Page 41 of The Mercenary

“I will send for you.”

Guy nodded. With a few parting words, Sabine found herself walking away from the tent, still holding her husband’s hand. She tried to imagine him as one of the men still milling about camp, despite the late hour. So many seemed to know of him, and his deeds, but to her, Guy was more than the greatest swordsman in all of England.

He was her husband.

“You did well,” he said at last as they walked toward their horses.

She made a sound in her throat.

“By not speaking? That was hardly my best performance.”

Guy stopped and looked at her with admiration.

“A performance nonetheless, for I know remaining silent went against your very nature.”

Indeed, it did.

“Thankfully, I requested the only room at the inn set apart from the others.”

“I do not understand.”

But his wicked grin explained his meaning even before he spoke. “You’re welcome to make as much noise as you’d like when we return. ’Tis my turn to perform for you.”

Chapter 19

There were many things Guy lacked, but coin was not one of them. He’d been trained at the French court by one of the most renowned swordsmen in his mother’s country, experience that had helped him win almost every tournament he entered.

But never had he been so pleased with his success as he was at this moment. Sabine had shrieked with pleasure upon seeing the room he’d secured for them, complete with a steaming hot bath that sat in the middle of it. He’d left her there to enjoy it, heading downstairs to the hall to enjoy an ale while he waited.

The additional coin had also offered them some much-needed privacy—a wooden bridge connected their second-floor room to the rest of the inn. He’d learned about this space on his last visit. The owner of Larebridge House, a man as large as Terric but with the stomach size to match the girth of his wide shoulders, had taken a liking to him.

“Ya remind me of my son,” the man had told him. The two had gotten drunk together, a rarity for Guy. But then the innkeeper had told him the full story of his lost family, and he’d quickly sobered. The man had woken up one morning to find his wife had left him, taking his son.

The story had reminded Guy too much of his own mother. She’d left overnight too, only she hadn’t taken him with her. His last memory was of her smiling down at him. But apparently she loved France far more than she loved him, for she’d returned to her home country without him. Without saying goodbye either.

Guy silently reminded himself to thank the innkeeper again for the use of the “bridge room.” Although he was grateful for the privacy it afforded, it would serve another purpose—he could see the bridge from where he sat in the inn’s small hall. Which meant he could ensure no one disturbed his wife. He was certain Burge was no longer a concern, but that did not mean Sabine was ever completely safe unless Guy was near.

And when you leave her?

Pushing aside the thought, and his nearly empty mug of ale, Guy made his way up the stairs and across the creaky bridge he had been staring at just moments earlier. Built for the king’s visit more than twenty years earlier, the room was now reserved for important nobles and, tonight, a mercenary and his wife.

Wife.

Guy could not remember anticipating an evening as much as this one. It had been a long day of travel, followed by the tense visit with de Chabannes, which had gone precisely how he’d expected.

But after that kiss? Sleep could wait.

He could not.

Guy had thought he’d given her plenty of time to bathe, but when he opened the door, he nearly stumbled. The size of four regular rooms at the inn, this vast space would look completely at home in Licheford or Dromsley Castle. Even so, he had a clear view of Sabine scrambling to cover herself inside the large wooden tub he’d commissioned earlier.

She ducked into the water, dipping so far down only her head showed, her wet hair glistening in the light from the candles arranged around her and the wall torches flickering in their sconces. The tub was so large a footstool lay next to it, but it was neither the stool nor the drying cloth draped over a nearby table Guy focused on as he walked toward his wife.

“I thought you’d have finished by now.”

Though she’d covered her breasts, Guy could clearly see a darkness within the water that beckoned him. If the King of England himself attempted to beat down the door, Guy would not allow him entry. Nothing would keep him from her.

He’d never wanted anyone or anything more in his life.