Читать книгу The Warrior's Winter Bride - Denise Lynn - Страница 12
ОглавлениеRichard groaned as the surface beneath him heaved to and fro as if being pitched by a windswept wave. The motion let him know that he was aboard a ship. Hopefully, his own.
Outside of a strange dream about Warehaven’s daughter leaning over him with a knife to his chest, the last thing he clearly remembered was vaulting into the small rowboat, grabbing a bow and turning to face Warehaven’s men just as a hand grasped his leg. Distracted, he’d glanced down and fire had sliced through him, sending him head first against a cross-brace.
He raised his arm and half-swallowed a gasp at the pain lacing across his shoulder.
‘Warehaven’s archers rarely miss. You took an arrow.’
He opened his eyes, squinting against the flicker of a lit lamp and stared up with relief at the crudely drawn map he’d nailed to the ceiling of his cabin.
‘What a shame they hadn’t taken aim at your heart.’
Richard raised a brow at the barely suppressed rage in her voice. If anyone should be angry, he should be. ‘Then perhaps, instead of being vexed, I should be grateful for your timely distraction.’
‘Distraction? I was kneeling on the hull.’
‘Which didn’t prevent you from grabbing my leg.’
‘Should I have done nothing while you took aim at my father and his men?’
‘They were aiming at me and my men.’
‘I owe no loyalty to the men of Dunstan and had little concern about the arrows aimed at them.’
Valid as it was, he wasn’t about to concede her point. ‘You should be grateful the men of Dunstan didn’t toss you overboard.’ She didn’t need to know that his men would never treat his bride-to-be so harshly.
She’d been pacing at the other side of the cabin, but changed direction and approached his bed. ‘They would have, but you fell atop me.’ With a toss of her head she turned to take a seat on a nearby stool, adding, ‘So I’ve nothing to be thankful for.’
‘I would think you might be thankful for your life.’
‘As should you.’
Richard knew that she would find a contrary response to anything he said. At another time, under different circumstances, this verbal sparring might provide an entertaining moment or two. Right now, however, she was his captive, not his guest, and her contrariness did nothing but make his head throb even more.
Unmindful of his shoulder, he sat upright, shouting, ‘Matthew!’
The man entered the quarters immediately. ‘You are awake.’
‘Could you find no other place for—?’ Try as he might, he couldn’t push through the fog still swirling about his mind to remember her given name. Richard settled his gaze on her long enough to say, ‘I can refer to you as she, or her, or that woman, but a name would be easier.’
‘Isabella.’ She ground out the answer between clenched teeth. ‘Isabella of Warehaven.’
Richard turned back to Matthew and asked, ‘Could you find no other place for her?’ Her hiss of displeasure whipped through the small cabin.
Matthew shrugged. ‘Since she was caring for your injury, I thought it better she stayed in here, rather than on the deck with the men.’
‘She cared for my injury?’
Her gasp and wide-eyed stare spoke of her surprise at his lack of memory. ‘You remember nothing?’ She looked at him, questioning, ‘Who do you think cared for you?’
He ignored her to ask his man, ‘What did you threaten her with?’
Matthew flashed him a crooked smile. ‘My tender loving care, with the men’s assistance, should you die.’
That she hadn’t thrown herself overboard at such a threat was interesting. Most women would have done so or fallen dead of fright when confronted in such a manner by any of his men. They were an imposing lot who hadn’t been selected for their good manners or refinement. Warehaven’s daughter was either braver than most, or possessed not one ounce of common sense.
He did owe her his gratitude. ‘I do thank you—’
‘No need,’ she interrupted him, but then frowned as if debating what to say next. Finally, after pursing and then unpursing her lips a time or two, announced, ‘I am not going to marry you.’
Richard swung his gaze back to his man. Why had that information been divulged? Matthew tripped while making a hasty exit. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘We’ll be home within a day or so.’
A day or so? Depending on the winds, it was a five or six days journey back to Dunstan. That meant—
‘Did you hear me?’
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. If they were docking at the island in a day or two, that meant he’d been unconscious—
‘You’ll get my hand in marriage only if you remove it from my dead body first.’
Obviously she wasn’t going to give him a moment of peace. Her acceptance—or lack of—hadn’t been a consideration in his plans. He wasn’t about to let her thwart his quest for vengeance.
‘It is truly simple, Isabella of Warehaven, you’ll do as you’re told.’
