Читать книгу Underneath The Mistletoe Collection - Джанис Мейнард, Marguerite Kaye - Страница 35

Chapter Seven

Isabella paused before the gated entrance into Dunstan Keep. The men in the twin towers stared down at her a moment before shouting to their approaching lord, ‘She yours?’

His? No, she was not his. If she belonged to anyone it was her father—her breath caught as she remembered her father’s body falling to the beach. No. She would not slip into grief until she was safely back in her family’s embrace. If she now belonged to anyone it was to her brother, Jared—or with hope and a trunk full of luck, eventually a husband of her choosing.

But most definitely not Dunstan.

However, on rare occasions, she did know when and how to hold her tongue. This seemed to be one of those times, so she waited for Dunstan and his man to join her.

Once they were alongside of her, she unclenched her jaw to say, ‘I am not yours.’

He ignored her and waved up at the men as he passed beneath the arched gate. ‘Yes, she’s mine.’

It was all she could do not to scream. But his grin told her that he knew exactly what she felt and had goaded her on purpose. Instead of screaming, she forced a smile to her lips and followed him into the keep.

Once they were in the courtyard, Dunstan dismounted, then came to her side to assist her from the horse. She accepted his help, making certain to curl her fingers tightly into his shoulders—more to bring him pain than for support.

He rewarded her petty action by pulling her hard against his chest. She struggled to free herself from his hold.

‘Keep fighting me, Isabella. I love nothing more than a good battle.’

She fell lax against him. ‘Let me go.’

‘Not until you apologise.’

Snow would douse the fires of hell before she did so. ‘I did nothing that requires an apology.’

While keeping one arm securely around her, he grasped her wrist and placed her hand against the wound on his shoulder. The thickness of the padding beneath her palm made her stomach tumble with guilt.

She turned her face away and softly said, ‘I am sorry. I didn’t mean to irritate your wound.’

‘I beg your pardon? I didn’t hear you. What did you say?’

Isabella took a breath before repeating herself a little louder, ‘I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean to irritate your wound.’ Glancing up at him, she added, ‘But it was no less than what you deserved.’

‘Perhaps.’ He released her wrist and then grazed her chin with his thumb. ‘But it would be wise for you to remember that I am your only protector here.’

He had a valid point. Had she done any serious harm, she would be at the mercy of his men. She had no way of knowing what manner of men inhabited this godforsaken isle.

She turned away from him and looked up at the keep atop the hill. Made of stone, with round towers at each corner, it was every bit as big as Warehaven.

He pushed past her. ‘Come. Father Paul should be here soon.’

Good. At least then she would have someone on her side. The priest couldn’t very well marry them once she voiced her objections to this union.

Following him up the steps cut into the earthen mound, she was more than a little surprised to find an entrance at the top of the hill. Confused, she asked, ‘Isn’t this dangerous?’

‘Dangerous? How so?’

‘A ground-level entrance?’ Had this man spent so little time on land that he didn’t know the first thing about defending his keep?

‘Until the enemy can learn to fly, we are secure.’

If someone wanted possession of Dunstan badly enough, they would find a way. But she wasn’t about to argue warfare with him.

He held the metal-studded door open and followed her inside. She’d expected to walk into a storage chamber at the ground level of the keep. Instead, she paused to discover they’d come through what she would consider a postern gate leading through a thick fortified wall that opened to a courtyard running the length of the keep and not directly into the building.

When she turned to ask why the gate was at the front of the keep, Dunstan hitched an eyebrow. ‘Rather deceiving at first isn’t it?’ He glanced up at the wall to order, ‘Drop it down.’

The men, who she hadn’t seen at first, lowered a portcullis into place behind the studded door, effectively cutting off the entrance from the bailey.

Dunstan stared down at her. ‘No one gets in.’ Before guiding her to the steps angling up against the wall, he added, ‘And no one gets out.’

Isabella took his comment as a veiled threat—a warning that she’d be unable to escape. What would he do, or say, when she proved him wrong?

Although, as she trailed behind him along narrow courtyards, and up even narrower stairs, only to cross over walkways that had surely seen better days, Isabella wondered if his warning had been necessary. Escaping was one thing—simply remembering the way to get back to the outer yard would prove a challenge.

