Forbidden Night with the Prince

by Michelle Willingham

  His eyes locked upon hers as if he didn’t believe her. ‘You kissed me back.’ There was a pointed question in his statement, but she had no idea how to answer it.

  Instead, she blurted out, ‘It would have been bad manners not to.’

  At that, he threw back his head and laughed. His green eyes warmed with humour, and he rested his hand on the small of her back. ‘So it would.’ And though she knew it had been unwise, she did not regret kissing him.

  Ronan guided her back towards the castle, and for a time, she held her silence. She knew better than to imagine that this man wanted her for anything other than her brothers’ soldiers. He wanted to take back his fortress, nothing more.

  The prince slowed his pace and studied her. ‘You surprised me, Lady Joan. And it makes me consider another possibility. Would you consider a betrothal with me, even if we did not marry? Your brothers would grant me the men I need, and I would grant you whatever you desire.’

  ‘I—I don’t know.’ She had never considered the possibility, but the very thought of wedding a man like Ronan made her blush. One kiss had turned her knees to water, and her heartbeat was still racing.

  ‘Surely there is a way we could help each other.’

  She steeled herself and stopped walking. Did she dare to tell him the truth of what she wanted most? Likely not, for she hardly knew this man. It shamed her to admit that she wanted a child so badly, she was willing to consider bearing one out of wedlock.

  He had suggested a betrothal without an actual marriage. It made her wonder if that was a way around the curse. Ronan seemed to be a kind man, and there was no doubt she felt an attraction to him.

  Would it be so wrong to surrender her virtue to this prince and take him into her bed? Or was the risk too great? In the eyes of the church, a formal betrothal was nearly the same as a marriage. She would not be the first woman to lie with her intended husband before the vows were spoken.

  Her brothers might kill him, even if the curse did not. But she could not deny that Ronan had awakened sensual longings within her.

  Her face felt as if it were on fire, but she decided to tell him the truth. ‘You asked me what I wanted.’

  ‘Yes. Name it, and if it is in my power to give, this I will do.’ He turned to regard her. His green eyes gazed upon her with interest, and she felt her blush rising again.

  ‘The truth is, I want a child of my own.’

  For a long moment, he stared at her in disbelief. She could not read the emotions on his face, but it seemed as if she had struck a nerve. It made her wish she hadn’t spoken at all. Perhaps he didn’t desire her after all, despite the kiss they had shared. Perhaps he found her lacking, a woman to be pitied. Her stomach twisted with humiliation, but at last he spoke.

  ‘A child is something I cannot give you. Not ever.’

  The finality in his voice startled her, for although she had expected a refusal, she had not anticipated the cold anger in his voice. She didn’t ask him why, for it was clear that he did not want to speak of it.

  So be it. There would be no betrothal between them, and they would go their separate ways. It should have been a relief—and yet, she felt a sense of regret. Ronan Ó Callaghan was the first man she had been attracted to in years. His kiss had taken her breath away, leaving her wanting more. But it was not meant to be.

  As they returned to the castle, the weight of silence descended over them.

  * * *

  Joan had originally planned to return to Killalough with her brothers, but Queen Isabel had begged her to stay for the Samhain festivities. She would rather have retreated to their fortress, but Warrick and Rhys had told her to stay, to appease the queen and to keep good relations with the MacEgan tribe. They would send an escort for her within a few days.

  She had no doubt that they were trying to arrange a match with Ronan. Although she had already told them it was not a possibility, her brothers were ignoring her.

  The autumn air was crisp, and Joan strode through the inner bailey, carrying a basket of turnips. Several of the children followed, begging her to save the largest turnip for them to carve. Tonight, they would place lights within the turnips and carry the lanterns to keep away the evil spirits.

  She found that it was entertaining to carve the turnips into faces. After distributing the turnips among the children, she chose one for herself and went to sit upon the stone steps leading to the battlements. With a small dagger, she began cutting into the vegetable, attempting to form eyes within the reddish-white mass.

