by Denise Lynn
‘Be still.’ His voice was gruff and he headed towards the side gate, shouting orders over his shoulder, ‘Conal, bring Marguerite. Someone find Mistress Hattie. Now.’
Once inside, he took the stairs to her chamber two at a time as if he held nothing heavier than a tankard of ale. The only sign that he’d exerted himself at all was a slightly faster beating of his heart.
Isabella held back a smile when this time he deposited her on the bed gently instead of dropping her on to the mattress as he had in the past.
He sat next to her and unpinned the brooch holding the front of her cloak together. It fell from her shoulders and he pulled it from beneath her.
To her amazement, instead of tossing it on the floor, he went and hung it on a peg. His own followed before he came back to the bed to push the skirts of her gown and chemise up to her knees.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to decide how to get your boots off.’
She sat up. ‘I can do that.’
He batted her hands away. ‘Just lie back.’
Isabella frowned—why in the name of heaven did his voice shake? And why was he acting like a mother hen when she’d expected him to be angry?
Before she could question him, he returned to sit next to her, the boots forgotten, and pulled her tight against his chest. ‘When you first fell, I thought someone had killed you.’
Why would he think such a horrible...? Oh, Lord, was that the threat he’d talked to Conal about? Someone had threatened to kill her? And she was out in the open, an easy target, without any hint, or warning, of danger?
She shoved hard against his shoulders, pushing him away. ‘That was the threat? Someone plots to kill me?’
At least he had the decency to look sheepish when he nodded and answered, ‘Yes.’
‘And instead of simply telling me, you thought somehow I’d be able to guess what was going on just because you held a conversation with Conal outside this chamber door where you knew I’d hear?’
‘You were smart enough to deduce why the conversation was held within your earshot. I thought—’
‘For the love of God, Richard, the only thing you said was that Lady Dunstan was in danger. How was I to make sense of that? I may be able to guess at a few of your moods, but I cannot read your mind.’
His sheepish look vanished. He narrowed his eyes to glare at her. ‘Had you done as I ordered, there would never have been any danger.’
‘I may concede that point, but still, a better warning was warranted.’
‘At least now you understand why you need to stay within the keep.’
‘No. I don’t understand. Nobody harmed me. I was distracted and fell on some ice. I will not become a prisoner in what should be my own home because of some vague threat. No.’ Isabella gaped at him. He couldn’t be serious. She shook her head. ‘No. What I understand is that you need to find the miscreant and take care of this. You are the lord here. And while I may have been brought to Dunstan as bait, I am now your wife. Your wife, Richard, not some unnamed captive. I am not about to suffer further for another person’s actions.’
‘Oh, so once again you are suffering?’
‘And don’t you start with that again.’ When his lips thinned to a hard line and his eyes seemed to blaze, she shook a finger at him. ‘Don’t you dare try to avoid this issue by feigning outrage. You know exactly what I meant. Without question, you are responsible for me being here. So, you are now responsible for me being in danger.’ She lowered her arm. ‘You need to see to this, Richard. Immediately.’
He leaned away to stare at her. ‘Apparently, fear for your life steals your common sense.’
‘And you think that is why? Because I dare take you to task? Did you think I was going to cower and cry? Or that I would hide in a dark corner wringing my hands?’
‘I think that because you sound like a shrew.’
‘A shrew?’ She grasped the front of his tunic in both hands. ‘I do not know whether I fear for my life or not. But I do know that I am in pain. And I am so angry with you right now that I could spit.’
He lifted one eyebrow, then shoved her arms away, pushed her down on to the bed and came over her to whisper a warning against her lips. ‘Stop talking before you say something you regret.’
She knew exactly what he was going to do. Against all common reason, she urged him on by parting her lips as if to speak. His mouth covered hers and he gathered her into an embrace that he most likely thought harsh. But she found it warm and comforting enough to want to sigh with relief.
