The Warrior's Winter Bride

Without voicing anything more than undecipherable grumbles to himself, Matthew put down the items he carried and headed out of the cabin once more.

In his absence, Isabella went to work on Dunstan’s injuries. By the unevenness of his breathing, she assumed he was floating in that twilight region between sleep and wakefulness.

Hoping her assumption was correct, she pushed at his shoulder, asking, ‘Can you roll on to your side?’

Thankfully, even though he groaned while doing so, he complied. By the time Sir Matthew returned, she was nearly finished.

He tossed a pouch on the pallet. ‘Here. This is what I found.’

Isabella shook off a thin coating of sand before opening the small leather bag. She didn’t need to ask about the sand since her father and brother stored their armour in barrels of sand when out to sea. Although, the herb pouch would have been in their cabin. The all-heal herbs inside were wrapped in waxed leather to keep them dry.

She tossed a pinch into a cup, then extended it to Dunstan’s man. ‘Could you pour a bit of the wine in here?’

While he did that, she put a larger pinch into a second cup and used the pommel of his dagger to grind the herb into a powder. Adding some of the still-warm seawater, she made a poultice, then applied it to his wounds, holding it in place with the bindings she’d made from the linen.

When they had Dunstan situated once again on his back, with the covers over him, she tipped his head up to give him some of the herb-and-wine decoction.

‘No more.’ He tried to push the cup away, but was too weak to do much more than try. However, he was strong enough to tightly clamp his lips together.

Sir Matthew stayed Dunstan’s hand. ‘My lord, you need to drink this.’

‘No more.’

She’d seen other scars, ones more gruesome than Warehaven’s arrow would leave behind, on his body. So it wasn’t as if he’d never been injured before. However, Isabella wondered if maybe this was the first time he’d been given poppy juice.

After her brother’s first time, he’d refused to take the brew. He’d rather pass out from the pain than ever swallow the liquid again. Perhaps Dunstan had come to the same decision.

‘It’s not the sleeping draught,’ Isabella explained. ‘This is for your fever.’

He turned his head way. ‘Stinks.’

‘You will either take it like a man, or we will force it on you like a child, the choice is yours.’

He shook his head at her threat. ‘No.’

‘Listen to me, Dunstan.’ She tightened her grasp on his head. ‘You will take this medicine. You are not going to die until I decide it’s time, do you hear me? And it’s not yet time.’

‘Very poor wife.’

His words might have been slightly slurred, but she clearly understood what he’d said. ‘I am not your wife.’

‘Will be soon.’

Isabella froze.

Cursing, Matthew grabbed Dunstan’s face, forcing his lips apart, and poured the liquid into his mouth.

Will be soon? She released her hold on the back of his head as if he were suddenly made of fire and scrambled from the bed. Isabella staggered backwards until she hit the side of the ship.

Shaking with fear, dismay and anger, she clasped her hands to her chest, as if that would offer some measure of protection, and asked Sir Matthew, ‘What does he mean?’

He remained silent, seemingly intent on settling his commander more firmly under the covers.

‘Answer me!’ Isabella shouted. ‘After all that has been done to me, I have still helped save his miserable, worthless life. I deserve an answer. What did that miscreant scoundrel mean?’

Sir Matthew lowered his head, his chin nearly resting on his chest, he turned away from the bed and said, ‘Dunstan’s priest awaits his lordship’s return—with his bride-to-be.’

Isabella’s choked gasp nearly stuck in her throat. ‘His bride-to-be?’ She feared she knew the answer, but hoping she was wrong, asked, ‘And who would that unlucky lady be?’

As he quickly headed for the door, Matthew answered, ‘You.’

Chapter Four (#ulink_072bf1a0-7baf-5b33-9de1-51b416e8ec71)

Richard groaned as the surface beneath him heaved to and fro as if being pitched by a windswept wave. The motion let him know that he was aboard a ship. Hopefully, his own.

Outside of a strange dream about Warehaven’s daughter leaning over him with a knife to his chest, the last thing he clearly remembered was vaulting into the small rowboat, grabbing a bow and turning to face Warehaven’s men just as a hand grasped his leg. Distracted, he’d glanced down and fire had sliced through him, sending him head first against a cross-brace.

He raised his arm and half-swallowed a gasp at the pain lacing across his shoulder.

‘Warehaven’s archers rarely miss. You took an arrow.’

He opened his eyes, squinting against the flicker of a lit lamp and stared up with relief at the crudely drawn map he’d nailed to the ceiling of his cabin.

‘What a shame they hadn’t taken aim at your heart.’

Richard raised a brow at the barely suppressed rage in her voice. If anyone should be angry, he should be. ‘Then perhaps, instead of being vexed, I should be grateful for your timely distraction.’

‘Distraction? I was kneeling on the hull.’

‘Which didn’t prevent you from grabbing my leg.’

‘Should I have done nothing while you took aim at my father and his men?’

‘They were aiming at me and my men.’

‘I owe no loyalty to the men of Dunstan and had little concern about the arrows aimed at them.’

Valid as it was, he wasn’t about to concede her point. ‘You should be grateful the men of Dunstan didn’t toss you overboard.’ She didn’t need to know that his men would never treat his bride-to-be so harshly.

She’d been pacing at the other side of the cabin, but changed direction and approached his bed. ‘They would have, but you fell atop me.’ With a toss of her head she turned to take a seat on a nearby stool, adding, ‘So I’ve nothing to be thankful for.’

‘I would think you might be thankful for your life.’

‘As should you.’

Richard knew that she would find a contrary response to anything he said. At another time, under different circumstances, this verbal sparring might provide an entertaining moment or two. Right now, however, she was his captive, not his guest, and her contrariness did nothing but make his head throb even more.

Unmindful of his shoulder, he sat upright, shouting, ‘Matthew!’