Forbidden Night With The Prince

A lifetime of being good...

One night of sin!

A Warriors of the Night story: virtuous Joan de Laurent is fated never to marry. Three betrothals, each ending in the groom’s death, have convinced her she’s cursed! But only her hand in marriage can help darkly brooding Irish prince Ronan win back his fortress. To break the curse, Joan must risk all to spend one forbidden night with the royal warrior...

Warriors of the Night miniseries

Book 1—Forbidden Night with the Warrior

Book 2—Forbidden Night with the Highlander

Book 3—Forbidden Night with the Prince

“Medieval fans are in for a treat, as this novel has everything—star-crossed lovers, scandal, murder, damsels in distress, dark, sexy heroes, lots of action, battles and a hard-won happy ending!.”

—RT Book Reviews on Forbidden Night with the Warrior

“Willingham out does herself with a new book with authentic characters, lots of action and a passionate love story.”

—RT Book Reviews on Forbidden Night with the Highlander

RITA® Award finalist MICHELLE WILLINGHAM has written over twenty historical romances, novellas and short stories. Currently she lives in south-eastern Virginia, USA, with her husband and children. When she’s not writing Michelle enjoys reading, baking and avoiding exercise at all costs. Visit her website at: michellewillingham.com.

Also by Michelle Willingham

Forbidden Vikings miniseries

To Sin with a Viking

To Tempt a Viking

Warriors of Ireland miniseries

Warriors of Ice

Warriors of Fire

Warriors of the Night miniseries

Forbidden Night with the Warrior

Forbidden Night with the Highlander

Forbidden Night with the Prince

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Forbidden Night with the Prince

Michelle Willingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07395-0

FORBIDDEN NIGHT WITH THE PRINCE

© 2018 Michelle Willingham

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Beth Broderick, a great friend who always has

time to talk while our dogs play together. I appreciate

all that you’ve done for me, and thank you so much

for your friendship. Irish and Cocoa have a real-life

canine romance, and thank goodness they’re both

fixed or we’d be overrun with puppies.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

1175

Joan de Laurent was cursed.

Most folk believed she was foolish in such thoughts, but in her heart, she knew it was true. She had already been betrothed twice, and both men had died before they had wedded her. One had perished in battle while the second had fallen ill with the pox.

For some reason, God did not want her to be married. She was convinced of this, and moreover, any man who dared to seek her as his bride would draw his last breath before the wedding Mass was over. The people of Montbrooke believed it, too. Men crossed themselves whenever she walked by. The women avoided her, particularly those who were pregnant. Some of the children ran away from her, and had she not been the daughter of an earl, they might have accused her of witchcraft.

Joan had done everything in her power to prove them wrong. Every gown she owned was white, a symbol of her innocence. She wore an iron cross around her neck to keep away the fairies. Her dark hair remained veiled at all times, and she went to Mass every day.

But she could feel their stares burning into the back of her head. She heard the whispers and knew that their hearts had turned against her out of fear. No men wanted her, despite her father’s attempts to arrange a third betrothal. Why would they, when it meant a death sentence?

Joan had resigned herself to a life of prayer, one where she would never marry or conceive a child of her own. And that was the problem. She loved babies with all her heart. After her brother’s wife, Lianna, had given birth to a daughter, Joan had been overwhelmed by love for this beautiful girl. It was her secret that she desperately wanted to be a mother. The need burned within her in a fervent desire. She had been lonely for so long, shunned by everyone. She longed to fill the emptiness by cradling a beloved child against her breast, to rest her lips upon a soft head and feel that soul-deep love.

You are too old, her mind chided. Four-and-twenty was an age when most women had several children, whereas Joan was still a virgin. There was little hope of her ever marrying or bearing a child.

But her father had no intention of letting her serve the Church. Instead, he’d sought a betrothal with an older nobleman from Ireland. Her intended husband already had heirs, and Murdoch did not need children from her.

It should have been the perfect arrangement—and yet, she was afraid of this marriage. She didn’t want to see another man die, though the sensible side of her brain knew her fears were foolish. But no matter how many times she told herself it was only a coincidence that her previous bridegrooms had died, she couldn’t quite dispel the belief.

After weeks of travelling, they arrived in Ireland. Her father, Edward de Laurent, had sent her brothers, Warrick and Rhys, to accompany her and to witness the vows. Warrick had lands in Killalough, and he’d brought dozens of soldiers with him to protect his wife and children at his estate. Rhys had brought half a dozen of his own men to guard them on this journey.

