her and, short of locking her in a cell, their only other choice would be to marry her off to the first man who showed up at their walls.
A fate she could have avoided had she acted with more caution, like her sister Isabella would have done, instead of being so impulsive. It was imperative that she learn to think things through before dashing off to follow her heart’s desire.
‘I know full well the foolishness of the risk I took. I’ve no need to be reminded of it.’
‘If you knew it was foolhardy, what made you take such a risk?’
Beatrice sighed. ‘I thought I did so for love.’
To her amazement, he didn’t laugh at her childish notion. Instead he simply shook his head, then said, ‘Since this shouldn’t be too difficult a mystery to solve, let me guess. Once alone he decided to take what he thought was his whether you agreed or not.’
She nodded in reply.
‘Did no one ever warn you about the wicked ways of men?’
‘Of course they did.’
‘But you thought he was different.’
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
‘Then perhaps you learned a hard lesson. All men are the same.’
‘Even though this wastrel proved to be a beast, I would say you are wrong. While I did learn a lesson that I’ll not likely forget, not all men are the same. Neither my father nor brother are vile animals.’
‘They are related to you, so of course they do not act like fools in your presence.’
Beatrice smiled at his statement. Sometimes her brother acted like the worst of fools, but she knew what this stranger meant. Still, what about him? ‘I disagree. You have not offered me harm when you could have easily done so.’
‘You do not fear me?’
‘Do I act afraid?’ Although, by all rights she should be afraid. Terrified, in fact, and she didn’t understand why she wasn’t. Her lack of fear confused her—it made no sense. She was alone in the company of what appeared to her to be a seasoned warrior.
The only explanation she had was that all of her fear was directed at Charles and his companions, leaving none for this man. Perhaps once her senses cleared and she regained the ability to do more than worry about those chasing her, she would find herself beset with the proper amount of fear.
‘Perhaps you should be afraid.’
‘And perhaps once I am safe and dry I will be afraid.’
‘How can you be so certain I am leading you to safety?’
‘I cannot. But if I am to die I would much rather it be at the hands of someone I know not, instead of one I thought I knew well.’
She felt his questioning stare and hoped he didn’t ask her to explain what probably seemed like a strange notion. She wasn’t certain she could find the right words to tell him that being harmed by a near stranger would only hurt physically and while it might take time to heal, she eventually would. Whereas any harm Charles inflicted would also linger in her heart, preventing her from ever healing fully.
‘There are worse things that could happen to you than being killed.’
Beatrice shivered harder, knowing he was right. ‘Is that your intention? To do things worse than death to me?’
He withdrew his arm from about her shoulders, pulled her dagger from behind his sword belt, then grasped her wrist, pressing his thumb into the soft flesh until she spread her fingers open, and then he slapped the grip of the weapon into her hand. ‘The only plan I have for you is to see you safely delivered to your home and family.’
The angry frown etched on his face seemed to hide something else. She parted her lips to apologise, but before she could utter a single word he marched off towards the village, leaving her to follow or not.
Beatrice hesitated, uncertain what to do. She had her dagger in hand and could head for Warehaven as she’d originally planned—on her own. A shiver of cold raced down her spine beneath the dripping clothing. Or she could accept his offer of a warm fire to sit beside while she decided what to do next.
Either option was a better choice than having remained with Charles.
While the noisy, smoke-filled inn had been an unexpected find, Gregor of Roul had been glad for the warmth and shelter it had provided him earlier when he’d sought to escape the company of his men for a few hours of time alone and had no aversion to being once again beneath its thatched roof.
He raised his cup, only to find it empty, and signalled one of the maids over to his rough-hewn table in the far corner near the fire.
She placed a jug of ale before him, then lingered to give him an assessing gaze—a look signalling that she didn’t know anything about his reputation or his identity.
He wondered idly what women saw when they looked at him before they realised who he was—when they gazed upon him as if he were just a man instead of a treacherous beast. Did they see that his once coal-black hair had started turning silver too early, making him look far older than his twenty-eight years? Or did the strand of silvery-white hair hanging across his forehead make them think of the wolves that populated his ancestor’s demesne lands in Normandy, giving them the name Roul?
Did they notice that his nose was crooked from one too many fights? Or the jagged scar that ran the length of his jawbone, accentuated now by the stubble from not shaving these last three days on the road. Did these imperfections make him appear a warrior to be pitied, or one to be feared?
He knew the very second she realised who she might be serving. Men would instinctively reach for their weapon and willingly choose avoidance if possible. But as happened more often than not with women, her smile vanished and the tell-tale shimmer of fear brightened her widening eyes and enlarged her pupils.
‘Will you be needing anything else?’ Her previous warmth cooled, leaving her tone curt and distracted as if she couldn’t get away quickly enough.
Gregor sighed. Had he been anyone else, she’d have followed her query with a saucy wink and lingering touch on his shoulder to let him know that if he was so tempted, she’d be more than willing to keep him company this night.
She was a fine-looking young woman, with blond hair that tumbled in loose waves down her back and a gown laced so snugly that nothing of her curvaceous form was left to his imagination.
But it wasn’t a blonde serving wench who filled his thoughts at the moment. Instead a dark-haired, headstrong, wayward lady flitted around in his mind. One with the take-charge spirit of a warrior, flashing green eyes full of curiosity, an impertinent mouth that begged to be kissed and a lack of fear that both fascinated and intrigued him.
He’d been intrigued from the moment she’d grasped his hand. Had she felt the same shocking spark of warmth flow through her at the contact as he’d experienced? Or during that brief moment when she’d rested against
