The Warrior's Winter Bride

by Denise Lynn

  Richard shoved back from the table and rose. ‘Conal. Have I recently told you what an ass you can be at times? Like now?’

  ‘Probably, but I hear it so often that it no longer sinks in.’ He tapped the platter of food the women had prepared for Isabella. ‘In your haste to escape, don’t forget to take this to her.’

  Richard set down the ale, grabbed the plate and left.

  * * *

  Isabella picked at the edge of the top cover. Her head spun from the wine, steadily revolving faster with the passing of time.

  Apparently she’d been forgotten. That didn’t surprise her considering how little she mattered to anyone here at Dunstan.

  Her mother wouldn’t have forgotten her. Neither would her father or sister. Jared might have, but her brother usually had so many things on his mind that he always ended up forgetting some thing or another. But the others would have brought her food and drink. They’d have come into her chamber more often than she’d liked just to check on her, to see if she wanted or needed anything. They’d have come simply to keep her company.

  But she wasn’t home at Warehaven. She was here at Dunstan where nobody cared about her.

  She sighed, dropped the cover and crossed her arms over it against her chest. Thankfully she had earlier realised this melancholy settling over her was caused by the herb-laced wine, otherwise she knew she’d have dissolved into tears of self-pity and homesickness by now.

  The door to the chamber opened and she sat up, eager to see who had come and if they’d brought something to eat. Richard walked through the doorway, with a heavily loaded platter in his hand.

  She took one look at his face and leaned back against the pillows she’d piled up at the head of the bed. He didn’t look angry, but neither did he look pleased. Actually, if anything, his expression was bland, as if bored. She felt her eagerness fade, knowing he’d be less than cheerful company.

  He hooked a foot around the leg of a bench and dragged it over to the bed to use as a table. Setting the platter down, he said, ‘I know it’s a little much, but they thought you’d want a selection to pick and choose from.’

  Even his voice sounded bored.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She sniffed. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  He stared down at her. ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘No.’ Isabella swiped at her watering eyes and silently cursed.

  ‘Then what are you crying about?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Richard frowned, then looked around the chamber until he ended his search on the empty goblet tipped on to its side on the table next to the bed. ‘What was in that goblet?’

  ‘Wine.’

  ‘And what?’

  Unable to remember everything in it, she shrugged. ‘Some herbs and stuff.’

  ‘Stuff?’

  ‘Yes, stuff.’

  ‘Oh, well, yes, if they put stuff in it, I’d probably be crying, too.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and pushed her over. ‘Make room.’

  She wiggled over far enough so he had enough space to sit beside her.

  Richard adjusted the pillows, took off his boots, then swung his legs up on the bed. ‘So, what dark thoughts have you in such a morose state?’

  Isabella leaned against his arm. ‘Everyone forgot about me.’

  He hooked his arm across her shoulders and pulled her against him. ‘That would be impossible.’

  ‘Everyone left and I was alone.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I know. For almost an entire hour.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it was much longer than that.’

  ‘Not really.’ He handed her a hunk of bread. ‘Eat this.’

  She nibbled at a corner, but couldn’t swallow past the thick dryness of her throat. ‘Can I have something to drink?’

  ‘No. All I brought with me is wine and you don’t need any more.’

  ‘But I’m thirsty.’

  He took the bread from her. ‘How about some broth instead?’

  ‘Fine.’ Somewhere in the back of her muddled mind Isabella knew she sounded and was acting like some spoiled child. But at the moment, she was unable to find the will to care. What she wanted most of all was for the bed to stop spinning like a top.

  He held the bowl of broth to her mouth. When she reached for it, he said, ‘I’ve got it, just take a sip.’

  She did and felt some dribble down the front of her gown. With a shudder, she pushed the bowl away. ‘Richard, I think I am intoxicated.’

  He wiped a rag across her chest. ‘Isabella, I know you are.’

  She tried to slide down on to the mattress. ‘I need to sleep.’

  ‘No.’ He dragged her back up against the pillows. ‘You need to eat something first.’

  Her stomach lurched at the thought of food. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.’

  ‘Are you going to be sick?’

  ‘Sick? I am a lady.’

  ‘Ah, yes, how foolish of me to forget that ladies never vomit.’

  Isabella wanted to laugh, but the best she could do was to bat at his leg. ‘You, Lord Dunstan, are vulgar.’

  ‘I think I’ve been told that a time or two before.’ He eased his arm from her shoulders and swung off the bed. ‘I’ll find you something to drink.’

  ‘You are leaving me?’ To her horror, her lower lip quivered and her eyes welled with tears.

  ‘Isabella, I will be right back.’

  ‘You won’t. I will sit here all alone.’ She choked on her words. ‘For ever.’ God’s teeth, what was wrong with her? Every time she opened her mouth, something more foolish spewed forth. Isabella waved towards the door as she slid sideways off her pillows on to the bed. ‘Go. Leave me.’

  She vaguely heard Richard’s grumbled curses over the sound of him stomping across the chamber to open the door and shout for Hattie.

