Isabel didn’t move. She felt exposed without the veil. Almost like a little girl playing with her sister’s jewels, pretending to be grown up. It seemed a mockery, for the circlet was far too similar to a crown. Only a queen could wear it. ‘I can’t wear this.’
He shrugged as if dismissing the matter. ‘The islanders will expect it of you.’
He didn’t understand. To him, it was a piece of silver. To her, it was a reminder of what she could never be—the lady of this tribe. She reached up and pulled it free of her hair, handing it to him. ‘Take it. I won’t pretend to be something I’m not.’
Consternation spread over his face, but he accepted the silver circlet. ‘If that is your wish. But it still belongs to you.’ He set it aside, placing it within a fold of his cloak. Then he stretched out his hand to her. ‘We must greet our guests.’
Isabel forced herself to take Patrick’s hand. His fingers closed over her palm and he added, ‘You invited Sir Anselm and a few of his men here tonight.’ There was an edge of warning beneath his voice. ‘Ewan told me of your request.’
Of course the boy would. Asking Ewan to keep a secret would be like asking the sun not to shine.
‘Yes, I asked them to join us.’ The Normans needed a night where they could see the Irish as friends instead of enemies. ‘I thought they would enjoy a night of feasting and celebration.’ She narrowed her gaze. ‘Will you deny them that chance?’
He held back his answer, studying the islanders who were devouring the feast. His fingers imbued warmth into her hands, and Isabel tried to mask her reaction to his touch. Her feelings hadn’t diminished at all since the last time he’d touched her. If anything, she was even more drawn to him.
‘I’ll allow it,’ he said at last. ‘But only because there are so few of them.’
Trahern entered the dwelling at that moment, greeting each of the islanders with a warm smile. He winked at Isabel, and Patrick led her up to the small dais. The eyes of the people watched her, and a few whispered at the sight of the silver torque around her throat. Though all of them knew she was Patrick’s wife, it was the first time he had publicly acknowledged her as such.
‘My brother Trahern has come this night to bring stories,’ Patrick began. ‘He talks too often, as we all know. But perhaps with good wine and food, we can listen to his tales.’
The crowd smiled their approval, and Isabel stepped back a little. Patrick took her wrist, forbidding her to shrink away. ‘I understand the Lady Isabel arranged for this celebration. Will you not honour her for her hospitality?’
Silence met his question. Behind the islanders, Annle raised her wooden cup in salute. Yet the others did not follow her gesture. Isabel’s skin coloured with embarrassment. She wished he hadn’t drawn attention to her.
Patrick’s gaze transformed into anger. ‘When you dishonour Isabel MacEgan, you show dishonour to your king.’ At that, a few tribesmen muttered words of thanks for the hospitality. Isabel wanted to sink into the floor and hide beneath the rushes. Her face burned with mortification.
Patrick gestured for Trahern to begin the stories. One of the men took up a round drum with a goatskin stretched across the frame, using it to accentuate the tale.
Isabel nodded politely, then moved behind the crowd of her guests. With any luck, she could flee and escape anyone’s notice.
But Patrick caught her first. ‘You cannot leave,’ he said softly in her ear. ‘It is your duty to stay.’
‘I have done my duty,’ she whispered. ‘Did it please you to see them spurn me?’
‘No,’ he answered honestly. He saw the stricken expression on her face. Irish or Norman, she was a woman who had tried her best to offer them a night of feasting. She deserved thanks for her attempt. ‘But your efforts did not go unnoticed. And it pleases me to hear you speaking Irish. I cannot believe you learned it so quickly.’
‘I had no choice. I’d be talking to grass, otherwise.’
She drained her cup, and he refilled it. ‘I am sorry.’
As she drank, he studied her features. Her golden hair shone in the flicker of the torch, the silver gleaming around her throat. Deep, copper eyes seemed to have lost their hope. He didn’t like the way they had treated her, though he had predicted it.
