At The Warrior's Mercy. Denise LynnЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Three

      Gregor wasn’t at all certain how to react, so he rubbed his temples in an attempt to gain enough time to respond.

      If this wasn’t some sort of jest devised by Satan himself, he didn’t know what was. The complete irony of this situation would make his two younger brothers hoot like drunken fools. His older brother Elrik would shake his head and claim that it was Roul’s curse coming to life once again.

      He and Elrik had both lost wives in horrific manners, but his brother had also lost a child along with his wife. So when Sarah had chosen to end her life rather than be his wife, Elrik had claimed they were cursed never to have wives or families.

      Gregor didn’t know if he believed they were cursed or not—he’d chosen not to believe. What he did know was that no one could ever accuse him of relying on luck, since it had never run to his favour. Because he was on his way to take possession of Warehaven Keep and its remaining heiress, of course luck would ensure that he would run into the heiress along the way.

      To make matters worse, the fiery lass didn’t appear to fear him in the least. For the first time since the disastrous event that passed as his marriage, he feared that he could eventually come to care for a woman.

      Not just any woman, but this woman.

      She was too easy to be near. Far too easy to look at and talking to her was quickly becoming something he could get used to doing—especially when they could make each other laugh.

      More than that, he’d seen her nervous tension around him. The lady was far too innocent yet to realise it, but that tension had nothing to do with fear, but with interest. He’d recognised it because he felt it, too. And knowing that within a matter of days her world would come crashing down around her, ending with her marriage to him, did nothing to quell the budding desire—in fact, it only made it worse.

      This was not good—for either of them.

      If he was only going to Warehaven to force her hand in marriage, she might somehow be willing to eventually forgive his actions. But that wasn’t at all the case. He was going to intentionally harm this young woman’s family, perhaps bring about the death of someone she loved. At the very least he would take everything her family had worked for, steal her future and break her heart.

      There was no way of knowing what she would do—no way for him to tell if she would resort to the same actions as Sarah had. He couldn’t afford to care about her. More importantly, she could not be given the chance to care about him.

      It would do neither of them any good.

      The one mission where his ability to feel nothing would be his strongest armour was in jeopardy. No, he corrected that thought. The success of the mission was not in any danger, it would just be harder to complete. His focus would need to be more well defined.

      It would have to be more finely honed than his sharpest blade, all because this slip of a woman wasn’t afraid of him, but found him desirable, and because he was oddly attracted to the sound of her laughter—even when it was directed at him. It had raced across his heart warm and inviting. The sound had soothed him while at the same time left him wanting more.

      More was something he couldn’t have—not from her. The only thing he would gain from her was hatred.

      ‘Gregor?’

      He took a deep breath and rose on suddenly shaking legs.

      She tipped her head and studied him with obvious concern, causing him to clench his teeth at the sharp prick to his heart.

      A soft knock on the chamber door stopped him from having to say anything. ‘My lord? I am putting the things you requested right outside the door.’

      He opened the door to find the waiting pile. Gregor picked up the stack and after quickly sorting through what seemed serviceable enough clothing, he tossed them on to the bed. ‘Not as fine as you are used to, but they’ll be dry. I’ll step out while you put them on.’

      Before she could once again question his obvious change in mood, he grabbed his boots, walked out of the chamber, slamming the door closed behind him, and headed below. It was doubtful any amount of ale would make tomorrow bearable, but a throbbing head would provide a good excuse to avoid her, or to be surly enough in her presence that she’d wish to avoid any conversation.

      For now, that seemed the best course of action.

      * * *

      Beatrice flinched at the coldness in his tone which he’d punctuated by slamming the door closed on his hasty exit.

      What was wrong with the man?

      She frowned, mentally going over everything they had said since coming back up to this bedchamber. And yet, rehashing their conversation repeatedly provided her with no answer.

      True, she’d laughed at his display of aggression, but he’d not seemed angered by her lack of composure, a little surprised perhaps, just as he had when she hadn’t quivered in terror at knowing his identity. Neither of those things had brought about a change in his demeanour.

      That hadn’t happened until she’d told him her name.

      Why?

      Somehow she was going to have to reason this out on her own, because it was doubtful he was going to tell her.

      She pulled the pile of clothing closer to her and shook her head. The wool gown and serviceable shift were every bit as fine as what she wore at Warehaven. Did he think she always dressed in fine-spun linen and silk bedecked with embroidery and gems?

      If so, then he obviously didn’t know the workings of a large keep, or the women who saw to its day-to-day operation. If she’d shown up in the kitchens dressed in such finery, Cook would have sent for her lady mother long before Beatrice could stir a pot or knead a loaf of bread.

      To her great relief, she found a large towel mixed in with the garments. She stripped off her ruined slippers and stockings, then glanced at the door. It was doubtful that Gregor would barge in on her, but there were others about. Knowing she’d never be able to fit the bar into place, she dragged the bench in front of the door. It wouldn’t stop anyone from entering, but the noise it would make as the door shoved it across the wooden floor would warn her of the intruder’s presence.

      Anxious to once again be dry and warm, Beatrice struggled with the laces of her gown. The wet knots refused to give and she knew she’d never be able to gather the skirt and pull it over her head.

      She cursed through gritted teeth, then spied the small dagger. With no one to help her, there wasn’t any choice in the matter of removing her wet clothes.

      And it wasn’t as if she was ever going to wear this gown again—she wanted nothing that would remind her of Charles. Perhaps, once it was washed and dried, there would be enough decent fabric left for someone to use. If nothing else, they could pick the gems free from the embroidery. Surely that would be payment enough for the clothing the maid had brought.

      Beatrice stuck the tip of the blade through the neck edge of the gown and cringed. She’d spent a goodly amount of time on not just the sewing of the gown, but on the trim work, too. With a determined stroke, she sliced the gown down to her waist.

      It took some doing, but after slitting the shoulders and tops of the sleeves, she managed to pull her arms free of the wet,