by Denise Lynn
From the dagger in this man’s possession, at least one guard had lacked thoroughness with his given task. A serious lapse in duty of which her father should be made aware.
The man holding her tightened his grasp as they neared the gate. She understood the silent warning and hoped they wouldn’t be stopped. Not for a single heartbeat did she think the man wouldn’t carry through with his threat to kill her.
Isabella took a deep breath to keep her fear at bay. She knew this warrior—this knave—would interpret any tremors on her part as a weakness he could use to his advantage. She could only pray that he released her before she could no longer suppress the need to quake with dread.
To her relief no one paid them the least bit of attention. Yet, as they passed beyond the gates and towards the open field now littered with tents and larger pavilions, the man didn’t release his hold.
She thought he would hold her captive in one of those tents until Glenforde, or her father, came to claim her. But he kept walking and seemed to gather her even closer—impossibly close. His heart beat strong beneath her cheek. She felt the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath he took.
His fingers pressing into the side of her breast drew an unrestrained gasp from her lips. Even through the layers of her clothing and the cloak, the heat of his touch seemed to scorch her skin before it skittered along her nerves, escalating her need to escape.
She twisted away and shoved at his shoulder, trying to lunge from his hold. ‘Where are you taking me? Put me down.’
Richard stopped at the head of the trail leading down to the beach. If she screamed now, they would be close enough to board his ship before anyone from the keep could come to her rescue.
And that was the whole point of this unorthodox kidnapping—he wanted Warehaven to know who had taken his daughter, but he did not want to get caught. More importantly, he needed Glenforde to know who had possession of his betrothed. Otherwise, if they didn’t know where to find the lady, this entire task could prove a waste in more ways than one.
He relaxed his hold on her legs and let her slide down the length of his body until she stood on her feet. But he had no intention of releasing her. ‘Where am I taking you? You are going to be my guest for a time.’
She frowned, rightfully confused by his statement. ‘Your guest?’
Anxious to be away, he ignored her to motion Matthew ahead with the torch. Then Richard turned the woman around so her back was against his chest and, with his arms wrapped about her waist, bodily forced her down the path.
Only then did he answer, ‘Yes. You are going to Dunstan.’
He wasn’t surprised at her cry of dismay or at the way she dug her heels into the ground in a feeble attempt to halt their progress. He’d expected some type of struggle from her, especially after he’d divulged the first part of his intentions.
‘Dunstan is no friend of Warehaven.’ She explained what he already knew. ‘Why would you deliver me to him?’ Her tone rose with each word. He heard her inhale sharply before asking, ‘Who are you?’
He tightened his hold round her, lifted her feet from the ground and resumed their trek towards the beach. He was certain from the tightness of her voice that she’d already guessed the answer. Dipping his head, so he could whisper into her ear, he responded, ‘Who am I?’ He brushed his lips along the delicate curve of her ear. ‘Why, fair maiden of Warehaven, I am Richard of Dunstan.’
She trembled against him. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Glenforde must pay for his crimes.’ Richard hardened his voice. ‘And you, as his intended bride, will ensure he does.’
She jerked her head back, most likely to slam it against his nose. He was quicker and easily dodged her attempt to injure him. ‘Come now, you can do better than that.’
However, her heels drumming sharply into his shins and kneecaps was a distraction he feared would send them both crashing to the ground. Unwilling to take a chance of either of them being injured, he lowered her to the path, with the intention of taking her hand to lead her to the beach.
Her scream, loud and piercing, changed his mind. By her glare of mutinous rage and fear, he quickly realised there would be no leading her anywhere. Instead, Richard hauled her over his shoulder and ran down the narrow path. He shouted at Matthew just ahead, ‘Move faster, before Warehaven’s men catch up to us.’
He was fairly certain they were far enough away from the keep that while her screams would be heard, just as he had planned, her plea for rescue would go unanswered long enough for him to reach his ship. But it was a risk he didn’t want to take.
‘Lord Richard, here. This way.’ Bruce’s voice tore through the darkness ahead. A younger man from Dunstan stepped out from the cover of the overgrown vegetation. After lighting his torch from Matthew’s, he held it aloft, illuminating a winding, narrow path down the face of the jagged cliffs.
‘It’s steeper than the path we climbed up.’ He glanced at the burden slung over Richard’s shoulder, adding, ‘But quicker, if—’
Richard waved off his man’s unspoken concern of him falling with his wildly fighting bundle and ordered, ‘Go.’
Just before they reached the beach, Richard paused at a sound behind them. Apparently the woman’s desperate screams had been heard. However, Warehaven’s men were closer than he’d expected.
He swallowed a curse, then barked an order at the men in front of him. ‘Move. Faster.’
‘There they are!’
At the shout from Warehaven’s guards, Matthew and Bruce dropped their torches and scrambled over the final sets of boulders. Richard none too gently lowered the still struggling woman over the last boulder.
Just as her bottom hit the wet sand, he flung himself over the rock to land beside her.
But when he reached down to haul her back over his shoulder she quickly rolled away, shouting, ‘No! Help!’
