Sweet Bea (5 page)

The pressure on his arms was unbearable. Icy water dripped down his chin onto his bare chest. Sweet Christ, he was naked, stark-bollock naked. He got his feet beneath him and tried to stand. His legs were weak as wet linen, but he forced them to take some of his weight. The relief on his arms made his eyes water. It must be late, the great fires were banked to the coals. Lyman would be asleep.

“I thought we might speak.” The stranger sounded like a bloody lord.

Who was the cur? Darkness concealed most of his face, clean lines with a patch of a neatly trimmed beard. A man of fashion, then.

“Who are you?” Garrett licked his lips and tasted the bitter iron of dried blood. His stomach roiled.

“It is better for you not to know.” The stranger wiped his hands on a kerchief and tossed it into the hearth. Flames leapt around it and subsided.

Sod that. He tried to think, but his head was fuzzy. Did he owe the dog money? A wife
.
Had he tupped this one’s wife?

“We are not acquainted.” The stranger rose and gave a curt wave.

Three men materialized out of the shadows.

Garrett went cold. He hadn’t seen them before, and he should have. Growing up rough left few gaps for mistakes.

The men moved to the door and out.

Alone with the overdressed cur meant no aid, but also no witnesses. It was either a very good thing or a very, very bad thing.

He tested the ropes. The knots pulled tight.

“There is no need to be concerned.” The stranger dusted the seat of his tunic.

Garrett nearly laughed in his face. He was strung up like a slaughtered pig with his wedding tackle dangling. There was every bloody reason for concern.

The man had light hair with eyes either brown or green.

He took keen note of the face. If he got out of this situation, it was a face he’d be sure not to see again. And if he did, he would grind those pretty features beneath his boot and laugh while the whoreson squirmed.

“I have been watching you for a time now.” The stranger stepped carefully, avoiding the filth on the floor. “And I thought it was time we had a talk.”

“So talk.” Garrett’s head pounded in time with his pulse. He hoped like hell he wasn’t going to spew in front of this cur. “You have my attention.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Wit?” He cocked his head and contemplated Garrett. “At a time like this? Do you think it apt?”

“You tell me.”

The man came closer and studied Garrett from head to toe. He might be one of those who liked other men.

Jesu, if the sod put his hands on him, Garrett would tear the roof down about their heads.

“Oh, cease.” The man waved at him. “I am only here to have a mannerly conversation.”

It surprised a laugh out of Garrett. Jesu. If this was mannerly he was a pig’s ass.

“At first, I was confused by your obvious interest in the Lady Beatrice.” The man leaned down and peered at a lump of steel.

Garret went still. Was this Beatrice’s brother, the one not in London? The stranger looked too old, somewhere in his middle years. Garrett waited.

“No hot denials?” He sauntered about the forge, lifting Lyman’s apron and peering into the pouch.

“Would there be any purpose?” Garrett’s legs firmed and he stood. The man was shorter than he and slighter. If it weren’t for the three feet of steel at the whoreson’s side, Garrett was sure he could take him. Experience had taught him not to underestimate the speed or accuracy of that steel. It was all useless speculation whilst he hung here.

“I was intrigued by you.” The stranger ran his hand over Lyman’s hammer. “Intrigued enough to do a bit of checking on you, young master Garrett. When I discovered you were, in fact, Wulfric’s bastard, the entire thing began to make sense. Let me take a guess as to your intent.” He hefted the weight of the hammer.

Garrett’s neck prickled.

“You are going to seduce Lady Beatrice as a sort of revenge on her father. Am I right?” He flicked his fingers. “I know I am right. Your mother became a whore and you make Beatrice one. It is a disappointingly unimaginative plan, but effective in its simplicity.”

“What do you want from me?” Garrett snarled. The man was clever, he’d give him that much.

“Nothing too onerous.” The stranger tucked his hands behind his back. “My purpose here is twofold. Firstly, I wanted you to know I see you, Garrett, son of a traitor and a whore. And secondly, to inform you we share a purpose. Neither of us holds any love for Sir Arthur. We could be of benefit to each other.”

“Sod off.”