And as for himself, he’d tried to keep her out of his thoughts. But each day he found himself watching the island, wondering about her. He had expected her to live upon Ennisleigh, spinning and weaving. Instead, she’d learned to speak their language and rebuilt his grandfather’s home.
His hand moved to the dip in her spine, and her breath caught. She met his gaze, her lips parting. She was looking at him with a woman’s desire, as though she felt the same for him. He moved his hand across her lower back, needing to touch her. And though it was wrong, he’d missed her.
‘Would you like some wine?’ she offered.
He took her cup and sipped from it. Isabel’s mouth twisted. ‘I didn’t mean from my own cup.’
‘I like yours.’
She sent him a warning look, but her wariness sounded like a challenge. They listened to Trahern’s tale, and Patrick saw her face soften with humour. He reached to take a sip from her cup again, and she held fast to it.
‘Do you wish to fight me for it?’ she threatened, in a teasing tone.
‘I might.’ Right now he wanted to drag her outside in the rain and kiss her until no barrier lay between them. Instead, he released the cup and went to find his own. Apart from her, he studied his wife. She held herself back from the folk, feigning a smile. Though she pretended to enjoy herself, he noticed that she had a closer fellowship with the wall than with the people.
It bothered him more than it should, for it made her seem more distant. The green overdress and blue leíne accentuated her womanly curves, the fabric skimming her figure.
Patrick took a long sip of wine, forcing his attention away. The stories continued, and when Trahern stopped to enjoy food and wine, several islanders took up musical instruments. The mingled sound of harp and bodhrán drum joined in with the conversations of the folk.
Finally, the Normans arrived. Only six men had come, and thankfully they wore no armour. At first, the Irish didn’t notice them, for the Normans slipped into the background. Isabel held out her hands in greeting to Sir Anselm.
Patrick tensed, unsure of what his people would say. He doubted that the Irish were drunk enough to welcome the Normans. He hadn’t wanted them to come and would have outright refused his wife’s request, but for two reasons. Sir Anselm had begun training his Irishmen, transforming them from farmers into soldiers. He’d seen the results. They would be ready to face a Norman army soon enough.
And then, too, the presence of the Normans had kept the Earl of Pembroke’s men away. Dozens of chieftains had lost their lives after a Norman lord, Raymond Le Gros, had ordered their legs broken and their bodies tossed over the cliffs.
He’d been one of the few kings to escape, and he knew it was because of the enemy housed within their gates. The shadow of death had passed over them, and his people knew it not.
And so, he’d agreed to offer the men a brief moment of celebration. The reward of good wine and a night of entertainment seemed appropriate, particularly when it was only a few men.
For many of the soldiers, it was their first visit to the island. They looked uneasy, and Patrick wondered if Sir Anselm had forced them to come. Isabel excused herself to bring the men goblets of wine, and it was then that the folk finally noticed the Normans.
‘What are they doing here?’ one man demanded in Irish. His gaze switched to Isabel, filling with accusation. ‘Ennisleigh belongs to us. They’ve no right to be here.’
Isabel looked to Patrick for a response. Before he could speak, she raised her voice, speaking to the islanders in their own tongue. ‘They are my guests. This is my home, and all are welcome within it.’
‘She says that because she’s one of them,’ another remarked.
Isabel turned pale, her
hands clenched. ‘Yes, I am one of them. But I’ve lived upon this island for the past season. And it is my right to invite whomever I please into my home.’
Patrick saw the impact of her proclamation. Though a few of the men and women did not seem to care, others began to leave. As each one passed beyond the threshold, they did not raise their knee to him, nor offer the expected salutations. He was their king, but he’d slipped further in their eyes.
It stung, watching his childhood friends turn their backs on him. And he saw Isabel valiantly trying to hold back tears. It was useless thinking that the men could ever be brought together. They could never be allies, only enemies.
A few of the islanders stayed, though not more than a handful. Annle stood by Isabel’s side, while Sosanna remained in the shadows.
When the rest had gone, Patrick addressed the group of less than a dozen men and women. ‘I thank you for not paying insult to my wife.’ To Trahern he asked, ‘Can you offer them another story?’
