Underneath The Mistletoe Collection. Marguerite Kaye

unbuckled his belt and tossed it on to the narrow cot. ‘Could we save all that for tomorrow?’ He pulled his tunic over his head and dropped it atop his belt. ‘Right now I’d rather sleep.’

      ‘You do that.’ She pulled his ring from her finger and threw it at him as she moved from behind the desk to march to the door intent on leaving this chamber, this keep and, if at all possible, somehow this island.

      He grabbed her arm as she reached for the latch. ‘And just where do you think you’re going?’

      Isabella tried to pull free of his hold, but he only tightened his grasp. ‘Let me go.’

      ‘Oh, my dear wife, you seem a bit upset.’

      ‘Upset!’ His mocking manner nearly made her spit with rage. ‘I have never been so...so mistreated in my life.’ She pried at his fingers. ‘And do not call me wife.’

      ‘Nobody has mistreated you.’ He released his hold long enough to scoop her up in his arms. ‘But perhaps someone should have done so once or twice.’ He turned around and walked towards the far corner of the chamber.

      ‘Put me down.’ Isabella struggled against his overbearing hold.

      As if she hadn’t said a word, he continued, ‘Had they done so, you might know how to deal with disappointment in a less strident manner.’

      Disappointment? Is that what he considered these recent events? Nothing but a disappointment?

      ‘Finding water in your goblet instead of wine is a disappointment. This is far more than that.’

      She kicked her legs and to her relief, he lowered his arm, letting her feet hit the floor.

      ‘I am certain you’ll eventually find a way to come to terms with your future. But for now, it is time for bed.’

      She glanced behind them at the narrow cot. ‘I am not sleeping in that vermin-infested thing you call a bed.’

      ‘No, you aren’t.’ While keeping one arm wrapped about her waist, he shoved aside a dusty tapestry hiding a door, which he opened and then pushed her into the darkness beyond. ‘But neither am I.’

       Chapter Eight

      Richard nabbed a lit torch from the wall of the outer chamber before following Isabella into the room.

      Standing with his back against the closed door, he held the torch high enough to illuminate the area around him before using it to light a brace of candles. He mounted the torch in a wall sconce, ignoring Isabella’s gasp of dismay.

      While a layer of dust had settled from weeks of non-use, this small chamber was serviceable and, as far as he was concerned, that was all that should matter. He crossed the room to slightly open one of the shutters just enough to allow in a breeze of fresh air.

      He expected her to make some comment, but to his amazement, she held her tongue and simply glared at him.

      The bed jutting out from the far wall looked more inviting that he’d imagined it would and he longed for nothing more than to crawl beneath the covers, drop his head on to a pillow and then sink into the overstuffed mattress.

      However, he couldn’t help but wonder if Isabella would plunge a knife into his heart while he slept.

      Before he could formulate any plan to prevent such an undesirable occurrence, she asked, ‘Where do you plan to sleep?’

      ‘In my bed.’

      Her brows winged over her hazel eyes. Light from the candles flickered in the speckled depths of her stare.

      ‘And where then will I sleep?’

      Even though there was little doubt his answer would be acceptable, he forged ahead. ‘In my bed.’

      ‘When boars grow teats.’

      Richard wanted to laugh at her bald statement, but knew that would only encourage her. Instead, he asked, ‘Did you learn your refined speech at Warehaven’s docks?’

      ‘My speech is none of your concern.’

      ‘As your husband, it is of great concern to me. I’ll not have you bandying coarse talk about the keep. You are well aware of the trouble it invites.’

      ‘Are you once again saying you have no control of your people?’

      She’d taken up that familiar arms-crossed-against-her-chest, rigid-spine, chin-up stance that he’d come to recognise as her ready-for-battle pose. He knew that she would refuse to see reason or agree with anything he said.

      His patience was in short supply at the moment and suddenly the idea of locking her in a cell seemed a good one.

      Richard sighed. Refusing her bait, he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘If you want everyone to think you are nothing more than a trollop I pulled from the dregs, so be it.’ He tugged at a boot. ‘But don’t come crying to me the first time one of the men decides to taste your wares.’

      He tossed the boot across the room, drowning out her gasp of outrage. She could feign shock all she wanted. Right now he just wanted sleep.

      ‘I do not have to stand here and listen to you.’ Isabella headed towards the door.

      Richard reached it first and hauled her over his shoulder. ‘You are partially correct. You don’t have to stand here.’ He crossed the room in three strides and dropped her on to the bed. ‘However, you will remain in this room, in this bed and listen to whatever I have to say.’

      When she tried to get off the bed, he pushed her back on to the mattress. Holding her shoulders to the bed, he leaned closer. ‘If you get up from here again, I will tie you to the bed.’ Richard waited for her wide-eyed glare to ease into a frowning scowl to ask, ‘Do you understand me?’

      Oddly, instead of fighting him, arguing or making demands, she nodded. Her easy acquiescence now, along with her silence when he’d first pushed her into this chamber, made him wary. His concern that she might stab him in his sleep grew stronger.

      Richard released her and backed off slowly, not certain she’d actually stay put. With one eye on her, he once again sat on the edge of the bed to remove his other boot and stockings, then turned to slide Isabella’s shoes off.

      ‘Don’t.’

      The tremor in her whispered command caught him unaware. Was she frightened, angry or tired like him? ‘I was simply going to—’

      ‘I know what you were going to do.’ She drew her legs away. ‘I can do it myself.’

      ‘Then do so.’

      Once she dropped her shoes and stockings to the floor alongside the bed, Richard stood and stared down at her. The look she returned was...timid...no, not quite timid, he doubted if there was a timid bone in her entire body—perhaps more worried or concerned than frightened. Her arrow-straight body, tense, poised for escape most likely, spoke louder than any words she might have said.

      He jerked the covers and sheet from beneath her and drew them over her body. Her gaze followed him, he felt it burning a hole into his back, as he walked around the bed to the other side.

      Sliding beneath the top cover, leaving the thinner blanket and sheet beneath him, he settled his head on to the pillow, unable to hold back a sigh.

      The leather braces supporting the mattress creaked as she sat up. He opened one eye. ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘I can’t sleep here.’

      ‘You might want to give it a try before crying defeat.’ He reached up, seeking to draw her back down. ‘Close your eyes.’

      She pushed his hold away. ‘I can’t sleep in this bed with you.’

      He didn’t need the candlelight