by Denise Lynn
‘That is understandable as the ground is uneven in these godforsaken courtyards.’
Isabella raised a brow at his insult. She liked these courtyards and had every intention of planting roses along the wall come spring. Some of those trailing ones like Marguerite had along the one wall of her cottage garden.
They would smell wonderful and look beautiful as they climbed up the wall here. Isabella’s gaze followed her thoughts and met the frigid sapphire glare of one guard peering over the wall at her.
Even if he was dressed as a guard, she recognised that glare well. And from the complete lack of visible emotion, he was livid and very dangerous.
She quickly lowered her gaze. Someone would die this night at Dunstan. From the resolve etched on her husband’s face, she was certain it wouldn’t be her.
‘Come, my lady. We can talk right out here.’ Father Paul took her elbow to lead her under the gate and out into the bailey.
Now her legs trembled. But she wasn’t certain if it was from fear of Father Paul, or Richard’s anger.
She moved her arm, to free herself from the priest’s hold, but he tightened his grasp and whistled.
Instantly a man led two horses to them. Father Paul shoved her towards the now-mounted rider, who easily grabbed hold of her wrist. She recognised him as Father Paul’s deacon at the church. Both men of God were involved in this?
‘No!’ Isabella struggled. ‘Release me!’ She dragged her feet and hung from his hold, making herself as heavy as possible, so he couldn’t pull her up on to the horse.
At her first scream the heavy portcullis to the main gates started to groan as they were lowered to close off the only escape from the inner yard.
The bailey, which a heartbeat ago had seemed empty, now appeared to fill with men. Armed men.
A strangled gasp from the man holding her wrist drew her attention back to him. His hold instantly fell away as he frantically waved his hands at the arrow sticking through his shoulder. She hit the ground, quickly scrambling away from the horse’s shod hooves.
Father Paul’s shoulders slumped. He dropped the reins to his horse and stood there.
A hard hand grasped her upper arm, dragged her to her feet and shoved her against Conal’s chest. ‘To your chamber.’
‘Richard, I—’
He didn’t spare her a glance, instead he turned away to deal with Father Paul.
Conal put his hands on her shoulders to spin her around and pushed her towards the keep. When she dug in her heels, he paused long enough to ask, ‘Are you going to walk like a woman, or am I going to toss you over my shoulder like a sack of grain?’
‘You would shame me in such a manner before all of Dunstan?’
‘In a heartbeat.’
She stormed towards the keep, shouting, ‘You’re as bad as he is.’
‘No. I’m worse.’ He caught up to her, to add, ‘Because, at the moment, I don’t care about your tender heart.’
When they entered the Great Hall, he placed one large hand on the centre of her back and pushed her directly to the stairs. She felt every pair of eyes glued to her. She swore she could hear their curious thoughts wondering what she’d done.
Isabella kept her chin high, refusing to bow beneath the stares and marched up the steps to her chamber.
Conal opened the door and pushed her inside. Before closing the door he suggested, ‘Don’t grovel, that will only set him off more.’
She stared at the closed door. Grovel? What made him think she’d ever grovelled before anyone?
No, there were no worries on that. She’d not grovel. She would simply explain why she’d left the keep with Father Paul and he would understand the dilemma she had faced.
Doubtful.
To keep her hands and mind busy, she went to the chest of linens in the corner and pulled a bedcover out. She spread the cover on the bed and then refolded it. She repeated her actions until she heard the distinct sound of heavy boots heading up the stairs.
Her pulse quickened, certain from the determined stride it was Richard. She looked down at her hands to reassure herself that she was in complete control of her emotions.
The chamber door banged against the wall, making her jump. Isabella turned around and gasped at the stranger barging into her bedchamber.
His frown was so fierce that it seemed to form a single line above his eyes.
She knew instantly that the crazed berserker stalking her was her husband, but she backed away from the fiery blaze of his steady stare until her retreat was stopped by a solid wall. All of her calmness fled. ‘I had no choice.’
Still intent on explaining, she continued, ‘He made everything seem so normal. What else was I going to do?’
He didn’t appear to be listening to her. She pointed a wavering finger at him. ‘You never told me he was one of the men you were watching, so how was I to know?’
He didn’t answer. Instead, he flung his cloak on to the bed, tore the sleeveless tunic bearing Dunstan’s colours over his head and dropped it to the floor.
She held her hands up, as if they’d offer any protection and tried once more to reason with him. ‘He said we were only going right outside the doors.’
He lunged at her, shoving her arms aside and pinned her against the wall.
Before she could say anything else, before she could even so much as catch her breath, he claimed her mouth in a kiss that curled her toes and set her mind spinning.
His face was cold. His fingers, tearing at the laces of her gown, shoving the fabric off her shoulders, were nearly freezing. But his kiss...his kiss was, oh, so hot.
She shivered when the cool air of the chamber rushed across her naked shoulders. Their tongues tangled and she moaned softly, forgetting her intention to calmly explain herself to him.
