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‘Of course I can.’ Even if she’d never ridden a horse before she’d not have said so. After being confined inside a mule-drawn cart for two days she would welcome the change. When they’d first set out from Montreau, she’d believed Charles when he’d explained that he’d procured the cart for her comfort. Now she realised he’d not been thinking about her comfort at all, but of her ability to more easily escape on horseback.
‘Good. Then I will await you below.’
Before he left, she asked, ‘Might I obtain some food before we leave?’
He pointed at the small table. ‘This is at your disposal.’
‘Oh.’ She hadn’t noticed the food-laden plate, pitcher or mug before. When she looked back in his direction to thank him for his thoughtfulness, she found nothing but an empty doorway.
Her rumbling stomach begged her to set aside her surprise at his silent, near-instantaneous departure and to focus on the food instead. A plea she readily fulfilled since she’d not eaten since early yesterday evening before she’d escaped from Charles.
One whiff of the waiting food set her mouth to watering. How on earth had she missed these aromas upon waking? The only explanation she had at hand was that she’d been distracted by arguing with Gregor. Not a bad distraction, but still a distraction none the less.
It took all of her willpower to eat like a lady and not shovel the pieces of fish, cheese and bread into her mouth.
The baked fish could have used an additional dusting of spices, but it was good. The bread was like heaven—soft inside with a crust baked to perfection. It would have been welcome at her father’s table.
She washed it all down with milk from the pitcher before taking a bite of the apple. Fruit in hand, she walked over to the narrow window. The breeze coming in let her know that the day would be mild. Thankfully the sun was unobscured by clouds and would lend warmth to the ride.
A knock on the door frame caught her attention. Beatrice turned to see the barmaid from last night standing in the doorway and waved her into the room.
The woman gathered the dishes from the table. ‘I am relieved to see the food did suit you after all.’
Beatrice blinked. ‘Why would you think otherwise?’
‘His lordship brought stew up with him last night and it came back untouched earlier this morning.’
‘Oh.’ As the woman’s words set fully in her mind, Beatrice repeated, ‘Oh! I was asleep when he returned, so I knew nothing about the stew.’
‘Martha will be relieved to hear that. She takes great pride in her cooking.’
‘As well she should.’ Even though Beatrice agreed with the maid, her mind wasn’t on the quality of the food.
Instead one thought ran round and round in her head. He had thought to bring her something to eat. The ruthless, heartless Wolf had taken the time...no, he had actually considered the needs of someone he barely knew. This supposedly cruel henchman of King David had taken her needs into consideration and acted upon them.
It was such a small thing, but it gave her pause. This was the type of action that defined a worthy man. Not his face, his form, his looks, or even his kindly spoken words. Because as she was well aware, even the kindest of words held little weight if they were nothing more than lies, or spoken merely for the purpose of manipulating her.
In the space of a few hours, Gregor of Roul had done more to show he was decent and kind-hearted than Charles had in three years.
Perhaps she had little need to worry about the Wolf’s intent. Surely a man this thoughtful wasn’t planning any nefarious deeds for Warehaven. She had probably fretted for naught and could only attribute her unfounded fears last night to Charles’s underhanded actions and her subsequent escape from him.
‘My lady?’
The maid’s query drew Beatrice’s attention away from her thoughts and back to the maid. ‘Yes?’
The woman held a pair of soft boots and stockings. ‘Will you have need of these?’
She glanced down at her ruined slippers on the floor near the end of the bed. Even had they not been beyond repair, they would do her little good for the journey home. She snatched a handful of smaller gemstones from the bedside table. ‘Yes, I will, thank you. You are welcome to make use of whatever fabric you can salvage from my gown and these.’
The maid’s mouth fell open. She glanced at the gown hanging from a hook near the door to the gems in Beatrice’s outstretched hand. ‘No, that is too much. Your lord already overpaid for what we’ve provided.’
Overpaid? Charles would have demanded whatever he’d wanted and then haggled the cost down to nearly nothing—or even taken what he wanted without payment of any kind. ‘You will be doing me a favour. I have no desire to ever wear or see the gown again, but it would be a shame to have it thrown away or used for rags when there is quite a bit of fabric that could be used.’
She dropped the gems into the maid’s hands and gently closed the woman’s fingers over them. ‘And these are nothing more than flawed stones, just brightly coloured baubles to use for decoration.’
‘Thank you, my lady. I know not what to say. Is there anything else you need?’
Beatrice smiled at the woman’s obvious nervousness. ‘No. You’ve done more than enough already. Thank you.’
‘It has been my pleasure.’ The maid paused, then added, ‘Safe travels, my lady.’
Once the maid left, Beatrice finished dressing and getting ready for the day. She used a ruined stocking to tie her pouch of remaining gemstones to her belt, plucked the heavy cloak off the bedpost and headed below.
Gregor awaited her at the bottom of the stairs. She would know him anywhere by the glint of silver in his otherwise dark hair. He leaned against the wall, his back towards her, talking to one of his men.
When he turned to face her, Beatrice’s breath caught and she slowed her descent. The sudden, rapid beating of her heart took her by surprise. How was it possible that a man clad in chainmail could be so striking?
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