At The Warrior's Mercy. Denise Lynn

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СКАЧАТЬ a bath?’

      Beatrice grasped his hand and before she could take a breath found herself held tightly against his chest as he spun her, along with her sodden clothing, out of the stream and on to the safety of the bank.

      Beatrice closed her eyes and struggled to breathe. She wasn’t certain whether it was the hard, rapid pounding of her heart, the fact that her nose was pressed against his breastbone, or that said breastbone belonged to a man—a stranger who might prove more dangerous than Charles—that made breathing nearly impossible.

      He released her, then tore the useless weapon she still held from her hand and secured it beneath the thick sword belt round his waist before cupping the back of her head with a large hand. ‘You are shivering.’

      Of course she was shivering. The water had been frigid and the cool night air did little to lend any warmth.

      He studied her, then asked, ‘Are you otherwise uninjured?’

      She found his strangely accented, deep voice incredibly...soothing. A barely perceptible twitch low in her belly gave her pause. His voice was more than just soothing. With the speed and accuracy of an arrow sent flying silently through the night his voice calmed her to the point where she would willingly do whatever he bid.

      Beatrice swallowed. This would not do. She would not be swayed by a deep, calming voice.

      ‘I am whole.’ She pushed against his chest, demanding, ‘Release me.’

      He did so instantly, but the look of regret on his face matched the sudden twinge of loss flitting in her gut. Oh, yes, he was dangerous in more ways than she’d first feared.

      He spread his arms before her with his hands—his very large, strong, capable-looking hands—palms up. Beatrice blinked and then dragged her gaze away.

      He tore off his cloak and settled it about her shoulders, saying, ‘I’ll not harm you.’

      At this very moment his harming her wasn’t what had her concerned. At least not in the manner he’d meant.

      She gathered the skirt of her sodden gown and wrung out some of the water, as if that would help it dry faster, or make it more presentable, when in truth the garment would never dry in the dampness of the night and was beyond saving. What she’d truly sought was a moment to collect her thoughts. ‘I thank you for your assistance, but if you’ll kindly return my knife, I’ll be on my way now.’

      He glanced around before asking, ‘Alone?’

      ‘Yes.’

      As she turned to leave, he said, ‘I can’t let you do that.’

      ‘You can’t stop me.’

      ‘Stopping you would be easy.’

      He had a valid point, one she didn’t want to put to the test knowing full well she’d lose any physical tussle with him. She turned back to look at him. ‘I am not your responsibility. I know you not and I’ve no wish to remain in your company.’

      ‘True. But you are a lady alone in the middle of the night.’ He glanced down at the bedraggled skirt of her gown and added, ‘A very wet lady.’

      Beatrice held out the skirt of her gown. ‘That is rather obvious.’

      He dragged his pointed gaze from the top of her head to her toes and back up again, making her realise that holding her gown out from the side had only served to tighten the skirt against her legs. She frowned at him and plucked the fabric away from her body. ‘If you are finished staring, this lady needs to be on her way.’

      His eyes widened in what she could only assume was shock and she groaned at her lack of manners. Dear heaven above, had she truly just admonished a grown man who was not related to her?

      ‘I apologise.’

      He ignored her apology to ask, ‘Where are you going?’

      The sound of a pebble or stone bouncing down the hill behind them drew her attention away from his question. That hadn’t dislodged by itself. Something—or someone—had kicked it loose.

      He stepped closer to her and rephrased his question. ‘Who are you running from?’

      ‘A mangy cur who needs to be put down.’ Beatrice closed her eyes. What was happening to her? Why did this man’s nearness make her feel safe enough to speak her mind? He was a stranger and from his rugged looks more warrior than simple man.

      ‘Your husband?’

      She swung her head to look up at him. ‘God be praised, no.’

      His soft laugh made her smile. Clearly he’d heard the overwhelming relief in her breathless tone and found it amusing, not off-putting.

      ‘I sense a tale worth telling.’ He nodded downstream. ‘There is an inn in the village. You can hide there while sitting near the fire to dry and tell me your story. In the meantime, I can decide what to do with you.’

      While he might think his plan sensible, Beatrice thought otherwise. ‘I can’t walk into an inn with you. We are not related, nor wed. You know what people will think.’

      He slung a large, muscular arm about her shoulders, turned her towards the village and started walking, giving her little choice but to walk beside him. His thigh brushed her hip and she tried to sidestep, hoping that putting a little distance between them would ease the restless fluttering of her heart. Unfortunately, the small space was far too little.

      ‘Do you know the people in this village?’

      Beatrice shrugged. ‘I am not even certain what village this is, so it’s doubtful if I’ll know anyone.’

      ‘Then what do you care what they might think?’

      ‘I have a reputation to think of and I already look quite dreadful.’

      ‘Ah, a rich heiress, no doubt.’

      In truth she was. But she wasn’t about to admit something that could possibly put her in even more danger. It would be an easy task for him to take her hostage and then bleed her father of gold in exchange for her return. ‘Heiress or not, I still have to protect my reputation and future.’

      He shook his head and made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chortle of disbelief. ‘Which is why you are running about at night alone.’

      She bristled at his chastising tone and tried to pull away, but he only tightened his fingers over her shoulder, keeping her in place. She frowned at the warmth seeping into her at his touch before stating, ‘You are neither my father nor my brother and thus have no right to remind me of my shortcomings.’

      He stared down at her. ‘You put your life and your precious reputation at great risk and you call that nothing more than a shortcoming? You need count yourself lucky I am not your father or brother, for if I were, I would use more than simple words to remind you of your place.’

      She knew exactly what he meant, but little did he know that it wasn’t her brother or father who would be tempted to take a switch to her backside if they found out what she’d done. It was her mother who would be СКАЧАТЬ