Chapter nine - Beatrice

Beatrice dared not take her eyes off the hulking brute. If he so much as twitched, she wanted to be prepared. She had no idea what she had done to trigger such an attack upon her person. She could only be thankful he had relented and released her.

She swallowed hard against the solid knot of fear in her throat. Her heart was still fluttering helplessly inside her chest and she could hardly catch her breath. She was shivering and yet, she felt far too warm. Perspiration was dripping down into her eyes and rolling down the side of her face.

Unconsciously, she swiped at it as she anxiously shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She didn't know exactly what to do. She only knew she could not simply stand here and wait for him to attack again.

Beatrice chanced a quick glance at the big wooden door and contemplated escape. But again, where would she go? She didn't even know where she was. Getting lost in the middle of nowhere held no appeal. Not to mention the dangerous wildlife she might encounter out there. And yet could it be any worse than the danger she faced in here?

The huge lout of a man had already proven he couldn't be trusted. Luring her into a false sense of ease, almost comaraderie, and then leaping on top of her like that. Now, just sitting there so quietly, as if he was completely innocent, but studiously watching her every move. No doubt planning how to have his way with her. Gloating to himself how well he had her under his control. He knew she had no choice but to remain here, trapped with him in this derelict stone monstrosity.

She wanted to scream at him in frustration, but her throat was sore from all the screeching and crying she'd already done. How could she ever trust him again? He had literally just pinned her to the floor and held her there. She had been helpless beneath him, scared out of her wits and frantic, struggling with all her might to free herself. She was furious with him for treating her so callously, but she was even more furious with herself for ever daring to trust him.

How could he be so funny and nice one moment, such a callous beast the next? Just when she'd begun to relax, he'd shown his true colors and pounced. She'd been certain she was about to be raped. He was a man, after all. A virile male who expected all females to bow to his every wish. Just like that horrid Mr. Narwhal.

He was breathing hard, drawing her attention to that broad chest of his. Despite the fact that he'd covered up, she could still picture him in all his naked glory. The man could have modeled for Michelangelo, even with all those scars. Angrily, she shook away the stupid admiration. It didn't matter how glorious his muscled form was. Obviously, he used his God-given perfection to his advantage. Distracting her from his dastardly intentions. The man hadn't even had the common decency to cover himself before returning to the room, knowing a lady was present. He probably counted on that to distract her from his intentions. That should have been her first clue that this hulking monster had nefarious plans for her.

And then he'd shushed and petted her, like she was some kind of frightened animal. She'd been so shocked and confused that she'd ceased fighting. With each breath, her panicked terror had faded.  She was still frightened but no longer blind with panic. She'd become aware of the fact that, while he'd had her completely at his mercy, the man had not actually done any real harm. Once she came to herself again, she realized that, yes, he had her pinned to the floor beneath his massive frame, but he was not hurting her. In fact, he had not moved a muscle other than the hand that tenderly stroked her hair from her face. He'd even avoided eye contact with her, keeping his gaze focused on the floor beside her head. She was completely confused, and as she puzzled over his strange behavior, her panic receded. Then, when she'd ceased her frantic struggles, he'd slowly risen, gradually relieving her of his weight, until he was no longer making any contact.

Even now, he knelt there, on the hard stone floor, unmoving. He was just sitting there, watching her, as if he was waiting for her to do something. His hands were placed deliberately on those solid stovepipe thighs where she could see every flex of his callused fingers. Callused and scarred and rough with proof of hard physical labor, something she had not noticed before. His brow was furrowed. She couldn't decide if he was concerned or merely frustrated.

She swallowed hard, and, in a near whisper, she railed at him. "Why did you do that?"

He held her gaze, his expression sharpening. She felt he was trying to communicate with her, but she didn't know if she even wanted to try to understand. He had already fooled her once. What was to prevent him from doing it again? She waited expectantly for him to reach for his slate and begin writing, but the man didn't shift from his position.

As she watched, he flicked his gaze deliberately toward the huge fireplace and back to her as if he wanted her to see something. But there was only the hearth, in which a dwindling fire still burned. Then his gaze shifted again to the fire, and when he returned to face her, his eyebrow lifted expectantly. Other than that quick glance and a slow tilt of his head, he didn't move a muscle. As if, by remaining still, she would be reassured, but she wasn't having any nonsense.

"Answer me." She demanded. "Why did you attack me like that?"

Again, he glanced over at the fireplace.

Angry and frustrated with his enigmatic silence, she mocked him.

"Where's your fancy slate board now?"

Once the words popped from her mouth, she wished them back. How stupid of her to berate and scold the beastly man. She braced herself, expecting him to retaliate, become angry himself, but he did neither. He seemed almost stoic as he slowly turned his head to look back at the old trunk, still sitting open against the wall behind him. She followed his gaze and gasped in shock when she noticed the shattered bits of stone scattered across the floor.

