Chapter seven - Beatrice

The sound of the door opening startled Beatrice out of a light doze. She hadn't intended to fall asleep, but with her hunger quenched, and nothing more to occupy her mind, she soon succombed to fatigue. That pallet looked so comfortable. She told herself she would only sit down and wait for her host to return. She sat with her spine against the cold stone wall, intending to remain vigilant. When her host returned, she wanted to be ready. She wanted answers and had every intention of obtaining them. But the warmth of the fire and her recent illness worked against her. She must have nodded off at some point.

And now, apparently, he had finally chosen to return, catching her completely off guard. Beatrice jerked upright, clutching the rough grey blanket to her chest as she watched the huge man enter the room. From where she sat on the pallet, craning her neck to look up at him, he seemed to loom over her, and she couldn't help feeling small and intimidated. Their eyes met for a moment before he turned away and dropped the load of wood he carried into the box beside the door. He then returned to pull the door shut and pivoted back to face her.

She couldn't take her eyes off him. The man wore no shirt. His hair was wet and slicked back. Water dribbled from his beard down that broad, hairy chest, and Beatrice felt her jaw drop in awe. The man was gorgeous. She had never in her life seen anything like this statuesque Adonis. No, not Adonis. More like Heracles. The man was simply massive. She couldn't help but admire all those manly muscles. Then she realized she was staring and, irritated with herself, she quickly forced her gaze away.

Deciding she was at a disadvantage by remaining seated, she tossed aside the blanket and struggled to her feet. Not that this changed anything. The man still towered over her. She scowled, eyeing him suspiciously. Did he do that on purpose? Did he enjoy making her uncomfortable by utilizing his massive size to his advantage or not. She couldn't decide. But, to be fair, the man could do nothing about his size. He was simply big.

Nervous and uncertain, she folded her arms across her chest and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. As he continued to stand there, silently staring down at her, she desperately tried to gauge his mood. Was he a danger to her in any way? She just couldn't decide, and her gaze dropped to the floor. True, he watched her, but his expression remained neutral. He did not seem to eye her covetously as Mr. Narwhal often did. Nor did he seem angry or even concerned.

Thankfully, he kept his distance. Though she couldn't decide if that was in consideration of her obvious discomfort or for some other reason. Perhaps he was simply guarding the door in case she should take a notion to escape. Still, he remained silent, and it was beginning to fray her nerves. Finally, unable to bear the silence between them any longer, she began to babble.

"I thank you, Sir, for your generous hospitality. If you could please tell me where I am? I confess I have no memory of how I came to be here. It really is very disconcerting to wake and discover oneself in a strange place. I'm sure you understand." She paused, flicking a glance at him through her lashes, but when he gave no reply, she continued. "Not that your home is unpleasant. I'm certain it is quite comfortable. But I am equally certain you would prefer your privacy. I would be very glad to see myself home, if you could just point me in the proper direction. I wouldn't want to impose upon your good graces any longer than necessary."

Still, the silence continued. Beatrice's nerves were beginning to fray in earnest, and irritation was setting in. Why didn't the man open his mouth and answer? Obviously, he was no longer ignoring her. He was staring right at her. She knew he couldn't be deaf as he had heard and understood when she had shrieked at him earlier. Perhaps he was simple. And yet, that too seemed unlikely. Those eyes were too bright with intelligence, his gaze far too intense. So why would he not answer?

Maybe he was one of those shy fellows who didn't know how to talk to a girl. But he was neither blushing nor avoiding eye contact. She was the one who was nervously avoiding his gaze. Annoyed with herself for such cowardice, she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, unfolded her arms, and forced herself to meet his sharp gaze. Since he did not seem to be forthcoming with any information, she decided to pave the way by introducing herself.

"I beg your pardon, Sir. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Miss Beatrice Smail." Beatrice bobbed an abbreviated curtsey. "My brother was Sir Michael Leonard Smail, Baronet."

