‘We have to get out of their range,’ she said.
‘They aren’t going to let us go. Our only chance of surviving this is if my brothers help us.’
‘Will they arrive in time?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. They were supposed to bring the hostages.’
Her heart ached. With her free hand, she touched his shoulder. ‘I don’t regret a moment of this. Being your wife, I mean.’ Her voice broke as she continued, ‘I only wish we had more time.’
He risked a look at her, and in his eyes, she saw a fierce determination. ‘I’m not giving up on us yet, a ghrá.’
My love. The words slipped inside her heart, warming her. Though she wanted so badly to believe that everything would be all right, she clung to these last moments with him.
‘When I give the signal, I want you to run to the forest. Don’t stop, no matter what else happens.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m going to hold them off and then follow you.’
She shivered, afraid of what would happen. She didn’t want him to die, or worse, to know that she had caused it.
‘My brothers would never abandon us,’ he said. ‘Have faith.’
‘I love you,’ she whispered, touching his shoulder. ‘And I don’t want you to die.’
His eyes darkened, and his voice turned gruff. ‘There’s no other woman I would willingly give up my life for. It’s time for you to go.’
Her eyes filled with tears, as she prepared to run. Though she didn’t want to leave, she understood there wasn’t a choice. The wooden shield was heavy, but she held it to her back as she raced towards the forest. Behind her, she heard the swish of arrows as Patrick released them upon their enemy.
Then in front of her came a deafening battle roar, and she stumbled to her knees. From the hills, the silver of chain mail armour glinted in the sun. Isabel stared at the soldiers, her lungs gasping for air. The Norman army had come upon them.
She froze, glancing back at Patrick. He hadn’t moved, but kept his bow aimed at the Ó Phelan ringfort. The Norman army advanced further, nearly a thousand soldiers surrounding them. Her pulse thrummed faster, and she got up, easing her way back to Patrick.
‘Patrick?’ she asked, afraid to run.
‘Stand with me,’ he ordered. He lowered his bow and Isabel returned to his side.
‘What do they want?’
He shook his head. ‘I suspect we’ll soon find out.’ He clasped her hand in his, and both of them waited while the men drew closer.
‘Whatever happens, I’ll protect you,’ he said. ‘And if I could give up my kingdom to let you live, I would do it.’ His mouth brushed a kiss upon the top of her head. ‘I love you.’
Isabel leaned against him, her heart filled with love for him. ‘Give me the bow,’ she said, and he exchanged the weapon for the heavy wooden shield. ‘It’s all right.’ She nocked an arrow to her bowstring in readiness. ‘I’d rather die at your side than alone.’
Unsheathing his sword, they stood back to back, awaiting the inevitable. There would be no escape for either of them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
T he multitude of soldiers parted and behind them, wearing the MacEgan colours and carrying the tribe’s banner, rode the rest of the tribe. Islanders and the men of Laochre all stood together, fully armed.
‘Why are they here?’ Isabel asked. Hope swelled inside her, and she relaxed the bowstring.
‘My brothers brought reinforcements, it seems.’
She started to move towards them, but Patrick stopped her. ‘Wait.’ Seconds later, three arrows embedded in the wooden shield. ‘The Ó Phelans haven’t given up yet.’
Infuriated, Isabel released her own arrows, taking satisfaction when they struck their mark.
‘Enough. Go towards our tribe.’ He gave her a push forward, following her with the shield raised. Although arrows rained down upon them, miraculously none of them struck. When they were out of range, Isabel stopped in front of the MacEgan tribesmen.
Bevan and Connor were mounted, and they held the reins of Bel, Patrick’s horse.
‘Who is caring for Laochre?’ she asked, afraid of the answer.
‘Sir Anselm guards it, along with the Normans.’ He shrugged. ‘And all of the women, of course.’ His scarred face held traces of anger, but he said nothing further.
‘Thank you for coming to our aid,’ she said quietly.
Bevan grunted. ‘You are a MacEgan now. And we would never let anyone harm family.’
Isabel reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘My thanks, brother.’
As she passed, she was startled to see the Irish raising their knee to her, bowing their heads in deference.
Ruarc came forward and knelt at her feet. ‘My queen,’ he said solemnly.
She offered her hand, raising him to stand. ‘Do you accept my husband as your king now?’
‘I do, yes. And I apologise for my wrongdoing.’
Isabel looked upon the faces of the MacEgan tribe, her eyes brimming with tears. She smiled, greeting each of them in their own language as she passed. When she spoke with the last man, she suddenly saw her father.
Edwin de Godred dismounted and strode forward. He wore full battle armour, and his gaze passed over her as if inspecting her for injuries. ‘I understand this enemy tribe thought to take you hostage.’ He glared at the ringfort. ‘But at least your husband had enough sense to come after you. Even if he should have waited for our forces.’
‘I thought your forces would attack Laochre,’ she dared.
He shook his head. ‘I gave you my word.’ He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘You are well, Daughter?’
‘Thanks to my husband.’ She heard Patrick come up behind her, and his arm moved around her shoulders in a protective gesture.
‘Good.’ Edwin glanced at the Normans. ‘I think the Earl of Pembroke will leave Laochre in peace. He has his sights on wedding King Dermot’s daughter Aoife.’ With a glance towards the ringfort belonging to the Ó Phelan tribe, he added, ‘What of them?’
Patrick spoke up. ‘Strongbow may do as he wishes. The Ó Phelan tribe seems overly confident that they can withstand the enemy.’
‘Indeed.’ Edwin cast a doubtful look. ‘It’s a small enough piece of land, but it may have its uses.’ He paused a moment. ‘I wish you good fortune, Isabel. And happiness.’