"Oh," she cried in shamed dismay. "I did that, didn't I?"

He nodded, and suddenly, it dawned on her that he was kneeling very close to the hearth. So close, in fact, that if he reached out, he could probably touch the soup pot still hanging over the flames. And, just moments ago, she had been laying there on the floor beneath him. If she had moved backward just another step, she would have bungled right into the fire.

Her jaw unhinged, and her ire fell away as realization slapped her in the face. He hadn't been attacking her as she'd feared. He'd been trying to stop her from throwing herself into the fire. If not for his speedy action, she might have roasted in the flames. Just the idea of it was enough to turn her stomach.

Suddenly, she felt the air heat around her. Spots began dancing before her eyes. Her gorge rose, and she brought a hand to her mouth as she swallowed hard against it. Her stomach heaved, and she fought desperately to keep from being sick. The floor seemed to wobble beneath her feet, throwing her balance askew. She teetered, reaching out to the table behind her for support.

In an instant, he was at her side, one hand offering the empty slop bucket while his other arm curled around her shoulders, taking her slight weight against his solid frame. Her stomach rebelled, and she had no choice but to completely reliquished all control. Without a second's hesitation, she grabbed the rim just as the heaving began. She retched painfully until there was nothing left, and she was a shaking, trembling mess. Her legs were like rubber and refused to support her weight.

As she leaned into his strength, he smoothed her hair back and wiped the damp from her brow, all the while making that soft shushing noise he had used before. Beatrice shuddered as her stomach cramped again, but the heaving was done at last. She closed her streaming eyes and leaned her head back against his hard chest in grateful relief. He stood there patiently, making no move to rush her. She felt both ashamed and guilty for ever thinking he was anything like the horrid Mr. Narwhal.

Embarrassment reddened her cheeks. She dreaded meeting his gaze. She kept her eyes closed, forcing herself to take deep, cleansing breaths. It wasn't until he lifted the bucket from her hands that she opened her eyes. She watched distantly as he set aside the fouled vessel, retrieved a wooden cup from the table, and offered it to her. Without hesitation, she allowed him to tilt it to her lips and took a small mouthful. The water felt lovely and cool on her tongue. Then he lifted the bucket before her again, and she realized what he must have intended. She swished the water around in her mouth, washing the foul sickness away, and then bent to spit it out into the pot.

With gentle concern, he motioned to the pallet, clearly asking if she wanted to lay down again. Beatrice avoided his gaze as she nodded, allowing him to support her as they crossed the room. He was so careful and considerate. Even as he assisted her back to the bed, she noticed, he was careful to barely touch her. Once she was settled on the pallet, he tucked the blankets around her, careful to limit any contact with her body. Then he moved away just as cautiously.

The poor man seemed almost as afraid of her now as she had been fearful of him earlier. She wanted to reassure him that she was usually much more rational. That it had simply been an instinctive reaction to both his size and gender. The odd situation they were in together and her previous experience with the lecherous Mr. Narwhal had contributed greatly to her panic.

But she was unable to find the words to express how she was feeling. Guilt gnawed at her conscience. She had overreacted. The man had honestly been trying to help. He had been forced to move quickly to rescue her from her own actions and prevent her from a nasty burn. Her eyes rose to the place on his shoulder where she knew that pinkish scar marred his body. The shrunken and melted skin was obviously evidence he had survived a horrendous blaze himself.

"You survived a fire, didn't you?"

He froze, standing stalk still, his back to her, and, as she watched, his chest expanded with a deep breath. She didn't really expect him to answer, but after a moment, he slowly nodded.

Encouraged, she continued.

"That's why you jumped on me. You panicked when you saw I was getting close to the flames."

Again, his chin dipped in hesitant assent, but his body remained turned away. She could only speculate and surmise he was attempting to be considerate. He probably didn't want to frighten her more. No doubt a lot of people were intimidated by his massive size and scruffy appearance.

"Thank you."

Her quiet gratitude was acknowledged with yet another nod. Then he grabbed the slop bucket off the table and hastened to the door. Another thought occurred to her as he reached for the latch and, before she thought better of it, came tumbling out of her mouth.

"Is that how you lost your voice?"

He stood completely frozen as if braced for a deathly blow. She watched his chest expand, and then he dropped his chin to his chest. She understood he was struggling within himself. She wasn't certain what his internal battle meant, but she realized the memory was extremely painful. This time, he didn't nod. He merely lifted the latch, carefully opened the door, and stepped out. The wooden panel slowly slid shut behind him with barely a sound, but even if he had slammed it, the message couldn't have been clearer. The subject was closed.