Her Warrior King

by Michelle Willingham

  She rotated to warm another part of her body. When she caught him watching her, she frowned. Patrick turned away and checked on the hares again. After a time, the tantalising aroma of the roasting meat filled the air. The meat dripped with juices, and he cut off a piece with his knife, offering it to her along with a hard loaf of bread. She tore off a piece of bread and handed it back. Nibbling at the hare, she murmured, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I was not intending to starve you,’ he said. ‘No thanks is needed.’

  ‘Not just for the food—’ her face flushed red ‘—also for not bedding me after the ceremony.’ She moved her gaze away, staring at the roasting meat.

  Patrick crossed the room and stood before her. She needed to understand her role in this union. Resting his hands upon the table, he trapped her in place. His hands dug into the wood and he hid none of the frustrated anger, nor the vehemence he felt.

  ‘You needn’t worry that I will bed you now. Or at all, for that matter.’

  She blanched, but he held his ground. The marriage was part of a surrender agreement, not a true alliance. She would never be a queen, nor would she bear sons of his blood.

  It was best she got used to it now.

  Isabel groaned, as rays of sunlight speared her eyes. She tried to uncurl her body from where she’d slept upon the table. Her husband had not protested her choice, and she’d covered her hair with her veil. Even so, she’d had trouble falling asleep for fear of rats.

  Such a strange wedding night. She didn’t know what to think of Patrick MacEgan, nor their future together. Her husband stood at the doorway, his back to her. Isabel stifled her surprise. His tunic hung near the dying fire and he was bare from the waist up. His bronzed skin glowed in the sun while rippled muscles revealed his strength.

  She held her breath as he stretched. Toothless and ageing he wasn’t. But he’d laid her apprehensions to rest last night. He’d already said he had no intention of bedding her. She should be overwhelmed with relief.

  Instead, it made her suspicious. And uneasy about their arrangement. Why would he keep her a virgin? And for how long would he leave her alone? Her father had threatened them both if she was not carrying an heir by the time he arrived in Erin. Edwin de Godred would not hesitate to humiliate her.

  Isabel swung down from the table, eyeing the floor for any sign of rodents. Her limbs felt stiff and aching. And, sweet saints, there was more riding this day. Her backside chafed from the journey yesterday.

  Patrick turned around. ‘Good. You’re awake. Break your fast and we’ll go.’ He picked up his tunic and donned it, heading back outside.

  Isabel spied the fallen length of cloth on the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. A brat, he’d called it. At least it kept her warm in the morning chill. She ate the piece of bread he’d left for her, then ventured outside.

  The rising sun glimmered through the forest, while the wet grass shone. ‘Aren’t queens supposed to travel in a litter?’ she grumbled.

  ‘You aren’t a queen.’

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘You are a bride, but not a queen. You will not rule over my tribe.’

  There was anger in his voice, a dark threat that made her tremble. What did he expect from her? As his wife and lady, she had responsibilities to fulfil. She frowned as he lifted her atop his stallion. ‘Then why bother taking me to Erin?’

  ‘Because the Normans need evidence that I’ve kept my word. Only then will they obey your father’s orders to free my people.’

  She did not bother to converse during the remainder of the journey. A flare of annoyance sparked. He did not want her to play any part in their lives. What did he expect her to do? Sit in a corner and spin until she rotted?

  Her feelings flamed with silent rage. Aye, she was a Norman, but she had done nothing wrong. She had no choice in this marriage, but she refused to be treated like the enemy.

  Last night she’d stayed awake for hours, trying to decide what to do. Though she could behave like a child and try to flee, it would do no good. Either Patrick or her father would bring her back again.

  No longer could she return to her home or her people. Whether she willed it or not, as a married woman she had no choice but to remain with Patrick MacEgan.

  Her husband claimed Edwin would execute his people if she did not come to Ireland. He’d said there were children threatened.

  The very thought numbed her heart. Cruel deeds happened in battle. She’d seen it for herself once, and, even now, she shuddered at the memory of a burning village.