His kiss was near ruthless and she welcomed it gladly. He plundered and took, leaving her to do little else than slide her hand up to caress the back of his head, holding him close as he swept her away.
‘My lord?’
Richard broke their kiss on a groan and sat up at Hattie’s entrance into the chamber, her arms laden with enough supplies to heal an army.
Isabella sighed with regret at the loss of his warmth and touch. She looked at the older woman’s array of items and laughed. ‘Hattie, I may have twisted my ankle and bruised an elbow, but I assure you that I am not at death’s door.’
Hattie sat her goods on the floor near the bed and shrugged. ‘Nobody knew what was wrong, they said you were hurt and that I needed to get up here.’ She looked at Richard, adding, ‘Now.’
At that moment another breathless woman loaded down with more supplies rushed into the chamber. ‘Hattie, what happened?’
Isabella rolled her eyes. She pointed at her left foot. ‘Twisted ankle.’ And then to her right elbow. ‘Bruised elbow.’
The new woman joined Hattie in glaring at Richard. ‘And this is the life-or-death situation I need to attend?’
Richard stood and backed towards the door, holding his hands up before him as if to ward off an attack. ‘I know when to retreat. And since I am outnumbered, this seems a good time.’
He lowered his arms and in three long strides returned quickly to the bed, to cup the back of Isabella’s head, lean down for a quick, mind-robbing kiss and then whisper, ‘I will return, later, after your troops have thinned out.’
Before her lips could cease tingling, he was gone from the room. She blinked twice, then turned her fuzzy attention to the other women. They, of course, had their heads together, twittering behind their hands.
Isabella swallowed hard to banish the heat of embarrassment flooding her cheeks, before addressing the woman she didn’t know. ‘Obviously I’m Richard’s wife, Isabella. And you are?’
‘Marguerite, my lady. Dunstan’s midwife.’
Sitting up straighter on the bed, Isabella smiled at her sudden stroke of good fortune. ‘Oh, it is so nice to meet you, Mistress Marguerite.’
The woman flipped her auburn braids over her shoulders while coming closer to the bed. ‘I recognise that tone. What are you looking to discover, Lady Dunstan?’
‘Isabella, please. Whatever I can about my husband.’
Marguerite glanced at Hattie, who had started mixing a poultice together on the table near the window. ‘You were right, subterfuge is not one of her strengths.’
‘If you prefer, I could chatter merrily on about the beauty of the snow and then complain about Richard’s lack of manners.’
Marguerite grasped her boot. ‘Go on, tell me all about the snow.’
Isabella frowned. ‘Is there a reason for distracting me?’
The woman easily stripped the boot and stocking off her right foot, then began tugging on the left boot.
Isabella winced. Naturally her ankle had already begun to swell, making the distraction welcome. ‘Yes, well, the snow is white. And cold. Very cold.’ She curled her fingers into the covers beneath her as a decidedly painful jolt shot up her leg at Marguerite’s not-so-gentle tugging. ‘Yes, very cold. And I do
n’t think it’ll ever end.’
She paused to take a deep breath. ‘And I’m fairly certain—’ When Marguerite gave one final jerk, pulling off the boot and stocking at once, Isabella jumped, gasping out, ‘Damn, that hurts.’
Marguerite swung the boot on the tip of one finger before tossing it and the stocking next to their mates on the floor. ‘Didn’t seem fair to prolong the inevitable.’
Isabella glared at her. ‘I wager you’re a joy during childbirth.’
‘And I wager you’ll sound like a guttersnipe during the birth of your own child.’
‘Yes, well, that’s something we have no need to worry about.’
Marguerite’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Really now?’
‘How odd.’ Hattie joined them to hand Marguerite the poultice she’d made. ‘Everyone in the keep is already placing wagers on the date of your first child’s arrival.’
‘When it doesn’t happen within the next nine months, do I get the money?’ Isabella slapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from saying anything further on the subject. What was she thinking to be sharing this type of information with these women?
