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‘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.
Chapter Five (#ulink_96c5c739-63ad-5dc9-9f2c-40181f90687f)
Richard leaned against a timber beam long enough to catch his breath before climbing the ladder to the open aft deck above. The hardest part of this venture was to have been the actual kidnapping and making a hasty retreat towards Dunstan unscathed.
His throbbing shoulder reminded him that he hadn’t escaped unscathed. But at this moment, his injury was the least of his concerns. What bothered him was the uneasy feeling that there was more to his fragmented dreams than he could fathom.
He knew from the unquenchable dryness of his mouth that Matthew had drugged him. The lingering bitter taste meant the man had probably broken into their limited stores of opium. While the concoction was a pain reliever of miraculous proportion, it left the patient’s mind foggy for days afterwards.
Still, the memory of a soft, warm body next to him on the pallet was too vivid to have been only a dream. Why would his mind have conjured gentle hands and a hushed soothing whisper to ease him when the pain grew close to unbearable?
His past experience with women hadn’t led him to believe they were gentle or soothing with any except their offspring. Not for one heartbeat could he imagine Agnes easing anyone’s pain but her own.
Yet in his dreams it had been a woman. There was only one woman aboard this ship—Isabella of Warehaven. Had she soothed him, gentled his need to rage against the agony chasing him?
Impossible.
None of it made any sense. And it was that unexplained senselessness that had him worried that marrying this woman would prove more difficult than the act of capturing her.
Why couldn’t she be a few years younger or a great many years older? Either one would have made her less attractive in his mind, drugged or not.
Unfortunately, she was a woman full grown and too obviously aware of the untried desires teasing her body. Going into a battle without armour and weapons would be less dangerous than being in her company overlong.
When he’d loomed over her, threatening her, he’d hoped to see a glimmer of fear. Even though that had been his intent, it wasn’t fear shimmering in her wary gaze—it had been an awareness of him, followed by curiosity and then confusion about what she felt.
Once he’d recognised her emotions, his body had threatened to betray him. The vision of their naked limbs entwined as he brought her across the threshold into womanhood had nearly been his undoing.
Nobody would have stopped him. They were soon to be wed. Had he been physically able, he could easily have taken her, shown her the pleasures of the flesh and then called it revenge for what her betrothed had done to his family. And no one would have faulted him.
But Isabella of Warehaven was not the object of his revenge. She was only the means to an end. He needed to remember that.
This desire, this unbidden lust for her was nothing more than a drug-induced torment that could and would fade with time. He would simply need to keep a tight rein on his desires until that time came.
Richard sighed and leaned on the rail for support. If he was this breathless and shaken from what little physical exertion he’d performed since rising from his bed, reining in his desires should prove an easy task.
Boisterous laughter from the men on the deck drew his attention. By the nods in his direction it was apparent that he was the focus of their conversation.
Richard straightened, squared his shoulders and then stepped away from the railing. Regardless of his injury he was not about to appear weak, or incapable of command, in front of his men.
He pinned a hard stare on Theodore, the largest in the group. When the guffaws ceased abruptly, he asked, ‘What amuses you?’
Theodore shuffled his feet, batted at one of the other men, then answered, ‘Nothing, my lord.’
At Richard’s raised eyebrow, he added, ‘We are simply glad to see you up and about.’
While they might be relieved to see him up, he resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the obvious attempt to garner his good graces. Richard doubted if his health had been the sole topic of their amusement.
If he knew anything about his men, it was that they enjoyed a good gossip almost as much as they enjoyed fighting. At times they were as bad—if not worse—than the women of Dunstan’s village. There was little doubt in his mind they’d been making assumptions about him and Isabella.
Assumptions that might have been on target had he not been unconscious.
He bore her no ill will, but neither did he care overmuch about her feelings. For the most part she was unknown to him, he knew very little about her, something he needed to resolve since she would become his wife in a matter of days.
Richard frowned and gingerly moved his shoulder about. The men aboard this ship knew little about mixing potions or salves, meaning the woman had probably saved his life. Regardless of his hatred for her betrothed, he did owe her something.
His gaze settled south, towards the Continent for a moment, and then with a heavy sigh he climbed down the ladder to speak to his men before heading back into his cabin.
* * *
Isabella flicked her thumbnail at the dried mud on her slippers. They were ruined beyond repair, but she hoped the pearls could be salvaged.
Her father had given her and her sister a bag to share. Every night for a week she and Beatrice had painstakingly attached the small pearls to their slippers. She’d formed hers into the shape of a flower, while her sister had spiralled hers around the edges.
The stool beneath her shifted slightly, just enough to make her reach out to keep from falling on to the floor. The thin slivers of light came into the cabin from the port side of the ship. The sun had been behind them, meaning the ship had changed direction. A glimmer of hope sprang to her heart.
The cabin door banged against the wall, making her jump as Dunstan pushed through. He spared her a brief glance before dropping on to his bed to stare at the ceiling.
Eager to know if perhaps he’d changed his mind, she asked, ‘Are we turning about?’
‘No.’
Her newly borne spark of hope flickered out as quickly as it had formed. ‘But the ship has changed direction.’ She paused to get her bearings straight in her mind. Warehaven was off the south-east coast of England. Her little knowledge of Dunstan Isle was that it lay north-east towards Denmark. ‘We are now headed south instead of further east.’
His soft chuckle grated on her patience. ‘Don’t think for a moment you are going anywhere but to Dunstan. I simply had the men adjust the course for home.’
