The Warrior's Winter Bride. Denise Lynn
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laughter from the men on the deck drew his attention. By the nods in his direction it was apparent that he was the focus of their conversation.
Richard straightened, squared his shoulders and then stepped away from the railing. Regardless of his injury he was not about to appear weak, or incapable of command, in front of his men.
He pinned a hard stare on Theodore, the largest in the group. When the guffaws ceased abruptly, he asked, ‘What amuses you?’
Theodore shuffled his feet, batted at one of the other men, then answered, ‘Nothing, my lord.’
At Richard’s raised eyebrow, he added, ‘We are simply glad to see you up and about.’
While they might be relieved to see him up, he resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the obvious attempt to garner his good graces. Richard doubted if his health had been the sole topic of their amusement.
If he knew anything about his men, it was that they enjoyed a good gossip almost as much as they enjoyed fighting. At times they were as bad—if not worse—than the women of Dunstan’s village. There was little doubt in his mind they’d been making assumptions about him and Isabella.
Assumptions that might have been on target had he not been unconscious.
He bore her no ill will, but neither did he care overmuch about her feelings. For the most part she was unknown to him, he knew very little about her, something he needed to resolve since she would become his wife in a matter of days.
Richard frowned and gingerly moved his shoulder about. The men aboard this ship knew little about mixing potions or salves, meaning the woman had probably saved his life. Regardless of his hatred for her betrothed, he did owe her something.
His gaze settled south, towards the Continent for a moment, and then with a heavy sigh he climbed down the ladder to speak to his men before heading back into his cabin.
* * *
Isabella flicked her thumbnail at the dried mud on her slippers. They were ruined beyond repair, but she hoped the pearls could be salvaged.
Her father had given her and her sister a bag to share. Every night for a week she and Beatrice had painstakingly attached the small pearls to their slippers. She’d formed hers into the shape of a flower, while her sister had spiralled hers around the edges.
The stool beneath her shifted slightly, just enough to make her reach out to keep from falling on to the floor. The thin slivers of light came into the cabin from the port side of the ship. The sun had been behind them, meaning the ship had changed direction. A glimmer of hope sprang to her heart.
The cabin door banged against the wall, making her jump as Dunstan pushed through. He spared her a brief glance before dropping on to his bed to stare at the ceiling.
Eager to know if perhaps he’d changed his mind, she asked, ‘Are we turning about?’
‘No.’
Her newly borne spark of hope flickered out as quickly as it had formed. ‘But the ship has changed direction.’ She paused to get her bearings straight in her mind. Warehaven was off the south-east coast of England. Her little knowledge of Dunstan Isle was that it lay north-east towards Denmark. ‘We are now headed south instead of further east.’
His soft chuckle grated on her patience. ‘Don’t think for a moment you are going anywhere but to Dunstan. I simply had the men adjust the course for home.’
She’d been aboard her father’s and brother’s ships enough to know how often the currents and the winds set them off course. ‘Oh.’
‘Tell me about yourself.’
Isabella blinked at the sudden request. ‘What?’
Still staring at the ceiling, Dunstan repeated. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘Why?’
He turned his head and gave her a pleading look. ‘Because I am injured, I don’t feel well, I want a distraction.’
Dear heavens above, he was using the same tactic her father and brother had when they were unwell. That sad two-year-old’s feel sorry for me gaze that always had her mother giving in to their whining with no more than a sigh. Well, she wasn’t about to feel for sorry for him, not when he’d brought all of his misery on himself.
‘Please.’
She crumpled the slipper in her hand and sighed. ‘What do you wish to know?’
He stared back up at the ceiling. ‘I should know something about you since you will soon be my wife.’
If he did anything that foolish, he would soon learn to rue the day he forced her into a marriage. However, between the lingering effect of the opium and the paleness of his face, arguing with him now would be pointless. If she read his features correctly, the drooping eyelids and downturned mouth signalled he would soon fall back to sleep.
To humour him in the meantime, she said, ‘I have an older brother, a younger sister, a mother and no father.’
‘And again you assume he is dead. Do you dislike your father so much that you secretly hope the worst?’
Isabella gasped at his insinuation that she would wish such foulness for her father. ‘I love my parents dearly.’
‘Love?’ He shook his head. ‘Of what use is love? I would think they’d rather have your respect and obedience.’
At this moment, he was most likely correct. Had she paid heed to her parents’ warnings, she wouldn’t be on this ship heading to Dunstan.
Although she found it interesting that he had such a lowly opinion of love. ‘Did you not care for your parents?’
‘I did not know my mother, she died when I was a babe. And my father did his duty by me.’
‘Did his duty?’
‘A roof over my head. Food in my belly and a suitable place to foster once I was old enough to hold a weapon.’
‘Oh.’ She felt no pity for the man, but found herself aching for the small boy. Had he had no one to offer him any gentleness? No welcoming arms to chase away the childish nightmares and hurts? She could not fathom such a life. She’d had both a mother and father who’d cared for their children dearly.
‘You sound surprised. Did your brother not foster elsewhere?’
‘Of course he did.’ But he’d done so with their mother’s family until he gained squire status and then he’d joined Matilda’s court.
‘What about you and your sister?’
‘No.’ Isabella wrinkled her nose, waiting for what would be disbelief on his part.
‘No?’ Dunstan turned his head to look at her. ‘Surely you spent time at Glenforde’s keep?’
She smoothed out her crushed slipper, brushing the caked mud on to the floor—busy work to keep from returning his gaze. ‘No.’
‘You expect me to believe that King Henry’s granddaughter, Empress Matilda’s niece, did not learn how to be a lady at the knee of her future mother-by-marriage?’
‘My mother taught me how to be a lady. Regardless of acceptable convention, she would not surrender such a task to a stranger. Besides, I was betrothed to no one, so there was no future mother-by-marriage.’
He sat up on the bed and swung his legs over the side. ‘Is there something wrong with you?’
Isabella paused. Since it would be normal for her and Beatrice to have been betrothed at a very young age, of course he would wonder at the reason for such a lack. She should lie and tell him that there was something drastically wrong with her.
It had to be something that would make him think twice about forcing a marriage between them. Something—gruesome. Some terrible thing that would make