‘I could kiss you, you know,’ Isabel remarked. ‘Clever lad.’
His ears turned crimson, and he didn’t look at her. Isabel’s expression tightened. ‘You understood what I said, didn’t you?’
He made no reply, but his colour brightened.
‘I might have known.’ She tossed another brick of peat into the fire. ‘Well, then, what’s your name?’
‘Ewan MacEgan,’ he admitted. He took a long sip of mead, still not daring to look at her.
‘Ewan. And why did King Patrick send you in his stead? Did he have other things to do this eventide besides consummating his marriage?’
Mead spewed from his mouth, and the boy choked. ‘He—he was trying to stop a war. Busy, he was. He sent me to give you food and to see what you needed.’
‘A war?’ She shook her head. ‘Do not be foolish. The only war is the one that will happen when your brother comes back here.’
Ewan glanced towards the sack of food. ‘Is all the bread gone?’
‘No.’ She handed him another loaf, which he ate with enthusiasm. Isabel neared the fire and put her hands out to warm herself. ‘You’re young to be here alone,’ she remarked. ‘Who looks after you?’
‘My brothers.’ Ewan’s face turned distant. ‘Last summer my foster parents were killed in the battle. Patrick allowed me to stay here, but he hasn’t made arrangements to send me elsewhere. He’s been busy with the Normans.’
‘Shall I speak to him for you?’
‘No!’ Ewan tore off another piece of bread. Colouring, he added, ‘I like staying here.’
Isabel supposed the men let the boy do as he pleased. Of course he would be happy. But then, she knew what it was like being separated from her family. If it did the boy no harm, he might as well finish his fostering here.
‘Why don’t you take me back to your brother’s fortress?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘I assume there is more food there.’
‘Can’t.’ Ewan took a step backward. ‘If that’s all you’re needing, I’ll come back tomorrow morn.’
‘Why won’t your brother let me live upon the mainland?’ she asked. ‘What harm could I possibly do?’ Unless it meant seeing things she was not supposed to know about.
‘It isn’t you. It’s the others.’
‘Others?’
‘Your father’s soldiers. Patrick has to keep them apart from our men. Otherwise, they’ll kill each other.’ He stood and walked to the entrance, eyeing the grey sea. Isabel followed him and squinted at the opposite shore. In the distance, she saw several torches lining an embankment.
‘I should be going now,’ he said.
She was not about to let the boy leave without answers. Patrick had admitted that the marriage was arranged to save the lives of his people. But why were her father’s soldiers still in Erin?
‘Tell me why the men are here.’ She did not trust Edwin de Godred to bring soldiers without a purpose.
‘Thornwyck’s orders.’ Ewan rubbed his arms, stepping closer to the fire. ‘But they may be fighting even now, if Patrick cannot stop them. It’s the first night he brought them together.’
Isabel took another bite of bread, struggling to think. ‘Does he want to unite the people?’
Ewan shook his head. ‘Patrick doesn’t, no. It can’t be done. The Normans killed our folk in battle.’
‘But my father wants them to live together.’ Isabel understood the deeper implications of her marriage. Edwin intended to conquer the fortress and put her in command. He was counting on her to bring the men together, to become Lady of both sides.
Lady of two sworn enemies. Dear God, she didn’t know if she could manage it. Or if she even wanted to venture into this battle.
It was tempting to hide from all of it, here upon Ennisleigh. Her husband wanted her to stay away. She took a breath, steeling herself. Though it frightened her to even think of visiting a fortress under such conditions, she had to know the full truth of what had happened. Only then could she decide whether or not to stay. Was Patrick telling the truth? Or was he simply holding her prisoner?
‘Let me help you,’ she coaxed the boy. ‘I may know some of the men. I can ask them not to attack.’
Ewan shook his head. ‘You must stay here.’
While the boy rattled off reasons why his brother had forbidden her to leave, Isabel ignored him. She could not remain here any longer.
