Her Warrior King

by Michelle Willingham

  ‘Why send her back? She’s done no harm.’

  For if he didn’t send her far away, he didn’t trust himself not to claim what rightfully belonged to him.

  ‘I don’t want her becoming part of our tribe. After Lughnasa, I’m setting her aside. We’ll have driven the Normans out by then, and Thornwyck as well.’

  His brother’s face turned troubled. ‘I hope you’re right. But you married her upon English soil. It won’t be easy to divorce her.’

  ‘With enough gold to bribe a Church council, anything can be done.’ Patrick didn’t concern himself with the Norman politics. ‘We both know it’s best for our people if a tribeswoman is our queen.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’ Trahern asked quietly.

  His brother seemed to see past his words, as if knowing how much he desired Isabel. ‘It is the good of our people we speak of.’

  Trahern picked up another mallet and joined him in the repairs. ‘Does she know the marriage is not permanent?’

  ‘No. And there is no reason to say anything yet. Let her believe what she wants. I vowed I’d give her freedom. And so she shall have it, upon Ennisleigh.’

  Trahern shook his head. ‘I’ve a feeling your new bride will have a lot to say.’

  ‘I will speak with her this night.’

  ‘You should do more than talk, brother. It might ease that foul mood of yours.’

  His brother’s hint did not go unnoticed. But he would not share Isabel’s bed. There could be no child between them. He wanted nothing to bind them together after they separated.

  And, it was more honourable to let her go as an untouched maiden. She could make a suitable marriage to a Norman lord and go to him as a virgin bride. He clenched his fists, his irrational temper darkening at the thought of another man touching her.

  ‘I need to take her back.’ Patrick set down the mallet, testing the strength of the palisade wall.

  ‘A word of advice, Patrick.’ Trahern leaned against the fence, his green eyes amused. ‘Take the chess pieces with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You need to keep up appearances. At least, for now, make it seem that you are sharing her bed.’ Trahern winked. ‘And the chess board will give you something to do on those long nights with her.’

  Patrick handed his brother a replacement post. ‘It sounds as if you’re the one who needs a woman.’

  As he strode towards his wife, Trahern called back, ‘I wouldn’t complain.’

  He sent Trahern a look of death. ‘Gather supplies to send to Ennisleigh. She needs food and mead for the next sennight. Load them on one of the horses and I’ll bring them along.’

  At his brother’s teasing, Patrick’s temper had softened. When he returned to the donjon, he found Isabel back inside the Great Chamber. She had found a broom and was sweeping cobwebs from the corners of the room. Her damp hair spilled down her back, and it made her seem as if she’d just come from a bath. She appeared vulnerable, and utterly alluring.

  He gritted his teeth, forcing his attention away from her face. ‘It is time to go. Are your léine and overdress dry?’

  Isabel lowered the broom and shrugged. ‘Well enough.’ She turned and studied the interior of the Great Chamber. ‘You should take down that wall there, and open the chamber up. Then you could bring everyone inside for a gathering.’

  ‘And why would I want to do that?’

  ‘You could make this place into one of the most powerful castles in Erin. It has wonderful potential.’

  ‘It’s a rath. Not a castle.’ His ringfort was half the size of the Norman structures he’d seen, and he had no intention of copying their designs. Her idea of changing the interior caught him by surprise. He struggled to envision the changes she was suggesting. ‘We’ve no need to alter the structure.’

  ‘I disagree. You could not defend it during your last attack.’ She ran her hands across the wooden surface, nodding to herself. ‘You’ve seen my father’s castle. If you change the design of this, it would give you more space.’

  ‘And it would diminish the inner bailey. I won’t infringe upon my people’s homes, even if it is my land.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Widen the fortress. There is room. And when you finish the palisade walls, whitewash them. From a distance, it will appear like stone and your enemies will stay back.’

  Though her suggestions had merit, he didn’t like her insinuation that the fortress was vulnerable to more attacks. ‘We’ve no need to make such changes. We’ll repair what we have and train the men to become better soldiers.’