‘Blunt and entertaining.’ Marguerite spread the poultice over her ankle. ‘We’ll become fast friends.’
Isabella offered no comment since that remained to be seen. She did ask, ‘Comfrey root?’
‘Of course. I’ll wrap the ankle and, as long as you stay off of it for a day or two, it should be good as new.’
Hattie handed Isabella a goblet of odd-smelling wine. ‘I don’t think that will be an issue tonight.’
Isabella wrinkled her nose at the warmed, overly sweet-smelling wine. ‘What is in this?’
‘Never you mind.’ Hattie pushed the vessel to Isabella’s lips. ‘Just drink it.’
Marguerite stayed Hattie’s hand with a shake of her head. ‘A little lavender, lemon balm and lovage, with just a touch of rosemary for the swelling and honey to make it palatable.’
Sceptical and more than a little leery, Isabella asked, ‘Nothing to dull the pain?’
‘Pain?’ Marguerite made a show of studying Isabella’s foot as she wrapped the ankle. ‘Did you cut off your foot, or just twist your ankle?’ Without waiting for an answer to the obvious, she added, ‘I just want you to rest tonight, not addle your wits.’
The thought sounded good. However, she had responsibilities to attend to before the day was done. ‘But the evening meal should be just about ready. If someone would assist me down the stairs, I’ll be fine.’
Marguerite pulled the covers from beneath her, then drew them up and tucked the ends under Isabella. ‘I will stay to assist Hattie with the meal. After all, it will be nice to enjoy a meal I didn’t have to make and it will give me a chance to discover why Lord Richard has been so inattentive to his new bride.’
Isabella gasped, horrified at the idea of Marguerite questioning Richard on something so personal. She tugged at the covers encasing her like a cocoon so she could swing her legs off the bed, but the midwife stopped her with a laugh.
‘Good heavens, I was but teasing you. Never would I think to so boldly divulge something you said in private. Stay in bed, drink your wine. I’ll send your husband up with some food. You, Hattie and I can have a fine chat tomorrow.’
Chapter Fourteen
Richard felt the tick in his cheek twitch faster the third time the midwife asked, ‘Yes or no? Are you going to take this food up, or should I find someone else?’
Seated between him and Conal, Mistress Marguerite surveyed those gathered in the Great Hall for the evening meal, settling her gaze on one of the finer-looking younger men at the far end. She nodded towards her selection. ‘Perhaps he would be inclined.’
Richard unclenched his jaw long enough to order, ‘Enough.’
The woman pointedly turned her attention to Conal. ‘Do you not agree that it would be best if Lady Dunstan was offered some food and drink?’
‘You need stay out of this, Marguerite.’ Conal leaned away from her, shaking his head. ‘He’s already had his fill of your harping.’
‘I am not harping in the least. I am only suggesting what might be best for his wife.’
‘Concern yourself with her ankle and leave the rest to me.’ When the good, albeit oddly intrusive, mistress made a noise that sounded suspiciously like disapproval, Richard tightened his grip on the knife in his hand. This is exactly what he had feared. Once the people of Dunstan started interacting with Isabella they would find themselves defending her at the most inopportune times.
How could they not? It wasn’t as if she was an evil or unlikeable person. She possessed a quick wit, cared for others, knew how to control the running of a keep without letting anyone realise she was in fact also controlling them.
He let his narrowed stare roam the Great Hall once again. How had she accomplished so much with no men to help?
Each evening for the last month, he’d return from the warehouse to find more progress completed on the reordering of his keep. And each night he tried to fathom how she’d accomplished such feats.
He could understand the scrubbing of the furniture, fire pit and such. But the tapestries hanging high on the walls had somehow been cleaned, along with the decorated shields belonging to his family that were perched above the tapestries. They had been removed, cleaned and returned to their rightful spots. And the fresh coat of paint on the walls didn’t miraculously apply itself.
