‘Don’t,’ she whispered. His mouth was a bare shadow away, and saints, she wanted him to kiss her.
‘You should know that your Norman blood is the only thing that keeps me from joining with you. If you were Irish, you would lie naked upon that bed with me inside you.’
His words shocked her. Before her feet could move, his mouth lowered to hers. Like an uncivilised savage, she expected him to bruise her mouth. But instead, he took his time. Slowly, with infinite tenderness, he explored her mouth.
‘If you were Irish, I would remove this gown.’ His hands moved up to cup her breasts. With his thumb, he teased the nipples until desire made her insides ache. ‘I’d take you into my mouth and make you forget everything else.’
The taste of him shook her senses. Never had a man kissed her like this. He didn’t conquer, but silently asked her to yield. Teasing, arousing in the way he probed with his tongue, until she allowed him entrance.
Against the softness of her shift, her nipples tightened. Without warning, she found her arms about his waist, clinging for balance. Her sensitive breasts grazed against the heavy wool of the léine.
His tongue moved over her lips in a caress, and she opened to him. At once, the kiss changed into everything she’d feared. Ruthless and demanding, he cupped her bottom, letting her feel the fierceness of his desire against her womanhood.
She ached to feel him, her body growing wet with need. She hungered in a way she couldn’t understand. And she wanted to curse him, for somehow she understood that this was her punishment. To desire him and to be left unfulfilled.
‘I’m not Irish,’ she managed, pushing him away. Her knees wanted to give way, and she sat down upon the bed.
‘Be glad you aren’t,’ he said.
Without another word, he left. Isabel heard the door lock, imprisoning her. And she sank down upon the bed, not knowing what he planned to do next.
Or how she could convince him to release her from his bedchamber.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Patrick returned to his chamber late at night when he knew she was sleeping. The sight of her curled up on his bed made him ache with wanting her. Her soft, golden hair was braided, and she still wore the loathsome brown léine. Her body was half-tangled in the coverlet, while a long bare leg lay exposed to him. He wanted to touch her skin, to feel those long legs wrapping around his waist.
Lug, he didn’t need this. He’d thought it would be so easy to keep her confined upon Ennisleigh. She would lead her life and he, his own.
Instead, she had fought for them. He’d ordered her to remain behind, but she had taken up a bow and shot the Ó Phelan chieftain like a female warrior of old. He hadn’t guessed she possessed such skill. But now, as he studied her upper arms, he saw the moulded strength from practice. She had clearly aimed to wound the chieftain, not to kill him. And she had enough confidence to shoot in the midst of a fight, knowing she would not hit one of them.
Rarely had anyone surprised him. Not only had she given them the victory, she had spoken Irish. He’d never thought to hear his own language coming from her lips.
He moved to sit upon the bed. Her body heat allured him, making him want to remove his clothes and pull her close. He didn’t dare sleep beside her. Already she was stealing away his logic, making him consider bedding her.
He wouldn’t break the vow. No matter how much he desired her, he couldn’t risk a child.
Patrick sank down upon a chair. His arm stung from the earlier cut, and he’d wrapped linen around it. Moonlight pooled over his wife’s face. In sleep, she appeared pensive, trusting. But by God, she was beautiful. He supposed he deserved this penance, to be driven mad with wanting and to be unable to possess her. If Liam had lived, he’d never have set eyes upon Isabel de Godred.
He closed his eyes, leaning back against the chair. Even now he could not dwell here without remembering his older brother’s presence. As he unbuckled the sword from his waist, he wondered if he would ever be a true king.
He bowed his head, praying for strength and the wisdom he lacked. Then he lifted his gaze to Isabel, and prayed for the steadfast resolve to leave her untouched.
For one day soon, he’d have to let her go.
* * *
If anyone discovered what he’d planned, it would mean his execution. Ruarc rode quickly, urging the mare faster. Wind whipped past his face, whispering warnings. He’d have to be back soon, before anyone discovered both he and the horse were gone.