Something flickered in his gaze at the mention of her brother's title. Whether it was recognition or merely surprise at her brother being a minor lord, she couldn't say. His hard features had seemed to soften a bit, and so she was encouraged to add,

"I live with his widow and three children in the village of Windkirk. I am certain you must know of Windkirk. It is a tiny little hamlet. Not much of a town, really, but there are a few shops and a grocer and a small inn." She stumbled to a halt, uncertain if she had offered too much information about herself.

After all, this man was still a stranger. An unknown commodity. Just because he had not attacked her yet did not mean he wouldn't eventually make an attempt. She began to twist her fingers absently as she forged ahead.

"So, you see, I have obligations at home. My family will be wondering where I am." And then something else occurred to her. "Exactly how long have I been here? For that matter, how did I come to be here?"

But he remained still and silent, offering no answer. He didn't even so much as open his mouth to make an attempt. Her frustration boiled over. Hands on hips, she glared at the man.

"It is beyond rude to simply stare at a person who is attempting to make conversation." She knew she was being rude and willful. Her mother would have been appalled, but she was beyond frustrated. "Are you ever going to speak?"

Suddenly, his blue eyes lit up with inspiration, and he smiled with satisfaction. This pricked her temper even more, and she began to harangue him.

"I have a right to know exactly what your intentions are toward me, Sir. Am I to be kept captive here? Why am I here? Why won't you speak to me? Why...?" She trailed off in amazement when he lifted a finger to his lips and shushed her.

When she remained quiet, he motioned with a flick of his big hand for her to move back. She retreated to the pallet and watched as he moved carefully around her to the large clothes chest by the bed. He knelt and raised the lid. Then he reached in and lifted out a creamy white material. This he shook out and pulled over his head. It took her a moment to realize he was donning a fresh shirt.

It was a simple garment with straight sleeves and string ties at the neckline. Obviously, the material was old, worn, and a bit yellowed but had been tailored for his massive chest. At one time, he must have been quite wealthy to have his clothes so expertly tailored.

Once he had the material pulled into place, his attention returned to the trunk. After leaning over the edge, he gathered up and retrieved a few leather-bound books. A fond smile tipped his lips up at the corners as he paused to caress the leather binding. She could see how he much treasured them, and again, she was surprised. She had never met a man who had any fondness for literature. Certainly, her father and brother had never cared to read anything beyond their own correspondence. With great care, he deliberately laid the books on the edge of the pallet before turning back to rifle around in the trunk some more. A satisfied smile broke over his face, and he lifted out a small slate. This he also set on the pallet beside the books. Then he dove into the chest once more and did a bit more searching around, before lifting out a small, white block, which she quickly realized was chalk.

What on earth he intended to do with these, she had no clue. She wasn't certain she wanted to know either. Then she suddenly realized that he was no longer guarding the door. The way was clear. She could leap through the exit and be gone before the big man could so much as rise to his feet. She bit her lip in contemplation and even eased a step towards the exit before the voice of logic sounded. Even if she did get out the door, where would she go?

She had no idea where she was? How would she find her way home if she didn't know for certain which way to run? She wanted to curse her logical brain for dashing her hopes, but that wouldn't change the facts. There really was no choice. She was at this man's mercy, and the sooner she accepted that fact, the better. He had been quite hospitable so far. He hadn't made any overt attempts on her person. Other than the fact that she had awakened, naked and alone in his bed, she had no real reason to mistrust him.

While she had been mulling things over, the man had retrieved the slate. He remained kneeling beside the chest, and for that, Beatrice told herself, she was grateful. She watched him brace the stone tablet against the corner of the chest as he worked, scratching away with the chalk. What on earth was he doing? Then he turned the slate around and offered it to her with a raised brow. She hesitated a moment before tentatively stepping close enough to accept the square.

Once she had it in her grasp, she retreated a few steps until she was safely beyond his reach. She eyed him with distrust for several minutes, but he stayed as he was, kneeling by the open chest. Deciding he had no intention of moving, she allowed her gaze to fall on the writing in her hands. The first sentence nearly had her gasping aloud.

"I can not speak."