Without waiting for a reply, her father turned away and rejoined his army. Though he had not said as much, Isabel felt as though he’d given his blessing. And a part of her softened, inwardly forgiving him.
Patrick lifted Isabel into his arms, a possessive expression upon his face. He set her atop Bel, then swung up behind her. ‘Send the hostages back to Donal Ó Phelan with an escort of Norman soldiers,’ he ordered. ‘And the rest of you return to Laochre.’
‘Where are you taking me?’ Isabel asked.
He spurred the horse into a gallop. Leaning forward, he whispered in her ear. ‘I’m going to do what I should have done long ago.’
‘What is that?’
His hand moved to caress her breast. ‘I’m going to tie you to my bed and ravish you until you cannot walk.’
To Isabel’s surprise, cheers erupted from the ringfort when Patrick rode inside. Though it was nearly the middle of the night, torches blazed inside the fortress. All the folk awaited them, down to the children sleeping in their mothers’ arms.
Patrick lifted her down, and the Normans removed their helms, kneeling in tribute. Isabel managed a smile, but inside she wanted to weep with gratitude. She was home, where she belonged. Patrick’s hand rested upon the small of her back, a silent reminder of support.
Behind them rode the remainder of the tribe. They, too, joined in the thunderous noise of approval. Isabel walked among them, feeling overwhelmed by their acceptance. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She didn’t know when she had begun to cry, but after so many weeks of being an outsider, it was hard not to release her feelings.
‘Because of our lady and her efforts, Strongbow spared our fortress.’ To the Normans he added, ‘I thank you for defending Laochre in our absence.’
Isabel caught the look of understanding that passed between both sides. Although it would take time for the men to blend together and see each other as friends, at least they had built trust between them.
Then her husband addressed all of the people. ‘It is late, but on the morrow we will host a feast in the Great Chamber. All are welcome.’
She translated Patrick’s proclamation for the Norman forces, and then accepted the good wishes of both Irish and Norman alike.
Patrick stood by her side, his palm caressing her back until Isabel longed to retreat to the privacy of their chamber. At last, he dismissed the remainder of the folk and led her away.
They raced up the winding staircase, and when they reached the top, Patrick lifted her into his arms and carried her inside his bedchamber. He bolted the door behind them, staring at her like a barbarian warrior. Slowly, he let her slide down his body until Isabel couldn’t wait any more.
She met his kiss with her own frenzied need. Their clothes fell away in a rushed tangle of hands until at last they stood skin to skin. Patrick lowered his mouth to her throat, and Isabel sighed as shivers erupted over her body. Her nipples tightened, and he kissed the tight buds until she moaned.
‘I love you,’ he murmured against her skin. He led her to the bed, laying her down upon the soft coverlet. ‘I’m never letting you leave me, a ghrá. You’re mine.’
She watched him with eyes filled with love. ‘As you are mine.’ Embracing him, she revelled in the feeling of his body against hers. ‘I love you, Patrick.’
To her surprise, he leaned down and picked up her fallen veil. In a single motion, he rent it in half.
‘What are you—?’
But the answer became clear when he gently tied each wrist to the bed posts. ‘I told you what I would be doing to you, my lady wife.’ He slid a finger beneath her bonds, testing to be sure they weren’t too tight.
Isabel wanted to protest, but being unable to move offered a strange excitement. Her husband pinioned her body beneath his own, his mouth whispering what he planned to do to her.
And oh, sweet saints, he did exactly that. With his hungry mouth, he blazed a path across her naked body, teasing and tempting her. He spread her thighs apart, lifting her hips for a more intimate kiss. Heat shot through her, while her wicked warrior tormented her until she spasmed.
His hands moved over her breasts, lightly pinching the nipples until they rose up, heavily aroused. His mouth encircled each tip, sucking hard until wetness surged between her legs.
‘I wanted you from the first moment I saw you,’ he breathed, whispering across her skin. ‘And I fell in love with you the day you swam the channel.’
He positioned his length between her legs, sliding deep within. Isabel wanted so badly to embrace him, but with her hands trapped, she could only accept the sweet torture.
With long strokes, he touched the very heart of her. ‘I want to give you children and spend each day waking beside you.’
He reached out and untied her wrists, freeing her. Isabel embraced him, raising her knees to take him deeper. The fierce pleasure rocked her backwards, but she clung to him as the sensations built up higher.
He increased his pace, driving into her until at last Isabel screamed. He plunged deep inside, his face tightening as he poured himself within her.
She clung to him, shaking with the raw pleasure. Kissing him again, she revelled in the satisfaction of lying in his arms.
Patrick nuzzled her cheek, smiling wickedly as he withdrew from her body. ‘It may take a while before you bear me a child.’ His hands ran over the curve of her body to rest upon her womb. ‘We’ll have to make up for lost time.’
‘Some day soon,’ she whispered, praying his prediction would come true. ‘But only if you let me stay here at Laochre.’
‘Forever, a ghrá.’ He kissed her deeply, and then rolled out of bed to cross the room. He returned, holding the silver diadem. ‘This belongs to you, as is your right.’ He placed the crown upon her head. The metal warmed against her skin, but her husband’s touch distracted her more.
Isabel lay in his arms and offered up her own prayer of thanksgiving.
‘What did you say?’ her husband murmured against her lips sleepily.
‘I thanked God for not saving me from this marriage,’ she replied.
And then, as night cast its spell over them, her warrior king made love to her once again.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-1139-5
HER WARRIOR KING
Copyright © 2008 by Michelle Willingham
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.eHarlequin.com
Her Warrior King Page 25