  ‘The bones of this dwelling are strong. Can’t you imagine it? Tapestries hanging on the walls. Musicians. Dancing. Feasting.’ She smiled at the thought.

  ‘I am not replacing my home with a Norman fortress. The rath has stood for centuries.’

  ‘Until last summer,’ she said quietly. ‘More Normans will come. The Earl of Pembroke won’t rest until he’s taken more territory.’

  Patrick knew it. But he could never tear down the walls built by his grandfather before him. They had withstood Norse attacks and countless invader assaults before this time.

  ‘We must be ready for them,’ she said.

  We. She spoke as though she intended to fight among them.

  ‘Why would you wish to stand with us? Would you betray your own father?’

  Her expression faltered. For a moment he saw a flash of uncertainty.

  ‘I hope it would never come to that.’ She tried to muster a smile, but her mouth tightened. ‘And my father has no need to attack Laochre again. As your wife, I—’

  ‘He believes you are my queen,’ Patrick said. And it could not have been further from the truth. He’d tried to keep Isabel away for her own protection. Sooner or later the attacks would begin again. And he feared the Normans would turn on them.

  Isabel tugged at the cloak around her shoulders. ‘I know why you wed me. But I don’t understand why you won’t let me help you. I have a duty to these people. I can’t stay behind on Ennisleigh.’

  Though her gesture was a woman’s plea, she conjured up unwanted desire. He tensed beneath her touch. What was the matter with him? She was a Norman.

  Isabel drew close to him. Her hair hung down, the faint scent of salt clinging to her. He found himself staring at her mouth. Soft and full, her lips fascinated him.

  She’s your wife, his body argued, and a beautiful woman.

  ‘I don’t want you hurt,’ he said.

  Liar, his conscience accused. He didn’t want to be tempted by her.

  ‘It is time to leave.’ He extended his hand, turning away to break the spell she had cast.

  ‘Wait.’ Her eyes lowered, and she took his hand. ‘I saw the children today.’ Her fingers joined with his, and the softness of her skin distracted him. ‘You wed me to save them.’

  He wanted to pull away, but the touch of her hand seemed to burn through his skin. ‘You knew that on our wedding day.’

  ‘But I never understood you.’ Her eyes filled with compassion, and he grew uncomfortable. She didn’t understand, couldn’t understand what had happened to his people. It was beyond anything she had ever experienced.

  ‘I want to help them,’ she said. ‘You never sent for my dowry, did you?’

  ‘I’ve no need for household goods.’

  ‘What of the gold and silver?’ she asked. ‘I could help replenish your supplies.’

  He didn’t want anything from her or her family. Though she made the offer in good faith, he couldn’t accept it. It was his responsibility to provide for his people, not hers. He’d not let her become involved, particularly since their marriage was not permanent. He wouldn’t use her that way.

  ‘There is no need for your dowry.’ He took several steps away from her. ‘We are leaving now.’

  ‘If you take me back to Ennisleigh, I’ll only swim back again.’

  He didn’t doubt she would make good upon the threat. Instead, he tightened his grip upon her hand. ‘Tr
ahern suggested I chain you down. The thought did occur to me.’

  ‘Try it, Irishman, and you’ll be sorry for it.’

  As he guided her outside, he didn’t miss the stares from his people. The women’s expressions were filled with hate, while his men regarded her with suspicion.

  No one smiled, no one spoke. Isabel kept her chin raised, feigning indifference. But he saw the slight tremble in her hands and the way she did not look at anyone.

  ‘Is that our queen?’ a young child asked, pointing.

  His mother shushed him, murmuring, ‘No. She’s a Norman like the others.’

  Patrick did not correct the woman, for she had spoken his own thoughts. Though Isabel was now his wife, she was still one of the enemy. And he needed to remember that instead of feeling pity for her.

  He needed to place her back upon Ennisleigh, away from his people. And, most especially, away from himself.

  Ruarc stopped outside his home, a strange sound coming from within. His hand automatically went to his dagger as he opened the hide door.