She followed Ewan down the rocky incline to the sandy beach where he’d hauled the boat. His skinny arms struggled to push the vessel into the water, and she stepped inside before he could get any further.
‘You must go back,’ Ewan argued, his hands poised upon the wood.
‘I am going with you, and you will take me to your brother’s fortress. I’m not staying here.’
Ewan’s hands lowered to his sides. He was staring at something out in the water. Isabel turned to follow his gaze and saw the flare of several torches. The flames cast reflections upon the black sea water.
Amid the harsh glow of the torches, she saw a man with black hair. He wore a dark blue cloak, pinned with an iron brooch. His clothing fairly blended into the night and his boat moved forward with a swift grace. The familiar visage made Isabel grip the sides of Ewan’s boat even tighter.
‘Going somewhere, my wife?’
Chapter Five
H er husband was not alone. A soldier sat behind him in the small water vessel, wearing chain mail armour and a Norman conical helm. One of her father’s men, she realised. Why was he here? Had Edwin de Godred come for her? No, if her father had arrived in Erin, he would be here himself.
‘I thought you were occupied with preventing a war,’ Isabel said, stiffening under Patrick’s gaze. She didn’t move from her position, behaving as if there was nothing wrong with sitting in a boat trapped upon the beach. ‘Shouldn’t you be protecting your people from the terrible Normans?’
In one motion, Patrick lifted her from Ewan’s boat and carried her further up the shore. She gritted her teeth, annoyed that he still treated her like a sack of grain.
The Norman soldier blinked at the action, but said nothing. Ewan retreated back to his own boat, rowing towards the opposite shore. He looked eager to be away, and Isabel cursed herself for not seizing the opportunity earlier. There was still the second boat, however.
Patrick continued walking uphill, carrying her in his arms. The outside temperature had dropped, the moonlight sliding out from behind a cloud. For a moment, she contemplated struggling and fighting against him. She really ought to, but his warmth cut through her chilled skin, easing her discomfort. The taut muscles and warm male skin against her own should have terrified her. Instead, deep within, something stirred. He made her feel protected, somehow.
‘Why did you come here?’ she asked.
‘To ensure your safety.’ Effortlessly, he carried her to the top of the hill, ducking beneath the entrance to the rath. Behind them, the Norman soldier followed. The man appeared distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Put me down, please.’
Patrick lowered her to stand beside him, but did not relinquish his grip upon her hand. The Norman drew near, his expression frowning.
‘Who is he?’
‘Sir Anselm. He won’t be staying long.’
Isabel’s suspicions deepened. The knight was one of her father’s men, but why would Patrick bring him here this late? ‘Why did he come?’
‘Your father sent him to ensure that I have not harmed you.’
She didn’t believe him. There was another reason for the knight’s presence. With horror, her imagination conjured up another idea. ‘He’s not planning to…witness anything, is he?’ Her face flamed at the thought of another man watching. ‘You said you weren’t going to…’ Her voice dropped away.
‘No.’
Thank the saints. Isabel hid her relief. Though she didn’t understand why Patrick refused to share her bed, she wasn’t going to question it.
When Sir Anselm reached them, he
bowed before her. Isabel suddenly grew aware that she looked more ragged than the worst sort of wretch. Her hair hung down, matted beneath a rumpled veil. She wore the dung-coloured Irish gown Patrick had given her. But she held herself steady and inclined her head. ‘You are Sir Anselm?’
‘Aye, my lady.’
She thought she might have seen him before, among her father’s men. But since Edwin had never allowed her to speak with the soldiers, she could not be certain. His shield bore her father’s standard, and his chain mail armour was the same as the men who had guarded their castle. Though he was not an old man, his eyes appeared weary of battle. And in them, she saw his concern for her.
‘I am Isabel de Godred, daughter of Edwin, Baron of Thornwyck.’
Patrick’s hand tightened upon hers. ‘Your name is Isabel MacEgan. Wife to me.’
His possessive voice curled around her, invading her thoughts. A rapid pulse trembled beneath her skin. She was not accustomed to the new name, and it made her feel as though she’d lost a part of herself.
