“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.”
Chapter 6
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