  Though her escorts had kept her far away from the carnage, she’d never forgotten the screams of the victims. A young boy, hardly more than three years of age, had stood beside a dead woman, sobbing for his mother. No one had come for him.

  She wished she had ordered her escorts to stop. She should have taken the boy with her, even though she had only been fifteen herself. Likely he had died with no one to care for him.

  It was possible that Patrick’s people had suffered the same fate as the villagers. She didn’t want to believe it. But what if it were true? How could she live with herself if she let others die because of her own selfish fears?

  No, until she fully understood what had happened to his people, she could not leave. She’d accompany her husband to Erin, and learn the truth.

  Isabel expelled a breath, gathering her wits. Surely once Patrick saw her skills at running a household, he would allow her to be useful. Somehow, some way, she would find a way to heal the breach between them and make a place for herself.

  Her future depended on it.

  The coastline loomed before them, shadowed by the sunset. The last vestiges of daylight disappeared beneath the clouded horizon, and Patrick saw his brothers’ horses grazing a short distance away. Relief filled him to know they were safe.

  He slowed the stallion’s gait. The waves surged against the sand, spraying foam into the salty air. Their ship waited on the strand for the morning tide, a vessel large enough for their horses and the four of them. Without the help of his brothers, he could not sail it.

  Patrick reined his horse near the caves and dismounted. Isabel’s eyelids drooped, her body struggling to remain upright. He lifted her down, and her knees buckled before she regained her footing.

  ‘I don’t think I ever want to ride a horse again,’ she murmured. He let her lean against him as they moved towards the caves. After several minutes of walking, he spied the golden cast of firelight against the cavern.

  Lug, but he looked forward to a good night’s rest. Only amongst his brothers could he relax. Each would give his life for the other.

  ‘Come.’ He led her to the mouth of the cave. Isabel stumbled across some of the rocks, and he caught her. Though her body had a delicate softness, her strength of will rivalled his own.

  His brother Trahern stooped near the entrance, his head nearly touching the stone ceiling. ‘So this fine cailín is your new wife?’

  Isabel steadied herself. ‘I am.’

  ‘I am Trahern MacEgan,’ he introduced himself. ‘And it’s curious I am—why you didn’t run away from my brother? If I had to wed him, I would have done anything to escape.’

  She tucked a lock of escaping hair behind her veil and offered a sheepish smile. ‘How do you know I did not try?’

  ‘More’s the pity you didn’t succeed.’ Trahern released a laugh. ‘Come and eat with us, sister. Bevan here is scowling because he lost our wager. He thought you’d run.’

  The scar across Bevan’s cheek whitened. He offered no kiss of welcome, and Patrick did not press for the courtesy. He’d rather his brother hold his silence.

  He led her towards the fire. Isabel huddled close to the flames, shivering to get warm. Her hand moved to her backside, and she closed her eyes as if to suppress the pain.

  ‘There will be no more riding,’ Patrick reassured her. In truth, he was glad of it himself, though he did not relish the voyage at dawn. He hated being powerless and at the mer
cy of the wind.

  ‘I am glad of it.’ Isabel let the brat slide from her shoulders. A damp tendril of hair curled across her shoulders, down to a slender waist. She met his gaze with a forthright stare of her own.

  He tore his gaze away. She might be a beautiful woman, but he had no right to look. The vow he’d made, to leave her untouched, strangled anything his traitorous body wanted.

  Trahern coughed. Patrick recognised the silent message and moved away from Isabel. His brother opened a pouch, offering a loaf of bread, then passed a horn of ale. Isabel accepted a portion of bread and quenched her thirst. He noticed the exhaustion haunting her face. Her brown eyes were strained, her skin appearing far too pale.

  While he satisfied his own hunger, he watched her surreptitiously. She had removed her veil, turning aside from them. Tangled locks of golden hair rested against her neck, and she began rebraiding it. He had never seen a woman perform the task before, since he had no sisters. It seemed almost intimate, watching her weave the strands with slender fingers. She sat beside the cavern wall with her knees drawn up. Almost like a child.