Turning to Sir Anselm, Patrick said, ‘You’ve seen what you wished to see. Now go.’
The knight did not move. ‘Have you been well treated, my lady?’ At Patrick’s glare, he amended, ‘Your father wished me to ensure your contentment.’
Isabel wanted to laugh. She’d been given barely any food, no roof above her head, and the most awful gown she had worn in her entire life. What was she to say?
‘She is quite content,’ Patrick interrupted, his hand firm upon her wrist. Isabel wanted to jerk away. There was no need to treat her like a child. But when she glared up at him, she saw an unexpected warning to be silent. The dark cast to his face made her hesitate.
Isabel suspected it would be best not to draw her husband’s anger upon her. ‘I have only arrived this day,’ she said. ‘I am certain when my husband brings me to the mainland fortress, my accommodations will improve.’
There. Surely MacEgan would have to bring her to his home now. But instead his steel eyes met hers with unyielding force. He would not be swayed by words. ‘In time.’
‘On the morrow,’ she argued.
‘When I have deemed it safe,’ he growled. Isabel bit back her frustration. He wasn’t going to relent, especially not in front of her father’s man. Well, then, she wasn’t going to give up either. She wasn’t about to let him exile her alone upon Ennisleigh.
To Sir Anselm, Patrick commanded, ‘Take the boat back to the mainland. At dawn we will discuss enlarging the rath to accommodate your men.’
Her heart sank. She’d thought he would go back with Sir Anselm. The idea of spending this night with him rattled her nerves even more. She had expected a night of discomfort in the broken-down fortress. But at least it would have given her a chance to plan her next move.
Sir Anselm studied Isabel, and she held his gaze. He was silently asking about her welfare. She hesitated, then braved, ‘Will I see you again soon, Sir Anselm?’
He inclined his head. ‘If my lady wishes it so—’
‘You will have other duties to concern you.’ Patrick cut him off, sending her a warning look.
The Norman knight retreated to the boat, and Isabel expelled a sigh of regret when he was beyond their shores. ‘I suppose there isn’t any hope of you leaving also?’
‘Not yet.’
‘A war could break out,’ she offered, panic rising inside her. ‘You might be needed.’
She wanted him far away from her. Though he claimed he had no intentions of taking her virginity, something about this man unravelled her sanity. There was a wildness to him, a man who would let no woman tame him.
Patrick took her hand in his, gripping her palm as if to prevent an escape. Though his grasp was meant to guide her towards the fortress, goose bumps rose up on her arms.
What did he want from her? Was he trying to keep up appearances, behaving like a husband? She didn’t understand him. Then, too, a small part of her wondered if he did not find her appealing. Some of her suitors had accused her of being haughty. And she didn’t know what she’d done wrong.
Isabel cast one last look at Sir Anselm’s disappearing boat and the torches flickering upon the opposite shore. A chill crept across her at the finality of her fate. ‘I am cold.’
Patrick paused a moment and took the ends of her woolen brat. He lifted the shawl to her shoulders and wrapped it around her. Though his hands only brushed against her skin, his light touch felt intimate. ‘I’ll take you some place where you can get warmer.’
Her cheeks flushed, and she closed her eyes, wishing she’d never spoken. ‘It isn’t necessary for you to stay with me. You could always go back to the mainland.’
‘I will, yes. But later.’
Later? What were his intentions in the meantime? She quelled her apprehensions and blurted out, ‘Bring me back with you. I promise I won’t be in your way.’ At least then, he would be more occupied with the people than with her.
He regarded her, his resolve steady. ‘I would not bring a woman in the midst of a war. And that is what it is, a chara.’
Isabel huddled inside the brat, wondering what more she could do. She didn’t like remaining behind, but convincing her husband would take time.
They stopped before one of the huts, and he rapped sharply upon the door frame. He spoke words in Irish, and his commanding tone brought immediate results.