‘I...I will do what?’ she sputtered, staring at him as if he’d gone mad. ‘Killing my father does not grant you his place in my life.’
Richard paused at the bitterness of her voice. He frowned, thinking back to the day he’d taken Warehaven’s whelp from her home. Scattered scenes rushed in swiftly filling in some of the holes of his faulty memory. Her father had taken an arrow on the beach. Since he’d also taken an arrow, why would she assume her sire had died?
‘You don’t know if he died or not. Like me, he might only have been injured.’
‘I saw him fall to the beach with an arrow piercing his chest. He wore no armour for protection, so I...I can only believe he was killed.’
The catch in her voice warned him that she was already emotional, as was to be expected, but the last thing he wanted was for her to become hysterical over some imagined happening.
‘Is believing the worst your attempt at logic?’
Her eyes widened briefly before narrowing into a fierce glare. Obviously his insincere question had the intended effect—she’d set aside the need to grieve a father who might or might not be dead for anger directed towards him.
‘I guess we’ll find out how valid my logic is when he or my brother come to pay you a visit.’
‘That was the whole point of being seen. Otherwise they wouldn’t know where to find you.’
She waved off his answer, to order, ‘Turn this ship around.’ Her eyes blazing, she informed him, ‘They’ll have no reason to find me as I am not marrying you, nor am I spending the winter on Dunstan.’
Since he had no intention of turning this ship about and every intention of marrying her within a matter of days, she would be spending much longer than just the winter on his island.
The crash of another wave sent the ship pitching dangerously. Without thinking, he quickly reached out and grasped Isabella’s shoulders to keep her from being tossed from her seat on a stool to the floor.
She shrugged off his touch and leaned away. ‘I can see to myself.’
He didn’t get a chance to respond before the ship danced wildly once again, sending Isabella flying from the stool. The thin metal band confining her hair slipped from her head to spin like a top before it then clattered to the floor. On her hands and knees she glared at him as if daring him to give voice to the comments teasing his tongue.
To his relief, instead of trying to scramble back on to the stool, Isabella snatched her hair band from the floor, then crawled to a corner and wedged herself securely between the timbers.
From the ire evident on her face, she would be grateful if he took it upon himself to fall overboard. How high would her anger flame when she realised the depth of her predicament?
Isabella leaned forward and warned, ‘You had better hope my family comes for me soon. Because I swear I will not be forced to marry you.’
‘What makes you think you have a choice in this matter?’
‘My family—’
‘Is not here. The deed will be done long before they arrive.’
The blood appeared to drain from her face, leaving her pale and, from her trembling, more than a little shaken.
When she finally found her voice, she asked, ‘Why would you wish to wed me?’
‘Wish to wed you?’ Richard shook his head. ‘You misunderstand. I have no wish to wed anyone. You are merely a means to an end. One that our marriage will help ensure.’
One finely arched eyebrow winged higher. ‘It matters not what petty grievance you seek to avenge. With my family’s wealth, they will assume marriage was the reason for this madness of yours.’
Petty grievance? The murder of a small, defenceless child was far more than a simple grievance. Richard studied her carefully. The hazel eyes staring back at him appeared clear. Still, to be certain, he asked, ‘Did you hit your head?’
‘Are you asking if I have my wits about me?’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘That is up for debate if you think murder is nothing more than a petty grievance. I couldn’t care less what your family thinks. They can rant and demand all they want, it will avail them not at all. My concerns are with Glenforde. I long for the day he comes to your rescue.’
Isabella frowned. ‘You kidnapped me for some crime Glenforde committed?’
‘What better way to get him to come to me on Dunstan than to kidnap and wed his bride-to-be on nearly the eve of his marriage?’
‘You assume much since you can’t be certain he will come.’
Richard slowly trailed his gaze from her wildly disordered, burnished gold hair, across the purely feminine features of her heart-shaped face, over the gentle swell of her breasts, past her bent legs, to the toes of her mud-stained shoes.
He dragged his gaze up to stare into her speckled hazel eyes. She quickly turned her head away, but not before he caught a glimpse of her flushed cheeks. ‘Oh, rest assured, Isabella of Warehaven, he will come.’ And when he did, Richard would be waiting.
‘Brides are easily bought.’ She leaned forward to wrap her arms round her knees. ‘I am certain Wade of Glenforde will find another with little difficulty.’