Raw energy and fear pulsed through him, tightening his nerves. This was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was necessary. No longer could he trust his own king. Patrick had failed to keep the Normans out, and because of it, one of them had dishonoured his sister.
As he crossed into the boundaries of the Ó Phelan land, he slowed his pace. He’d been raised to view them as an enemy tribe, not to be trusted. Many a time, he’d fought alongside the MacEgans during a raid. He had a few scars to show for it, along with fresh cuts from earlier.
But now he needed their help.
Guilt sank deeply into his heart. Sosanna had tried to take her own life, and he blamed himself. He should have been there for her, should have protected her better. She was his little sister, and he was responsible for her.
But more than sister and brother, they had been close friends ever since she’d returned from fostering. Years ago, they’d made a bargain. She’d chosen a potential wife for him, and he’d set his sights upon Liam MacEgan for her own husband. Neither of them had wed, in the end. After the battle, he couldn’t consider taking a wife until he’d found someone to look after Sosanna.
She hadn’t conceived her child during the Norman invasion. No, this babe was from last winter, long after they’d suffered defeat. From her refusal to speak, he could only imagine that it must be one of the Normans living among them. And for the past few moons, she’d had to look upon the bastard’s face every day.
But who was it?
She wouldn’t answer. And so, he was left with no choice but to get rid of every Norman. It wouldn’t be easy. King Patrick had wed one of them. And Críost, but the chieftain of the Ó Phelans would be wanting vengeance after what the lady Isabel had done to him.
He drew his horse up to the gates of the ringfort and waited. He scented the acrid smoke of cooking fires, mingled with the animals. It took moments for the Ó Phelan men to sight him, and one loosed an arrow. Ruarc raised his shield, catching the shaft in the wood. Though he suspected the shot was a warning, he wouldn’t put it past them to kill him where he stood. He prayed that this visit would work to his advantage and not become his death.
Raising his palm and shield, he rode in the midst of his enemy. A few of the men drew their weapons, but Ruarc kept his gaze fixed upon the chieftain’s dwelling. He kept his purpose firmly in his mind, ignoring the insults.
A man’s fist swung towards him, but Ruarc caught the wrist. He tightened his grip and stared at the man. ‘I could break your wrist and then you’d not be able to hold a weapon again.’ The man paled and withdrew his hand. Ruarc raised his voice. ‘I’ve come to speak with your chieftain, Donal Ó Phelan.’
Moments later, the door to a large thatched stone hut opened. The chieftain wore a blue cloak to conceal his injury. Black eyes bore into him with distaste. ‘What do you want?’
‘I have a proposition for you. I’ll discuss it with you in private.’
‘You’ll present it here or not at all. I’m sure your offer holds interest for many of my people.’
So be it. Ruarc regarded the chieftain. ‘I want my cousin removed from power. The Normans have infiltrated our rath, and we haven’t the forces to drive them out. I’ve come to ask for your help.’
‘And make you the new king, is that it?’
Ruarc said nothing. He did want the kingship. It could have been his, but for Patrick’s greater skill with a sword. Ever since his cousin’s crowning, he had increased his own training. He didn’t like being second best.
But at least he understood loyalty to the tribe. He’d never have accepted such a coward’s bargain, wedding a Norman. ‘If I become king of Laochre, I can grant you lands to the west.’
The chieftain’s eyes grew cunning as he considered the offer. ‘Come inside, then. I may be able to help you.’
* * *
Isabel awoke, not knowing where she was. She squinted at the morning sunlight and something soft tickled her nose.
The grey-and-white cat padded across her torso, eyeing her as if wondering how a human had come to occupy her bed. Isabel ruffled the cat’s head, and the feline pushed into Isabel’s palm, purring lightly. A moment later, the cat deposited herself on Isabel’s lap, cleaning herself with her tongue.
Isabel eased the cat off and rose from the bed, stretching. She didn’t remember Patrick coming back inside the room. It had been a long time since she’d lain in a proper bed, and for the first time in many nights, she’d slept well.
