Chapter Three
If Lord Pym knew that you were dining unchaperoned with a young, unmarried and unidentified man in your own quarters, perhaps he would go red with rage. Perhaps he would sentence Sir Rogers to exile from his grounds, upon pain of death.
For once, you found that you couldn’t care less.
It was a liberty that you had not been allowed in the past, to dine and talk with someone who wasn’t one of the faces you saw every day. To ask questions, not bound by the strong ties of etiquette, and to have the upper hand.
You examined him, blond hair haloed in the flickering firelight, his cheekbones seemed almost chiselled on his lightly-stubbled skin.
There was something almost familiar about him.
“You are very kind to insist that I dine here, Lady Y/N.” Sir Rogers said. His hand rested on the cup of wine, but he didn’t drink.
“You are welcome, of course.” You replied graciously. “But I will have to find out if I can trust you.”
Sir Rogers frowned. “My Lady, you and Lord Pym have my utmost allegiance-”
“So I’ve been told.” You stared at him. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Where have you come from? Why should I take your word for gospel, that there are mercenaries on these grounds?”
He glanced down at his lap. “I understand that it may seem like a tall tale.”
You eyed him, awaiting an explanation. Neither of you had eaten anything for some time.
“It’s a long story.” He said, finally.
“You are fortunate, then, that I have endless patience and time.”
Sir Rogers folded his napkin, and set it on the table. “Lord Pym, who I believe is your uncle, met me long ago, when I was a boy, and he was only a child. My father was part of an organisation that his father, too, had joined. It was established years ago to combat hostile forces, targeting specific people. They were run by a man named Baron von Strucker, who died a while back. Before he died, he entrusted his son with a project.”
“And these mercenaries are part of that project?”
He nodded. “You would be right. Mercenaries, some call them, but they are not what you think they are. They have been trained to kill since birth, bred for murder and worse.”
You wondered, as the low candlelight flickered, what could be worse than murder. “Now we have reason to believe that they are here.”
“What do you mean, ‘we’?” You asked, curiously.
“Your uncle and I, and the other members of our organisation. We call ourselves Shield.”
Your mouth twisted as you tried to keep your smile down. “And he just so happened to know that they would appear tonight?”
Again, Sir Rogers shook his head. His blue eyes were piercing. He was trying to make you look like a fool.
“I did. They originally planned to attack your uncle and cousin, but-”
There was a rattling at the window, as the wind buffeted outside. Snow fell thickly, unpleasantly, and the sky was filled with a strange, disembodied howling. Before either of you could say anything, there was a scream from downstairs.
Sir Rogers was up in seconds, drawing his sword. You found a dagger, and advanced towards the door behind him. Feeling your presence, he turned.
“Stay here. I have been entrusted to protect you.”
“What?” Your heart pumped in your ears. There was another scream, and you jolted. The dagger was a stick in your feeble hands.
“I was instructed to protect Lady Y/N. I didn’t know it was you, before.” He explained, quickly. “You must stay here, for your own safety.”
Knowing better than to argue, or ask questions, you kept your mouth shut. Backing into the corner of the room, you heard the blood-curdling clash of metal scraping on metal, and the sickening thud of a body tumbling down the stairs. There was another door to the room, and it crashed open as a cloaked and masked figure bounded into the room.
Breath catching in your throat, you forced yourself to move behind the table, still laden with untouched food and cups of wine.
A flash of white metal, and a sabre was shining in the firelight, long and brutal.
It was over in a matter of seconds- Sir Rogers came running into the room, a blur of blond hair, green fabric and muscled arms, taking out the figure in one powerful swing of his sword. All that could be heard was his panting breaths, and the scent of death hung in the air, a twisting corpse on the gallows.
“Wanda,” you pressed, knowing the scream was hers, “is she alright?”
Sir Rogers nodded, but didn’t elaborate. He was staring at you again, you realised. Where you were unnerved and confused, he was calm, collected.
In quick strides he was across the room, standing in front of you.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.” His voice was quiet.
You offered him a small smirk. “I’m not the fainting type, thankfully.”
Before you knew what was happening, he was taking your hand in his, and your thoughts were invaded by warmth. How it was possible to feel a man’s strength just in the way he held your hand, you didn’t know.
“You’re trembling,” He murmured softly, and you could have sworn his grip tightened. And then you were pulling back, protecting yourself, still clutching the dagger.
“There is no need for panic.” Sir Rogers reassured, eyes following you as you righted the table, moving away from him towards the door.
“How did you know you needed to be here? How did my uncle know to tell you?” You were babbling, words not making sense, “if he suspected there to be any danger, he wouldn’t have left.”
“I was a protocol.” He said, as if it was a simple fact. His tone irked you.
“And what about my uncle, and Hope? How do I know that they are safe?”
“I’m waiting for word from my comrades.” Sir Rogers said, moving toward you slowly, as if he was afraid that you would lash out. You forgot how to breathe as he carefully, gently prised the dagger from your tight fingers, so close that you could see the silver thread embroidered into the lining of his cloak.
“Will you allow me to protect you, until your uncle and cousin return?” His question was purely open and honest, and not meant to provoke you. Somehow, it did just that.
“I don’t need protection.” You said, shortly. The moment was gone, dispersed into the air. “Kindly remove this body from my chambers.”
An amused smile graced his noble features.
“As you wish, my lady.”
**
Wanda was smiling shakily at you.
“I promise, I’m fine.” It was in earnest. You weren’t a fool. She was braver than half of the people you knew.
“What happened, exactly?” Bruce asked. He stood behind you, where you all sat in Wanda’s room. Pietro sat beside her on the bed, holding her hand comfortingly.
“It all happened so quickly,” she said softly. “One minute I was coming to your room, to see if you were alright, my lady. And then the corridor was cold so suddenly, and this black, cloaked shape ran towards me- I screamed, but it passed right by me.”
An uneasy quiet permeated the room.
“Why, though?” Dr Rhodes muttered. “You were right there. Why not just attack you?”
“Rhodey.” Pietro said sharply.
“He’s right.” Wanda interrupted her brother, whose face was growing increasingly worried. “It was like I wasn’t even there.”
“And it went straight to your room?” Dr Rhodes turned to you. You nodded, eyes searching his face. You could see where this was going.
“Then there’s only one explanation.” He declared. “Lady Y/N is the target of these mercenaries. For whatever reason, they thirst for her blood.”
Of course.
Someone rapped at the door, and Pietro sat up, moving closer to Wanda. Bruce moved in front of you instantly.
As if any mercenary would knock first.
“It’s Sir Rogers.” You rolled your eyes, calling to the the door, "enter."
But the man who walked into that room was certainly not Sir Rogers.
Everyone froze, not saying a word. It was only you who spoke into the shocked silence.
“Scott?”