Her pensive tone and response surprised him. Richard wondered what Glenforde had done, or said, to cause Isabella such doubt of her worth as a bride, or as a woman.
‘Perhaps, but you forget what else he stands to gain in this union. Glenforde is greedy. He will not throw away the opportunity to secure his relationship with royal blood.’
Isabella shook her head. ‘Now you forget, my father was never recognised. King Henry might have been his sire, but his mother was little more than a whore.’
‘That’s a fine way to speak of a blood relative.’
‘Relative? She was a servant who sold herself for nothing more than a warm bed and a meal. Once my father was weaned she was never seen or heard from again. What would you call her if not a whore?’
She stared at his naked chest and then turned her flushed face away.
Richard retrieved a shirt from the clothes peg near his bed. ‘A woman who sells herself for a warm bed and food isn’t necessarily a whore.’ He knew exactly what a whore was—a bed-hopping liar with not a trace of honour.
Something in the bitter tone of his voice caught her attention. What reason had he to sound so...resentful or cynical? Isabella turned to look at him. His shirt hung around his neck and he frowned down at it. He was no doubt trying to determine how to get dressed without using his injured shoulder.
As far as she was concerned she’d already helped him enough—more than enough. The obvious fact that he didn’t seem to remember clearly was just as well. It was better for her if he had no reason to see her as anything but the enemy.
She didn’t want Dunstan to think that she cared for his welfare—she didn’t, not in the least.
It was imperative that he not misconstrue her actions. Because if he went through with this farce of a marriage, she would make his life miserable.
Not only would this marriage never be consummated—doing so would tie her to this knave for ever and she was not about to spend the rest of her life wed to a man she despised—but he would soon learn just how little his wife cared for him.
By the time her family came to rescue her, Dunstan would be glad to let her go.
Her family rarely used their connection to either royal—Stephen or Matilda—but in this matter she would use every advantage at her disposal to gain an annulment. However, freedom from this marriage would never be granted were she to let this man have his way with her.
No, she fully recognised the need to keep him at arm’s length and to repel him at every turn.
Dunstan glanced in her direction and she held her breath, certain he was going to ask for help. Instead, he clenched his jaw and managed to get the shirt on by himself.
A sheen of sweat beaded his forehead, but she refused to acknowledge his pain and weakness—not when his actions thus far would cause her much more than a moment or two of discomfort.
Her whole world would now be turned upside down. Her mother would be distraught with worry and fear. Her brother’s rage would know no boundaries, his anger at her kidnapping and their father’s death would surely make Dunstan’s world tremble. But Glenforde was another story... Would her betrothed set aside their differences to come to find her, or would he think himself better off without her?
After all, there was another heiress still living at Warehaven—her sister, Beatrice. If Isabella’s newly forming suspicions were right, Glenforde had formed no tender feelings for her. He was concerned more with the land, gold and regardless of what she’d told Dunstan, yes, Glenforde would also be concerned with the connections that would come with marrying a daughter of Warehaven. Once he learned that the daughters shared equally in Warehaven’s wealth it was possible that either daughter would suffice.
The knowledge that she alone would pay the consequences for his actions with the whore that night at Warehaven made her head spin. How would she find the strength to do what she must to survive? And even when she did gain an annulment, would she be able to salvage anything of her dignity, her future or of her worth?
To take her mind off of the dark thoughts gathering in her mind, she asked, ‘So, you think it is appropriate for a woman to sell herself for the necessities of life?’
Isabella truly didn’t care what he thought. She just needed something to distract her.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hard stare making her far more than uncomfortable. Her belly tightened at his single-minded focus.
It wasn’t that he frightened her, even though a part of her mind whispered that she should be afraid. After all, her well-being was completely in his hands.
But had he wanted to cause her harm, would he not have already done so? There’d been nothing to stop him—except for the simple fact that he’d been drugged, unconscious and unable to cause anyone harm.
She swallowed. Perhaps questioning him on his thoughts about women of loose morals had been unwise. Especially considering the assessing look he’d given her when trying to convince her that Wade would come to her rescue for her features alone.
His smouldering stare had left little doubt in her mind that he found her physical form...pleasing. His perusal then had sent a heated flush from her cheeks to her toes. Much like it did now.
Isabella shook off the unwanted warmth and mentally chastised herself. The narrowing of his eyes warned her that she’d held his stare far too long. He knew full well what his pointed gaze did to her and she’d just unintentionally made him more aware of her response.