  Footsteps drew nearer, and a shadow crossed over her. When she glanced up, she saw Ronan standing there. He was holding a large turnip of his own. Joan wasn’t quite certain why he had come to speak with her. It seemed that he’d been avoiding her since he’d kissed her. Now, he was behaving as if nothing were amiss.

  Without asking, he sat down beside her and compared their turnips. ‘Mine is bigger.’

  She almost laughed, for it sounded like exactly something her brothers might say in teasing. There was a hint of wickedness in his eyes, and she realised he was trying to mend the awkwardness between them. Her mood softened, and it did seem that he wanted to become friends once again.

  And so, she met his teasing with her own response. ‘Size doesn’t matter, my lord.’

  A sinful smile curved over his mouth, making her flush. ‘I’ve heard otherwise.’

  ‘Most people say it’s what you do with your size that matters,’ she parried. His grin widened at the entendre, and she added, ‘I have two brothers. Your jest is not a new one.’ She carved a notch in the turnip, but her blade slipped and nicked the vegetable.

  ‘Is that meant to be a face?’ he asked. He took out his own dagger and began notching his turnip. Which was, in fact, bigger than hers.

  ‘It is.’ She wasn’t particularly artistic, but it did have the necessary parts. ‘Those are the eyes, and that’s the nose.’

  ‘You cut his nose off.’

  ‘No, he was wounded in battle. It’s still there.’ To emphasise her point, she cut a line across the surface. ‘That’s a terrible scar. He was trying to save his lady from the enemy and suffered for her sake.’

  ‘And she was taken away and was lost forever,’ he finished. ‘He died of a broken heart.’

  ‘That wasn’t the ending I had planned.’ She carved another notch into the turnip, attempting to make the face smile. ‘I was thinking that she would see beneath his scars to the man he truly was. And then he would bring her home with him to love for always.’

  ‘That isn’t what happens in real life, Lady Joan.’

  Joan set down her knife to look at him. With a shrug, she said, ‘It’s my story, and I can end it however I like.’ She wasn’t entirely surprised that he had disregarded the love story. Her brothers would have done the same.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be more interesting my way?’ he suggested. ‘Unpredictable is better.’ He continued to carve at the vegetable, flicking bits of the turnip to the ground.

  ‘I prefer a happier ending. One that ends in love.’

  ‘Love doesn’t always end happily.’

  The dark tone of his voice suggested that he had experienced even more loss than she’d imagined. Had he loved a woman who had died during the attack on Clonagh? Or worst of all, had it involved a child? His vehement statement that he would never sire children made her wonder what had happened. A sudden ache caught her, for she had not thought of this. ‘I am sorry if you lost someone you loved. Did it happen during the attack?’

  He let out a slow breath. ‘No. It was a few months before.’

  She didn’t know what else to say, except to touch his shoulder with sympathy. The sudden flash of interest in his eyes caught her unawares, for she had not expected it. She pulled back her hand as if it had caught on fire, feeling embarrassed.

  To distract herself, Joan tilted her h
ead to get a better look at the turnip he was carving. At first, it seemed only like a series of lines. Then he turned it towards her, and she was startled to see the gnarled face of a grandfather etched within the vegetable. It was truly remarkable that he had captured such a powerful image with only a few strokes of the blade.

  ‘Oh, my,’ she murmured. ‘This is wonderful. You cannot possibly risk burning this carving with a candle.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s only a turnip, Lady Joan.’

  Did he truly not grasp the talent he had? Why would he deny his skills? She reached out for the turnip and then asked, ‘Have you ever made other carvings? Out of wood, perhaps?’

  ‘It’s nothing of importance.’ With that, he stood. ‘Add my turnip in with the others. The children can light them and carry them tonight. I will go and help with the bonfires.’

  Joan kept the turnip but had no intention of giving it over to be burned. Instead, she put it with her own, marvelling at the detail he’d captured. Ronan had a depth of talent she would never have guessed. The simplicity of his carving touched her heart.

