Her Warrior King

by Michelle Willingham

  Chapter Eight

  N eed roared through him at the soft touch of her mouth. The innocent taste of her sent him reeling. Patrick plundered her mouth, tasting her forbidden sweetness. Caveats coursed through his mind, but he ignored them. He wanted to kiss this frustrating woman, to drive her from his thoughts.

  Though he didn’t know what had possessed her to kiss him, he wasn’t going to let her go. Not until he exorcised the craving for her.

  His mouth moved over hers, and he felt her shuddering. Deliberately he softened the kiss, nipping at her lower lip. She opened to him and he slid his tongue in her mouth.

  The sensation mimicked the sexual act he was denying himself. Her tongue met his, and Lug, his body hardened into stone. Right now he could think of nothing better than to remove her clothes and make love to her in the boat.

  He kissed her cheek, the tender spot behind her ear. Then a gasping cry spilled from her lips when he kissed the softness between her neck and shoulder.

  ‘Patrick,’ she whispered. He forced his mouth away from her delectable skin, and he kissed her lips again to silence her. He wanted nothing to interrupt this moment.

  Sunset bathed her body in golden rays while the boat moved in the gentle rhythm of the tides. Her hands slid beneath his tunic, caressing his chest. By the gods, she was taking his honour apart. Even now, he rationalised that there would be no true harm in making love to her. He could still set her aside later, and she could marry another.

  But if there was a child, he’d be forever bound to her. He couldn’t break the vow he’d made, never to let her bear a child of his blood. If he succumbed to this temptation, he might as well surrender everything to the Normans. Never did he want the tribe to fall into their hands, nor lose what his kinsmen had died for. And giving Isabel a child was rewarding Edwin de Godred for his conquest. He couldn’t do it.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Isabel’s lips were swollen from the kiss, and she touched her throat as if afraid of him. And well she should be. At the moment his control was about to snap.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ she whispered.

  ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

  At the harsh words, she closed her eyes with embarrassment. He could see that he’d hurt her feelings, but could not bring himself to soothe her.

  Patrick glanced behind him and saw how close they were to shore. Without thinking, he jumped over the side of the boat, extinguishing the evidence of his lust in the waist-deep water. The frigid waves cooled his desire instantly, a welcome respite.

  He guided the boat on to the strand, helping her step on to the sands. Dragging the vessel beyond the tide’s reach, he gathered up the two large bundles of supplies and strode up the path towards the ringfort.

  Isabel remained behind him, still standing where he’d left her. The breeze lifted her hair, billowing the brat from her shoulders. Like a legendary goddess, she appeared born of the sea. The water swelled to touch her ankles, but she stepped away.

  He forced himself to walk up the hill, entering the rath. Eventually her footsteps sounded behind him. He walked to the stone hut they had shared last night and pushed open the door, dropping the supplies inside the entrance. It took time to kindle a fire, but he coaxed a small flame and fed it with tinder. At last he added the peat bricks.

  He heard the door close, and Isabel stood at the entrance watching him. In the dim light, her golden hair gleamed. With graceful steps, she neared the fire.

  Gods above, he didn’t know how he would endure a full night, knowing that she was within reach of him.

  ‘What food do we have?’ Isabel asked, kneeling beside the supplies.

  ‘I have no idea what Trahern packed. I told him to send enough for a sennight.’

  He stood warming himself while she untied the bundles. A moment later, he heard her cry out with joy. Had Trahern packed a bit of mutton? Or roasted fowl?

  ‘A comb!’ Isabel revealed her prize, smiling as though she’d been handed a treasure. He hadn’t thought of such a simple need, and he frowned. His wife held it out as though Trahern had sent her a sack of gold pieces.

  ‘What of the food?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, there’s bread and dried apples. Some meat, too.’ Joy brightened her eyes. ‘But, oh, the comb. Thank the saints.’

  She knelt beside the fire, dragging the carved antler comb through her hair. Gently, she untangled the strands, pulling her hair over one shoulder.

  What would it be like to touch that hair? Silken, like spun sunlight, he supposed. It fell to her hips, and he pictured her lying upon the pallet wearing nothing but her hair.