He answered her with a throaty growl, roughly pulling her gown and shift down her arms until they slid to pool at her feet. He then picked her up and deposited her naked on the bed.
Before she could complain of the cold, he was on the bed, pushing her legs apart to shatter her thoughts with his mouth.
Isabella tugged at his hair. When he grasped both of her wrists with one hand she had no choice but to let the out-of-control spiralling quickly take her over the edge.
‘Richard!’ she cried out. ‘Please.’ Wanting more than just the wickedly wonderful feel of his mouth, she wanted him to fill her.
He released her wrists and loomed over her. Grasping her chin firmly, he glared down at her.
Startled by the fierce glimmer in his eyes and the hard line of his mouth, she touched his cheek, whispering, ‘What?’
‘You were perfect.’
She frowned, uncertain what she’d done to be described as perfect.
He released her chin, wrapped his arms tightly about her as he entered her, claiming harshly, ‘I have been worried sick that when the moment came, you would give all away.’
She returned his desperate embrace and managed to choke out a strangled, ‘Thank you,’ before her tears mixed with her laughter.
Laughter of relief at his declaration when she’d been so certain he was angry, and tears because the heart others had declared too tender was shattering from the pain of unreturned love. It was lost. Well and truly lost without any chance of ever saving it from hurt now or in the future.
From the way he made love to her, she wondered if perhaps his heart wasn’t as unaffected as he claimed.
Even if that were true, she knew that she would never hear the words from his lips. But perhaps, if she listened closely, she could some day hear the whisperings of his heart.
Richard grumbled something she couldn’t quite make out, but she completely understood his growl against her lips. He’d sensed her wandering mind and wanted her full attention.
She curled her legs around his waist, more than willing to give him all the attention he desired.
* * *
Through a clouded haze of pure lust, Richard couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever wanted a woman as much as he did his wife right now. He knew there was nothing tender, nothing gentle in his touch, or his kiss.
He’d watched the priest closely this day and knew by the man’s odd comings and goings that he was planning something. Hours of worry had chased away his ability to be easy. He knew she was safe, and well, but he needed to hear her cry out with abandonment.
From the tightness of her legs wrapped about his waist and the way her body met his, he doubted if his wife was feeling ill used. Still, he forced himself to rein in the unbridled lust, to regain some measure of control.
Chilled to the bone, he shivered. Gathering her closer, he let the heat of her body seep into him, warming him and chasing away his inexplicable concern for her well-being.
Richard groaned in frustration. It wasn’t enough to just be skin to skin, he needed to be closer. But the way to accomplish that oneness he craved glimmered just beyond his reach.
Troubled by his inability to fulfil this unnatural need, he focused on the spiralling physical need driving him on.
Isabella curled her fingers into his back and arched her hips, seeking release from her own needs. He let his wavering control slip, quickly bringing them both to completion.
Unable to breathe past the hard pounding of his heart, he rolled off of her, kicking the cloak off the end of the bed.
Isabella placed a hand on his chest and laughed weakly. ‘This can’t be good for our hearts.’
He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her palm and then lowered their locked hands back on to his chest. ‘If this is the way I must die, at least I will meet my maker with a smile on my face.’
Once he regained his breath, he asked, ‘Did you receive the chest of fabric?’
‘Yes, I did.’ She slipped her hand from beneath his and sat up to look at him. ‘Thank you, but you needn’t have taken so much from your inventory.’
He guessed from her cocked eyebrow that she was about to berate him. Seeking to stave off an argument, he said, ‘I wasn’t aware that I suddenly needed someone to manage my inventory.’
‘I—’
He grabbed her shoulders to pull her back down against him. ‘Not tonight, Isabella. This may well be our last night together.’
She drew lazy circles on his chest with her fingertips. ‘And why is that?’
‘Your father’s ship is anchored off the coast.’
‘Ship? As in one?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’ She sat back up. ‘That is not right.’
‘I thought the same thing. It made no sense that FitzHenry would come to rescue the granddaughter of a king without an army at his back.’
‘Have you checked the cove?’
He stared at her, wondering what had made her decide he was suddenly too dense to protect his own island and people. ‘No. I never would have thought to check the one place Dunstan had proven vulnerable in the past.’
‘Truce.’ She held up a hand. ‘I am sorry. Of course the cove is guarded. What will you do now?’
Richard groaned. ‘There isn’t much I can do until they disembark from the ship.’
Isabella ran a hand down his arm. ‘You need not fear my father.’ When he stared at her, she at least had the decency to wince at the foolishness of her claim before adding, ‘True, the two of you will most likely exchange blows along with a great many angry words, but once he knows I am safe and well, he will listen to reason. He may not like it, but he’ll listen to it.’
‘So while he and I argue, his force will seek to lay waste to my ships, warehouses and village. Little comfort there, Isabella.’
‘No. His men will not raise a sword until they are ordered to do so. And they will not be given that order until my father knows of my well-being first. I guarantee you that he will not recklessly risk my life in such a manner. My mother would not stand for it.’
Before he could respond, the sounds of battle floated up from outside. Richard rushed to the window to tear back the covering.