Finally, they entered the keep through a larger, heavily studded door. Her thoughts and concerns of escape vanished as the stale, rancid air of the Great Hall slammed against her face.

Isabella quickly covered her nose and mouth with the sleeve of her gown, but it did little to veil the stench of the ill-kept hall. She blinked as tears welled from her stinging eyes and prayed there wasn’t some damp, musty tower cell awaiting her.

Dunstan shot her a dark frown that she couldn’t decipher, but she wasn’t going to uncover her face to question him.

It was all she could do not to gag when he led her across the filthy hall to a smaller chamber on the far side. While this room was in even worse condition than the Great Hall, at least it had two narrow window openings. Thankfully, he saw fit to open both shutters letting in fresh, albeit cold air.

‘Your servants are lax in their duties.’ She stated what she thought was obvious while gasping for breath.

‘Lax?’

Isabella ran a fingertip across the thick layer of dust on the top of a chest. ‘This didn’t accumulate overnight.’

He turned his head to glance in her direction, his dark expression even more stormy. ‘I’ve yet to see anyone perish of dust.’

She kicked at an obnoxious clump of mouldy strewing herbs, sending it rolling across the floor. ‘It takes more than a few days for this to grow.’

‘And is easily removed with a broom.’

‘The lady of this keep should be ashamed.’

‘Presently, there is no lady.’

‘Then the housekeeper should be severely reprimanded.’

‘There is no housekeeper. And before you ask, there are no chambermaids, scullery maids nor a cook.’

She’d assumed he had no wife, since he was so determined to give her that unwanted title. And he’d told her aboard the ship that his mother was deceased. But to do without any women in the keep was something she could barely imagine.

‘It is just you and your men?’

He nodded in reply.

‘What do you do for food?’

‘The same thing men have always done.’

She knew that meant one of the lower-ranked men did the cooking or some of the village women acted as camp followers did during a march to battle and performed the duty.

Isabella looked slowly around the chamber. Besides the dust and mould, there were cobwebs thick enough to suffocate someone should they have the misfortune to walk into them. Sheaths of papers that had tumbled from the small table in the corner on to the floor were half-covered in rotting rushes. She didn’t want to think about the vermin living undisturbed in the bedding.

This is what her father’s and brother’s chambers would have looked like without her mother’s oversight. Well, at the very least her father’s chambers would have looked the same, if not worse. Her brother Jared was a little more organised.

She doubted that Dunstan Keep had always been in this condition, not when the wharf and village appeared in order and inviting. So, how had this happened?

‘And none of you see anything wrong with...’ she waved an arm to encompass the chamber ‘...this?’

‘We have managed quite well.’

‘Yes, I can see that.’

‘Enough!’ He spun away from the window. ‘I have no desire to listen to your complaints.’

His sudden movement, deep threatening tone and fierce scowl forced her back a step. ‘Complaints?’ The shrillness in her voice made her take a breath. Regardless of how threatened she felt, showing any sign of fear would be a mistake. To regain a semblance of self-control, she glanced pointedly around the chamber, asking in what she hoped was a milder tone, ‘The sorry condition of your keep does not bother you?’

Dunstan stormed towards her, his hands clenched at his sides. ‘The condition of my keep is none of your concern.’

She fought the urge to bolt from the chamber—where would she go? But it was impossible to stand firm in the face of his anger and it would be foolish to remain within arm’s length of danger. Moving away quickly, she put the small table between them.

‘Where I lay my head at night is my concern.’

‘If this chamber isn’t good enough for you, there is an empty cell available.’

If he was intentionally seeking to frighten her more, he would have to do better than that. Besides, the cell might prove cleaner. Isabella squared her shoulders and stared at him. ‘That would suit me fine, my lord.’

‘I wonder.’ His eyebrows arched. ‘How would your bravado fare amongst the rats?’

Actually, if the closeness of the walls didn’t take her bravado away and leave her near senseless, she’d be frantic at the first scurry of tiny feet, but he didn’t need to know that. So, in an effort to retain her show of bravery, she shrugged in answer to his question.

‘Do not tempt me, Isabella.’

