The Warrior's Winter Bride. Denise Lynn
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length of his body until she stood on her feet. But he had no intention of releasing her. ‘Where am I taking you? You are going to be my guest for a time.’
She frowned, rightfully confused by his statement. ‘Your guest?’
Anxious to be away, he ignored her to motion Matthew ahead with the torch. Then Richard turned the woman around so her back was against his chest and, with his arms wrapped about her waist, bodily forced her down the path.
Only then did he answer, ‘Yes. You are going to Dunstan.’
He wasn’t surprised at her cry of dismay or at the way she dug her heels into the ground in a feeble attempt to halt their progress. He’d expected some type of struggle from her, especially after he’d divulged the first part of his intentions.
‘Dunstan is no friend of Warehaven.’ She explained what he already knew. ‘Why would you deliver me to him?’ Her tone rose with each word. He heard her inhale sharply before asking, ‘Who are you?’
He tightened his hold round her, lifted her feet from the ground and resumed their trek towards the beach. He was certain from the tightness of her voice that she’d already guessed the answer. Dipping his head, so he could whisper into her ear, he responded, ‘Who am I?’ He brushed his lips along the delicate curve of her ear. ‘Why, fair maiden of Warehaven, I am Richard of Dunstan.’
She trembled against him. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Glenforde must pay for his crimes.’ Richard hardened his voice. ‘And you, as his intended bride, will ensure he does.’
She jerked her head back, most likely to slam it against his nose. He was quicker and easily dodged her attempt to injure him. ‘Come now, you can do better than that.’
However, her heels drumming sharply into his shins and kneecaps was a distraction he feared would send them both crashing to the ground. Unwilling to take a chance of either of them being injured, he lowered her to the path, with the intention of taking her hand to lead her to the beach.
Her scream, loud and piercing, changed his mind. By her glare of mutinous rage and fear, he quickly realised there would be no leading her anywhere. Instead, Richard hauled her over his shoulder and ran down the narrow path. He shouted at Matthew just ahead, ‘Move faster, before Warehaven’s men catch up to us.’
He was fairly certain they were far enough away from the keep that while her screams would be heard, just as he had planned, her plea for rescue would go unanswered long enough for him to reach his ship. But it was a risk he didn’t want to take.
‘Lord Richard, here. This way.’ Bruce’s voice tore through the darkness ahead. A younger man from Dunstan stepped out from the cover of the overgrown vegetation. After lighting his torch from Matthew’s, he held it aloft, illuminating a winding, narrow path down the face of the jagged cliffs.
‘It’s steeper than the path we climbed up.’ He glanced at the burden slung over Richard’s shoulder, adding, ‘But quicker, if—’
Richard waved off his man’s unspoken concern of him falling with his wildly fighting bundle and ordered, ‘Go.’
Just before they reached the beach, Richard paused at a sound behind them. Apparently the woman’s desperate screams had been heard. However, Warehaven’s men were closer than he’d expected.
He swallowed a curse, then barked an order at the men in front of him. ‘Move. Faster.’
‘There they are!’
At the shout from Warehaven’s guards, Matthew and Bruce dropped their torches and scrambled over the final sets of boulders. Richard none too gently lowered the still struggling woman over the last boulder.
Just as her bottom hit the wet sand, he flung himself over the rock to land beside her.
But when he reached down to haul her back over his shoulder she quickly rolled away, shouting, ‘No! Help!’
Determined to get away safely, without losing his captive, he tried to grab her again.
Slapping at his reaching arms, she shrieked, ‘Warehaven, to me!’
Richard could now hear the jangle of mail and weapons from the men racing to their lady’s aid.
Out of time and out of patience, he stomped on the length of cloak he’d wrapped around her, effectively holding her still long enough for him to reach down to grab her.
Still screaming, the lady had enough sense to curl her fingers tightly and ram her fist upward towards his nose. Richard turned his head to avoid the contact and the force of her punch caught him in the eye.
He cursed, chagrined that he’d let this slip of a woman plant him such a stinging blow. Without pausing to wipe the watery blur from his sight, he pulled her up and once again slung her across his shoulder.
His captive somewhat secured, Richard shouted to his men in the small rowing boat that would take them out to his ship anchored further offshore, ‘Shove off!’
Bruce and Matthew nearly dived into the boat as it bobbed in the water. Bruce manned an oar, while Matthew notched an arrow in his bow and let it sail.
Richard splashed through the knee-deep water, dodged the sweeping oars and unceremoniously flung the woman into the boat before scrambling in behind her, ordering, ‘Put some muscle in it, men.’
When she tried to sit up, he pushed her back down. ‘Stay put, lest you want one of Warehaven’s arrows to accidently end your life.’
He grabbed his own waiting bow, then turned towards the beach. Another curse escaped him at the sight of her father amongst the men shooting at them. Warehaven’s death might delay—or prevent—Glenforde from coming to Dunstan.
An arrow whooshed past his ear. Richard ducked. His own life and the lives of his men were at stake, he would do what had to be done. He notched an arrow and let it sail towards the beach along with another volley of arrows from his men.
‘No! Oh, dear Lord, no!’ the lady cried from where she knelt on the bottom of the tiny boat as one of the arrows found its way to her sire’s chest, dropping the man on to the wet sand.
She screamed again and wrapped a hand around Richard’s leg. Before he could free himself, an arrow from one of Warehaven’s archers pierced his shoulder. Richard jerked back in pain, only to trip over the woman still clinging to his leg.
‘Hold him down!’
Isabella stared at Dunstan’s rough-looking soldier as if through a heavy, thick fog. They had killed her father. The tightness building in her throat and stomach intensified. She could barely imagine the pain and agony her mother must now be suffering. What would she do?
‘Help me!’
Help him?
He wanted her help with his commander? Isabella shook her head, brokenly whispering, ‘No.’
She couldn’t—she wouldn’t help any of them. They’d stolen her from Warehaven, killed her father before her eyes and had forcibly dragged her from the rowing boat into this ship as if she’d been nothing more than a sack of grain.
And then, when she’d tried to climb back over the high side of the vessel, intent on reaching the beach to help her father, this man—this filthy, ragged-haired, scar-faced knave—had bodily carried her into Dunstan’s small cabin beneath the aft castle.
‘Damn you, woman, help me.’
‘No. Get one of your men to help.’ Dunstan’s well-being would be better trusted to one of his own men than to her.
‘They are all needed on deck.’
She knew that. Of course the men were all needed on deck—to man