The man’s eyes widened. “You really are your father’s son, are you not? You have the same innate charm.” He chuckled at his own joke. “I met your father, you know? It was not an experience I choose to repeat. And yet, here I am.”

“I am not my father.” Hate boiled in his gut for the rutting pig who’d sired him.

“You favor him. But you also have your mother’s features. You should thank God for that. She was a beautiful woman.” He waved. “Before the pox and the scars got to her, that is.”

Hot rage seared through Garrett. He wanted to get his hands around this cur’s neck and squeeze. He heaved against the restraints. The man talked of his mother as if she were nothing. Garrett remembered every excruciating moment of his mother’s illness.

“I see I have hit a raw spot.” The man strolled over to him.

Garrett strained to get to him. The ropes cut into his wrists. He wanted to kill this sod.

“You should keep your vengeance and your anger apart. The one makes the other much harder to achieve. Anger will not aid you. Neither will pulling on those restraints. I tied them myself.”

Garrett lunged for him. Jesu, he needed to reach the sod and break him. Break every bone inside that prissy clothing. The cunt would choke on his own words with Garrett’s hands at this throat. No blade, but bare hands tightening the life from the sod.

The man stepped back.

Aye, the rutting whoreson should be afeared, when Garret got free, he would show him anger. Vengeance. Christ the cur didn’t know vengeance.

“Do not make me call my men in. They are not the brightest and I am loath to start our partnership on such a painful note. Painful for you, that is.” A small smile played around his mouth. He was laughing at him.

The smile near drove Garrett from his mind. He forced himself to still. He was doing naught but scraping his wrists raw and tearing his muscles. One day, he’d take great pleasure in wiping the smirk off the dog’s face. He could wait. Sir Arthur had taught him as much.

“Good.” The stranger nodded. “You are mine now, Garrett. Because if not—” He took a step closer, within striking distance.

Garrett breathed deeply.

“I will bring the wrath of the goodly Sir Arthur on your head, once again. You barely survived the first time. You will not live through Arthur’s response to your filthy hands on his little girl.”

Garrett clenched his teeth together. He would squeeze until his pretty face turned black and his eyes started from his head.

“Now, we have that unpleasantness aside, I have a small task for you.”

He would ram this one’s small task down his wrung throat.

“Aye, I can guess what you would like to say, but this task will benefit both of us. You see, boy, I care nothing about your plans for Lady Beatrice. I will help you achieve your vengeance and you will help me regain what is mine.” He tucked his hands behind his back.

He didn’t trust the man, but Garrett listened.

“In a day or two the Lady Beatrice will come to you for help. You will aid her.” He shrugged. “You see, no big matter. All you need do is come to the aid of a lady. It will set you in excellent standing with Lady Beatrice. I am not an unreasonable man. I am giving you what you need to push your victim right into your ready arms.”

“And if I choose to refuse your gift?”

“You will not.” The man nodded and spun on his heel. “You would be stupid to do so.” He swung open the door.

Cool night air rushed in. Garrett sucked it into his lungs.

“Send someone to cut him down,” he said to his men. “But not yet. Let him hang there for a time. It might take some of the fire out of him.”

Beatrice would go to London.

The idea struck her midway across the bailey, and she stopped dead in her tracks. She only narrowly missed being run over by a huge laundry basket.

“I beg your pardon,” she said to the irate laundress.

She headed for the stables to find Tom.

It was a wild and improbable notion, but it stuck like a burr. Henry was wrong not to send for their father. Father would want to be here.

She rode better and lighter in the saddle than any of Henry’s men. It wouldn’t take her as long as three days to reach London. If she pressed, she could make it in two. She knew London lay roughly to the north and a bit to the side. Roger had shown it to her once on one of their father’s maps.

She would leave in secret. If her family, or Nurse, caught wind of what she planned, it would be the end of it.

She must go.

The more she thought on it, the clearer it became. Her mother would be well again when she saw her beloved husband. Calder wouldn’t dare to challenge her father and Faye and the boys would be safe. Sir Arthur would deal decisively with those ridiculous charges against him.

It would be a thrilling adventure. Her, bent over the head of her mount, riding recklessly for London—a gleam of determination kindling in her eye, a slim figure, astride her chestnut mare, stopping for naught and letting nobody stand in her way.