Determined to get away safely, without losing his captive, he tried to grab her again.
Slapping at his reaching arms, she shrieked, ‘Warehaven, to me!’
Richard could now hear the jangle of mail and weapons from the men racing to their lady’s aid.
Out of time and out of patience, he stomped on the length of cloak he’d wrapped around her, effectively holding her still long enough for him to reach down to grab her.
Still screaming, the lady had enough sense to curl her fingers tightly and ram her fist upward towards his nose. Richard turned his head to avoid the contact and the force of her punch caught him in the eye.
He cursed, chagrined that he’d let this slip of a woman plant him such a stinging blow. Without pausing to wipe the watery blur from his sight, he pulled her up and once again slung her across his shoulder.
His captive somewhat secured, Richard shouted to his men in the small rowing boat that would take them out to his ship anchored further offshore, ‘Shove off!’
Bruce and Matthew nearly dived into the boat as it bobbed in the water. Bruce manned an oar, while Matthew notched an arrow in his bow and let it sail.
Richard splashed through the knee-deep water, dodged the sweeping oars and unceremoniously flung the woman into the boat before scrambling in behind her, ordering, ‘Put some muscle in it, men.’
When she tried to sit up, he pushed her back down. ‘Stay put, lest you want one of Warehaven’s arrows to accidently end your life.’
He grabbed his own waiting bow, then turned towards the beach. Another curse escaped him at the sight of her father amongst the men shooting at them. Warehaven’s death might delay—or prevent—Glenforde from coming to Dunstan.
An arrow whooshed past his ear. Richard ducked. His own life and the lives of his men were at stake, he would do what had to be done. He notched an arrow and let it sail towards the beach along with another volley of arrows from his men.
‘No! Oh, dear Lord, no!’ the lady cried from where she knelt on the bottom of the tiny boat as one of the arrows found its way to her sire’s chest, dropping the man on to the wet sand.
She screamed again and wrapped a hand around Richard’s leg. Before he could free himself, an arrow from one of Warehaven’s archers pierced his shoulder. Richard jerked back in pain, only to trip over the woman still clinging to his leg.
Chapter Two
‘Hold him down!’
Isabella stared at Dunstan’s rough-looking soldier as if through a heavy, thick fog. They had killed her father. The tightness building in her throat and stomach intensified. She could barely imagine the pain and agony her mother must now be suffering. What would she do?
‘Help me!’
Help him?
He wanted her help with his commander? Isabella shook her head, brokenly whispering, ‘No.’
She couldn’t—she wouldn’t help any of them. They’d stolen her from Warehaven, killed her father before her eyes and had forcibly dragged her from the rowing boat into this ship as if she’d been nothing more than a sack of grain.
And then, when she’d tried to climb back over the high side of the vessel, intent on reaching the beach to help her father, this man—this filthy, ragged-haired, scar-faced knave—had bodily carried her into Dunstan’s small cabin beneath the aft castle.
‘Damn you, woman, help me.’
‘No. Get one of your men to help.’ Dunstan’s well-being would be better trusted to one of his own men than to her.
‘They are all needed on deck.’
She knew that. Of course the men were all needed on deck—to man the oars in the hopes that rowing would lend the ship enough speed to get away before her father’s men unleashed flaming arrows.
Isabella hoped a few of those arrows found their mark and set this flat-bottomed oak ship blazing. The single square-rigged sail alone wouldn’t be enough power to get this cog away fast enough.
Maybe, if she were lucky and God saw fit, she along with these men would find themselves back on Warehaven’s beach in a very short time.
‘Get over here and help me or I will send you to your maker.’
‘Then do it and be done with me!’ She would rather die than make landfall at Dunstan.
The dagger in his hand wavered briefly before he tightened his grip on the weapon. As quick as a darting snake, he reached out with his free hand and grabbed her arm. ‘You are far too eager. I’ll not grant you such an escape from what Lord Dunstan has planned.’
‘He murdered my father!’ She tore her arm free. ‘Do what you will.’
‘Murdered? We were defending ourselves. Besides, you don’t know if your sire is dead or not. He could simply be injured the same as Lord Dunstan.’ He tipped his blade towards the man on the pallet. ‘However, if his lordship dies you will belong to me instead.’ He narrowed his eyes to mere slits. ‘And rest assured, I will make every remaining moment of your life a living hell.’
Could her father still be alive? A tiny flicker of hope sprang to life. A flicker she quickly doused in fear that her relief would be short-lived. No. She’d seen the arrow pierce his chest. Had seen him sink lifeless on to the beach. Since he’d not been protected by chain mail—he’d been dressed for a celebration, not battle—he couldn’t have survived. Isabella choked on a sob.
‘Is that what you want?’ The man leaned closer to her, crowding her in the already small confines of this cabin. ‘Do you value your life so little?’
When she didn’t answer, he warned, ‘If the thought of becoming mine doesn’t frighten you as it should, don’t forget that there are over a dozen more men on this ship who would gladly make you suffer unimaginable horrors should Lord Dunstan die.’