She’d been aboard her father’s and brother’s ships enough to know how often the currents and the winds set them off course. ‘Oh.’
‘Tell me about yourself.’
Isabella blinked at the sudden request. ‘What?’
Still staring at the ceiling, Dunstan repeated. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘Why?’
He turned his head and gave her a pleading look. ‘Because I am injured, I don’t feel well, I want a distraction.’
Dear heavens above, he was using the same tactic her father and brother had when they were unwell. That sad two-year-old’s feel sorry for me gaze that always had her mother giving in to their whining with no more than a sigh. Well, she wasn’t about to feel for sorry for him, not when he’d brought all of his misery on himself.
‘Please.’
She crumpled the slipper in her hand and sighed. ‘What do you wish to know?’
He stared back up at the ceiling. ‘I should know something about you since you will soon be my wife.’
If he did anything that foolish, he would soon learn to rue the day he forced her into a marriage. However, between the lingering effect of the opium and the paleness of his face, arguing with him now would be pointless. If she read his features correctly, the drooping eyelids and downturned mouth signalled he would soon fall back to sleep.
To humour him in the meantime, she said, ‘I have an older brother, a younger sister, a mother and no father.’
‘And again you assume he is dead. Do you dislike your father so much that you secretly hope the worst?’
Isabella gasped at his insinuation that she would wish such foulness for her father. ‘I love my parents dearly.’
‘Love?’ He shook his head. ‘Of what use is love? I would think they’d rather have your respect and obedience.’
At this moment, he was most likely correct. Had she paid heed to her parents’ warnings, she wouldn’t be on this ship heading to Dunstan.
Although she found it interesting that he had such a lowly opinion of love. ‘Did you not care for your parents?’
‘I did not know my mother, she died when I was a babe. And my father did his duty by me.’
‘Did his duty?’
‘A roof over my head. Food in my belly and a suitable place to foster once I was old enough to hold a weapon.’
‘Oh.’ She felt no pity for the man, but found herself aching for the small boy. Had he had no one to offer him any gentleness? No welcoming arms to chase away the childish nightmares and hurts? She could not fathom such a life. She’d had both a mother and father who’d cared for their children dearly.
‘You sound surprised. Did your brother not foster elsewhere?’
‘Of course he did.’ But he’d done so with their mother’s family until he gained squire status and then he’d joined Matilda’s court.
‘What about you and your sister?’
‘No.’ Isabella wrinkled her nose, waiting for what would be disbelief on his part.
‘No?’ Dunstan turned his head to look at her. ‘Surely you spent time at Glenforde’s keep?’
She smoothed out her crushed slipper, brushing the caked mud on to the floor—busy work to keep from returning his gaze. ‘No.’
‘You expect me to believe that King Henry’s granddaughter, Empress Matilda’s niece, did not learn how to be a lady at the knee of her future mother-by-marriage?’
‘My mother taught me how to be a lady. Regardless of acceptable convention, she would not surrender such a task to a stranger. Besides, I was betrothed to no one, so there was no future mother-by-marriage.’
He sat up on the bed and swung his legs over the side. ‘Is there something wrong with you?’
Isabella paused. Since it would be normal for her and Beatrice to have been betrothed at a very young age, of course he would wonder at the reason for such a lack. She should lie and tell him that there was something drastically wrong with her.
It had to be something that would make him think twice about forcing a marriage between them. Something—gruesome. Some terrible thing that would make him shiver with dread. Perhaps something that would convince him to turn the ship about and return her to her family.
But what?
‘Too late.’ Dunstan leaned forward. ‘It has taken far too long for you to answer.’
She narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin a notch. ‘Perhaps my...condition is so severe I’ve no desire to sicken you with the details.’
‘Other than a smart tongue and lack of common sense, there is nothing wrong with you.’
His smug certainty nipped at her temper. ‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘Actually—’ he rose from the bed and stepped towards her ‘—I can.’
She held her slipper out like a shield, as if the scrap of fabric and pearls would protect her from his advance. ‘What are you going to do?’
Dunstan snatched the slipper from her hands, tossed it across the cabin, then slowly circled her. He passed by her side, touching her ear as he kept walking. ‘I know your ears are fine.’
He brushed a fingertip across her lips as he crossed before her, making her lips tingle. ‘It is obvious you are capable of speech. And I know you can see, so nothing is wrong with your eyes.’
Isabella silently cursed her own stupidity. He’d accepted her statement as a dare—as a way to intentionally trap her in her own lie.
He stopped behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Isabella fought the urge to shiver beneath his touch.
Patting her shoulders, he lowered his hands, running them down to her wrists. Leaning over her, he commented softly, ‘And if I am not mistaken, these two arms seem to be normal.’
He trailed his hands up to caress the back of her neck, asking, ‘I wonder what else needs to be investigated?’
She tried unsuccessfully to pull away from him. ‘Nothing.’
‘No? Then how can I be certain you are whole?’
Isabella ground her teeth before answering, ‘I am fine. There is nothing wrong with me.’
‘Ah.’ With his thumbs still on the back of her neck, he snaked his fingers to encircle her throat and with his fingertips beneath her chin tipped her head back, forcing her to look up at him.
While the placid expression on his face warned her of no ill-conceived plans to choke the life from her, the gentle, deadly warmth of his hold silently threatened her in a way no brandished sword ever could.
This hold was more personal than the tip of cold metal against flesh. The heat of his fingers belied the damage he could cause.
