Page 58 of The Mercenary

Her parents. The abbey. Guy’s declaration. His rejection.

She was bathing in the wooden bathtub in their room that second night when a knock came on their door. Guy rushed to answer it, stepping outside to speak with the visitor.

“An invitation to the camp,” he announced upon reentering the room.

Guy walked up and handed her the missive.

“This eve.”

Sabine read it and handed the parchment back to him, noticing he seemed to have a sudden interest in the bathwater.

Tearing his gaze away, he began to change his clothes. When he pulled up his tunic and a part of the undershirt lifted too, she turned away. Sabine did not need to see more of him. She was already tormented by memories of his body. By the way he continued to look at her even after he’d admitted he still wished for them to separate. Would things have been different had she answered him the other day, when he’d declared himself to her?

She stood in the bath and reached for the drying cloth, only then noticing he was watching her. Shirtless. Muscles poised as if he were prepared to grab her should she run into his arms.

She knew from his expression Guy would not reject her now. Not in this, at least.

He would embrace her. Touch her. Make love to her, to a point.

But then he would pull away from her, a harsh reminder of the temporary nature of their arrangement.

Drying herself, Sabine moved to the bed and began to dress. Refusing to turn to him, she donned her hose and shift. Growing up, she’d always had a maid to help her, but she’d become accustomed to performing her ablutions without any assistance. And so she pulled down the simple kirtle she’d purchased in the village and began to brush her hair.

Which is when she noticed him.

Guy still hadn’t moved. And he clearly wanted to say something.

Unable to remain silent any longer, she finally relented. “Do you wish to ask me a question?”

His bare chest filled with air. Finally, he shook his head.

“Do you wish to say something, then?”

She was becoming angry now. How could he look at her like that, his eyes full of heat, after what he’d said?

“Tell me, Guy. Say it,” she nearly yelled.

“I . . .”

She dropped her hands from her hair.

“What is it? Please,” she pleaded. “Either tell me or do not continue to look at me so.”

“I . . .”

For a wild moment she imagined he would say, “I love you.” But it was foolish of her to think it. He clearly regretted what he’d said to her the other day. That short answer he’d given her in response to her question about parting—“aye”—was how he truly felt.

He looked at her a moment longer, his gaze tortured, then turned from her.

Sabine wanted to throw the brush at him in frustration. Instead, she gripped it so tightly her hand hurt, though not nearly as much as the poor hair she now abused in anger.

She tried to tell herself to stop, but it was no use.

The simple fact was that she loved her husband. And should have listened to him at the outset. He was no gentleman. Sabine had married a mercenary and now was paying dearly for that decision.

* * *

“Outrageous.”