  Everything seemed to be coming at her through a thick, hazy fog. Her heart pounded so hard and fast that her pulse sounded like roaring waves in her ears. She curled her fingers tightly around the bedcovers. ‘Richard?’

  He came back to the bed and pulled her upright. ‘I am here.’

  ‘Some...thing...something is...wrong... I...’

  With a sigh she closed her eyes and sank into the welcoming embrace of a warm, dark void.

  ‘Isabella!’

  Richard’s shout, followed by a stinging slap across her cheek, jerked her back to the murkiness of her spinning and now oddly bouncing chamber.

  He had lifted her into his arms and asked questions she couldn’t understand. Unable to form words, she grunted in reply to his undecipherable queries.

  People shouting, and what sounded like countless items hitting the floor, made her wonder if Dunstan was under attack.

  A hand grasped her chin. Hard, unforgiving fingers pressed into her cheeks, forcing her lips apart. She flailed her arms at the rough treatment, but her pleas to be left alone were cut off when someone poured a foul-tasting liquid in her mouth, clamped her mouth shut and stroked her throat, forcing her to swallow.

  The arms holding her placed her on a hard, solid object. It wasn’t cold enough to be the floor. But she couldn’t imagine what it might be instead because she was trying to focus on what she swore sounded like Richard apologising for something.

  Isabella groaned. There were too many things to try making sense of when all she knew for certain was that her head throbbed horribly and her stomach cramped in the most painful manner possible.

  Yet, when she tried to curl into a ball to ease the cramping, hands pushed and prodded her on to her stomach and dragged her until her head hung over the edge of this hard, unyielding bed.

  She stared down at what appeared to be the floor. Even though it rippled and undulated like a wave, it st
ill looked like a floor.

  A hard, dirt-packed floor that made her mouth water profusely and swallowing only made it water more. When her stomach gurgled Isabella gagged and gripped the edge of her uncomfortable bed, realising then that she’d been placed on a table.

  Richard combed his fingers through her hair, dragging the mass to the back of her head where he held it in one hand, while he rubbed her back with the other one. His infernal massaging made her feel worse, but before she could tell him to stop, her throat and stomach convulsed at the same time.

  After what seemed like hours, her bruised-feeling stomach settled, permitting her to groan in exhaustion and rest her forehead on the table. Her throat felt raw, her face wet and she shivered uncontrollably. But the room had stopped spinning, her heart had slowed its riotous pounding and her head no longer hammered in agony.

  She turned her head and opened her eyes to see Richard place a fur-lined bedcover over her before he sat down on a bench, clasping one of her hands in his own. He brushed her hair from her face and cupped her cheek.

  He looked terrible and rather pale, making her wonder what had happened to upset him so. The hushed sounds of people talking prompted her to tip her head back far enough to see what had to be half of Dunstan’s citizens gathered around them.

  Humiliated to be seen in such a state, she swung her focus back to Richard, to hoarsely beg, ‘Please, get me out of here.’

  She struggled to rise, only to have Richard place a hand on her shoulder blades. ‘Stay still, let me.’

  He slid his arms beneath her and rolled her into his embrace. Marguerite tucked the hanging edge of the cover around her, and pressed the back of her hand to Isabella’s cheek. With a nod, she said, ‘Go, I will be right behind you.’

  Once in her chamber, the most wondrous sight met her—a huge, oversized tub with rose-scented steam rolling from it had been set up in the alcove. Never had she seen such a large, more inviting-looking bath.

  Richard set her down on a small bench facing the tub. When she swayed, he steadied her with a hand on her shoulder.

  Isabella sighed. If she couldn’t sit upright by herself, how was she going to take advantage of the bath? And she so wanted to soak in that lovely tub. It was calling to her, inviting her to relax in the warmth of the water and let the troubles from this day fade away with the steam.

  Her lip trembled and when she couldn’t stop it or the cursed tears from building, she closed her eyes and turned her head away to hide her unwarranted distress. She couldn’t believe she was going to start crying about nothing again. How could she be any more foolish than she’d already been this evening?

  A calloused hand wiped away the tears from her cheek, then rested there. ‘It will soon be better, I promise, Isabella.’

  She leaned into his caress. ‘I am a silly fool.’

  ‘No, you aren’t. You are a woman who had a terrible reaction to either the herbs, or the wine.’

  ‘And one who is blessed to be alive,’ Marguerite interjected from the doorway. She carried a pitcher, a cup and at least a dozen drying cloths over to the bath before joining them at the bench to pull the cover off Isabella’s shoulders. ‘Come on, into the bath with you. I want you to sweat the rest of the poison from your body.’

  Shivering, Isabella gripped the edge of the bench. ‘I can’t even sit upright, how am I going to sit in that tub without drowning?’

  Deftly untying the laces of her gown, Marguerite nodded towards Richard. ‘I am sure your husband will see to it that you don’t drown.’

  Isabella gasped. That meant he was going to be there for her bath—a thought that made her burst into tears. ‘Have I not embarrassed myself enough in his presence today?’

