The Warrior's Winter Bride. Denise Lynn
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the man on the pallet. ‘However, if his lordship dies you will belong to me instead.’ He narrowed his eyes to mere slits. ‘And rest assured, I will make every remaining moment of your life a living hell.’
Could her father still be alive? A tiny flicker of hope sprang to life. A flicker she quickly doused in fear that her relief would be short-lived. No. She’d seen the arrow pierce his chest. Had seen him sink lifeless on to the beach. Since he’d not been protected by chain mail—he’d been dressed for a celebration, not battle—he couldn’t have survived. Isabella choked on a sob.
‘Is that what you want?’ The man leaned closer to her, crowding her in the already small confines of this cabin. ‘Do you value your life so little?’
When she didn’t answer, he warned, ‘If the thought of becoming mine doesn’t frighten you as it should, don’t forget that there are over a dozen more men on this ship who would gladly make you suffer unimaginable horrors should Lord Dunstan die.’
The deadly earnest tone of his voice made her realise that his threat was not an idle warning. But it was the cheers from the men on the deck and the sound of oars scraping across wood as they were pulled into the ship that dashed her hopes of freedom. The sounds of a sail being hoisted and unfurled as it caught the wind to take her far from her home made his threat even more deadly.
Self-preservation overrode her desire to give in to uncontrollable tears and wailing, prompting her to join him near the bed built into the side of the ship.
Dunstan’s man had used the dagger to remove his commander’s clothing. She stared at the blood covering Dunstan’s chest and bedclothes. Like her father, Dunstan hadn’t worn armour either, making his body an easy target for the arrow to pierce. If they did nothing, the man would likely die from loss of blood.
The thought of his death did not bother her overmuch, since he deserved nothing less, but if he died while aboard this ship...what would happen to her?
No. She would not worry about that. Instead, she would assist Dunstan’s man in caring for his overlord. The knave would heal. She would ensure that he’d soon be hale and hearty. Otherwise, how would she gain her own measure of revenge?
Swallowing the grief threatening to choke her, and willing her resolve to stand firm, she asked, ‘What do you wish me to do?’
‘I have already given him a sleeping potion.’ The man wrapped his hand around the shaft of the arrow still lodged below Dunstan’s shoulder. ‘Now, I need you to hold him up.’
Isabella shivered. No matter how many times she’d watched her mother employ an arrow spoon to remove the tip, shove the arrow the rest of the way through one of Warehaven’s men, or break the shaft leaving the arrow tip in place, the operation had never failed to make her ill.
Even though she knew the answer, Isabella asked, ‘Can you not simply pull it free?’
The brief grunted response required no explanation. The arrow was nearly all the way through Dunstan’s body. Without an implement to dig the tip out, they could try working the shaft free of the tip and leave the tip inside for now. The other option was to shove the arrow the rest of the way through his body, while hoping everything stayed intact, then either snap off the shaft or the tip at the tang and remove the weapon.
Either option meant someone was going to have to hold him up and try to keep him from thrashing about if the pain seeped through the fog of his drugged sleep, while someone else worked the arrow free.
She doubted if she was strong enough to hold him, but she preferred that task over the other more gruesome one. Besides, there was no one to protect her and God only knew what the crew would do to her if she bungled the procedure enough that Dunstan died.
Isabella shivered and set aside the dark images forming in her mind. She took a deep breath and then knelt on the bed to support Dunstan’s body. Between the two of them, they rolled Dunstan on to his side, his stomach and lower chest propped against her bent legs.
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