A young family, a husband and a wife, answered the door. Behind them, Isabel saw small children sleeping upon pallets. After another command from Patrick, they roused the children and took them outside. Without argument, they opened the door to another hut and ushered the little ones inside. Isabel caught a glimpse of another family inside and worried about such a crowded space.
‘You forced them out of their home at this hour?’ she said, aghast. ‘What of their children?’
‘They obeyed their king’s command.’
She could not believe what he’d just done. ‘It is their home.’
‘And they will be well compensated for the use of it. It is only temporary, and they know this.’
‘There is a perfectly good donjon over there.’ She was lying, of course, for the remains of the dwelling did not have a serviceable roof.
He opened the door and held it for her. ‘They knew of my request before you came, Isabel. I gave them several sheep for it.’
She didn’t like it, but it relieved her somewhat to know of the payment. After she entered the dwelling, the deep warmth of the interior surrounded them. To her surprise, there was no fire. The heat radiated from large stones set in the centre of the hut. Likely they had been warmed inside the outdoor peat fire earlier. A faint light came from oil lamps set about the small space.
Patrick removed his cloak and set it upon one of the pallets. Isabel turned away, holding her hands out in front of the stones to warm them.
‘Did Ewan bring you food, as I asked him to?’
‘He did. Thank you for sending him.’ Her gaze moved over to the low straw-filled pallet. The thought of lying down tempted her, but Patrick’s presence made her nervous. In the dim light, his dark hair shadowed his face. She felt like a captive, awaiting her fate.
He moved to the low table where a skin of mead awaited. He poured the liquid into two wooden goblets. Raising the glass, he handed one to her. ‘Slaínte.’
She drank, the fermented beverage warming her stomach. For long moments he said nothing. He seemed distracted and reluctant to be here with her. When the silence became unbearable, she asked, ‘Did you always want to be a king?’
‘No.’ He sat down beside the table, his hand resting upon his knee. ‘It was the last thing I wanted.’ The resignation in his voice startled her.
‘Most men dream of such an honour,’ she ventured.
‘I only became king after my brother died. He deserved to rule our tribe.’ For a moment, his shield of anger dropped and Isabel caught a glimpse of the man behind the warrior. He grieved for his brother, like anyone would.
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‘How did he die?’ She refilled Patrick’s goblet from the skin and he drank.
‘He was struck down in the battle against your father’s men last summer.’
‘I am sorry for it.’ She was close to her own sisters, and it hurt to think of anything happening to them.
‘So am I.’ He set the goblet down, and she handed him a piece of bread from the sack Ewan had brought. Patrick accepted it, grimacing at the hard texture. A problem with the leavening, she guessed. Perhaps bad water or rot. Mentally she reminded herself to look into the matter.
A thought occurred to her. Patrick had said that his brother had died, but was there still a queen?
‘What happened to your brother’s wife?’ she asked.
‘Liam was planning to marry NeasaÓConnor, the daughter of another chieftain. He never had the chance to wed her.’
‘Did he love her?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘I doubt it. But the alliance was a way to bring the two tribes together.’
‘Rather like our marriage,’ Isabel mused, but Patrick made no reply. She sat down across from him, pulling her knees to her chest. The hideous brown skirts draped to the floor.
She studied him, trying to see past the steel exterior he cast around himself. Lines of exhaustion rimmed his grey eyes. ‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you rest?’
He took a sip from his goblet, pushing it aside. ‘I cannot. Your father’s men entered Laochre this evening. Tempers are short, and I suspect a fight is brewing.’
From his guarded expression, she could tell that he did not relish the idea of more Normans among them. Isabel kept her stance steady, though he made her nervous. In the dim light of the lamp, his bare arms gleamed. Like a pagan god, she thought. A warrior who would not surrender anything that belonged to him.
‘You should leave me your bow, this time,’ she said. ‘If the islanders try to murder me while I sleep, I’ll need a way to defend myself since you won’t be here to stop them.’ She didn’t like remaining behind, helpless.
Her Warrior King Page 6