  He chucked her lightly under the chin. ‘Sweeting, feel free to cry all you want. Hell, if you have the strength, you can scream and fight me. But you’ll not win this one.’ He leaned over to wrap his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her from the bench far enough for Marguerite to pull her gown and chemise free. Then he lowered her back to the bench, adding, ‘You may as well resign yourself to my presence. I’m not going anywhere.’

  Her cheeks flamed, making him laugh before he started to remove his own clothing. By the time he was down to nothing but his braies, Marguerite had managed to strip her mostly naked, too. The only part of her body still covered by cloth was her ankle.

  Isabella squeezed her eyes closed, hoping when she opened them that all of this would have been nothing but some odd, drugged dream. She peeked out of one eye to see Richard reaching for a bucket of steaming water next to the tub. She inhaled sharply at the play of muscle across his back and arms as he hefted the bucket.

  Marguerite’s soft laugh made Isabella more self-conscious and nervous than she’d already been at seeing Richard’s almost naked and completely healthy body.

  ‘Like I said, I’m sure he’ll keep you from drowning. Come on, up with you.’ The woman tugged on Isabella’s arms, pulling her from the bench and helping her over to the side of the tub.

  Without so much as a by your leave, Richard swooped her off her feet from behind and, holding her against his chest, stepped into the tub, still wearing his undergarment. There was no stool to sit on and she couldn’t figure out how this was going to work in the high-rimmed tub until he bent his knees and plopped down into the water, bringing her along to sit on his lap.

  Water sloshed out of the tub, flooding on to the floor. Marguerite unfolded and dropped a few of the towels on the floor to soak up the water before attaching a pole to the outside of the tub behind Richard. She then draped a cloth over the pole and fluffed it out to surround them, with the edge of the cloth hanging just past the top rim of the tub. Not only did it provide them privacy, but it kept most of the steam trapped inside with them.

  Isabella couldn’t see them through the makeshift tent, but she heard heavier footsteps approach and jumped when two more buckets of hot water were poured into the bath at her feet.

  Once the footsteps faded out of the chamber, Marguerite stuck her head inside the tent to address Richard. ‘I put the bench with cool water and a cup to your right. There will be two guards outside the door. More water is already heating. Call out when you want it added, or need anything, and make sure she drinks all the water in that pitcher.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ Richard replied over her head.

  Marguerite briefly touched Isabella’s shoulder. ‘Relax. Let your husband care for you. He owes you that much.’

  The chamber door closed and a heavy silence fell over the room. Richard’s heart thudded against her back and hers fell into the same rhythm.

  Isabella struggled to breathe and leaned forward, only to be stayed by an arm wrapping beneath her breasts and pulling her back. ‘There’s nothing here you haven’t already touched and stroked. Be still, Isabella, be still.’

  Would she ever be able to resist that deep gravelly tone? Or not welcome that firm yet gentle hold?

  She took a long breath, let it out slowly, then leaned her head back against his shoulder.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Richard leaned his head back against the rim of the tub. He wasn’t tired and didn’t fear falling asleep, not with such a soft, curvaceous woman stretched out on top of him. But he did long for a few moments of respite to wipe the memories of the last few hours from his mind.

  This wife of his had probably frightened a good ten years off his life. And in return, he’d probably frightened at least that many off the lives of his men. He could only imagine how he’d looked when he had bolted down the stairs, carrying her in his arms, her head lolling about as if she was dead and him shouting at the top of his voice for Marguerite and Hattie.

  Conal had never moved so fast in his life, clearing the table of platters, trenchers, goblets, utensils and bowls with one swipe of his giant arm. The re
st of his men had instantly jumped into action, Matthew leading half of them to draw their swords and guard the studded double doors at the entrance to the Great Hall, Conal leading the other half to clear Richard’s path, shoving benches, stools, people out of the way.

  His earlier concern about the people of Dunstan coming to care for his wife was obviously a moot point. Their actions made it plain that they already saw her as their lady and that was something he was never going to be able to change. He wouldn’t know where to begin.

  The deep lines of fear and worry on Mistress Marguerite’s face had nearly caused his heart to stop beating. She’d not expected such a reaction to the herbs she’d given Isabella. For far too many moments, the woman had been convinced she’d killed Dunstan’s lady. To be honest, so had he.

  Thankfully, they had both been wrong.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Apparently his stolen moments of respite were over. He nearly laughed at his wish for her to return to normal. It wasn’t that long ago when he’d wished she was meeker and much more quiet. Now, he would so much rather she rail at him, than simper and cry. Her anger set his blood boiling, but her tears? He sighed. Her tears raked across his heart like a whip, making it bleed.

  ‘I said I am sorry.’

  He dragged his fingers through her hair, trying to free the tangles. ‘For what?’

  ‘For acting like such a witless nit.’ Her shoulders rose and fell with a huge sigh. ‘And for embarrassing you in front of your men.’

  Richard wondered which misconception to address first, since one was as incorrect as the other.

  ‘A witless nit for crying?’ He placed a palm against her forehead, tipped her head back and looked down at her. ‘Had you been sleeping when I came up here, I never would have known anything was wrong with you until it was too late. Your tears and babbling were what warned me that you were in dire trouble. So don’t apologise for them. They saved your life.’