Underneath The Mistletoe Collection. Marguerite Kaye

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 been correct—she had done so these last few nights, but she hadn’t felt threatened or in any danger. However, the situation had changed. Dunstan had already proven he was more than capable of forcing her to do his will.

      Feeling his hard stare, she answered, ‘Since I am not tired, it doesn’t matter where I sleep.’ At his frown, Isabella rose from the stool and plopped down into the corner of the cabin, wedging herself tightly against the hull’s timbers. ‘This will do fine.’

      Dunstan shook his head and rose from the bed. ‘It is cold. Permitting you to develop the chills and a fever will not suit my plans.’

      His plans? What about the plans she’d had? ‘What do I care about your plans?’

      He ignored her question and motioned towards the bed. ‘Join me of your own free will, like an adult, or I’ll carry you like a child. The choice is yours.’

      She clenched her jaw at having a version of her own words tossed back at her, but refused to move.

      He rubbed his forehead as if seeking to ease the throbbing of an aching head. Then he shouted, ‘Matthew!’ When his man hastened into the cabin, he held out his hand. ‘Give me your dagger.’

      Matthew did so without question and, when waved away, left the cabin without a word.

      Isabella gasped. He would kill her for not sharing his bed? She turned her face into the timber beam to avoid witnessing her own death.

      ‘Oh, for the love of—’ He broke off on a harshly snarled curse and grasped her wrist. ‘If my intent had been to kill you, I would have done so at Warehaven. Open your hand.’

      She did as he ordered, but kept her face averted.

      ‘What is wrong with you? I thought a Warehaven would be braver than this.’ When she turned her head to stare up at him, he slapped the dagger’s handle on to her palm and tightly closed her fingers around it. ‘Now, get in the bed.’

       Chapter Six

      Finally. After endless weeks of searching for Glenforde’s whereabouts and these last six days at sea, this journey was nearly at an end.

      A cold wind raced across Richard’s face, bringing a chill to his cheeks and reminding him of the narrow margin in which they’d beaten the turn of the season. With the onset of winter at hand, this venture home had been a race against time. Another week at sea would have found them in dire straits. Strong winds, enormous waves and deathly cold water could have spelt doom for any foolish enough to set sail.

      Yet he’d intentionally detoured this journey home by a day—long enough to set one of his trusted men ashore on the Continent with orders to return with the information he sought. The man would return to Dunstan on the last of his ships that would hopefully soon leave Domburg. Once that ship and this one reached Dunstan’s harbour his entire fleet would be safely careened during the long winter for repairs and general maintenance.

      Richard directed his attention towards the fast-approaching coastline. The quickly setting sun behind them cast shadows on the rock face of the cliffs. Soon, night would fall and they would be unable to safely enter the harbour until daylight.

      A quick glance assured him that Matthew had the men and ship well under control. The sail slid down the mast as oars splashed into the water.

      It was imperative that the ship be manually steered through the narrow inlet into Dunstan’s harbour lest she be smashed to pieces against the jagged boulders hiding beneath the surface of the water on either side of the inlet.

      Once again he looked shoreward, relieved to see the torches flare to life in the towers flanking the entrance to the harbour. It was necessary to have those lights as guideposts.

      Richard positioned himself at the centre of the aft deck, noting that the bow of the ship was just off-centre of the torchlights.

      ‘Hard to port!’ he shouted down to the men on the rudder. When the bow pointed dead centre between the lights, he yelled, ‘Hold!’

      While steering the ship past the boulders, then between the cliffs wasn’t as easy as it might appear with a crew not as well trained as this one, he was grateful for the natural protection Dunstan’s unwelcoming coastline provided.

      Most of the island rose up from the sea like a rock-faced mountain and needed little protection from unlikely intruders. Those who were brave enough to try either gave up in frustration, or drowned after their ship broke apart against the boulders.

      The short, narrow strip of beach on the other side of the island existed only at the whims of the tide and wind. If a ship anchored there, it risked being either blown against the cliff face, or left high and dry on the exposed sandbar.

      The other danger, as he’d learned, was anchoring just off the beach, only to later watch his ship sail away without him when the tide unexpectedly turned and the anchor failed to hold against the rapidly rising water. Chasing the unmanned ship down had proven far easier than bearing his father’s wrath.

      Even with the dangers of anchoring at the beach, his grandfather had determined it the weakest point on the island. Which is why a stone-fortified keep had been built at the highest point above the beach.

      If a force did manage to make landfall there, they would be unable to gain entrance to the keep without suffering the loss of many lives.

      And still, even with all of this protection—natural and manmade—Glenforde had broken through Dunstan’s defences. Richard knew the man had not done so unaided. Someone on the island had to have offered assistance.

      Who? And why?

      A sharp gasp caught his attention. He turned to see Isabella’s head appear over the edge of the forecastle deck. ‘Go back inside.’

      But instead of doing as she was told, she scrambled the rest of the way up the ladder to stand beside him. After planting her feet for balance, she tipped her head back to look up at the sheer rock cliffs flanking them.

      Richard swallowed his groan. When his wife had first witnessed this sight, she’d been terrified, claiming that he’d brought her to the entrance of hell. Agnes had hidden her face in her hands and cried with fear.

      Since he’d expected the same reaction from Isabella of Warehaven he’d ordered her to stay below. Following orders was obviously not one of her strengths—a lack he would see remedied quickly.

      From the way she easily fell into the rhythm of the slightly rolling deck, it was apparent that the Lord of Warehaven hadn’t cosseted his daughters inside the keep on dry land. This one at least had been aboard a ship or two in her life.

      Without looking at him, she said, ‘The rocks are close enough to touch.’

      ‘No. It only appears that way.’ Although they were close enough that men were stationed along both sides of the ship with long, sturdy poles in hand just in case they did get too close to the cliffs.

      ‘Has this always been here?’

      Richard frowned. Did she think he built it? He could hardly imagine the feat. ‘Yes. Of course.’

      ‘Does it cut all the way across the island?’

      ‘No.