The deadly earnest tone of his voice made her realise that his threat was not an idle warning. But it was the cheers from the men on the deck and the sound of oars scraping across wood as they were pulled into the ship that dashed her hopes of freedom. The sounds of a sail being hoisted and unfurled as it caught the wind to take her far from her home made his threat even more deadly.
Self-preservation overrode her desire to give in to uncontrollable tears and wailing, prompting her to join him near the bed built into the side of the ship.
Dunstan’s man had used the dagger to remove his commander’s clothing. She stared at the blood covering Dunstan’s chest and bedclothes. Like her father, Dunstan hadn’t worn armour either, making his body an easy target for the arrow to pierce. If they did nothing, the man would likely die from loss of blood.
The thought of his death did not bother her overmuch, since he deserved nothing less, but if he died while aboard this ship...what would happen to her?
No. She would not worry about that. Instead, she would assist Dunstan’s man in caring for his overlord. The knave would heal. She would ensure that he’d soon be hale and hearty. Otherwise, how would she gain her own measure of revenge?
Swallowing the grief threatening to choke her, and willing her resolve to stand firm, she asked, ‘What do you wish me to do?’
‘I have already given him a sleeping potion.’ The man wrapped his hand around the shaft of the arrow still lodged below Dunstan’s shoulder. ‘Now, I need you to hold him up.’
Isabella shivered. No matter how many times she’d watched her mother employ an arrow spoon to remove the tip, shove the arrow the rest of the way through one of Warehaven’s men, or break the shaft leaving the arrow tip in place, the operation had never failed to make her ill.
Even though she knew the answer, Isabella asked, ‘Can you not simply pull it free?’
The brief grunted response required no explanation. The arrow was nearly all the way through Dunstan’s body. Without an implement to dig the tip out, they could try working the shaft free of the tip and leave the tip inside for now. The other option was to shove the arrow the rest of the way through his body, while hoping everything stayed intact, then either snap off the shaft or the tip at the tang and remove the weapon.
Either option meant someone was going to have to hold him up and try to keep him from thrashing about if the pain seeped through the fog of his drugged sleep, while someone else worked the arrow free.
She doubted if she was strong enough to hold him, but she preferred that task over the other more gruesome one. Besides, there was no one to protect her and God only knew what the crew would do to her if she bungled the procedure enough that Dunstan died.
Isabella shivered and set aside the dark images forming in her mind. She took a deep breath and then knelt on the bed to support Dunstan’s body. Between the two of them, they rolled Dunstan on to his side, his stomach and lower chest propped against her bent legs.
The man poured more liquid from a small bottle into Dunstan’s mouth. If he was using the juice of poppies, he could very well send his master into a deep, permanent sleep. And the blame for his death would be placed on her.
‘Are you ready?’
She nodded, then leaned over Dunstan’s body to hold him in place and answered, ‘Be quick about it.’
To her relief Dunstan jerked only once when his man took a firmer hold on the arrow’s shaft. He immediately relaxed, as if he knew it would help make his man’s task easier.
Isabella, however, couldn’t relax. She tensed, fully expecting Dunstan to thrash about at any moment, fighting the pain he surely must suffer.
She hoped the pain was unbearable—hoped he suffered as much agony as she did. It would be so much less than what he deserved. After killing her father, nothing short of Dunstan’s death would even the score.
But somehow, he managed to withstand the pain as his man shoved the arrow tip through, broke the shaft and pulled both parts of the weapon from his body. While she could feel his muscles tense and go lax beneath her, and could hear his ragg
ed, uneven breaths, he offered no resistance. She was unable to determine if he slept, if the medicine was working this fast or if his self-control was stronger than most.
The procedure was over quickly, but as Isabella shifted to get off the bed, Dunstan’s man stopped her. ‘Stay there. I still have to sew the wound.’
She snatched the needle from his hand. ‘Are you seeking to kill him?’
‘He will bleed to death.’
Isabella studied Dunstan. She had originally thought the same thing, but the arrow had hit him high—just beneath his shoulder, closer to his arm than his chest or neck. Using the skirt of her undergown, she wiped at the blood covering him and then shook her head. ‘The bleeding has slowed, so I doubt he will perish from loss of blood.’ Pinning his man with a stare, she added, ‘But if you close the wound now, it could fester and that very likely will bring about his death.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
She had a few suggestions—all of them uncharitable, so she kept those to herself. ‘Do you have any wax?’
At the shake of his head, she stated, ‘Surely you have some wine and yarrow or woundwort available. Some cloth would help, too.’
These were fighting men. Hopefully, more than one of them would carry yarrow or the wort in their pouch. Both were common ways to staunch the flow of blood from a wound and promote healing.
He left her side to rummage through a satchel in the corner of the cabin and returned with a skin of wine and a clean shirt.
Isabella hesitated. ‘No herbs?’
He shrugged.
‘You could go ask the others.’
Her comment provoked only a raised eyebrow from him. Isabella frowned a moment before the reason for his hesitation dawned on her.
‘As much as I’d like to...’ she nodded towards Dunstan ‘...I am not going to harm him.’