The Warrior's Winter Bride. Denise LynnЧитать онлайн книгу.
overboard, where else would I be?’
Instead of answering her, Dunstan tugged slightly at her arm. ‘What is this?’
It was her arm. Was he seeing things? What did he think...oh...he meant the knife. ‘I need to remove your bandages.’
He released her wrist, then nodded.
‘Does that mean I should continue?’
‘If you want.’
‘Well, no. I don’t want to do anything for you.’ A quick glance towards the still-open door assured her Sir Matthew was not standing there. ‘I wasn’t given a choice.’
‘No, of course you...’
His words trailed off and Isabella realised he’d once again fallen prey to the beckoning spell of the sleeping drug. It was to be expected since very few people could resist the siren’s call of poppy juice.
She cut away at the bandages, peeling them back as she did so. Holding her breath, she focused on the wound left by the arrow.
To her relief, while it was an angry red and puffy, there weren’t any telltale dark lines of advanced infection.
She’d need only to reopen the wounds front and back, let them drain and after cleaning them out, pack them with some herbs—if Sir Matthew found any. And if not, perhaps that verjuice they called wine would be strong enough to burn away any evil humours.
The bigger concern was his fever.
‘What worries you so?’
And once again Dunstan was awake. As much as she’d like to rail at him for killing her father and kidnapping her, she knew that within moments he’d only fall asleep again and not hear a word she uttered.
In hopes that he might be alert enough to assist in his own recovery, she said, ‘You have a fever and it seems there is nothing aboard this ship to help banish it.’
‘Beneath my chainmail.’
She looked around the cabin. Not locating his mail, Isabella asked, ‘And where is your armour?’
‘Why would you want my lord’s armour?’ Sir Matthew asked, walking into the cabin carrying a bucket of steaming water, a length of linen and another skin of wine.
‘He claims there are some herbs beneath it.’
Without voicing anything more than undecipherable grumbles to himself, Matthew put down the items he carried and headed out of the cabin once more.
In his absence, Isabella went to work on Dunstan’s injuries. By the unevenness of his breathing, she assumed he was floating in that twilight region between sleep and wakefulness.
Hoping her assumption was correct, she pushed at his shoulder, asking, ‘Can you roll on to your side?’
Thankfully, even though he groaned while doing so, he complied. By the time Sir Matthew returned, she was nearly finished.
He tossed a pouch on the pallet. ‘Here. This is what I found.’
Isabella shook off a thin coating of sand before opening the small leather bag. She didn’t need to ask about the sand since her father and brother stored their armour in barrels of sand when out to sea. Although, the herb pouch would have been in their cabin. The all-heal herbs inside were wrapped in waxed leather to keep them dry.
She tossed a pinch into a cup, then extended it to Dunstan’s man. ‘Could you pour a bit of the wine in here?’
While he did that, she put a larger pinch into a second cup and used the pommel of his dagger to grind the herb into a powder. Adding some of the still-warm seawater, she made a poultice, then applied it to his wounds, holding it in place with the bindings she’d made from the linen.
When they had Dunstan situated once again on his back, with the covers over him, she tipped his head up to give him some of the herb-and-wine decoction.
‘No more.’ He tried to push the cup away, but was too weak to do much more than try. However, he was strong enough to tightly clamp his lips together.
Sir Matthew stayed Dunstan’s hand. ‘My lord, you need to drink this.’
‘No more.’
She’d seen other scars, ones more gruesome than Warehaven’s arrow would leave behind, on his body. So it wasn’t as if he’d never been injured before. However, Isabella wondered if maybe this was the first time he’d been given poppy juice.
After her brother’s first time, he’d refused to take the brew. He’d rather pass out from the pain than ever swallow the liquid again. Perhaps Dunstan had come to the same decision.
‘It’s not the sleeping draught,’ Isabella explained. ‘This is for your fever.’
He turned his head way. ‘Stinks.’
‘You will either take it like a man, or we will force it on you like a child, the choice is yours.’
He shook his head at her threat. ‘No.’
‘Listen to me, Dunstan.’ She tightened her grasp on his head. ‘You will take this medicine. You are not going to die until I decide it’s time, do you hear me? And it’s not yet time.’
‘Very poor wife.’
His words might have been slightly slurred, but she clearly understood what he’d said. ‘I am not your wife.’
‘Will be soon.’
Isabella froze.
Cursing, Matthew grabbed Dunstan’s face, forcing his lips apart, and poured the liquid into his mouth.
Will be soon? She released her hold on the back of his head as if he were suddenly made of fire and scrambled from the bed. Isabella staggered backwards until she hit the side of the ship.
Shaking with fear, dismay and anger, she clasped her hands to her chest, as if that would offer some measure of protection, and asked Sir Matthew, ‘What does he mean?’
He remained silent, seemingly intent on settling his commander more firmly under the covers.
‘Answer me!’ Isabella shouted. ‘After all that has been done to me, I have still helped save his miserable, worthless life. I deserve an answer. What did that miscreant scoundrel mean?’
Sir Matthew lowered his head, his chin nearly resting on his chest, he turned away from the bed and said, ‘Dunstan’s priest awaits his lordship’s return—with his bride-to-be.’
Isabella’s choked gasp nearly stuck in her throat. ‘His bride-to-be?’ She feared she knew the answer, but hoping she was wrong, asked, ‘And who would that unlucky lady be?’
As he quickly headed for the door, Matthew answered, ‘You.’
Richard groaned as the surface beneath him heaved to and fro as if being pitched by a windswept wave. The motion let him know that he was aboard a ship. Hopefully, his own.
Outside of a strange dream about Warehaven’s daughter leaning over him with a knife to his chest, the last thing he clearly remembered was vaulting into the small rowboat, grabbing a bow and turning to face Warehaven’s men just as a hand grasped his leg. Distracted, he’d glanced down and fire had sliced through him, sending him head first against a cross-brace.
He raised his arm and half-swallowed a gasp at the pain lacing across his shoulder.
‘Warehaven’s archers rarely miss. You took an arrow.’
He opened his eyes, squinting against the flicker of a lit lamp and stared up with relief at the crudely drawn map he’d nailed to the ceiling of his cabin.
‘What