Isabel stepped through the crowd until she reached his side. With hopeful eyes, she asked, ‘Will you translate for my father’s men? My Irish is not yet strong enough.’
Patrick wanted to say no. He wanted to return to Laochre and abandon this disaster of a night. Why did she keep on trying? Allowing the Normans entrance to Ennisleigh had cost them the support of many islanders. Could she not see the rift?
But then she placed her hand in his. ‘Please.’ She did not beg or cajole, but the simple request made him feel foolish. In her eyes she looked upon him with hope.
He cursed himself for his weakness, knowing that he was going to give in.
‘If that is your wish, a chara.’
The warm smile on her face was genuine. She touched her palm to his cheek, and though he did not speak a word, he kissed her palm.
Isabel’s face flooded. ‘Go and sit with your brother.’ She gestured towards Trahern, as if he were not fully aware of his own brother’s location. ‘I’ll—I’ll get the men some wine.’
It took half a barrel of wine for the Normans to begin enjoying themselves. Patrick translated six stories, Isabel keeping his goblet full. He didn’t know how much wine he’d drunk, but the room swayed.
He wasn’t alone, for more than one islander lay against the wall, snoring from the effects of the drink. After a time, one of the soldiers asked to see the bodhrán drum. Annle’s husband picked up the smooth drumstick, the length of a man’s hand. The soldier grinned and tried to beat out a simple rhythm. It was terrible, but one of the islanders showed him how to hold it and eventually both were laughing.
When the wine barrels were empty and the food gone, more of the men and women went to sleep, curling up against one another in the Great Chamber. Isabel yawned, leaning against one of the low tables.
Patrick watched her, wanting to draw her into his arms and take her back to her chamber. Sleepy-eyed, she turned to the Norman soldier beside her and smiled in response to something the man said.
A darkness tightened in his gut. Though the man had done nothing more than speak to his wife, it reminded him of his oath to let Isabel choose another husband. His mind imagined another man touching her, giving her children. He didn’t like the thought, not at all.
He was about to snarl at the Norman to get away from his wife when Sosanna stepped towards the harp. Along with the others, the man moved over to watch while she seated herself with the instrument between her knees. The round hardness of her belly touched the golden brown wood while her hands plucked a mournful tune.
He hadn’t heard her play in over a year. Sosanna had often joined the other musicians during gatherings at Laochre, offering lively tunes that inspired men and women to dance. He’d almost forgotten the joy she’d brought to their celebrations. Ever since the harm that had befallen her, she’d lost her music, as well as her voice.
This song was a lament, enchanting those who were still awake. Others listened, but it was Sir Anselm who caught his attention. The knight watched with the look of a man noticing a woman.
Nothing good would come of it. But still, he said nothing. Anselm had saved Sosanna’s life, and perhaps that was all there would be between them.
When the song ended, Isabel rose and drew nearer. ‘Will the king grant me an audience?’ she asked, offering Patrick a stumbling curtsy. Her face was flushed, though from the drink or from embarrassment, he could not be sure.
‘What is your wish?’
‘Come.’ She took his hand and led him behind a wooden partition, dividing her bedchamber from the rest of the gathering space. He entered and drew the hide covering over the opening, granting them privacy.
Before he could ask another question, her arms wrapped around his neck. ‘I want you to kiss me.’
‘That isn’t a good idea, a stór.’ Even though he wanted to touch her, to thread his hands through her silken hair and to take what she had offered. The open invitation inflamed his senses, making him want to cast everything aside but her.
Isabel leaned in, touching her nose to his. Her woollen brat fell to the ground, as if forgotten. By God, she was beautiful. An enemy with the face of an angel.
‘Every man upon the island and the mainland believes that we are man and wife. In flesh as well as in name.’
‘But we aren’t.’ Step away from her, his resolve warned.
‘Is there something wrong with me?’ Though she kept her tone light, he sensed the deeper fear beneath it. There was honesty in her question. He no longer knew what to say. She had somehow grown into their lives, learning their language and shifting his doubts.
