At the Warrior's Mercy Read online

  Married—by order of the king!

  Deceived and alone, Beatrice of Warehaven is forced to flee—straight into the powerful arms of feared warrior Gregor of Roul. He escorts her home, though not before a kiss ignites true passion between them.

  If Gregor is to gain his freedom, he must obey one last royal order—overthrow Warehaven and marry Beatrice. His betrayal will earn Beatrice’s hatred, but Gregor is prepared to go into battle with this stubborn beauty—and finish what he started with his innocent bride!

  ‘I am Beatrice of Warehaven.’

  His reaction was immediate. A brief widening of his eyes was followed by a frown.

  Beatrice’s stomach fluttered uneasily. ‘Is something the matter?’

  Gregor wasn’t at all certain how to react. He was on his way to take possession of Warehaven Keep—and its heiress. Of course fate would ensure that he would run into the heiress along the way.

  To make matters worse, she 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.

  Author Note

  Over twenty years ago in ‘story’ time, Randall FitzHenry and Brigit of Warehaven began their journey in ‘Wedding at Warehaven’ from the Hallowe’en Husbands anthology. Over the years they thrived and prospered, fortifying Warehaven, building a successful shipping empire and raising a family. A family that consisted of three children: Jared, the eldest, who after much grief married his childhood love, Lea of Montreau—the same woman who had once left him at the altar and wed another—in Pregnant by the Warrior. Then there was Isabella, who, while kidnapped and carted far from her home by Richard of Dunstan, discovered the love of her heart in The Warrior’s Winter Bride.

  Now it’s time for Beatrice, the youngest of the family, to find her love in the least likely of places in the last Warehaven story, At the Warrior’s Mercy. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about the Warehaven family even half as much as I’ve enjoyed creating their stories. Perhaps in this final tale we’ll discover the answer to the question that’s long bedeviled Beatrice—will her love be strong enough to hold her should she swoon from his kisses?

  Happy reading!

  Denise Lynn

  At the

  Warrior’s Mercy

  Award-winning author Denise Lynn lives in the USA with her husband, son and numerous four-legged ‘kids.’ Between the pages of romance novels she has travelled to lands and times filled with brave knights, courageous ladies and never-ending love. Now she can share with others her dream of telling tales of adventure and romance. You can write to her at PO Box 17, Monclova, OH 43542, USA, or visit her website, denise-lynn.com.

  Books by Denise Lynn

  Harlequin Historical

  Warehaven Warriors

  Hallowe’en Husbands

  “Wedding at Warehaven”

  Pregnant by the Warrior

  The Warrior’s Winter Bride

  At the Warrior’s Mercy

  Falcon’s Desire

  Falcon’s Honor

  Falcon’s Love

  Falcon’s Heart

  Commanded to His Bed

  Bedded by Her Lord

  Bedded by the Warrior

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!

  Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards

  http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010002

  To my family and husband with love, always.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Excerpt from Heiress on the Run by Laura Martin

  Prologue

  Carlisle Castle—May 1145

  ‘It has come to our attention that Warehaven has been left too long without a lord.’

  Gregor, second son of Roul Isle’s former lord, held the questions hopping around on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he focused on the sound of workers fortifying Carlisle Castle, making it bigger and stronger. Hopefully, sooner or later King David would get to the point of this discussion before the ceaseless drone of construction drove him mad with impatience—Gregor had been too long away from his own building project and the sounds of hammering and sawing made his hands itch to wield an adze or axe. Either tool would suit him fine since he’d rather be shaping or cutting lumber than standing here in the King’s court.

  King David’s frowning countenance during his prolonged hesitation gave Gregor the sinking feeling that not only would it be a while before he could return to his half-built ship, but that this time he wasn’t going to like the task about to be placed on his shoulders.

  Not that his liking would matter in the least. After nearly ten years he was still paying for his father’s sins in attacking the foreigner who had been given control over some mainland property just south of Roul Isle. Gregor failed to understand why his father had never been able to accept the fact that the King’s word was law, or why it mattered who held the mainland property. His father had been lucky to die an old man at home in his own bed instead of in a less pleasant manner for treason.

  However, Gregor and his brothers hadn’t been quite as lucky. They’d found themselves paying the price for their father’s actions. Even now, his older brother Elrik, the current Lord of Roul, was off on some secret mission for the King. For the moment both Edan and Rory, his younger brothers, were at home. None of them had a choice in the matter. The alternative had been to hand over Roul Isle and leave Scotland for good. Since the only place they could go would be to Roul Keep, an unknown cousin’s fortress in Normandy, all four had agreed that leaving wasn’t a desirable option and had placed their lives in King David’s hands.

