady Annabel would be overcome - by his hand - but it hovered in the front of his mind and his chest tightened oddly.

  “You’re words are fine, Nicholas, for someone so rough-mannered, but they have little meaning behind them. You would do well to work on that.”

  His teeth ground together in restraint, words biting their way through to be heard. Annabel stumbled against him and his arms came around her as her diminutive figure pressed into him. He was struck by how small she was. She felt as if she would snap in his arms if he but squeezed slightly. He had to fight the impulse to pull her into his embrace.

  Her body trembled under his touch as her face tilted to his, snaring him with her eyes.

  “You are a rare creature and too bewitching for your own good.”

  Her mouth quirked. “Ah, so there we have some words of truth. Keep practicing, Nicholas. I shall conjure up some feeling from you yet!”

  A village girl danced up to the pair and snatched Annabel’s hand with a grin. Laughing, Annabel allowed herself to be pulled away, twirling away from Nicholas as he watched her in bewilderment. She tested him as no other person could, pushing his carefully laid down boundaries. Her face lit as she danced with the village ladies, bringing light into the dark night. With her yellow gown and pale hair, she did indeed look like a rare, mythical creature. After two nights of being in the forest, her finery was diminished but she still retained an unhindered air of grace and light.

  He scowled as he watched her - this was getting dangerous. They had many more days of traveling ahead of them and he was losing his focus. His unfeeling ways were no contrived tactic, it was just the way he had always been. It had brought him riches and comforts and he had never questioned such an existence. So why would such an artless woman create so much tumult inside of him?

  Annabel chatted easily with the peasant women, showing no hint of pretention. His mouth twitched slightly as they admired her gown and hair and it he could tell she was brushing aside their compliments. They fingered her necklace and Annabel made to take it off, likely intending to let them have a look. As she slipped it into her hand, it became apparent to Nicholas that she meant to let the women try it on.

  Cursing, he strode over to the gathering and slapp
ed a hand around Annabel’s wrist before she could hand over the necklace. She stared at him with shock as the other women backed away, intimidated by the glowering man.

  “Nicholas, what are you doing?” she breathed.

  “Little fool,” he hissed. He was furious, angrier than he had ever been. For some reason her unthinking trust had wrought a dangerous fire within him.

  Annabel blinked at him before yanking her arm from his grip. “Why do you insult me so? I shall tell you now, Nicholas, that I shall not tolerate being treated thus.”

  His jaw twitched. “Think you that they shall not run off with your precious jewel? You are too trusting, my lady. Too trusting by far. Cease your naivety and look about you. This is a dangerous world and you cannot continue on expecting everyone to live up to your childish expectations.”

  A flush ran across her cheeks, seeping down her neck, visible even in the golden light of the torches. Nicholas recognised her anger and he knew that he had thoroughly insulted her, but his anger had taken a hold of him, his tension and fear building to a crescendo.

  Spinning wildly, she dashed away from him, into the sinister gloom of the woods. He stalked after her, his boots crushing hapless twigs and leaves as he went. Though she scurried away, his long strides enabled him to keep up with her easily and the moonlight rebounded off her flaxen hair ensuring he would not lose sight of her.

  “My lady!” he called as he came up behind her, not willing to have to grab her again to get her attention.

  Annabel whirled on him, a rare fiery glint in her eyes. “Why does it matter to you, Nicholas? ‘Tis my necklace, my trust! Why does my behaviour to others concern you so? You are my protector, naught more.”

  “There is more to it than that,” he growled, silently rebuking himself for his candid tongue.

  Her eyes lit with hope and her anger died at his words. Hesitantly, she stepped towards him, her body seeming to unfold towards him.

  It dawned on Nicholas that his anger had little to do with the village folk and everything to do with himself. He followed the tempting line of her cheek, to the soft curve of her lips and he knew that this was it.