  But the silhouette of her woman’s body could not be denied. The rain had moulded the dress to her skin, and puckered nipples stood out, making him wonder what it would be like to touch her.

  She was forbidden. It was the only explanation of why she kindled any form of desire. He moved to the entrance of the cave, breathing deeply. The night air smelled of salt, and the last of the sun disappeared beneath the waves.

  ‘What will become of me when we reach Erin?’ Isabel asked finally.

  ‘I will grant you your freedom, as I vowed.’ If he kept her exiled upon Ennisleigh, she could move about as she pleased upon the island, doing harm to none. And he would not have to see her each day, nor be tempted by her.

  ‘I wish to know my responsibilities.’

  ‘You need not trouble yourself.’

  ‘Because I will never be a queen, isn’t that right?’ Bleak weariness settled in her eyes, and Isabel turned away from him.

  Never had she felt more alone. She had not been allowed to bring a maid with her, nor any of her belongings. Desolation rose within her, an icy cloak of loneliness.

  A piece of wood cracked in the fire, sending sparks into the air. Flickering shadows cast darkness across Patrick’s face. His brothers sat against the opposite wall, their heads lowered in muted conversation.

  ‘What about the estate? I do have experience running a castle household. Or shall I handle the accounts? I am not familiar with your lands, but perhaps—’ She broke off her rush of babbling when Patrick drew nearer.

  With a roughened palm, he lifted her chin until she was forced to look at him. In the erratic fire glow, a subtle intimacy cloaked the cave.

  ‘You are responsible for nothing.’ The smooth baritone of his voice and the nearness of him made Isabel tremble. Beneath the thin fabric of her kirtle, her breasts tightened. She couldn’t breathe, her mind racing with clouded thoughts of escape.

  Grey eyes, the colour of freshly hewn stone, stared at her with intensity. Isabel wanted to look away, but she forced herself to meet his scrutiny. Her warrior husband could do anything to her, and there was naught she could do to stop him. It was her duty to submit. Even so, her fingers dug into the damp earth.

  Patrick didn’t move. Gossamer shivers erupted across her skin at the dark heat in his gaze.

  ‘Sleep, a chara.’

  At the invitation to escape, Isabel scrambled away from him. She huddled against the cave wall, shivering, yet her skin blazed as though it were on fire. Suddenly she was afraid of the unexpected yearning he evoked. Blood raced within her veins, her skin sensitive.

  By the Blessed Mother, she had wanted him to draw closer. Though his demeanour was rough and savage, a primitive part of her yearned to know him.

  What was the matter with her? What had happened to her loyalty? Everything about this man bespoke his barbarian nature. From her childhood, she’d heard tales of the ancient Celts who rode into battle naked, their faces painted blue.

  She could almost picture Patrick’s face painted a fierce shade of indigo, fighting against the Norman invaders. He had practically stolen her from her own wedding. He hadn’t bothered to celebrate with feasting or participate in the ceremonial bedding. He was unpredictable, and she didn’t trust him to keep his vow. One moment he seemed to desire her; the next he grew distant.

  She wanted him to stay away. She didn’t like the unexpected longings that tempted her. He frightened her with his dangerous manner.

  Patrick’s brothers disappeared outside, leaving them alone. Isabel buried her face in her knees. Though she shivered partly from cold, her mind clenched with uneasiness.

  Moments later, a warm cloth fell across her shoulders. Isabel stood, drawing the shawl across her shoulders. Patrick held out a ragged gown. ‘Put this on. You need to wear the clothing of a tribeswoman now.’

  The coarse woollen dress was unlike any she had seen, a long gown that draped to her ankles with voluminous sleeves. She turned her back to him while she put it on. ‘Am I to be a slave, then? It is the colour of horse dung.’

  The edges of his mouth tipped. ‘I did not have time to barter for the colours you wanted. You may embroider the léine when we arrive in Eíreann.’

  When she turned back to face him, Patrick adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. She stood only inches from an embrace.

  In time, he exerted a gentle pressure upon her shoulders, forcing her to lie upon the cloak he’d spread upon the ground. He tucked the edge around her shoulders and spread the mantle across her. ‘Sleep. We’ve a long journey on the morrow.’

