Denise Lynn - The Warrior's Winter Bride

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 ragged, 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.’

When the man didn’t budge, she added, ‘Besides, I would prefer he be whole and completely alert when I cut out his blackened heart with an old crooked spoon.’

Even though her words were true—to a point. When the time came, she would use his own sword, not a spoon—she’d been seeking to lighten the mood.

Her ploy wasn’t very successful. While his lips did twitch, he only shook his head.

Now what would she do?

Isabella knew that her mother would use the wine to wash the blood from the wound and then make a wax tent to hold it open, allowing any further drainage to run free. Once there was no more seepage, she would remove the tent and then sew, or cauterise, the wound closed.

However, from the smell of the tallow burning in the lamp she should have realised that there wasn’t any wax at hand. And she didn’t know what else to use.

‘What are you going to do?’ Dunstan’s man drew her back to the task at hand.

‘The only thing I can do is bind his wound after I clean it. For that I need some water, please.’ When the man reached for a pitcher on the small table, she amended her request. ‘From over the side of the ship.’

She didn’t know how they did things on Dunstan, but her mother preferred seawater when cleansing an injury, claiming it helped to heal and dry out the wound.

The man studied her carefully for a long moment, then left the cabin.

While he was gone, Isabella poured the wine over Dunstan’s shoulder and used the clean shirt to wipe away the rest of the blood and the wine.

‘Here.’ A bucket hit the floor beside her. Ice-cold water sloshed over the sides, soaking through her already sodden shoes and making her shiver.

Once the skin around Dunstan’s wounds were as clean as she could get them, she blew on her near-freezing fingers, asking, ‘Is there another shirt or anything?’

‘No.’

She glanced at the weapon now strapped to the man’s side. ‘Then I need your dagger.’

His eyes widened briefly before narrowing to mere slits. ‘For what?’

She’d already told him of her plans to wait until Dunstan was healthy before killing him. Did he not believe her? Isabella sighed, then explained, ‘I need to bind his wounds. To do that I need strips of cloth.’ She plucked at the hem of her undergown. ‘From this.’

Frowning, he hesitated, but finally, with obvious reluctance, slowly extended the weapon towards her.

Isabella rose and lifted her skirts, only to drop them at the man’s gasp. She glared at him and ordered, ‘Turn around.’

Satisfied that he did as she’d ordered, she paused. With his back to her, it would be an easy thing to run him through. Isabella sighed, knowing that the other men would hear the commotion and rush to his aid.

She gave up her brief dream, pulled the hem up and cut through the thin fabric. Wincing at what she was about to do to her finest chemise, Isabella took a deep breath, then tore a good length of cloth from the hem.

‘Now, you hold him up for me.’

Once his man had him upright, Isabella cross-wrapped the cloth around Dunstan’s chest and back. ‘I’m finished. All we can do now is wait.’

After placing him back on the bed, the man suggested, ‘You might want to add prayer to the waiting.’

She shrugged. While it was true, for her own selfish reasons, she did want him hale and whole, praying for this man’s health would seem more blasphemous than holy.

Isabella straightened, preparing to get off the pallet, but Dunstan wrapped a hand around her wrist and pulled her down next to him. She gasped at his unexpected strength. Nose to nose, she stared into the blue of his now open eyes. His pupils were huge, his eyes shimmering from the effect of the medicine he’d been given.

It was doubtful he knew what he was doing, or was even aware of doing anything, but when she tried to pull free, he only tightened his hold, trapping her hand between them, against his chest.

Behind her, she heard his man gathering up the discarded cloths and the bucket. ‘I’ll return shortly to check the wound.’

‘Wait! You cannot leave me here alone with him like this.’

‘It is not as if he can harm you. But if any further harm comes to him, you will be the one to suffer the consequence.’ On his way towards the door, he paused to douse the lamp before leaving her alone on Dunstan’s pallet in the dark.

The warmth of his breath brushed against her face. Even in the utter darkness of the room she could feel his stare.

‘I cannot harm you.’ His deep voice was low, his words slightly slurred.

His heart beat steady against her palm. The heat of his body against hers nearly took her breath away. She couldn’t remain on this pallet with him. ‘Please, let me go.’

‘Too late.’ Dunstan rested his forehead against hers. ‘You had better be worth all this.’

Worth all what? Being wounded? Isabella opened her mouth to ask, but the steadiness of his light breathing let her know her questions would go unanswered.

She rolled as far on to her back as his hold would allow, stared up into the darkness of the cabin and tried to ignore the man so close to her side. Before she could stop it, a tear rolled down her cheek, followed by another and yet another. The need to cry, to sob aloud her grief at losing her father and being taken forcibly from her home was overwhelming.

No matter how hard she fought, her wayward mind always came back to worries and questions—each more heartrending than the last.

Who would assist her mother in the lonely, sad tasks that must now be completed to lay her father to rest? Who would stand by her side at the service, or lend a hand with those attending the wake? Who would be there in the middle of the night to soothe away the tears and the fears for the future?

Her sister? No. By now Beatrice would have locked herself into her chamber to give way to her own grief. It would be days before she’d think of their mother.

Jared? No, her brother would be too busy amassing a force to come after her—and the man who’d torn their family asunder.

While Jared’s wife, Lea, would no doubt try her best, she was too new to the family to know that if she tried to do too much, in the mistaken belief that her mother-by-marriage would welcome the respite from duty, she would be unwittingly angering the Lady of Warehaven.

The first time Lea instructed a servant not to disturb the lady, or if she greeted a guest as the stand-in for the lady of the keep, she’d find her help met with near uncontrollable anger. Isabella knew how closely her mother oversaw every aspect of running Warehaven. It was her keep, her home, her domain and she’d not brook any interference, not even if it was offered in the most well-meaning of manners, lightly.

And what would now happen to Beatrice and her?

Beatrice was also of marriageable age. While she had her mind set on Charles of Wardham, Isabella knew her parents disliked him and would never permit Beatrice to wed the lout.

But would Jared let Beatrice have her way?

What about her? She hadn’t had the opportunity to tell her parents about her decision not to wed Glenforde. Would her brother, who would now be the Lord of Warehaven, take it upon himself to sign the documents and force her into an unwanted marriage?

Under normal circumstances the answer to that question would be a resounding no. Her brother would never force her into anything.

However, these weren’t normal circumstances. If he wasn’t thinking clearly, there was no way for her to know exactly what he’d do.

Which meant Jared might either see her wed to Glenforde or someone else of his choosing.

His choosing. Another shudder racked her. Why had she not listened to her parents?

None of this would have happened had she not been so determined to always have her own way.

When her parents had first given her the rare gift of choice they’d done so only because they’d known full well that it would be easier than trying to force her into a betrothal she would fight no matter how perfect the man was for her.

An odd arrangement to be sure, but one her father had chosen because of his own marriage. As one of old King Henry’s bastards, her father had been forced to wed the daughter of a keep he’d conquered. And while, yes, her parents had learned to deeply care for and love one another over time, he wanted his children to at least know of love before they pledged their future to another. Even though it went against everything considered normal, he wanted them to have the choice.

She knew that—his wishes for his children had never been a secret. Just as she knew that had she simply gone to him about Glenforde the betrothal would have been called off.