Was it even possible to keep her as his bride?
No. He’d seen the way the other islanders had turned their backs upon her. They could not see the woman she was, only what she represented.
Just the way he had once thought of her.
He didn’t breathe, and when she rested her cheek against his, he wanted to damn them all and take her into his bed. He embraced her, holding her curves against him.
‘No. There’s nothing wrong with you.’ He didn’t pull away when she kissed him. Instead, he took from her, welcoming the momentary respite from being a king. He tasted wine upon her lips, the heady fullness of this woman who stood between him and his tribe.
He wanted to lie with her, to damn the consequences. She was his wife, and there were ways to give one another pleasure without risking a child.
Lug, what had she done to his willpower? He no longer thought of her as the enemy. She’d tried so hard to make the celebration festive for the islanders. Instead, they’d turned on her. She deserved their respect and admiration. How many women would have worked so hard to learn their language and rebuilt a broken-down fortress?
He admitted the truth to himself. He didn’t want to give her up, especially not to another man. He didn’t want anyone touching this woman or giving her children. Except himself.
And that was the greatest problem of all.
His mouth brushed against her temple, burning her like a brand of possession. ‘We cannot become lovers, Isabel. There might be a child.’
Beneath her hands, she could feel the heat of his skin, and her body yearned for more. ‘There are ways to prevent it, are there not?’
Silence again. Then he lifted her face to look at him. The darkness in the set of his mouth, the ferocity of his enslaved needs, took her senses apart.
‘Some day you’ll be another man’s wife,’ he replied. ‘Someone else will touch you.’ He lowered the shoulder of her shift and kissed the bared skin. Shivers of desire raced through her at the contact.
‘I don’t want another man,’ she answered, raising her mouth to his. ‘I’d rather stay with you.’
She hadn’t meant to voice the words aloud, but they were true. Here, she was needed like never before. There was a sense of purpose, the hope of bringing enemies together.
‘If I were not a king, there’s nothing that would take you from me.’
And she knew the truth
suddenly. Given a choice between his tribe and her, he would never give up his duty.
‘You are a king,’ she murmured, touching her hand to his brow where the minn oír rested. ‘And always will be.’
She stepped back, the fierce pain of letting him go filling her up inside. A thousand regrets passed between them.
When he’d gone, Isabel watched the wooden door for a long time. And wondered why in heaven’s name she had been foolish enough to fall in love with a man she could never have.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Summer waned, and Lughnasa drew closer. The corn had grown ripe and some of the ears would be ready to harvest. Patrick stood, surveying his land when two horsemen drew near. He recognised the orange-and-crimson colours of the Ó Phelan tribe.
Though he didn’t know what they wanted, their presence was uninvited. Weeks ago, Donal Ó Phelan had not accepted his corp-dire offering, as compensation for his wounds. Though Patrick knew he could have pressed further in the Brehon Courts, he suspected Donal had another payment in mind instead of silver.
He stepped away from the corn, his hand palming his sword. He didn’t trust the Ó Phelan men.
The men dismounted, and each raised a knee in courtesy. Patrick nodded acknowledgement, but wondered why they had come.
Two of his tribesmen emerged from the cornfield, joining alongside him. A single magpie flew past the men, an ill omen.
‘Our chieftain sends his greetings,’ one of the messengers began. ‘He sent us to ask that you meet him tomorrow at sundown on the hill of Amadán.’
‘And what does he wish to discuss?’ Patrick knew better than to believe Donal Ó Phelan wanted a conversation. The chieftain held grudges, and he did not want the man desiring vengeance against Isabel.
‘He desires a truce between our tribes and an alliance. He offers this as a token of good will.’ One man dismounted from his horse, offering Patrick the reins. The grey gelding was a prime piece of horse flesh, but he had no desire to accept a bribe.
‘Tell Donal I will meet with him. But I’ve no need of his horse.’ Patrick dismissed the men, but kept a close eye upon them.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 44