Meant to Bea

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

“Blood?”

Noah turned sharply to the side to find Beatrice standing by the door to his study, a slight frown creasing her face.

She folded her arms. “Leave us.” She spoke to his valet, but her eyes never left him.

The valet released his hold on his wrist and, placing the bottle of whiskey on the table, rose to his feet. “Yes, my lady.” He bowed to the waist, and began making his way across the room. Once he reached where Beatrice stood, she tore her eyes off of Noah long enough to retrieve the towel that hung loosely from the arm of the valet, before turning her attention back to Noah. She waited until the door was firmly shut behind her, before covering the distance between them, and placing herself on the desk before him.

Without a word, she took his wrist captive, her face contorting in horror the second she caught a glimpse of his bloody knuckles.

“You should be asleep.” He murmured, feeling somewhat ashamed about his present state. He should not have returned home immediately after his fight with Race, but should have instead gone to the physician to have his wound cleaned.

“And you should be in bed beside me.” He heard the disapproval in her voice, and immediately knew she had an idea of what it was that had transpired between him and Race that morning. He especially knew she was not pleased —with him.

Well, he was not apologetic for what happened. He would punch his brother —and any other person for that matter who was stupid enough to disrespect his wife before him— in the face for however long it would take him to never speak ill of his wife again.

Still, the look on her face filled him with remorse. He did not mean to upset, or displease her, he meant to protect her.

Withdrawing his hand from her, she lifted her head up, her frown having deepened.

“I do not apologize for hitting him,” He murmured.

Letting out a soft sigh, she leaned back slightly, so that her bulging stomach became visible. “You do not always have to be so foolhardy, Noah. Now, Race shall blame me for coming in-between you two, even if I was not physically present.”

“He spoke ill of you.” He rose to his feet, and settled on the desk beside her. She turned slightly to face him. “Shall I sit back and listen to people disrespect you?” He whispered softly, placing his hand against the side of her face. “Or shall I wedge a sword into their bellies?”

“You shall not get into fights with your brother on my behalf.” She pushed his hand away. “I already have all of England holding me responsible for Oliver's death, I shall not have you murdering someone anytime soon, and bearing the burden of that death on my shoulders.”

Noah would have argued if he did not think Beatrice was tired. She had barely slept through the night, and he did not wish to exhaust her further with talks about his misunderstanding with Race.

Sighing, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. When he tried to lean back, her hand pressed to the side of his face, stopped him. He stared at her, thinking just how much he loved her. He was uncertain there was anything he would not do to protect her. He was uncertain there was anything he would not do to please her —even if it meant apologizing for a fight he did not regret.

“Forgive me.”

She shook her head. “Do not think it not your place to protect me, for I am your wife. But perhaps there are fights you must learn to walk away from?” When he did not respond, she searched his eyes. “For me, Noah? There are fights you cannot walk away from, but there are others you must walk away from. You must learn to know the difference.”