  Sosanna knelt beside a low wooden table, her shoulders huddled as she wept. Her tears brought Ruarc to her side immediately.

  ‘What is it? Should I send for a healer?’

  She shook her head and rested her cheek on the cold earthen floor. Her hand moved to her stomach, but she said nothing.

  He helped ease her to her pallet, and it bothered him to see her so pale and fragile. It was as though she were dying and he could do nothing to stop it.

  Her léine hung down, and she wore no girdle about it. Ruarc frowned, studying his sister closer. Without a warning, he moved his hand to her middle.

  Horror creased her face. Ruarc couldn’t conceal his shock, couldn’t breathe. By the gods. She was carrying a child. From the size of her stomach, she would give birth by the end of the summer. How had he been so blind as not to see it?

  ‘Who did this to you?’ he asked, unable to keep the rage from his voice. ‘Tell me the name of the bastard, and by Lug, I swear I’ll slit his throat.’

  His sister said nothing. She didn’t have to. Already he knew that one of the Normans had hurt her.

  ‘Sosanna?’ he asked, softening his voice.

  A tear slid down her cheek and she turned from him. Huddled amongst the furs, she would not speak.

  Death was too good for any of the Normans. Ruarc strode outside, his fists curling up. It took only seconds to find an enemy soldier. Blood seemed to swim before his eyes, and he released his rage, snapping the man’s head backward with a punch.

  Taken by surprise, the Norman hesitated a fraction before retaliating with his own strike. Ruarc dodged the blow and pounded at the enemy’s ribs.

  He’d passed beyond all reason. All he could think of was hurting the unknown man who had harmed his sister. One of these men had taken away his sister’s voice and her pride. And they would pay dearly for it.

  He tasted blood, enduring bruises, but getting in a few solid punches of his own. Lug, if he had a sword, he’d love to slaughter them all.

  Another Norman joined in. Ruarc struck a kick to the man’s gut, spinning to punch another. A rib cracked, and Ruarc dove at the first man, slamming his fist into the Norman’s jaw.

  Then something hard struck his head. His vision blurred, and he dropped to the ground. Dimly he was aware of his hands confined, his body dragged across the ground. They forced him to sit with his back against a post. Leather bindings tightened across his wrists as his kinsman regarded him.

  ‘You will remain here until your king returns,’ Bevan MacEgan commanded. ‘And I don’t think that will be until tomorrow’s sunrise. You’d best pray that the gods show mercy upon you. For Patrick won’t.’

  Ruarc raised his eyes to Bevan’s. ‘They hurt my sister. And they should burn for what they did to her.’

  He saw the flash of recognition in Bevan’s eyes. Of all the men, his cousin understood. He’d lost his own wife Fiona to the invaders.

  ‘She deserves vengeance,’ Ruarc said beneath his breath. ‘None of them should be alive.’

  Bevan rose, crossing his arms as he regarded the Normans. From inside Ruarc’s hut, Sosanna emerged. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her hands clenched around her middle. There was nothing in her eyes, save resignation.

  ‘I agree,’ Bevan said quietly. ‘The Normans have much to answer for.’

  Isabel held on to the edges of the wooden boat as Patrick rowed towards the island. She felt like a child facing punishment from a parent. Her husband’s face held the creases of deep rage.

  ‘I cannot believe you swam that far,’ Patrick said, his arm muscles flexing against the pull of the tide. Crimson streaks of sunlight rippled upon the water. The sea had grown calm, a contrast to her husband’s temper. ‘You could have drowned.’

  ‘I could have, yes.’ She managed a chagrined smile, though it did nothing to soften his gruffness. ‘I realised that when I was halfway across. By then, it was too late to turn back.’

  ‘Don’t do something that foolish again,’ he warned. His oars sliced through the water, drawing them closer to the island.

  ‘Next time, I’ll borrow a boat.’ If she could find one, that is. She had no desire to experience such cold water again.

  ‘There won’t be a next time.’

  Isabel was growing tired of his high-handed ways. His orders were from an effort to control her, not concern for her safety. ‘Do not be so sure of that.’