  ‘It was also brought to our attention that you’ve somehow reached your twenty-eighth year of life without a wife.’ King David paused to stare at him before adding in a less accusing tone, ‘Lad, a wedding ceremony which ends in death does not count as a marriage.’

  Again Gregor held his tongue. What could he say? Everyone knew what had happened that day. A marriage arranged by the King had come to a bloody end mere moments after the new bride had discovered to whom she’d been wed.

  Gregor had had so many hopes for the marriage. While he’d been warned that it wouldn’t curtail his service for King David, it would have provided him a welcome respite between the tasks. He’d been certain that, given time, he and Sarah would come to care for each other, create a home and a family together. He had envisioned cold winter nights spent in front of the fire, his wife at his side, while their children played at their feet.

  He had looked forward to this marriage, never imagining how wrong he’d been. The day had started filled with hope and whispered promises of dreams soon to be fulfilled. It had ended moments after one o
f the guests had congratulated the Wolf for having snared a mate.

  In that single heartbeat, time had slowed and he’d watched as his new bride’s eyes had widened, all colour leaving her face as if she’d been drained of blood. He’d reached for her, his fingertips barely brushing the sleeve of her gown as she’d gasped, turned and then run from the Great Hall.

  He’d followed, but had been unable to catch up to her until she’d reached the battlements and climbed up on to a crenel. With her arms outstretched, Sarah stood with her palms flat against a merlon on either side. The wind had whipped the long skirt of her gown, as it had her hair—both billowing around her. She’d looked over her shoulder at him. Fear and dread had shimmered in her stare. A frown of what he liked to think was regret had wrinkled her brow. Perhaps she’d had a second thought as she’d perched so high above the ground. But then, in the next heartbeat, she was gone. Nothing but air filled the space between the merlons.

  The accusations had started immediately—the Wolf had pushed his new bride to her death—he’d thrown her from the wall in a fit of rage. At first he’d defended himself and the accusations had tapered off to rumours circling behind his back. But nothing would ever rid him of the memory, or the guilt. As far as he was concerned he was guilty—of not being able to stop her from jumping, of not knowing her well enough to realise what she might do and of being so terrifying to her that she chose death.

  For a long time after that horrifying life-changing event, he’d thrown himself whole heartedly into the role of being King David’s Wolf in a wasted effort to avoid the nightmares haunting him. If a task required any measure of ruthlessness, the King seemed well pleased to call on Gregor. He’d answered those calls without question, leaving him with an enhanced reputation that made most people, especially women, give him a wide berth.

  Sometimes late at night, or when the icy winds of winter threatened to freeze him to the bone, the useless dreams of a wife and family teased at his heart. Those fanciful thoughts were short lived and easily pushed aside, as being alone was for the best. He had too much blood on his hands, too many stains upon his soul. No woman deserved to be burdened with a husband who frightened her to death, or worse prompted her to choose death at her own hands over becoming his wife.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Wolf?’

  Gregor turned his attention fully to his King. ‘Aye, my lord. Warehaven’s lord Randall FitzHenry seems to be absent and I have no wife.’

  ‘My niece is certain that she has a solution for both...difficulties.’

  Considering how irritated the Empress Matilda was with him at the moment for nearly ruining a marriage between two of her noble families, Gregor couldn’t begin to imagine how dreadful her solution might prove. It was doubtful the Empress would ever forgive him for causing strife between Lady Emelina of Mortraine and Comte Souhomme. Obviously she was also irritated with her bastard brother, otherwise Warehaven wouldn’t be considered a difficulty.

  Almost as an afterthought, the King added, ‘If you solve these difficulties, your service to me will be fulfilled.’

  That promise picked up his spirits. Just the thought of no longer having to pay for his father’s crime was a relief that seemed nearly heaven sent. Gregor asked, ‘What of my brothers?’

  ‘It is time you think of yourself, Gregor, let them worry about their own service. However, the successful completion of this task might prove beneficial even to them.’

  The weight that had been lifted at the mere mention of freedom from this service settled heavily back on to his shoulders. Gregor silently vowed that regardless of how irritated the Empress was with him, or how difficult the task put to him, he would do whatever was necessary to see this mission through to completion.

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  Chapter One

  South of Derbyshire—July 1145

  ‘Do not fight me on this. You will not win.’

  Beatrice of Warehaven stared in shock at the man confronting her so boldly in the privacy of his tent.

  Charles of Wardham had been the love of her life. With his lean limbs, unblemished face unscarred by any wounds of war, fair hair and oh, so deceptively kind and caring manners, he’d easily won her heart.

  How was it possible that this was the same man with whom she’d fallen so desperately in love nearly three years ago?