A blue length of cloth rested atop a chair. Isabel walked closer and saw that it was a new gown, the colour of a midnight sky. When she touched it, the softness of the finely woven linen was a stark contrast to the coarse brown wool she now wore. With long voluminous sleeves and a skirt that hung to her calves, the léine was similar to her former kirtles. An emerald overdress lay beneath it.
She couldn’t stop the smile of thankfulness. Though she expected her dowry and her clothing to arrive at any moment now, no longer did she have to dress like a slave.
Turning to the cat, she inquired, ‘What do you think? Should I burn the old gown?’
The feline flicked her tail in the air and sniffed before curling up on the pillow for a nap.
‘You’re right. I should wait until I know if the new gown is truly mine.’ But the desire to be rid of the coarse brown léine overcame any hesitation she might have felt. She stripped off the garment and then her ragged shift. Naked, she pulled the midnight-blue gown over her body. The linen clung to her skin, and she closed her eyes, revelling in the luxury. The overdress took some arranging without a girdle to hold it in place.
Before she had finished, a knock sounded upon the door. ‘Enter,’ she said.
Her husband walked inside, dressed in more common attire this day. It did not diminish the strength and power of his presence. He’d tied his black hair back with a leather thong, and it emphasised the deep planes of his face. Her attention was drawn to his mouth, remembering the way he’d once kissed her.
Right now he was looking at her as though he’d never seen her before. Had she put the gown on wrong? She fumbled with the overdress, wondering how it was supposed to drape.
‘The léine looks well on you,’ Patrick said. He closed the door and bolted it.
‘I’m grateful for it.’ Isabel ventured a smile, but he did not return it. After last night, she didn’t know what else to say. He’d touched her the way a husband would and had left her wanting. But now he behaved as if nothing had happened.
‘Why did you bring me to your chamber last night?’ she asked.
He crossed the room to stand before her. ‘I didn’t want you causing any more trouble. And, as I’ve said, I intend to keep you here for the next day. You won’t leave this room.’
She glared at him. ‘Why not imprison me in chains, then?’
‘It’s not a bad idea.’
His rough voice transfixed her. She imagined her arms bound while his mouth moved over her bare flesh.
‘I wasn’t being serious.’ She shivered at the thought.
His mouth curved upwards. ‘But I was.’ He captured her hands and drew them to her sides. Her skin warmed beneath the touch of his hands, and she closed her eyes to shut him out.
‘Don’t touch me. Not if you’re going to end the marriage.’
His reply was to cup her cheek, threading his hands through her hair. It was a slow torment, one that pulled apart her willpower. She wanted to sink against him, tasting his mouth against her own. Fierce needs gripped her, and she struggled for composure.
‘What will you do with me?’ she managed to ask.
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
Her hands gripped the edge of her gown while she tamped down her frustration. Did he really intend to keep her here for the remainder of the day? She would go mad, were she forced to remain within the walls with nothing to do.
‘Let me go,’ she urged him. ‘Take me back to Ennisleigh if you must, but don’t make me stay here.’
‘I wanted you to stay on Ennisleigh to begin with. It was for your safety, and you still disobeyed.’
‘I only disobey orders I don’t agree with.’
He muttered a curse beneath his breath. ‘This isn’t about choices, Isabel. It’s about keeping you safe.’
‘You cannot keep someone safe by locking them away,’ she said softly.
She was helpless to understand the king she’d wed. A wall of responsibility hid the man. Only now and again did she catch a glimpse of him. A man who devoted himself to family and his tribe. A man who possessed a dark passion, barely concealed from her.
‘It is my duty to protect you. Your father would slaughter us all if you were to come to harm.’
‘He might. But only because it would be an excuse for war. Not because he cares anything for me.’ A time or two, she’d run away from her father’s castle. The soldiers had brought her back, but Edwin de Godred hadn’t noticed she was gone.