Someone was helping her. The question was, who? He’d intentionally made certain that every man, excluding whichever three he had left behind to guard her, was put to work in the warehouses or on ship repairs. And the guards swore they’d not lifted a finger to help the women.
He couldn’t believe for one heartbeat that the women were doing this alone. The idea of Hattie, or any of the maids, scurrying up and down a ladder was absurd. He should have followed his gut instinct and not hesitated. Instead of waiting until the evening to return to the keep, he should have dragged himself back here some time during the day to catch the culprits acting behind his back.
The only thing that had kept him from doing so was simple, to him at least. He actually didn’t want to catch any of the men in the act of disobeying his orders. He didn’t want to have to discipline them for helping the lady of the keep. They wouldn’t understand his actions, which would only breed resentment. And in the end, he’d look like a fool for marrying a woman he appeared to despise and not trust.
He should never have married her. He should have taken her as a hostage and held her captive in a cell. It would have been much easier to do so. As long as he didn’t take his conscience into consideration.
At the time she’d done nothing to him. Nothing. He’d had no reason to harm her, or treat her poorly. She was never his target for revenge. So, he’d mistakenly believed that marrying her would not only save her reputation, but that it would make controlling her easier, and would also ensure her a measure of safety from the other men on Dunstan.
Granted, it had preserved her reputation. But what had possessed him to believe either of the other two was true?
He could no more control her than he could the falling snow. And there was a poorly written missive in his private chamber that threatened her life.
What bothered him right now more than anything else was the fact that when he’d seen her fall in the bailey and had thought someone had struck her dead, he’d felt as if not just his heart, but his entire world, had stopped.
He’d been angered when he’d found Agnes’s body. He hadn’t cared for the woman, but she hadn’t deserved to die in such a vile manner. And he’d been nearly torn asunder when he’d happened on Lisette’s small form. His chest had tightened—and hadn’t yet relaxed. He’d seen red—a blood-red rage that did nothing but grow stronger with each passing hour.
But today had been different. When Isabella had fallen to the ground, he wanted to die with her. His first response had not been anger, or even fear. It had not been a terrible thirst for revenge. Truth be told, he hadn’t even looked for the man who had let loose the arrow, or rock, that had taken her life. Instead, it had been all he could do not to throw himself from his horse, race to her side and plunge a knife into his own heart so he’d not be without her.
That dire vision of taking his own life had enraged him. It wasn’t as if she was his life, she wasn’t even his love. She was nothing more than a means to an end. That was all. His only hope had been that once Glenforde was dead, that he and Isabella could somehow find a way to be...friends. Companions who could work together for the good of Dunstan.
So why then the ungodly urge to take his own life? And why then did he sit here now, in the Great Hall, not touching his food and dreading his return to her chamber?
‘Richard.’ Conal grasped his wrist and slapped a tankard of ale into his hand. ‘Go talk to her. Tell her what is happening, so this doesn’t occur again.’
Richard shook the fog from his vision and turned to look at Conal. To his surprise, Mistress Marguerite was no longer sitting between them. He spied her helping Hattie and the other servants to clear the tables.
‘So what doesn’t occur again?’
Conal snorted. ‘You can lie to yourself. You can lie to her. You can even lie to God if you so desire. But you can’t lie to me. You care more for that sharp-tongued wife of yours than you’ll admit.’
If he couldn’t figure out what he felt about Isabella, or why, then how could Conal? ‘You are seeing things that aren’t there, my friend.’
‘Perhaps. But after the way you reacted in the bailey, I don’t think I’m wrong. Never have I witnessed such a look of horror on your face before.’
‘Why wouldn’t I react with horror? If anything happens to his spawn, Warehaven will descend on Dunstan, sparing nothing in his path.’
‘Again, that whole lying to everyone else is fine. But rest assured it is not going to work with me. If Warehaven descends with the intent of waging war, we fight with the advantage of defending our homes and loved ones. In the end, he will return to Warehaven a little worse for wear.’