He watched as flaming arrows flew across the battlements, setting one of the outbuildings on fire.
A heavy pounding beat on the chamber door. Richard waved at Isabella to cover herself, and called out, ‘Enter.’
Conal burst into the room. ‘We are under attack.’
‘Don’t let them burn the place down. Open the damn gates and meet them head on.’
Conal headed back downstairs, shouting orders before he’d hit the stairs.
Richard picked up the clothing he’d tossed on the floor, pulling each piece on as he retrieved it.
‘You aren’t going to give them entrance?’ Isabella held the covers to her neck.
‘Yes. Do you think it could be your brother?’
She shook her head. ‘No. My father would not risk the sole heir to his shipping empire so foolishly.’ She frowned, then said, ‘I don’t know how it would be possible, my father never would have given him command of a ship willingly, but I suppose it could be Glenforde.’
‘We’ll know soon enough.’ Richard tugged on his boots. At her quickly indrawn breath, he explained, ‘There is one ship. It can only hold thirty to maybe forty men.’
‘If that many.’
‘Most of Dunstan’s men are inside the walls. They can easily dispatch them to their maker.’
‘They disembarked ready to fight.’ She pointedly ran her stare down his body. ‘And they are protected by armour.’
‘Then I guess I need be more alert. Stay here.’ He strapped on his sword as he headed for the door. ‘Bolt the door behind me.’
Chapter Nineteen
Isabella scrambled from the bed and hastily dressed. Laces to her gown half-undone, her hair in disarray, she opened the chamber door and slowly stuck her head out to listen.
The sound of clashing swords lessened, as if fewer and fewer men were engaged in combat. She leaned back inside the chamber, turning her attention towards the open window. Gone were the earlier shouts of men.
Unable to bear not knowing the outcome of this brief battle, she stepped into the corridor and paused to listen to the sound of two men arguing—rather, one arguing, the other seemingly goading the first one on.
While she didn’t need to see the men to know that the second one, with the deeper and decidedly steadier voice, was her husband, she did want to discover the identity of the other man. With her back against the wall, she side-stepped to the stairs.
‘Give me my woman, Dunstan.’
Isabella bit hard on her lower lip to keep from screaming.
Glenforde had arrived, ahead of her father. Something was mostly definitely wrong. As she’d told Richard, her father never would have given an unseasoned sailor command of any of his ships—not even one of the small river barges. Nor did she believe for one heartbeat that her father would not have come to Dunstan in person. It wasn’t in his nature to permit someone else to stand in his place.
She needed to go down there. Isabella stepped away from the wall and looked down at her gown. But not like this. Glenforde would think she’d been made a prisoner, or worse, if she appeared at Richard’s side looking like a well-used whore.
‘Pssst.’ From the shadows on the other side of the stairs, Hattie tried to get her attention.
Isabella pointed at the door of her chamber and the maid nodded. They both hurried as quickly and quietly as possible into the bedchamber. Hattie dropped the bar across the door, while Isabella tossed back the lid of her clothes chest.
There wasn’t much to choose from: the gown she’d worn when taken from Warehaven had been patched, even the pat
ches had been patched, the one she wore now was torn and filthy from tussling in the bailey, or there was a deep forest-green one that she’d worn at Christmas.
‘Too bad you have no court clothes.’
She shook her head at Hattie’s lament. ‘No. The last thing I want to do is have Glenforde think I dressed for him.’
The tunic Richard had dropped on the floor caught her eyes. She pulled the green gown from the chest and retrieved the tunic. ‘These will do nicely.’
‘What do you want with a guard’s tunic?’
She held it up against the green gown. ‘The colours, Hattie. Dunstan’s colours.’
‘Oh, that’ll be sure to get him riled.’
‘That is the plan.’ Isabella tugged at her gown. ‘Help me.’
With Hattie’s help she was dressed in short order and sat on a bench, scrubbing a wet rag across the dirt on her face, while the older woman combed and captured her wild hair into a matronly plait down her back, complete with blue-and-green ribbons giving her hair a splash of Dunstan to help get the point across—she was Dunstan’s.
Rising, she pulled the tunic over her head, laughing at the length. The man’s short tunic fell to her knees. Hattie draped a girdle made of golden links low around her waist, then reached into the pouch hanging from her side. ‘You might want this.’ She handed Isabella the wedding band she had thrown at Richard on the night of their marriage.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Lord Richard pressed it into my hand on his way down the steps a few moments ago. He said the choice was yours.’
He still thought there was a choice in this? Isabella slid it on to the ring finger of her left hand, then asked, ‘Ready?’
‘No. But there’ll be no putting it off.’
Hattie fell into step behind her, wringing her hands and muttering under her breath.
Isabella did her best to ignore the woman, pausing at the top of the stairs to place a hand over her grumbling belly and take a deep breath before heading down the stairs with as much dignity befitting the Lady of Dunstan and a daughter of Warehaven.
‘I’ll not tell you again, Warehaven’s bitch is mine.’