none of you see anything wrong with...’ she waved an arm to encompass the chamber ‘...this?’
‘We have managed quite well.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘Enough!’ He spun away from the window. ‘I have no desire to listen to your complaints.’
His sudden movement, deep threatening tone and fierce scowl forced her back a step. ‘Complaints?’ The shrillness in her voice made her take a breath. Regardless of how threatened she felt, showing any sign of fear would be a mistake. To regain a semblance of self-control, she glanced pointedly around the chamber, asking in what she hoped was a milder tone, ‘The sorry condition of your keep does not bother you?’
Dunstan stormed towards her, his hands clenched at his sides. ‘The condition of my keep is none of your concern.’
She fought the urge to bolt from the chamber—where would she go? But it was impossible to stand firm in the face of his anger and it would be foolish to remain within arm’s length of danger. Moving away quickly, she put the small table between them.
‘Where I lay my head at night is my concern.’
‘If this chamber isn’t good enough for you, there is an empty cell available.’
If he was intentionally seeking to frighten her more, he would have to do better than that. Besides, the cell might prove cleaner. Isabella squared her shoulders and stared at him. ‘That would suit me fine, my lord.’
‘I wonder.’ His eyebrows arched. ‘How would your bravado fare amongst the rats?’
Actually, if the closeness of the walls didn’t take her bravado away and leave her near senseless, she’d be frantic at the first scurry of tiny feet, but he didn’t need to know that. So, in an effort to retain her show of bravery, she shrugged in answer to his question.
‘Do not tempt me, Isabella.’
He spoke her name slowly, deliberately drawing it out. She hated the way it rolled off his tongue. And she utterly despised the tremors it sent skittering down her spine.
‘Lord Dunstan!’
Conal’s voice broke through the closed chamber door a mere heartbeat before the man swung it open and entered. To her relief the priest followed in his wake.
Finally. She exhaled with a loud sigh, drawing the attention of all three men.
Dunstan motioned the men further into the chamber. ‘Father Paul, is all ready?’
‘Just as you requested.’ The priest emptied the contents of the satchel he carried on to the table. ‘I take it this is your intended bride?’ the priest asked Dunstan.
‘Yes.’
‘No,’ Isabella answered at the same time.
Ignoring her, the priest went about his business of unrolling and flattening a document, sharpening a quill and stirring the ink. He moved aside and waved Dunstan to the table. ‘Your signature, my lord.’
Dunstan paused, holding the quill less than a breath above the document. The feathered end wavered slightly, a small drop of ink splashed down on to the vellum, spreading like a brackish-coloured droplet of blood.
An ominous omen of the future? Isabella’s stomach clenched at the thought.
He scrawled his name at the bottom of the document, then extended the pen towards her, warning, ‘Don’t make this difficult.’
‘No.’ She stared at the quill before glaring at him across the table. ‘You can’t make me do this.’
‘Yes, actually, I can and will.’
She gasped at the certainty in his words. Knowing there would be no reasoning with him, she turned to the priest. Surely he could be made to see how unwilling she was to wed Dunstan. ‘I am being forced into this unholy alliance. It will not stand.’
The priest ignored her, seemingly content to gaze around the chamber. His unconcerned air splashed an icy cold on the heated rage that had been building in her chest.
‘Are you not a man of God? Do you not represent the Church in this matter?’ Isabella swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to remain rational. ‘I cannot be forced into this union.’
Father Paul looked down on her with the expression of a long-suffering parent dealing with an unreasonable child—the same type of look she’d endured countless times from Warehaven’s priest when she’d railed against lessons she had no desire to learn.
‘Child, it seems you do not fully understand the direness of your situation.’
The calmness of his voice had the opposite effect of what he’d most likely intended. Instead of soothing her, it set her teeth on edge. ‘I am not a child.’
Dunstan snorted, before suggesting, ‘Then stop acting like one.’
She ignored him, intent on making the priest see her side of this argument—and then agreeing with her. ‘There is nothing about this situation that I do not understand. I was taken from my home. Saw an arrow pierce my father’s chest as he came to my defence. I was made to tend my captor’s injuries. And now—’ she flicked her shaking fingers at the document on the table ‘—against everything that is just and right I am being forced to agree to a marriage that neither I, nor my family, would desire.’
The priest’s eyebrows rose. ‘I am certain your family would find it more desirable for you to wed someone you detest now, than to return to them next spring carrying a bastard.’
Next spring?
The floor heaved beneath her feet.
Dear Lord, she’d not taken the season, nor the weather, into consideration. Her brother and Glenforde would be unable to come to her rescue for months.
And the priest’s concern over her carrying a bastard come spring made her ill. She drew in a long breath, hoping to calm the sudden queasiness of her stomach. There had to be a way out of this.
‘Child.’ Father Paul touched her arm. ‘Surely now you see the sense in a marriage.’
‘No.’ Isabella shook her head. ‘There will be no chance of creating a child.’
‘You cannot know the future. You are here on Dunstan without any protection, with no suitable companion.’ The priest shrugged. ‘Even if Lord Richard was the most chivalrous knight of the realm and placed not one finger upon your person, nobody can say the same of every man on this island.’
She glared at Dunstan. ‘You have so little control over the men in your command?’
When he said nothing, she crossed her arms against her chest and turned her attention back to the priest. ‘Then lock me away in a cell.’
‘Locks can be picked, cell doors can be broken.’
Would he thwart every idea she suggested? ‘But—’