  Isabel turned away to feign sleep. Ever since the wedding, she had felt frozen in stone.

  Shadowed against the darkness of the cave, her husband stood guard. She sensed a wildness within him, a feral hunter who would show no mercy.

  Patrick turned and caught her gaze. Steel eyes disarmed her, while the flesh of her body rose with heat. What was wrong with her? Why could she not shut him out?

  ‘Will we reach your fortress in a day’s journey?’

  He shook his head. ‘But I will take you to your new home.’

  Isabel faltered, suddenly understanding more than she wanted to. ‘Where is that?’ He wasn’t going to abandon her in Erin, was he?

  ‘You wanted your freedom,’ he said. ‘I will grant that to you. You will remain upon the island of Ennisleigh.’

  Her heart sank, a coldness surrounding her. ‘Alone?’

  He inclined his head. ‘It is for your own protection. I cannot say what my tribe would do to you, were you to live among them.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing to harm anyone.’

  ‘Norman blood runs within your veins. It is enough.’

  Isabel huddled before the fire, her mind surging with anger. Did he think she would agree to this bargain? ‘I won’t be a prisoner there. You’ve no right to treat me as such.’

  ‘My duty is to keep you safe. It’s the only way.’

  ‘Your people disobey your commands, then?’

  He tensed, as though her words were made of thorns. ‘You know me not, Isabel. Do not presume to judge me. I seek only to make the best of this arrangement.’

  ‘What is best for you.’

  ‘What is best for all of us.’

  She clenched her teeth. So the Irish king believed he could exile her without a fight?

  Patrick MacEgan had no idea just how difficult she could be.

  Chapter Three

  W hite sails rippled in the wind, and in back of the vessel, the horses whinnied their displeasure at being trapped in one place. Patrick could sympathise with them. After a full day of nothing but grey skies and an endless sea, he longed to walk upon solid ground. Though he sailed when necessary, he disliked being at the whim of the seas.

  In the distance, the green hills of his homeland emerged, fragments of the shoreline ridged with sandy earth and limestone. Patrick’s chest
constricted with emotion at the sight of it. As a lad, he’d once run along the strand, playing with boyhood friends. Now, he held a different memory of these shores. The Norman invaders had landed here, spilling the blood of his people. And that of his eldest brother Liam.

  His hand moved to his sword hilt, feeling the unfamiliar warmth of ivory and wood. The weapon was one he’d inherited by right, but he had not grown accustomed to it. A ruby, worn smooth by generations of MacEgan kings, rested in the hilt. Once, they had commanded an imposing presence upon the land. But his father’s men were used to tribal raids, not organised warfare. Most could wield a sword, but they had no formal training in how to withstand the enemy in large numbers.

  He meant to change that now. The only way to protect themselves from the Normans was to learn their weaknesses. He would bring the soldiers among them, watch their training, and force his men to learn. Then he could use the Normans’ own strategies against them in battle.

  Mists encircled the island of Ennisleigh while storm clouds gathered along the horizon. The craggy rocks protected a small ringfort atop the hill, enclosing seven stone huts. Only a score of ageing survivors remained. Proud and set in their ways, the folk had refused to join the remainder of his tribesmen on the mainland.

  His gaze moved towards his wife. Isabel’s golden hair tangled in a web about her shoulders, shadows lining her eyes. She studied the land without any emotion in her face.

  ‘That is where you will live,’ he told her, pointing towards the island.

  Her posture stiffened. She looked as though she was considering throwing herself into the dark waters. He wouldn’t put it past her.

  ‘You will have your freedom there,’ he said softly. ‘And in this way I can grant you my protection.’

  She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Protection? We both know it is my prison.’ She turned her face away from the island, her veil whipping in the breeze.

  ‘There is nowhere else for you to go.’ Why could she not accept the truth? Her father’s men had murdered his. His tribe would never bid her welcome upon the mainland. But Ennisleigh had emerged virtually unscathed from the battle. It was an island sanctuary amidst the fighting at his own fortress.