‘Appropriate?’
She pressed her back more firmly into the corner, but it did little to stop the tremor lacing down her spine. She should be afraid—needed to be very afraid of what the deep timbre of his one-word question did to her senses.
He had kidnapped her—stolen her away from her family and home, taken her from everything she knew and brought death to her father. It made no sense for her to note the blueness of his eyes, or the way his overlong ebony hair fell across his face.
It was wrong, near shameful to let the mere sound of his voice set heat racing along her spine and loosen tiny wings to flutter low in her belly.
The walls closed in around her, making her nearness to this man more acute, bringing their privacy more into focus. She raised a shaking hand to her chest, pressing it over her wildly pounding heart and struggled to draw in breath.
Oh, yes, she should be very afraid of him, but more so of herself.
One dark eyebrow hitched over a shimmering sapphire-hued eye, giving her the distinct impression that he somehow knew where her thoughts had flown. Horrified of what that might mean for her continued well-being, Isabella forced herself to look away.
‘I cannot judge whether her actions were appropriate or not. People do what they must to stay alive.’
He rose and she felt his stare as he loomed over her. The very air around them crackled with tension. When she finally met his gaze, he suggested, ‘That is something you might want to remember.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he was threatening her, but she held her words inside. She wasn’t completely witless, of course he was threatening her, warning her that some day she, too, might need to do something dire to save herself. So she kept her thoughts and questions to herself, fearful of forcing his hand this soon.
‘I need to see to my ship and men. You stay here.’
When she didn’t respond, he nudged the toe of her ruined slipper with the side of his foot. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘I am not deaf, you lack-witted oaf. I heard you.’ The moment the words were out, she winced. There was a time for mockery or name-calling, but this wasn’t the time to give her tongue free rein.
He bent over. Then, unmindful of his shoulder, grasped her beneath her arms and hauled her up from the floor. When they were nose to nose, her feet dangling in the air, he asked, ‘Do you think it wise to bait an enemy when you are the prey?’
‘No.’ Thinking quickly, she reminded him of his obligation as her captor. ‘But as your hostage you need to keep me safe.’
‘I will soon be your husband and while I may be honour bound to keep you alive, your tender feelings concern me not at all.’ He dumped her on to his bed and came over her, resting most of his weight on his forearms. ‘Keep your wits about you, Isabella of Warehaven. Not all injuries can be seen.’
While it was easy to ignore the beads of sweat on his brow attesting to the strain he’d placed on his body, it wasn’t as easy to ignore the evident strength in the hard muscled thighs trapping her securely on the bed.
And even harder to ignore the implication of his threat.
‘Honour? You killed my father, that proves you have little honour, Dunstan.’ She turned her head away from the heat glimmering in his eyes.
He drew her head back so she faced him and Isabella fought the dread overtaking her shaking limbs.
His breath was hot against her cheek, his lips trailed flames across her skin. He paused, his mouth a hairsbreadth above her own, pinned her with his stare and asked, ‘Why should I show you more honour than Glenforde did when last he visited Dunstan?’
Her chest tightened even more until her breaths were ragged gasps for air. His nearness, the physical contact of their bodies made thinking almost as impossible.
‘I am not Glenforde.’ It was the only answer that could find its way through the confusion and fear casting a fog over her thoughts.
He rose to stand over her. ‘No you are not Glenforde. But you were to become his wife and you are here. Forget not your place, Isabella.’
Silently, she watched him exit the cabin. Relief washed through her, making her limp with near exhaustion.
Even though he’d told her that Glenforde had murdered someone on Dunstan—someone young, a child—she had no way of knowing if the crime was real or imagined. She couldn’t help but wonder what had held Dunstan’s temper in place. Had it been her reminder that she wasn’t Glenforde? Or had he somehow sensed her confused fear and relented?
This was not a man to take for granted. He was more of a threat than she’d first thought. This man, above all others, seemed to have the power to reduce her to a mindless muddle with little more than a look.
She couldn’t begin to imagine how she would have reacted had he carried through with his threat. Would she have fought him with every fibre of her being?
Or would she have followed the whispered longings of her traitorous body?
The only thing she knew for certain was that she needed to take charge of her wayward emotions before she became the greater threat to her well-being. Otherwise, she would bring about her own downfall.