  ‘I am keeping it,’ she told him. He eyed her for a moment, and then shrugged as if it were nothing. But it revealed another side to this man, one that intrigued her.

  In the distance, many of the MacEgans were gathering wood and loading it into wagons to be brought to the hills for the Samhain fires. Before Ronan left her side, there was a sudden outcry near the gates.

  Joan rose to her feet and saw a man and a woman arriving on horseback. The man had blond hair, lighter than Ronan’s, and beside him rode a dark-haired woman of such beauty, Joan felt like an old crone. A young girl rode behind them on a smaller horse. The girl’s brown hair was braided neatly, and the woman kept glancing behind her to ensure that the child was well.

  ‘Who are they?’ she asked Ronan.

  ‘Connor MacEgan is the king’s younger brother. It looks as if he’s taken a wife.’

  Joan moved closer, with Ronan following behind. Connor helped the woman down from her horse, but when Joan drew closer, she saw that he was favouring one hand over the other. The king came forward with Queen Isabel to greet his brother, and the new bride stood back. Her clothing was simple, but the dark woollen cloak accentuated her clear skin and her grey-green eyes.

  Connor lifted the girl down from her horse, and she curtsied before the king and queen. Joan gathered with the rest of them and heard him introduce the woman as his bride, Aileen. The child was his daughter, Rhiannon.

  There was a moment of fleeting shock on King Patrick’s face before he masked it and welcomed them both. Isabel smiled at the young girl and held out her hand, bringing her over to meet Liam. Aileen followed, and they walked inside the castle.

  A pang caught at Joan’s heart when she saw the young family. There was such love between them, she could not hide her own envy of the life she wanted to have.

  ‘Go and join them,’ Ronan urged. ‘I know you’re wanting to know more.’

  She did, but didn’t feel she ought to indulge her curiosity since they were strangers. Even so, Ronan departed to join the men who were carrying wood up the hill of Amadán. After he left, she could not help but look back at him, wondering what other talents he had hidden from everyone else.

  Chapter Three

  For a few hours, Ronan was glad to disappear into a crowd of men who did not know he was a prince. He could stack wood on the bonfires, and the hard labour took his mind off the troubles brewing. But it could not banish his thoughts of Joan.

  He never should have kissed her that day. The impulse haunted him even now. He’d expected her to kiss like a maiden, innocent and sweet. Instead, she had ignited a fire within him, making him want to consume her. He had avoided all women since his brother’s death, but the abstinence had come back to haunt him. Joan’s mouth tasted of forbidden sin, of a woman who was born to be seduced.

  And worst of all, she wanted a child. The very thought brought back the memory of his nephew’s death. No, he could never grant her that. It wasn’t even fair to ask a betrothal of her—not when her only desire was to become a mother. Better to let her go, to let her love someone else.

  Perspiration lined his skin as Ronan stacked a final log upon the bonfire. In the distance, the sun was setting, and the sky grew streaked with red and orange. Already he had decided to take a small group of MacEgan soldiers back to his lands, to scout out his stepbrother’s forces and determine what to do next.

  The problem was, he had no idea how many of his men had remained loyal to him. Odhran had hired mercenaries, but it was impossible that such a small number of fighters could take control of Clonagh so easily. What advantage did they have? Or did his people want Odhran to be their king?

  You were never meant to rule over Clonagh, came the whisper of his conscience.

  Neither was Odhran.

  A heaviness weighed upon his shoulders, but Ronan tried not to dwell on his past mistakes or the disappointments he had brought to his father. All he could do was move forward, trying to restore the rightful ruler. But he remembered the years of trailing his brother, trying to gain his father’s approval. He’d watched as King Brodur had rested his hand on Ardan’s shoulder, telling him all there was to know about the Kingship. There had been pride in his father’s eyes.

  Pride that had never been there for Ronan.

  A familiar ache spread out within him, stretching the emptiness of regret. Saintly Ardan was always meant to be the heir, never him. And though Ronan had tried to bring honour to their family name through his fighting skills, Brodur had seemed disinterested.