Patrick didn’t answer. His face remained emotionless, a warrior’s cold demeanour. Isabel’s skin chilled with his silence. ‘The war between you and my father isn’t over, is it?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Our marriage delayed it. But our people haven’t surrendered. We won’t give up our freedom to the Normans.’
‘Don’t do this,’ she pleaded. ‘Your men will die, and my father will want your life as forfeit.’
‘My life is already forfeit to the tribe.’
Anger surged within her, that he would consider sacrificing himself. ‘Then you might as well be dead. You don’t care about anything else.’
Hurt welled up in her eyes, and she closed them to hide the unshed tears. Why was she letting herself think of him as a true husband? He’d done nothing except push her away.
‘They are my family. My blood.’
Isabel rested her cheek upon her hand, leaning upon the table. She traced a finger across the deep scars of the wood, wishing she could understand him. Outside, clouds suffocated the sunlight.
When she raised her gaze to him again, she saw the resolution in his eyes. And she wondered what it would be like to have a man love her, the way he cared for his brothers and his tribe.
‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘Why do you live your life for your tribe and not for yourself?’
She wanted to provoke him, to see an ounce of feeling. But there was only emptiness in his gaze. ‘You know nothing of my responsibilities.’
‘You’re right.’ Her voice was hollow with the aching inside of her. ‘Because you won’t let me know you. I don’t know anything about the man I married. All I know is that you won’t let me be a part of your tribe.’
He still saw her as the enemy, no matter what she did. And she was so very tired of trying to help, when he would not change his opinion of her.
She stood and opened the shutters, though there was little sun to illuminate the space. ‘Do you think I don’t see their suffering? And I’m to stand about and pretend it isn’t happening.’
‘You cannot help.’
‘Aye, I can. And so can my father’s men. Give them a reason to help you, and they will. Put aside your differences and join together.’
‘It isn’t that simple.’
‘Yes, it is. Let them be a part of this fortress. They cannot fight for something they have no connection to.’
His face hardened. ‘I already know the Normans, Isabel. They are the ones who made me a king when they sank their sword into my brother’s heart. I watched Liam die in battle, and I
couldn’t do anything to stop them.’ Rage and pain lined his voice.
‘The battle is over.’ She reached out to touch his hand. ‘But you have another chance to save your tribe. Bring the men together as one. You’ll double your forces and have the men you need to defend Laochre against your enemies.’
‘The Normans did nothing when the Ó Phelans attacked.’ He shook his head, denying her proposition.
Isabel lowered her hand. ‘And have you seen the way your men treat them? They don’t speak to the Normans, nor offer any hospitality.’
‘My men do not speak the Norman tongue,’ he pointed out.
‘Your men also provoke them at every turn. That day when I came to Laochre for the first time, I saw their bruises and injuries. I can well understand why they wouldn’t fight for you. They’re too busy fighting against you.’
She drew closer to him, her heart racing. ‘But we could change it.’ Isabel placed her palms upon his tunic, half-wondering if he would pull her hands away. ‘Yesterday, I was prepared to kill the Ó Phelan men if I had to.’
His eyes grew hooded with intensity. Beneath the linen tunic, his hardened muscles flexed. ‘You’ve never killed a man before.’
‘No. But I could.’
‘Would you slay one of your own kinsmen, for our tribe?’
‘Would you slay one of yours?’ She didn’t wait for a reply, but before she could move her hands away, he trapped them around his waist. ‘I don’t want to be your enemy,’ she whispered, ‘and yet you treat me the same way you do the others.’
‘Not last night, I didn’t.’ He drew her against his length, while his hands moved over her spine in a soft caress.
Deep longings rose within her, and she lowered her chin. ‘I am your wife, Patrick. And I am trying, the best way I know how, to become one of your tribe.’
He cupped her jaw, his hand warming her cheek. ‘You’re the most frustrating woman I’ve ever met.’
‘I could say the same for you.’
A glint of amusement rose up in his eyes. ‘I’m not a woman, a stór.’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 42