The Warrior's Winter Bride. Denise Lynn

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 him shiver with dread. Perhaps something that would convince him to turn the ship about and return her to her family.

       But what?

      ‘Too late.’ Dunstan leaned forward. ‘It has taken far too long for you to answer.’

      She narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin a notch. ‘Perhaps my...condition is so severe I’ve no desire to sicken you with the details.’

      ‘Other than a smart tongue and lack of common sense, there is nothing wrong with you.’

      His smug certainty nipped at her temper. ‘You can’t be sure of that.’

      ‘Actually—’ he rose from the bed and stepped towards her ‘—I can.’

      She held her slipper out like a shield, as if the scrap of fabric and pearls would protect her from his advance. ‘What are you going to do?’

      Dunstan snatched the slipper from her hands, tossed it across the cabin, then slowly circled her. He passed by her side, touching her ear as he kept walking. ‘I know your ears are fine.’

      He brushed a fingertip across her lips as he crossed before her, making her lips tingle. ‘It is obvious you are capable of speech. And I know you can see, so nothing is wrong with your eyes.’

      Isabella silently cursed her own stupidity. He’d accepted her statement as a dare—as a way to intentionally trap her in her own lie.

      He stopped behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Isabella fought the urge to shiver beneath his touch.

      Patting her shoulders, he lowered his hands, running them down to her wrists. Leaning over her, he commented softly, ‘And if I am not mistaken, these two arms seem to be normal.’

      He trailed his hands up to caress the back of her neck, asking, ‘I wonder what else needs to be investigated?’

      She tried unsuccessfully to pull away from him. ‘Nothing.’

      ‘No? Then how can I be certain you are whole?’

      Isabella ground her teeth before answering, ‘I am fine. There is nothing wrong with me.’

      ‘Ah.’ With his thumbs still on the back of her neck, he snaked his fingers to encircle her throat and with his fingertips beneath her chin tipped her head back, forcing her to look up at him.

      While the placid expression on his face warned her of no ill-conceived plans to choke the life from her, the gentle, deadly warmth of his hold silently threatened her in a way no brandished sword ever could.

      This hold was more personal than the tip of cold metal against flesh. The heat of his fingers belied the damage he could cause.

      ‘So, you were seeking to lie to me?’

      She stared up at him. He knew full well she’d lied. He had only been mocking her, baiting her, and she’d stepped into his trap with little thought.

      If she kept up this ruse, she knew he would follow through with his examination until she cried off. Unwilling to be humiliated any more than she already was, she whispered, ‘Yes.’

      ‘What?’ He stroked the ridge of her throat. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

      ‘Yes.’ Isabella reached up and grasped his wrist. ‘Yes, I lied.’

      He slid his fingers lower to circle the base of her neck, but did not remove his hands. The less-threatening hold did nothing to ease the trembling of her limbs.

      ‘You are being forced into a marriage you do not want. There is nothing you can do to prevent it.’

      His hands, gently rubbing the tension from her neck, might be welcome another time, another place. Now, however, his caressing touch was an unwelcome reminder of what was to come. If they wed, and unless she could convince the priest on Dunstan to not perform the rites, it was becoming a certainty that they would, he would own her body and soul.

      ‘Rest assured, Isabella, that I expect little from you as a wife.’

      Her breath caught in her chest. Did that mean they would not share a bed? Once his business with Glenforde was complete, would she be able to petition for an annulment?

      ‘We will wed. You will share my bedchamber.’

      Isabella’s heart sank. Sharing his bed would dash her hopes for an annulment. What would she do, how could...? She bit her lower lip to keep from crying out in surprise at the sudden clarity of the devious vision springing to life in her mind. If all else failed, her family could make her a widow.

      ‘As long as you do not seek to lie to me, I will treat you well. Deal with me honestly and you will want for little.’

      His statements gave her pause. He would not say such things unless someone, at some point in time, had deceived him. A woman most likely—a wife, or love interest, perhaps?

      The irony of this moment was not lost on her. Now, as she plotted his imminent demise, he swore to treat her well if she did not lie to him.

      A tiny pang of guilt grew deep in her belly, twisting its way towards her heart. Isabella swallowed a groan, refusing to let misgivings rule her future.

      Dunstan stepped back. With his hands no longer on her, she was able to tamp down the guilt.

      ‘I am weary and need rest.’ He headed to the bed. ‘Come.’

      She stared at him in shocked dismay. ‘I will not join you in that bed.’

      ‘You have done so these past nights.’

      ‘When you were incapable of doing anything more than sleep.’

      ‘That is all I intend to do now.’

      His intentions didn’t matter, he was more than capable of doing whatever he wanted, should she agree or not. She shook her head. ‘No.’

      Dunstan sat on the edge of the bed. ‘My bandages need to be changed.’

      Isabella narrowed her eyes at his subterfuge. He was giving her that sad oh, woe is me look again. The same one her father had used on her mother when he wanted something he knew full well he didn’t need.

      She wasn’t yet Dunstan’s wife and she didn’t care for him, his wants or his well-being in the least. ‘Your man Matthew is quite capable of changing the bindings.’

      ‘His touch isn’t as gentle as yours.’

      She shrugged. ‘Then perhaps you need to speak nicer to him.’

      ‘I rest easier with you at my side.’

      Again, she shook her head. ‘We are not wed yet. Until that day comes...’ Because she held tightly to a slim thread of hope that Dunstan’s priest would see reason, she silently added, if it comes. ‘I will not share a bed with you.’

      ‘Then where do you think you will sleep?’

      She didn’t know. But she was certain of one thing—she was not sharing his bed.

      He’d