Excitement simmered beneath her skin.

This must be how her father felt when he was on the cusp of one of his great battles. He must feel the call to greatness gathering like a tempest within him. Beatrice raised her chin and thrust her shoulders back. Beatrice of Anglesea, daughter of the mighty Sir Arthur, heard the call and would answer.

She dodged a pile of horse dung as she entered the stables. The light was dim inside and she blinked to clear her vision. The air was heavy with the mixed smells of hay and horse. Tom worked toward the far end.

All her family had received their call and answered it. Now it was her turn. Nurse had been right all along. She would find her way. Her path spread before her, glimmering and beckoning at her to place her feet on it and run.

She nodded to a young stable boy. The folk at Anglesea would tell this around the hearth for winters to come. How, when all else had failed and the family teetered on the precipice of complete and utter doom, Beatrice strode forward. She’d be called Beatrice the Bold and minstrels would take up her tale. Or, mayhap, Beatrice the Brave. It had an excellent ring to it. She liked it. Beatrice the Brave.

“You do not know where London is.” Tom drove his pitchfork into the loose pile of feed. Streamers of hay glittered in his wake as he crossed to a feed trough and filled it.

This was important and Tom didn’t even stop his work long enough to look. He was exactly like his mother sometimes.

Beatrice wanted to box his ears. “I will ask someone. London is huge. I can’t miss it.”

Tom leaned on his pitchfork and eyed her askance from beneath his shock of wheaten hair.

It wasn’t Tom’s fault. His only ambition lay in owning land to grow things. He didn’t have the blood of warriors thundering through his veins. He didn’t hear the call.

“You cannot merely ask someone.” Tom leant the fork up against the stall and grabbed a water bucket. “These are dangerous times. You will be lucky if you reach Bath.”

“Is Bath on the way to London?” Beatrice leapt out of his way as he strode past her.

“Do not ask me. I do not know where London is either. What do you think is going to happen to a young girl, all alone, asking for directions to London?” He plunged his bucket into the water trough. His rough tunic pulled tight across his broad back.

He had a point.

Tom gave the horse water. He leant his shoulder into the horse’s and spoke softly to the animal as it moved for him.

The horse whickered and nudged him with its nose.

Tom had a way with animals. His hands were gentle as he stroked its neck.

“I shall disguise myself as a boy.” She’d heard a story to that effect. It would make her tale all the better for the telling. Beatrice the Brave, eschewing her womanly garb to see justice brought to her people. It would also make riding astride much easier.

“You are going to cut your hair?” Tom peered at her over the horse’s back. He was so tall now he stood shoulder to shoulder with one of her father’s destriers.

Beatrice touched the smooth fall of her hair. Her hair was her secret conceit, one of her few claims to beauty. Even Faye didn’t have hair quite as thick or silky as hers.

Tom’s smug expression said he knew her thoughts. He’d spoken of her hair on purpose. He grabbed his pitchfork and moved to the next stall.

“I shall dress as a boy and tuck my hair in a cap.” Beatrice followed him, raising her gown over the hay scattered on the floor.

“You are daft. And I have a good mind to tell my mother.”

“Nay.” Beatrice’s stomach dropped. Everything would be ruined.

“Forget this barmy idea.” Tom shook his head and speared the loose hay.

“It is not barmy. My family is in trouble and I am going to save them.”

“You are merely a girl.”

The blood rushed to her head in a throbbing, red haze. If she were less of lady, she would kick Tom for saying that. “I may be a girl, but I am girl enough to know when I must rise to the rescue.”

Tom ruined her speech with a snort. He filled the second trough and went for more water.

If he would just stop long enough to hear her out.

The horse snorted and sidled as Tom let himself into the stall. He disappeared behind the animal.

Beatrice stamped her foot. “If you tell your mother, I shall tell her about you going down to the village to visit Lilly.”

“Eh?” Tom’s head reappeared over the horse, his blue eyes almost starting right out of his head.

She’d only been guessing. Many of the castle lads spoke of visiting Lilly. She tried to imagine Tom going there, but the idea made her head spin.