noise too close behind her prompted Beatrice to jump to her feet, gather the long skirt of her gown in one hand and once again resume her stumbling climb up the side of the hill. She knew not who was behind her. It could be Charles and his companions, an animal hunting for food, or it could be a roaming band of thieves and murderers who meant ill will to any they came across. Either way, she couldn’t let them catch her, as they were all equally dangerous to her safety.
Shivering from the cold, she choked back a sob as she scrambled up a steeper section and cursed the impractical clothing she’d donned at Charles’s insistence. He’d wanted her to dress nicely for their evening meal. Since she’d packed little for her dash to what was supposed to have been the beginning of a new life with her love, other than the clothes on her back, she’d had only the clothing she was to have worn for their marriage. While beautifully bedecked with embroidered, gem-studded flowers and leaves, the thin linen layer of her gown and even thinner layer of the chemise beneath provided little protection against the inclement weather.
She wrapped her fingers tightly around the grip of the dagger with one hand and lifted the skirt of her gown with the other, wondering if cutting the length might make her journey easier. But the snapping of branches echoing through the darkness let her know there was no time for hacking at her gown. Oh, how she longed to be back at Montreau, sitting before a blazing fire where she’d be dry, warm and safe.
Gladly would she suffer her brother Jared’s demanding rules and the endless lectures from his wife, Lea. Beatrice knew that had she paid the least bit of attention to the rules or the lectures she’d not have found herself in this dire predicament.
Her parents had sent her to Montreau for her protection after her older sister Isabella had been kidnapped. Nobody had expected her to remain at her brother’s keep for so long, but at the same time of the kidnapping, her mother’s family in Wales had fallen on hard times, then they’d been beset by illness. So her parents had spent their time travelling between Warehaven and Wales while also searching for Isabella.
When the kidnapping had turned into a marriage that produced a child, their parents had left Wales and sailed to Dunstan—Isabella’s new home—for the birthing. After that, they’d immediately returned to Wales, leaving Beatrice with Jared and Lea.
The natural son of a former king, her father possessed the wealth and right to not only build, but also amass, a fleet of ships, so travelling with little notice was never an issue. Even though doing so was fraught with danger from the unforgiving sea and unpredictable weather, both of her parents preferred journeying by sea rather than over land.
However, their penchant for travelling to and fro had left her essentially stranded at Montreau. The lengthy stay had shortened her patience, which in turn had made Jared and Lea less accommodating. For the most part, they’d suffered in silence because they knew how much she longed to return home, but of late their suffering hadn’t been quite as silent.
Another crack of a branch prompted her to set aside her musings and pick up her pace. If she didn’t escape the monsters trailing her, listening to her brother and sister-by-marriage would be the least of her concerns.
A thorny bush snagged the back edge of Beatrice’s gown, nearly ripping it from her as she stumbled once again to the ground. Biting her lips to keep from crying out in pain and giving away her location, she staggered to her feet, using the dagger to free herself from the prickly bush before sliding it back in place. One step forward sent her over the edge of a steep embankment.
Certain this would be the moment of her demise, Beatrice prayed. ‘Please, Lord, let my death be swift.’
If now was her time to die, she’d prefer a quick end rather than one that would take days—or perhaps even weeks—of suffering.
Her rolling tumble came to a sudden stop at the grassy bank of a stream. Face down in the soft grass she groaned, grateful that she hadn’t stabbed herself with the unsheathed blade, then she stretched her arms and legs to ensure nothing was broken before dragging herself towards the sound of the rushing water.
Hoping the cool water would help to revive her exhausted body and muddled mind, she plunged her hands into the stream only to slide on the bank’s wet grass and splash face first into the shallow water. Unprepared for the frigid coldness drenching her clothing, she gasped in shock and staggered to her feet.
A man’s mumbled curse set her heart to race even faster and drew another gasp from her lips. She backed away from his voice, slipped on the rocky bottom of the stream and, with a splash, landed once again in the icy cold water.
His curse this time was louder and decidedly less mumbled. She winced at the ungodly words spewing from his mouth as he strode into the water and reached a hand down towards her.
Uncertain of his intent, she pointed her weapon at him and stared, tipping her head back to look up at his face. The full moon provided enough light to see most of his features—at least enough to see that his returning gaze was more one of impatience and surprise than a threatening glare.
With his arm still extended, he tilted his head and cocked one dark eyebrow before asking, ‘Do you not find that water a little cold for 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