  He prayed Trahern had packed the chess set. For otherwise he’d need another swim this night.

  The wind bit into his bare chest as Ruarc fought the leather bindings. Bevan had left him there alone, bared from the waist up. Blood caked his wrists from where he’d fought against the restraints. His face had swollen up, his lips cracked.

  He didn’t care about any of it. But he feared for his sister. Earlier, Sosanna had come to see him. She’d touched his head, then his cheek. She shook her head as if to reprimand him. Then sadness filled her eyes. Moments later, she’d walked outside the ringfort.

  Ruarc had called out for her to stop, but she behaved as though she hadn’t heard him. He’d called out for his friends to go look after her. But they ignored him.

  One of the Normans, Sir Anselm, had followed Sosanna. Críost, but he had to break free from this damned post. For all he knew, the captain might have been the man to hurt her. He couldn’t let that happen again.

  He gasped as a shooting pain lashed up his arm. His efforts had only drawn the bindings tighter. A few of the Normans glanced at him, but they spoke amongst themselves in an unfamiliar language.

  His voice was hoarse from calling out. At last, Bevan emerged from the Great Chamber and approached the wooden post. He held out a horn of mead and tilted it so Ruarc could drink.

  ‘My sister,’ Ruarc urged. ‘She’s gone. Send someone after Sosanna.’

  ‘We did earlier. She went out to the fields with some of the other women. She’s well enough.’

  He relaxed a little at that. ‘Send one of the women to look in on her for me.’

  Bevan nodded. The scar upon his face drew tighter. ‘I will tell Patrick about the child.’ His voice held vengeance in its tone. ‘We will discover who did this to her.’

  ‘I want him dead.’

  ‘I can understand your wish. And I might have done the same, were I in your shoes.’

  Bevan unwrapped a piece of bread and shoved it in Ruarc’s mouth. ‘Eat. And don’t tell Patrick I gave you anything. Otherwise I’ll be the one tied up tomorrow morn.’ With a grimace, Bevan disappeared back inside the Chamber.

  Ruarc bowed his head, steeling himself for the long night ahead. Silently he prayed that his sister would be safe.

  ‘Your move.’ Patrick slid his pawn forward and waited for Isabel. His wife sat across from him, a low table between them. Her brow furrowed with concentration.

  He’d barely won the last game. Isabel had played well, and he didn’t know when he’d had to use such strategy. Even so, she distracted him with the way she leaned upon the table, revealing the curve of her breasts.

  Worse, he remembered the taste of her. Even the sensuous fragrance of her, like honeysuckle. Were she a tribeswoman, he’d not be spending the night playing chess. No, he’d lay her down upon soft furs and watch her tremble as he loved her.

  ‘Check.’

  Check? Damn, she’d moved the rook instead. Patrick glared at the board, moving the queen to a safer square.

  Several moves later, the game was hers. Delighted victory creased a smile upon her lips.

  ‘Care to play again?’ she asked.

  He did want to play. But not with a chess board. ‘No.’ He stood up and stretched, pushing thoughts of her away. He had responsibilities to his tribe, above those to his wife. Why had he come here? He was playing chess with
Isabel instead of remaining with his men. Worse, he’d enjoyed the challenge.

  It was the first time in several moons that he’d relaxed with a game. She was a worthy opponent, and her ruthless style of strategy challenged him.

  He liked that.

  Guilt forced the thought away. Her father had killed his men, destroying his family life. He didn’t deserve to be here with her, not when he shouldered the blame for their loss.

  His trews had not fully dried from the seawater, so he went to stand beside the fire. Musky peat permeated the interior of the hut.

  ‘Patrick?’ she asked. Isabel’s silken voice conjured up visions of her lying naked before him. He closed his eyes, unsure of what she wanted. Behind him, he heard her approach. Her palms touched his upper arms. Though it was an innocent gesture to gain his attention, her forbidden touch inflamed him.

  He stifled a groan. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I don’t know. But we—we could talk,’ she stammered. ‘Or if there’s any chamomile I could make some tea for us.’ Her fingertips stroked his skin, arousing him with the barest touch. ‘I’d like to know you better.’

