by Denise Lynn
‘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 no
w?
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.’
Chapter Eight
Richard nabbed a lit torch from the wall of the outer chamber before following Isabella into the room.
Standing with his back against the closed door, he held the torch high enough to illuminate the area around him before using it to light a brace of candles. He mounted the torch in a wall sconce, ignoring Isabella’s gasp of dismay.
While a layer of dust had settled from weeks of non-use, this small chamber was serviceable and, as far as he was concerned, that was all that should matter. He crossed the room to slightly open one of the shutters just enough to allow in a breeze of fresh air.
He expected her to make some comment, but to his amazement, she held her tongue and simply glared at him.
The bed jutting out from the far wall looked more inviting that he’d imagined it would and he longed for nothing more than to crawl beneath the covers, drop his head on to a pillow and then sink into the overstuffed mattress.
However, he couldn’t help but wonder if Isabella would plunge a knife into his heart while he slept.
Before he could formulate any plan to prevent such an undesirable occurrence, she asked, ‘Where do you plan to sleep?’
‘In my bed.’
Her brows winged over her hazel eyes. Light from the candles flickered in the speckled depths of her stare.
‘And where then will I sleep?’
Even though there was little doubt his answer would be acceptable, he forged ahead. ‘In my bed.’
‘When boars grow teats.’
Richard wanted to laugh at her bald statement, but knew that would only encourage her. Instead, he asked, ‘Did you learn your refined speech at Warehaven’s docks?’
‘My speech is none of your concern.’
‘As your husband, it is of great concern to me. I’ll not have you bandying coarse talk about the keep. You are well aware of the trouble it invites.’
‘Are you once again saying you have no control of your people?’
She’d taken up that familiar arms-crossed-against-her-chest, rigid-spine, chin-up stance that he’d come to recognise as her ready-for-battle pose. He knew that she would refuse to see reason or agree with anything he said.
His patience was in short supply at the moment and suddenly the idea of locking her in a cell seemed a good one.
Richard sighed. Refusing her bait, he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘If you want everyone to think you are nothing more than a trollop I pulled from the dregs, so be it.’ He tugged at a boot. ‘But don’t come crying to me the first time one of the men decides to taste your wares.’
He tossed the boot across the room, drowning out her gasp of outrage. She could feign shock all she wanted. Right now he just wanted sleep.
‘I do not have to stand here and listen to you.’ Isabella headed towards the door.
Richard reached it first and hauled her over his shoulder. ‘You are partially correct. You don’t have to stand here.’ He crossed the room in three strides and dropped her on to the bed. ‘However, you will remain in this room, in this bed and listen to whatever I have to say.’
When she tried to get off the bed, he pushed her back on to the mattress. Holding her shoulders to the bed, he leaned closer. ‘If you get up from here again, I will tie you to the bed.’ Richard waited for her wide-eyed glare to ease into a frowning scowl to ask, ‘Do you understand me?’
Oddly, instead of fighting him, arguing or making demands, she nodded. Her easy acquiescence now, along with her silence when he’d first pushed her into this chamber, made him wary. His concern that she might stab him in his sleep grew stronger.
Richard released her and backed off slowly, not certain she’d actually stay put. With one eye on her, he once again sat on the edge of the bed to remove his other boot and stockings, then turned to slide Isabella’s shoes off.
‘Don’t.’
The tremor in her whispered command caught him unaware. Was she frightened, angry or tired like him? ‘I was simply going to—’
‘I know what you were going to do.’ She drew her legs away. ‘I can do it myself.’
‘Then do so.’
Once she dropped her shoes and stockings to the floor alongside the bed, Richard stood and stared down at her. The look she returned was...timid...no, not quite timid, he doubted if there was a timid bone in her entire body—perhaps more worried or concerned than frightened. Her arrow-straight body, tense, poised for escape most likely, spoke louder than any words she might have said.
He jerked the covers and sheet from beneath her and drew them over her body. Her gaze followed him, he felt it burning a hole into his back, as he walked around the bed to the other side.
Sliding beneath the top cover, leaving the thinner blanket and sheet beneath him, he settled his head on to the pillow, unable to hold back a sigh.
The leather braces supporting the mattress creaked as she sat up. He opened one eye. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I can’t sleep here.’
‘You might want to give it a try before crying defeat.’ He reached up, seeking to draw her back down. ‘
Close your eyes.’
She pushed his hold away. ‘I can’t sleep in this bed with you.’
He didn’t need the candlelight to see the tenseness of her body—not when the tightness of her voice gave evidence to the anger roiling just beneath the surface.
‘There is no reason we cannot share this bed.’ Richard debated for a heartbeat, before reminding her, ‘We are married.’
In a flurry of limbs and covers, she was up and out of the bed before he could stop her. From the other side of the chamber, she said, ‘In name only and I’d prefer to keep it that way.’
‘If you remember correctly, Conal left the chamber with proof that states this marriage is far more than name only.’
‘That proof is nothing but a ruse.’
‘Agreed. But who will attest to that in your defence?’
‘I know the truth and that is enough.’
Richard knew any battle waged with words was lost, she would argue until the sun rose and beyond. ‘This has become tiresome.’ He sat up and dragged her side of the covers back, then patted the mattress. ‘Get back in the bed and go to sleep. You will awaken in the morning as much a virgin as you are now.’
‘What does that mean?’
He sighed. Apparently she was in the mood to argue every little thing he said. ‘It means that if you do as I suggest, I will not touch a hair on your head...tonight.’
‘And if I don’t?’
Was she begging him for an all-out battle? He stared at her. ‘What are you seeking to do, Isabella? Do you want me to force you?’
Ah, and once again her ready-for-battle pose—she stiffened her spine and crossed her arms in front of her against her chest. Why would this woman want to enrage him?
‘You couldn’t force me.’
‘Haven’t we already established the fact that I can? And I will?’
‘You didn’t force me to wed you. You simply forged my name on a document. I meant I would rather die than have you force yourself upon me.’
Force himself upon her? What the hell was she...? He frowned as her meaning dawned on him. They were talking about two different things. He’d only meant that he’d force her to sleep in the bed, nothing else. Yet she obviously thought he was talking about rape.
