A Nymph Without Mercy
II

Garrick was not akind man.

Despite the armour hewore he was no true knight. He worked for kings, it was true, but not in anycapacity that a more moral individual would call reputable. Assassinations werea lucrative enterprise, and one he very nearly took pride in. He was creative,not indulging in the grisly business of simply running his sword through anunsuspecting victim—that was saved for tournaments. No, he preferred poisons,or, if he could not be certain of the precision of that particular device, hewould employ a lasso.

Not many in this realmused such a device, but it proved a highly effective method of dispatchingwhatever foe proved dangerous for whichever king.

Garrick swore no vowsof fealty—not to any of the bastards that considered themselves lords overother men.

He would take theircoin, whether in swordplay against one of their fair knights or due to his moremorose skills, but he felt no loyalty for any of them. Some were better thanothers, but all thought themselves more capable, more wise, and therefore able tomake decisions for those who had the misfortunate of lesser birth.

And none were oflower birth than he.

He came from a noblefamily, one of the oldest in the kingdom of his birth, but he was notrecognised by any. Hidden away as a child, mocked and branded as a product ofdemonic influence, he learned quickly that it would only be by his skills thathe should survive long in the world.

So learn he did.

Sword, bow, lasso,each he fostered until he was certain that none could hurt him—at least, not inthe physical sense. He wandered from one kingdom to the next, earning money andsquandering it just as easily in taverns, drinking away the memories of anunhappy life.

For he had no truehome.

As the firstborn malehe should rightfully have claimed his ancestral home and the title thataccompanied it. But the scorn of his father and the subsequent hatred of hismother due to his disfavour soured him toward any of their possessions. Letwhatever ill-fated child that came to them afterward enjoy the spoils, for hewould take none of it.

He had enough coinfor whatever he liked, but he kept to a small cottage. It had a warm fire and acomfortable bed, serviceable enough for the likes of him.

But what he likedbest was the fine lyre that resided in a corner, and had often frightened awaythe whispers of loneliness and despair that came from a life such as his.

On this occasion,however, he was on an errand. It was thirty leagues to his intended destination,and while he was never one to eat much—cooking was never one of his fonderpursuits, especially not when he could purchase warm stew and a pint of fineale—today he found himself particularly hungry. The Wemble Road was not oneoften used, but that was the reason he preferred it. The issue, however, wasthat only tiny villages and farmlands could be found along it, and he was notthe sort to be welcomed by a family, no matter how many shillings he couldprovide.

So he followed thetrail of a deer, for much longer and deeper into the dense forest than he wouldhave liked, but game was scarce as winter was only just now giving way tospring. The woods unnerved him. While he did not fear man nor foe, there wassomething odd about this forest inparticular. On many occasions he had heard tall tales of creatures who livedwithin them, beautiful girls who liked to take sport against the likes ofunsuspecting men.

It was all nonsense.

But as he now tookaim, a large buck a short distance away in a small clearing, he could not denythat a sense of foreboding overcame him.

And as he released acalming breath, his eye carefully on the target and his fingers freed thearrow, he was entirely unprepared for a silent woman to appear from the treesbeyond and his arrow to replace purchase, not in his dinner, but in the soft fleshof her shoulder.

Garrick might nothave been a kind man, but he did not make it habit of harming innocent womenwho had the misfortune of crossing his path.

He watched her slipand fall, and though part of him screamed to run to her side and offerassistance, the other was deathly aware that the woman he had harmed could notpossibly be real.

She was toobeautiful.

Too unearthlybeautiful.

He had struck anangel.

And if he had notbeen damned before to the blackest pits of hell, he most assuredly was now.

Yet despite hisreticence, he could not simply allow her to perish on the forest floor. He wasnot entirely certain of where the arrow had struck her, and if he should havekilled her...

He strode forward,bow still in hand.

Only for her to tryher best to creep away from him.

He ignored the stingof pain at her action.

Of course she wasfrightened of him. He was an imposing figure at best, and a devilish one atworst.

Though he was loathto reveal his face to this beauty, he needed to better see to assess theseverity of her wound. She visibly shuddered as she took in his features, andhe could clearly see the arrow protruding horrifically from her shoulder, thepoint clearly visible through the opposite side. He removed his gloves,prepared to begin the work of excising the shaft from her lovely body.

But what cut him tothe quick was her imploring plea to leave her undefiled, as if someone wholooked as he did was obviously intent on doing her the ultimate harm.

And the anger burnedeven as he watched her eyes flicker closed as she fainted away.