  ‘It’s better if we don’t.’ He hid his face from her, his control barely holding on. He didn’t need to be anywhere near Isabel de Godred. It had been far too long since he’d known the sweetness of a woman’s arms, and he wasn’t thinking clearly.

  ‘Stay away from me, Isabel.’ Her hands fell away, and he spun to face her. ‘I’ve left you alone for several nights now. I have my limits.’

  She blanched at his honesty. Was she truly that innocent, not knowing what her touch did to him?

  ‘I thought you might wish to remove your wet clothing. It cannot be comfortable.’

  His gaze sharpened upon her, and she flushed. What game was she playing? Was she asking to share his bed? She knew better than to pursue that path.

  ‘It is better if I remain clothed.’ And better if he left the hut and stood in the frigid water for the next hour. His trews strained while he tried to master his unwanted response.

  ‘I am your wife,’ she whispered. ‘There is no need to suffer discomfort because of me.’ She shivered, covering her breasts with her arms.

  You have no idea, he wanted to say. But his discomfort had nothing to do with the damp wool; rather, it was the vicious desire that curled inside him, wanting release. He tightened his resolve.

  ‘If it bothers you, I won’t look,’ she promised.

  He did smile then. ‘You’ll want to.’

  Isabel had never seen Patrick smile before. Sweet saints, he was handsome in a wild manner. His slate eyes darkened with promise. Instead of terrifying her, she wanted to draw nearer. The low firelight offered complete privacy, and for a moment she felt the desire to know this man.

  He was a stranger, intelligent and fiercely loyal to his people. She admired that, even as he frustrated her.

  She sat upon a low tree stump carved as a stool and turned her back to him. There was no need to look. Already she knew he would have powerful thighs, moulded with tight muscles. As for the rest of him…she supposed her imagination would not do him justice. The thought burned her cheeks with embarrassment and a slight touch of anticipation.

  The straw pallet crackled beneath his weight. Isabel cupped her face in her hands. So long ago, he’d said that he wouldn’t bed her. And he’d kept his word.

  Though she hadn’t questioned it at the time, she knew it was expected that she bear him a child. And he didn’t seem impervious to her any more. He’d responded to her impulsive kiss in the boat, offering her a glimpse of the dark pleasure awaiting both of them. The hunger within him sent her senses into disarray.

  But then he’d broken away, preferring to walk through frigid water than spend another moment with her. She had wanted to die of embarrassment, even as she desired him.

  Now, she wondered if she’d misunderstood his rejection. He wanted her to stay away, claiming that he had his limits. Was it because he wanted her? Was he keeping his distance out of misguided honour? She didn’t understand his reasons for keeping her a virgin.

  The unbearable loneliness weighed down until she craved human companionship. Behind her was her naked husband, awaiting her in their bed. Her gown felt heavy, the rough fabric coarse against her skin. Beneath it she’d continued to wear her shift, though the women here wore no such garment.

  Did she dare offer herself to him? Or would he turn her away once more? She reached for the horn of mead and took a long drink to fortify her courage. Saints, she hungered for his touch. It was strange to feel these longings for the man she’d once feared. Rising to her feet, she turned to Patrick. His naked back faced her, his lower half obscured by a woollen blanket.

  He’d kept his vow not to touch her. She knew it was because of who she was. But was he beginning to change his mind? After their water fight and the chess game, he didn’t seem to hate her.

  Why, then, did he continue to push her away? If she came to him as a wife, offering herself, would he surrender to what they both wanted?

  She prayed for courage, for alone she could never do this. Her father’s bargain would be completed, once Patrick took her virginity. And no longer did she fear her husband.

  Without speaking a word, she raised the gown above her head and dropped the garment upon the floor. He didn’t see her, still facing away.

  Barefoot, she walked towards the pallet. Her nipples rubbed against the linen shift, rising with a need she couldn’t describe. She breathed deeply, then removed her shift so she stood naked before him. ‘Patrick?’

  ‘What is it?’ He rolled over, and, when he saw her, his eyes deepened with hunger. Isabel knelt upon the pallet, touching his black hair. His grey eyes held hints of blue, traces of green.