He spoke her name slowly, deliberately drawing it out. She hated the way it rolled off his tongue. And she utterly despised the tremors it sent skittering down her spine.

‘Lord Dunstan!’

Conal’s voice broke through the closed chamber door a mere heartbeat before the man swung it open and entered. To her relief the priest followed in his wake.

Finally. She exhaled with a loud sigh, drawing the attention of all three men.

Dunstan motioned the men further into the chamber. ‘Father Paul, is all ready?’

‘Just as you requested.’ The priest emptied the contents of the satchel he carried on to the table. ‘I take it this is your intended bride?’ the priest asked Dunstan.

‘Yes.’

‘No,’ Isabella answered at the same time.

Ignoring her, the priest went about his business of unrolling and flattening a document, sharpening a quill and stirring the ink. He moved aside and waved Dunstan to the table. ‘Your signature, my lord.’

Dunstan paused, holding the quill less than a breath above the document. The feathered end wavered slightly, a small drop of ink splashed down on to the vellum, spreading like a brackish-coloured droplet of blood.

An ominous omen of the future? Isabella’s stomach clenched at the thought.

He scrawled his name at the bottom of the document, then extended the pen towards her, warning, ‘Don’t make this difficult.’

‘No.’ She stared at the quill before glaring at him across the table. ‘You can’t make me do this.’

‘Yes, actually, I can and will.’

She gasped at the certainty in his words. Knowing there would be no reasoning with him, she turned to the priest. Surely he could be made to see how unwilling she was to wed Dunstan. ‘I am being forced into this unholy alliance. It will not stand.’

The priest ignored her, seemingly content to gaze around the chamber. His unconcerned air splashed an icy cold on the heated rage that had been building in her chest.

‘Are you not a man of God? Do you not represent the Church in this matter?’ Isabella swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to remain rational. ‘I cannot be forced into this union.’

Father Paul looked down on her with the expression of a long-suffering parent dealing with an unreasonable child—the same type of look she’d endured countless times from Warehaven’s priest when she’d railed against lessons she had no desire to learn.

‘Child, it seems you do not fully understand the direness of your situation.’

The calmness of his voice had the opposite effect of what he’d most likely intended. Instead of soothing her, it set her teeth on edge. ‘I am not a child.’

Dunstan snorted, before suggesting, ‘Then stop acting like one.’

She ignored him, intent on making the priest see her side of this argument—and then agreeing with her. ‘There is nothing about this situation that I do not understand. I was taken from my home. Saw an arrow pierce my father’s chest as he came to my defence. I was made to tend my captor’s injuries. And now—’ she flicked her shaking fingers at the document on the table ‘—against everything that is just and right I am being forced to agree to a marriage that neither I, nor my family, would desire.’

The priest’s eyebrows rose. ‘I am certain your family would find it more desirable for you to wed someone you detest now, than to return to them next spring carrying a bastard.’

Next spring?

The floor heaved beneath her feet.

Dear Lord, she’d not taken the season, nor the weather, into consideration. Her brother and Glenforde would be unable to come to her rescue for months.

And the priest’s concern over her carrying a bastard come spring made her ill. She drew in a long breath, hoping to calm the sudden queasiness of her stomach. There had to be a way out of this.

‘Child.’ Father Paul touched her arm. ‘Surely now you see the sense in a marriage.’

‘No.’ Isabella shook her head. ‘There will be no chance of creating a child.’

‘You cannot know the future. You are here on Dunstan without any protection, with no suitable companion.’ The priest shrugged. ‘Even if Lord Richard was the most chivalrous knight of the realm and placed not one finger upon your person, nobody can say the same of every man on this island.’

She glared at Dunstan. ‘You have so little control over the men in your command?’

When he said nothing, she crossed her arms against her chest and turned her attention back to the priest. ‘Then lock me away in a cell.’

‘Locks can be picked, cell doors can be broken.’

Would he thwart every idea she suggested? ‘But—’

Dunstan cleared his throat, interrupting her. ‘Enough. Your fate was sealed before I stepped foot on your father’s land.’ He tapped the quill beneath his signature on the document. ‘Either sign this yourself, or I’ll make your mark for you.’

