The Merchant's Daughter by Melanie Dickerson

Author:Melanie Dickerson [Dickerson, Melanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Romance
Publisher: Zondervan
Published: 2011-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter

11

Annabel was as transparent as a child as she stood and took a step away from him. She was trying to protect someone. Great anxiety and pain etched lines on her forehead at the thought of betraying this person. Who could it be? A brother? Or maybe Stephen the furniture maker with whom he’d seen her talking when she first arrived. It could be anyone, since she would feel a sense of loyalty to whoever had tried to defend her from the bailiff. He fervently wished he had been the one to help her, wished he had already stripped Tom of his duties as bailiff and made him fear for his life if he dared touch Annabel again.

But what had the bailiff done to her? Tom had been clutching a knife.

Ranulf was seized with a horrible thought. “Did he hurt you?” He stepped closer as his gaze raced over her body, from head to foot.

“Who? No, no. I am unhurt.”

But he saw her hand go to her arm and rub it distractedly.

“Tell me the truth. Did he hurt you?” He emphasized each word.

Her bottom lip trembled and she caught it between her teeth. “He hurt my arm, and he hurt my face … to keep me quiet, so I couldn’t raise the hue and cry. But he didn’t hurt me in the way you mean. Although he would have had I not gotten away.” Tears started to gather in her eyes.

He should have been there. “Let me see your arm.”

Reluctantly, she held out her arm. He grasped her hand and pushed up the sleeve of her dress to reveal bruises on her wrist, then more dark fingerprints against the pale skin of her upper arm.

Staring at her arm, he had a sudden yearning to kiss her soft skin —

He let go as if her arm had turned into a hot brand. But it was too late. He should never have touched her. She looked so pale and shaky, so vulnerable. How he longed to hold her.

He was crazed to think this way. He must get hold of himself. Such thoughts could only lead to pain.

He backed away from her. Instead of foolishly thinking about comforting her, he should be thinking of the best way to help her.

It would not look good if she was found alone with him, crying, her face tearstained and lightly bruised.

“Come.”

She placed her hand trustingly in his and he led her to the door. “You must go. No one must see you just now.” He hurried her toward the door, much too aware of the softness of her small hand in his. “Don’t speak of this to anyone. Go down and wash your face then climb into bed and pretend all is well. I will get a message to you if the bailiff dies. Otherwise, you are to assume he is alive and well.” He opened the door and stood back in the shadows. “Now go.”

As she made her way down the steps, he only saw one person: Mistress Eustacia.

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