  She stared harder into his pale blue eyes, trying to see through the fog of dismay clouding her vision. Once upon a time she’d wondered if it were possible to drown in his gaze. Now she would be amazed if she did not freeze to death beneath his unwavering icy glare.

  Her heart hurt—physically hurt as if it had been splintered by a battering ram as she realised that her parents had been right in their assessment of this man. They trusted him not and were certain something darkly sinister lay beneath his mild exterior. She’d so foolishly been certain of their error in judgement. Certain enough that she’d given little thought to permitting him to escort her back to Warehaven without her family’s knowledge.

  ‘Come, Beatrice.’

  Neither his steady, calm tone of voice, nor the smile that never reached his eyes, fooled her. Never again would she be so fooled by a man, any man—but especially not by this one. She knew there would be nothing gentle about his touch. Even had there been any hint at gentleness, she was not about to give herself to him before they were married and since now she was certain they would never be wed, sharing his bed was not an option.

  A bitter coldness of betrayal flowed down her spine. She backed away from his outstretched arm and called out, ‘Edythe!’

  Charles laughed at her cry, saying, ‘You waste your breath. Your handmaiden’s attention is occupied elsewhere.’

  He parted the flap to the tent, letting the deep boisterous laughs of his two companions float into the stifling confines. Their seductive chuckles were joined by Edythe’s teasing response. Now she knew why Charles had insisted the younger Edythe accompany her instead of Agatha, her former nursemaid. He’d wanted someone who would turn a blind eye to his underhanded plans.

  The heat of anger chased away the chill. Beatrice glared at him. Her show of displeasure only drew another laugh from him. ‘Did you just now realise your mistake?’

  ‘My family will kill you.’

  He shrugged, replying, ‘While they may wish to do so, I highly doubt they will.’

  ‘They are not afraid of you.’

  ‘I never said they were.’ Charles slowly approached, his intent plain in his lecherous gaze. ‘However, they aren’t about to leave their pregnant daughter without a husband.’

  ‘I am not carrying your child.’

  He wrapped a hand around her upper arm and leaned down to whisper, ‘Not yet, perhaps, but rest assured you will be by the time we leave here.’

  She silently cursed her stupidity for giving him a reason to voice such a threat. ‘Why are you doing this? Why can’t you wait until we have a chance to convince my parents of our...devotion to each other?’

  Devotion. She nearly choked on the term, but it was the only word she could think of at the moment that wouldn’t draw a humourless laugh—or a cry from her.

  His brows rose as his smile turned into a smirk. ‘You think I haven’t noticed your displeasure these last two nights?’

  There was much truth in his question. She’d been so disgusted by his drunken comments and those of his two companions that she was certain even one who was blind would have sensed her anger. The men spoke as if they’d been in the company of hardened soldiers on the battlefield. She’d heard milder words from her father’s shipboard crew.

  ‘I held my tongue because I had expected to be free of your friends’ influence once we arrived at Warehaven.’

  ‘Your expectations were sadly mistaken. I know you, Beatrice. I am aware of your headstrong nature and ch
ildish temper. I am not foolish enough to believe your patience would have lasted that long.’ He slid a hand down her arm, brushing his thumb against the side of her breast, causing a shiver that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with distaste and building fear. ‘Hence the quickening of our relationship.’

  Without giving herself away, Beatrice scanned the contents of the tent while asking, ‘You would choose them over me?’

  He pulled her tightly against his chest before moving towards his pallet. ‘For most things, yes. But not this. I am certain burying myself in the warmth of your body will prove far more enjoyable than anything they could offer.’

  His obscene answer stung, but she wasn’t about to let him know that his foul words had hurt her as much as they had disgusted her. When they reached his bed, she pushed against his chest to no avail. ‘Charles, you are not going to have your way with me. Release me.’

  His laugh grated against her ears. ‘Oh, my lovely Beatrice, save your demands. I see not how you can stop me.’

  She reached down and grasped the handle of a metal ewer of water that sat on a wooden chest next to his bed and quickly, before he could determine her move, swung it against the side of his head.

  His hands fell away from her, his eyes widening before he hit the floor of the tent with a thud. Beatrice leaned over him to make sure he still breathed, then whispered, ‘I will stop you just like that, Charles.’

  Knowing that the others would soon realise no sound came from inside the tent, Beatrice grabbed the dagger from the scabbard at his side and slid it through the fabric at the back of the tent. She grimaced at the sound, but didn’t cease her actions. As soon as the tear was big enough to step through she stuck the dagger securely behind the belt wrapped low about her waist. At least she’d have some type of weapon at hand.

  Beatrice exited the tent, then paused to determine which way to run. While the road they’d made camp alongside would be the easiest way back to Montreau, her brother’s keep two days north, it would also prove the easiest way for Charles and his companions to capture her.