‘No!’ She slapped both of her hands on the table. ‘I will not do this. There has to be another option. One less...distasteful.’

Dunstan swirled the nib of the pen across the document, making a rather elaborate mark below his name. ‘You will not do this?’ He made a show of staring hard at the vellum on the table, before shrugging. ‘It appears to me that you have already signed of your own free will.’

This could not be happening to her. In a hazy blur, Isabella saw Conal drop something into Dunstan’s outstretched palm. Before she could make any sense of his intention, he grasped her left hand and slid a gold band on to her ring finger.

Instead of releasing her hand, he engulfed it in his own. ‘With this ring, I, Richard of Dunstan, wed Isabella of Warehaven.’

Her throat ached with the need to scream. She jerked free of his hold, asking in a choked whisper, ‘What have you done?’

No answer was required, or forthcoming, as she knew exactly what he’d done. He’d planned this every step of the way.

He’d had some document drawn up that took Lord only knew what from her, placed his signature and hers on it with witnesses present who would swear she’d signed of her own free will. Then, he’d sealed the deed by placing his ring on her finger.

As far as anyone was concerned, she was wed to this knave. There was only one small...task...keeping them from being for ever joined in unholy matrimony.

While he might be able to forge her mark on a document, Dunstan would find bedding her much harder than he might think. Isabella clenched her hands into fists. Harder? No. She would make it impossible.

‘My part here seems to be done.’ Father Paul snatched the document from the table, rolled it up and tucked it back into his satchel. ‘I’ll take this. Should you have any desire to read it, you will find it safe in my care.’

He took a step back and paused. ‘Lord, Lady Dunstan, if you wish a blessing on your union, you know where to find me.’

After the priest left the chamber, Dunstan crossed the room and pulled the sheet from his bed.

Isabella frowned. What was he doing now?

In the blink of an eye, he slid a dagger across the tip of a finger, splattered the blood on to the sheet and then tossed it to Conal. ‘Lock this up somewhere safe.’

She stared in shock at Conal’s back as he hastily left the chamber. Everything about this farce of a marriage—from the creation of the document, her forged signature and now to the evidence of the bloodied bedding—had been seen to in advance.

‘You pig!’ She turned her full attention to Dunstan. ‘You dirty, filthy pig. I would like to see you gutted.’ She paused to give her tremors a moment to subside before continuing, ‘And your entrails slowly pulled from your body and fed to the dogs while you watched in dying agony.’

Dunstan unbuckled his belt and tossed it on to the narrow cot. ‘Could we save all that for tomorrow?’ He pulled his tunic over his head and dropped it atop his belt. ‘Right now I’d rather sleep.’

‘You do that.’ She pulled his ring from her finger and threw it at him as she moved from behind the desk to march to the door intent on leaving this chamber, this keep and, if at all possible, somehow this island.

He grabbed her arm as she reached for the latch. ‘And just where do you think you’re going?’

Isabella tried to pull free of his hold, but he only tightened his grasp. ‘Let me go.’

‘Oh, my dear wife, you seem a bit upset.’

‘Upset!’ His mocking manner nearly made her spit with rage. ‘I have never been so...so mistreated in my life.’ She pried at his fingers. ‘And do not call me wife.’

‘Nobody has mistreated you.’ He released his hold long enough to scoop her up in his arms. ‘But perhaps someone should have done so once or twice.’ He turned around and walked towards the far corner of the chamber.

‘Put me down.’ Isabella struggled against his overbearing hold.

As if she hadn’t said a word, he continued, ‘Had they done so, you might know how to deal with disappointment in a less strident manner.’

Disappointment? Is that what he considered these recent events? Nothing but a disappointment?

‘Finding water in your goblet instead of wine is a disappointment. This is far more than that.’

She kicked her legs and to her relief, he lowered his arm, letting her feet hit the floor.

‘I am certain you’ll eventually find a way to come to terms with your future. But for now, it is time for bed.’

She glanced behind them at the narrow cot. ‘I am not sleeping in that vermin-infested thing you call a bed.’

‘No, you aren’t.’ While keeping one arm wrapped about her waist, he shoved aside a dusty tapestry hiding a door, which he opened and then pushed her into the darkness beyond. ‘But neither am I.’