Chapter 10 #2
After a moment Blackwood nodded, and Brice made his way up the steps, but instead of heading toward his chambers, he stopped at Eleanor’s door.
He softly knocked, then tried the door when she didn’t answer.
It was locked and most likely barred. He didn’t blame her.
He would prefer to lock and bar his door if it meant not dealing with Blackwood.
He entered his own chambers, locked the door, and opened the little-used door that connected his chambers to his lady’s chambers. “Eleanor,” he whispered.
His gaze swept the empty sitting room before he walked into the sleeping chamber. Empty as well. As he had suspected, the door was barred, so there was no way she had left. Unless she’d discovered the connecting door he’d just used.
He walked back through the sitting room and found her huddled in the corner, the dagger clutched in her hand.
There was a war going on inside him. He was alternately furious with her and worried for her. Furious because she’d brought the English to his door and worried because the English were at his door looking for her.
Her back was pressed against the stone wall, her knees were drawn to her chin, and her thin arms wrapped around her knees, the dagger clutched in both hands. Her eyes were dry, her skin so pale he could see her veins.
He crouched in front of her. “Eleanor.”
Her eyes locked on his. Blank eyes, overpowered by sheer terror, stared at him but he knew she didn’t see him.
Well, this answered one question. She knew Blackwell.
And it answered another question. She didn’t want to be reunited with Blackwell.
He felt relief at the unvoiced worry that Blackwell had been telling the truth.
He supposed that question had not been answered.
They could very well be betrothed, whether Eleanor wanted it or not.
Brice sat back on his heels and unfolded her fingers from the dagger, placing it on the floor beside her because he didn’t want her to accidentally stick him. She didn’t even seem to notice.
“Eleanor.”
She blinked and looked at him, finally seeing him.
“Are you Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale?”
Her eyes widened.
“Ye didn’t feel the need to tell me this important piece of information? Ye can write yer Christian name on a piece of paper but not yer full title? Ye did no’ think it important that I know such a thing?” His words came faster, his anger taking over.
Her eyes continued to widen. She reached for him, but he pulled away. He didn’t want her to touch him right now. Not when his anger was so palpable.
“That’s an important piece of information to withhold, my lady.” He pointed toward the door. “There is a gentleman in my great hall asking for ye. Colonel Henry Blackwell.”
He wasn’t prepared for her sudden movement that put him on his arse. She jumped up and ran from the room. Brice scrambled to his feet and chased after her, only to find her standing helplessly in the middle of the bedchamber with a wild look in her eyes.
Brice took her by her shaking shoulders and forced her to face him. “I did no’ tell him ye were here, and I will no’ unless you want me to.”
She shook her head violently, a garbled sound coming from her.
“Then I will keep yer presence here to myself and will instruct my people to do the same.”
She shook her head again and pushed away from him. His words didn’t calm her; they only made her terror worse.
“Ye have my word, Eleanor. Ye are safe within these walls. I canno’ make you believe me. I can only show ye with time. Stay in yer rooms until they are gone. Unfortunately I do no’ know when that will be.”
She walked in a circle around the room like a trapped animal. Everything about her screamed terror. Brice let her pace for a while, but when she only became more agitated he grabbed her wrist and dragged her to a stop. “This bastard Blackwell, he claims ye two are betrothed.”
Her face turned an alarming shade of gray.
“I need to know if he speaks the truth. It does no’ change my mind, nor my vow to protect ye.”
“No!”
Stunned, they both froze, looking at each other with wide eyes.
“What did ye say?” he asked, needing to hear it again.
“No.” Her voice was rough and hoarse. She put a hand to her throat. “No,” she said again.
“No, ye’re not betrothed?”
She shook her head.
“So he’s lying.”
She held out her fists, showing him the scars that circled her wrists, and looked at him with her dark blue eyes.
Brice circled one of her wrists lightly with his fingers, stroking the raised scar. “Did he do this to ye?” he asked softly in an attempt to control his rage.
She nodded, tears shimmering in her eyes.
Brice closed his eyes against the stab of pain he felt in his gut. “Ah, Eleanor. If I could kill the bastard for ye, I would.” He felt her other hand cover his, and he opened his eyes to find her looking up at him. “No,” she managed once more.
He smiled. “I hope that is not the only word ye know.”
Her lips twitched in a smile and she shook her head. She removed her hand from his and touched her throat. “Hurts.”
“I can well imagine it does.”
“My fault. Blackwood.” Her lips trembled, and despite the circumstances, he pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her.
She was so slight, her bones poking into him.
But she was also warm, and her body fit to his so perfectly.
She sighed and rested her head on his chest. He placed his cheek on the top of her head and closed his eyes.
He had an English officer in his great hall, looking for the English lady in his arms. Brice’s situation couldn’t get any more dire, but he found that at the moment all he cared about was holding this woman in his arms.