  A hard knot formed in his throat at the thought of his father’s fate now. He didn’t know if Odhran was ruthless enough to harm Brodur. Though they had their differences, he hoped his stepbrother had merely deposed the king.

  What had become of his people since he’d left them a few days ago? Were they unharmed? Or had Odhran punished those loyal to the king? He prayed that his father was still alive somehow, though it was unlikely. The question was what to do now.

  After the bonfires were prepared and ready to be lit, Ronan followed the men back to the keep. All around him, the children held carved turnips hanging on slender pieces of rope. They had not lit the lanterns yet, but he saw the MacEgans gathering within the inner bailey. He overheard a child whining, ‘It’s dark. Why did we put out the fire?’

  The mother shushed her son and said, ‘All hearth fires must be put out. We will light them tonight from the Samhain bonfires.’

  Just as the woman had predicted, the lights were extinguished everywhere. Ronan followed the crowd of people, and the king and queen had gathered with them in the dim twilight. The king’s brother, Connor MacEgan, was seated beside his new wife, who had been crowned with a garland of flowers. Her daughter also had flowers in her hair, but it was the sight of Joan that drew his attention once more. Ronan didn’t know if it was her white gown, but he never failed to find her within a crowd, though today she stood near the back, as if to avoid notice.

  ‘My brother has returned to us,’ the king announced in a loud voice. ‘And he has brought his wife Aileen with him, along with his daughter Rhiannon. We have many reasons to celebrate on this Samhain night, and I am glad they are with us.’

  He stretched out his hand and pointed in the distance towards the large stacks of wood atop the hill of Amadán. ‘Let us light the fires and begin our celebration.’

  The king gave the signal to a man mounted on horseback. ‘Go.’

  After a short time, the rider reached the piles of wood and started the fires, setting them ablaze. The bonfires burned in the darkness, while a cheer resounded from the people.

  Then the rider returned with a torch and dismounted. He knelt down before the queen, and she lit a candle from the torch. Dozens of candles were passed out to all the folk, and one by one, they lit their wicks until the
re was a sea of light within the castle walls. It was beautiful in an ancient tradition, binding them together.

  Ronan had held the same ritual with his own clan, last year, on behalf of his father. Seeing it here at Laochre only strengthened his resolve to bring peace to Clonagh and his people. With any hope, they would celebrate Imbolc in the spring, free from Odhran’s rule.

  An old woman received a large ewer of water from a priest and poured some of it over the threshold leading to the Great Chamber. The priest murmured a blessing over the holy water, protecting Laochre from any evil spirits that might wander this night.

  Ronan moved through the people, making his way towards King Patrick and his brother Connor. When he reached them, Connor came forward to greet him. ‘We met a few years ago, Ronan.’

  He gripped the man’s forearm, and Connor did the same, but with his left arm. At this close distance, he saw that the man’s hand was heavily scarred, and it appeared as if the injury had not healed well. When Connor saw the direction of his gaze, he shrugged. ‘My hand was crushed, and Aileen did everything she could to save it. Thanks to her, I still have a hand.’ His face softened at the mention of his wife.

  ‘She must be a skilled healer.’

  ‘There is no one better. I brought her here to meet my family and to stay a while.’ He sobered a moment. ‘I was sorry to hear about your brother’s death. Ardan was a good man.’

  Ronan nodded, forcing back the ache of guilt. ‘He was.’

  ‘Patrick tells me that you are in need of soldiers to reclaim your kingdom.’

  ‘I intend to take a scouting party back to Clonagh soon. You are welcome to join us, if you like.’

  ‘My fighting days are at an end, I fear.’ Connor held up his mangled right hand. ‘But I can offer strategy, should you need it.’

  ‘My strategy has not been working well thus far.’ Ronan explained about the betrothal Rhys de Laurent wanted to make between himself and Joan. ‘Neither of us wants to marry, but I could use her brothers’ men.’