Perhaps another manwould have taken advantage—seen the pale skin, hair longer than he had everseen, and the prone form that would offer no objection and taken what was not willinglyoffered.

He was many things,but he was no raper.

And though it was ridiculousin the extreme, it still hurt him terribly that she should think him so.

At least he would nothave to stare into her frightened and imploring eyes as he tended to her.Whether she wished for his aid or not, he would provide it. It was his errorthat saw her hurt. He would mend her as best he could and then leave her toreturn from whence she came.

Heaven.

He shook his head indisgust.

Her blood was notlike any he had seen. It was pale, and it nearly glistened with a luminescencethat unnerved him.

It almost resembledsap, but he shook away such nonsensical thinking immediately. She was no angel,nor a goddess. She was a poor girl who had the misfortune to encounter him.

And she would not payfor that with her life.

He was unprepared forwhat happened when he allowed his fingertips to assess the wound.

She gasped loudlythough her eyes remained closed. A tingling erupted in his fingertips and henearly tasted despair as her face grew ashen, as though whatever force hadcoaxed life into her veins had suddenly fled from her.

She had told him notto touch her.

He had not listened.

Garrick had littletime to ponder what her words could possibly have further implied as herstrangely coloured blood still oozed, sticky and cloying as his fingers didtheir best to close the ragged edges of her injury. He quickly pulled a bladefrom his belt and removed the arrowhead from its shaft, morbidly grateful thatit had gone through cleanly so he should not have to cause her all the morepain of damaging more of her precious tissues.

And for the firsttime since he could remember he whispered a prayer that she would not awakenfrom the pain, and pulled the shaft free, pressing tightly as fresh bloodbubbled up around his fingers.

“I am so sorry,angel.”

Remorse was not afeeling of which he was well acquainted. Anger honed his senses and fuelled hisstrength into something productive.

Generally killing.

Remorse made himfumble with the edge of his under tunic until he could tear of a piece longenough to bind her shoulder. The dress she wore was nearly transparent in itsquality and he had to purposely keep his gaze focused on his task to keep fromchecking to see if it sufficiently covered her endowments.

Shame was rapidlyreplacing remorse.

But before he boundthe wound he poured a generous portion of spirits onto both sides of the gash,hoping it would prove sufficient in cleansing.

She seemed too purefor any ailment to dare take hold, but it was best to be cautious.

Her eyelids flickeredas he wrapped the makeshift bandage about her shoulder—and did he imagine thata bit of colour was already returning to her cheeks?

Garrick did not careabout many earthly comforts, but he did have a fondness for finer fabrics.Silks and soft linens were his wont, as he liked the feel much better than someof the harsh cottons as they rubbed at his sensitive flesh underneath hisarmour.

Yet the ripped pieceof tunic looked like the shabbiest of garments when compared to her gown.

Now that he hadtended to her as best he could he allowed himself a moment to assess the restof her, perhaps so he could ascertain where this maiden had originated.

He firmly shoved awayany thought that she was anything but mortal.

He was not prone toirrational fancies.

The ignoranttownsfolk, most of them barely literate would weave fantastical stories of whatinhabited these woods—elves, sprites, and above all, the infamous dryads thatcould grant wishes if you found them.

All of it utternonsense.

But as he allowed hisfinger to trace over the material of her gown—had he ever felt something sosoft?—and gazed at the splendour before him, he thought if any could bemistaken for a nymph it would be her.

“Shall you grant me awish, nymph? Will you make your attacker handsome, perhaps?”

She did not stir, norgive any recognition that she had heard him.

A lock of hair hadcaught upon the moisture of her lips and with trembling fingers he brushed itaway with his thumb. It was a liberty he immediately regretted as a shudder of something ran through him as he cameinto contact with the rosebud mouth that he suddenly wished to press againsthis own.

Which was absurd. Hedid not kiss maidens, no matter howlovely.

He wished she wouldawaken. Or perhaps he wished that some of her kin would appear and take awaythe burden of her care. He had done this to her, but with the feelings she elicited, he thought itmuch safer for her to be tucked away with whatever family she possessed than toremain in his company much longer.

But none came and shecontinued to sleep.

Yes, he would call itsleep.

It was much betterthan to consider her unconscious.

Time passed and hecontinued to wait. Wait for a sign of life.

Wait for a sign thathe had not killed her.

Eventually he heardhis horse emerge from the woods, evidently tiring of standing about waiting forhis master. Garrick could not fault him, especially as he was grateful for hispresence as it was apparent he would be making camp in the glen for the night.