  He captured her wrist, trapping it upon his face. Dark bristles of his unshaved beard abraded her palm. ‘What are you doing, Isabel?’ His mouth moved against her pulse as he spoke.

  ‘In a few weeks, my father will demand proof that I am no longer a virgin.’ Goose flesh rose upon her skin beneath his hot gaze. ‘I’d rather finish our agreement now.’

  He never took his eyes off her bare skin, though he did not touch her. A muscle tightened in his cheek, as though he were trying to curb his needs. ‘You don’t want this, Isabel,’ he said in a low voice. ‘And neither do I.’

  She didn’t know what to say. Humiliation stung her feelings, and she rapidly donned her shift. Hot tears gathered, but by God, she would not weep before him. She had mistakenly let herself be blinded by the kiss earlier.

  She was stupid to think that he would change his mind. Like as not, he did not find her appealing. Damn him for it.

  ‘Isabel,’ he said, his voice rough with sympathy.

  ‘No. Don’t say it.’ She put on the hideous gown and sat as far away from him as she could. Anger and mortification slashed her self-worth. Twice she’d lowered herself this night.

  She wanted to ball herself up on the floor and weep bitter tears. By the bones of Saint Peter, if he did not want her, so be it.

  She heard him getting dressed, but did not turn around. Moments later, she sensed him standing behind her. Then a warm hand cupped her jaw.

  Isabel shoved him away. ‘Leave me alone. You made it quite clear that you do not want me.’

  Patrick did not refute her words. His silence cut her confidence into shreds. ‘It is better this way, a chara. Trust me.’

  ‘Go back to your fortress,’ she said stonily. ‘I’ve no wish to set eyes on you again.’

  At dawn, Sir Anselm waited atop his horse, watching the young woman from the shield of trees by the cliffs. Sosanna, they’d called her. He’d seen her out walking last night, but she’d returned home within an hour.

  Now she had left her home once again. He didn’t know what had brought her out this far alone, but it did not bode well. His instincts warned him to keep a close watch over her.

  He’d seen the frustration and worry upon the Irishman’s fa
ce. Though he was gladdened to see Ruarc punished, Anselm wanted the man whipped for his disobedience. More than one of his soldiers had grumbled about Ruarc’s fighting.

  Yet Anselm recognised the tribesman’s fear for his sister. It was why he’d followed the woman a second time. For he sensed what she was about to do.

  He dismounted and strode towards her. She stood near the edge of a ragged granite outcropping, staring down at the frothy black waves below.

  ‘Hello,’ he greeted her.

  Panic widened her eyes, and she took a step closer to the edge. Anselm raised his hands, showing he carried no weapons. ‘I won’t harm you. My name is Sir Anselm Fitzwater.’

  The confusion on her face reminded him that she could not speak his language. He couldn’t speak a word of the Irish tongue either.

  Her hand moved protectively to her stomach, and she took another step. Anselm wanted to curse. At this distance, he couldn’t stop her from walking off the edge. If she killed herself, he had no doubt Ruarc would incite a war between both sides. King Patrick had given rigid orders to maintain the peace. But there was only a fragile chance of success.

  He took a gamble and sat down, picking a strand of grass and twirling it. ‘You can’t understand me, I know, but I would be grateful if you’d come away from the edge.’

  She paled and sent another frightened glance towards the water.

  Anselm kept talking, a soft stream of conversation that moved from one topic to the next. While he spoke, he studied her. Beneath the dirt and her dishevelled appearance was a strikingly attractive woman. With high sculpted cheekbones and lips the colour of ripening summer cherries, he tried to envision her former beauty.

  The advancing pregnancy swelling against her blue gown provided an explanation for her actions, yet he didn’t believe her tribe would cast her out for it.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed, but she seemed to be less afraid of him, so long as he kept his distance. He beckoned for her to come back with him, and she shook her head.

  ‘Ruarc,’ he reminded her, holding up his wrists as if bound. At the mention of her brother, she whitened. With a glance at the cliffs, sadness touched her countenance.