  Shadows silhouetted his face. He stopped rowing and let the oars rest upon the wood. ‘What are you trying to prove, Isabel?’

  She tucked her hands between her knees, suddenly aware of the intensity of him. His steel-grey eyes held such anger. The lean planes of his face held no sympathy, nothing but a fierce warrior.

  ‘I won’t be commanded by a man who chooses to exile me.’

  ‘Won’t you?’ He rested his forearms upon his knees, the leather bracers emphasising the deeply cut muscles.

  ‘No.’ Behind the weight of responsibility, he was a handsome warrior. What would he be like if he weren’t so angry? Isabel hadn’t missed the way the Irish women had watched him.

  ‘Were you betrothed to anyone before you wed me?’ she asked.

  Patrick shook his head. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Because the women had stared at him as though he were a delicious cake dripping with honey. ‘You aren’t terribly ugly,’ she offered. ‘And you are a king.’

  ‘Not terribly ugly?’ His mouth twitched. ‘And here I thought I was a barbarian monster.’

  She nodded her agreement, and his lips curved upwards.

  He let the boat glide through the water, and his intent stare made her shiver.

  Isabel changed the subject. ‘Erin is very beautiful at night.’

  ‘It is.’ His mouth softened. Grey eyes fixed upon her, his voice rich and seductive. ‘Very beautiful.’

  Colour flooded her face. Isabel forced herself to look away. With the darkening sky above them and the sea all around, everything seemed to fall away.

  What would it be like for him to kiss her? She covered her mouth with her hands, willing the sudden thought away. Her father’s threat haunted her. He wanted her to bear Patrick’s child. What would he do when he learned she was still a virgin? He’d sworn to come only a few months from now at harvest time. Would he demand a ceremonial bedding? She would not put it past him to humiliate her in such a way.

  ‘I know you did not wish to wed me,’ she began, not really knowing what to say. ‘But I meant what I said earlier. I’d rather we be friends.’

  The awkward silence stretched further when Patrick picked up the oars and began rowing again towards the shoreline. ‘Trahern wants me to stay with you tonight to keep up appearances.’

  It wasn’t precisely what she had in mind, but it was better than nothing. If they shared a meal and conversation, she might uncover what sort of man her husband truly was. He wore the mask of a king at every moment.

  ‘It i
s a great sacrifice,’ she said drily, ‘having to spend time with me.’

  ‘More than you know,’ he muttered.

  Isabel dipped her hand in the sea and flicked a palm full of water at his face.

  Patrick’s face darkened. Droplets of salt water slid down his bristled cheeks. ‘That was a childish thing to do.’

  ‘That was not a nice thing to say,’ she retorted.

  Seconds later, a splash of frigid water struck her own face. Patrick’s wet hand proclaimed his guilt and wickedness gleamed in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t start this.’ Isabel set her hand back in the water as a threat. ‘There’s already one war between us.’

  Before she could move, he trapped her hands in his. The weight of his body moved her astern. His thighs surrounded her legs, his chest invading her space.

  A trickle of water slid down his neck and dripped upon her skin. Her nipples tightened at the cold sensation. With his dark hair framing his face, her attention moved to his mouth again. His firm lips captivated her.

  The rocking of the boat moved his body against hers, and she felt the evidence of his desire. The shocking sensation heated her skin, her body needing to be closer to him.

  Though she didn’t understand why, he pulled her arms around his neck. She clung to him for balance, her heartbeat pounding against her chest. No longer did she feel the chill of the water. Instead, her body burned in a way she didn’t understand. She wanted to feel his skin upon hers, and she flushed at the thought.

  He wasn’t going to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes. He was fighting against it.

  But he didn’t let go of her. His hands caressed her back, holding her away from the hard wood of the boat. A secret part of her ached to welcome him. She wanted his hands to move over her, caressing her. She needed more than this, and yet he held himself back.

  Embraced in his arms, she pressed her breasts close to him, her body trembling. Her mouth parted, wishing for what he would not give.

  Then she lifted her face and kissed him.