His stomach made anoise of disapproval as he would go yet another night without meat, but herefused to dwell on that for any significant duration. He would make do withwhat was left of the hard cheese and biscuits. He pondered whether he shouldrisk leaving her in order to start a fire, but as the day wore on and rapidlyturned to night, he realised that it would be foolish not to provide her whatwarmth he could.

The dress she worecertainly would not offer her any relief from the crisp night air.

Garrick started afire, using whatever wood lay about. He briefly considered hacking a few largerbranches from the trees overhead, but decided against it. The strange feelinghe had about this wood, this girl, had not abated, so he made due with whateverwas loose about the ground.

Eventually a firecrackled pleasantly in the small pit he had created, and he undid his bedrollfrom the horse’s saddle and laid it close enough to the flames so as to bepleasantly warm, but not so close as to cause discomfort.

For while heappreciated the comfort of his own provisions—what man did not?—there would bea maiden sleeping there tonight and he would offer her what he could.

He did not generallymake it a habit to remove his armour while exposed in the woods, but if he wasto spend a hard night on the forest floor he would not add harsh metal cuttinginto his every joint. Removing it was always a tedious process, and not for thefirst time he cursed his lack of squire to aid the process. But squires andattendants were for true knights who had earned the favour of their kings.

And he would notengage in such hypocrisy.

For he knew ofknights who had a thirst for killing—who swore vows of chivalry and yetdishonoured many a maiden simply because he was larger and stronger.

And yet they weregiven lands and commendations for performing the same duty as he, conqueringand claiming victories, whether it was on the battlefield or a tournament.

Piece by piece heremoved his armour, flexing each newly freed appendage, grateful for the heavyweight to fall away. He did not wear it for fear of being bested on the road.He wore it for appearances. He wore it because the darkness of it, the crestemblazoned on the breastplate struck fear upon those he met.

And he wore it for itcovered the worst of his failings with little question being raised as to whyhe rarely removed his helm.

In addition, whilehis height distinguished him from other men, his actual frame would do littleto inspire dread in his enemies. He was strong to be sure, but he lacked therippling muscles that so readily displayed physical power.

He comforted himselfwith that idea that perhaps by so disarming himself he would not appear sointimidating to her. She wouldundoubtedly fear him—had shown that she alreadyfeared him—and surely she could replace some comfort knowing he was just asany other.

But with a dry mouthhe reached once more into the saddlebag and pulled out his mask.

He only wore it whenhe was without his helm, not bothering to wear both at once. To do so createdconditions that were dreadful for his sensitive flesh, and he found that theitching and irritation that it caused was not worth the added security shouldsome unlucky soul be witness to his visage.

Even he was allowedto be fastidious regarding his personal care, ugly though he might be.

All his armour removedand carefully nestled beneath the overhang of a large oak, he took a bracingbreath before moving toward the girl. She had yet to move and he would not denythat it unsettled him. He firmly reminded himself that for her to stir and moanwould likely indicate the presence of fever, so this cold sleep should beconsidered a blessing.

But he still felt theedges of death about her as he leaned forward and scooped her into his arms,delivering her to the soft bed of furs that would hopefully coax her into ahealing rest she could soon wake from.

Garrick tried not tolet himself think of how she felt in his arms.

He most especiallytried not to allow himself to consider a very different way in which he couldbe taking her to his bed.

Instead, he wascareful not to jostle her shoulder overly much, and tucked the furs around hergently. And from her stillness he could not help but press two long fingers toher throat in search of a pulse.

His digits stilltingled strangely from the contact, nearly burning in its intensity. Butinstead of the visceral reaction to pull away from a scorching encounter, hefelt the need for more.

Garrick lurched awayfrom her.

Her pulse had beenthready but present.

Which should haveprovided more reassurance than it did.

From the location ofthe injury he never would have presumed it to be fatal. But this littlecreature seemed too slight that perhaps she could succumb to such a wound.

He determined not tosleep but to remain watchful. She would come to no other harm, and should herkinsman finally come in search of her it was best he be awake to defendhimself. Garrick liked to think he would submit to them and whatever justicethey demanded, but he should at the very least like to explain what steps hehad taken for her care before they eviscerated him.

At least, he hopedthat should an encounter take place he could allow himself to submit to their reasonable quest for vengeance.

He was not always thebest at allowing physical harm to befall him, not at the hand of another.

Although used tosleepless nights he found himself jerking awake just as the first rays of sunbegan to pierce through the tangled branches above.

And found two eyesblinking at him with an expression he could not quite decipher.

She was awake.

And though it was perhapsabsurd, Garrick was terrified.

“Hello. You must bemy bond-mate.”