It was raining, and Joan held a woollen cloak over her head as the cart rolled through the mud. She did not see a castle anywhere—only thatched huts upon a hillside. Deep inside, panic gripped her lungs. Her hands were ice cold, and she fought to calm the rush of nerves.

Everything will be all right, her head tried to reason.

I don’t want to marry an old man, her heart wailed.

He may be kind. His children could become yours.

But deep inside, she believed Murdoch Ó Connor would die if he married her. It felt as if she were bringing a curse upon an innocent man, one he didn’t deserve. How could she even think that this marriage would come to pass?

Her brother, Warrick, reached out and took her hand. He said nothing but squeezed her fingers. Yet, his silent reassurance did nothing to ease her terror.

Joan stiffened her spine and let the hood fall back to her shoulders, regardless of the rain. She hardly cared about how it would soak through her veil and braided hair. The frigid weather matched her uncertain mood.

Rhys glanced back at them and said to Warrick, ‘I don’t know if this will be a good alliance for Joan. Murdoch may be a chieftain, but...’ He shook his head, eyeing the decaying homes.

Joan didn’t know what to think of this place. It appeared as if nothing had been done to maintain the ringfort. The thatch was rotting on the rooftops, along with the wooden timbers. Why, then, had the chieftain allowed it to fall into disrepair?

A few bystanders stared at them, but none smiled in welcome. Instead, it seemed as if the people were confused by their arrival. Several murmured in whispers, staring at them.

‘Do you think they knew about this betrothal?’ Joan murmured.

Rhys only shook his head. ‘I cannot say. But I want you to remain with Warrick while I find out.’

‘I could send one of my men to speak with them,’ Warrick offered. He had brought an Irishman from Killalough to act as an interpreter.

‘It does not matter,’ Joan whispered. The burden of this betrothal weighed heavily upon her, and she was certain it would not end well.

She tried to calm the storm of her nerves when the cart drew to a stop at the gates. Rhys called out to the guards, announcing their presence, but the two men appeared uneasy for some reason. There was a strange quiet throughout the ringfort, an air of ill fortune that bothered her. The Ó Connor guards allowed them inside, but Joan turned to Warrick. ‘Something is wrong.’

He nodded, keeping his hand tight upon hers. ‘I agree.’

Her brother helped her down from the cart, and one of the Irishmen came to greet them. The man could not speak the Norman language, but from his gesturing, Joan guessed that he wanted them to follow.

There was a sombre mood as they entered the largest dwelling, and Joan took a step back in shock when she saw the body laid out upon a table. Her fingers dug into Warrick’s arm, and she closed her eyes, feeling a wild surge of hysteria.

Her intended husband was dead, just as she’d feared. But instead of being relieved at her new freedom, Joan wanted to weep. For it felt as if she were to blame somehow.

Three betrothals. Three deaths.

She could only believe that the curse was real, and she could never marry anyone. A crushing weight seemed to close over her chest, numbing her to all else.

A younger woman approached, her eyes red from crying. She spoke only Irish, but Warrick’s translator conveyed what had happened. Her father, Murdoch Ó Connor, had died only this morning. There would be no betrothal, though the woman did offer her hospitality if Joan and her brothers wanted to stay with them this night.

‘We thank you,’ Rhys said gently, ‘but we will return to my brother’s house.’ He offered his condolences with the help of the translator and guided them back outside.

Joan gripped her brother’s hand, trying to keep back her own tears. Warrick drew her away, rubbing the small of her back. She struggled to keep her feelings shielded, but it felt as if God were laughing at her.

She would never have the husband and family she wanted. She would never bear a child of her own. Raw frustration coursed through her, and she let go of her brother’s hand. It wasn’t fair. Why should she be different from other women? Why could she not find a man to love?

Her brothers brought her back inside the cart, and only a few miles later did Rhys speak. ‘I am sorry, Joan. But perhaps it’s for the best. I don’t care what our father intended—Murdoch was far too old for you.’

‘I should have known better,’ she blurted out. ‘Every man I am betrothed to dies.’ Warrick reached out for her hand again, but she jerked it away. ‘You know it’s true.’

‘You have been unlucky when it comes to a betrothal, I know, but—’

‘Unlucky?’ She glared at him. Her voice grew higher in pitch. ‘Those men are dead, Warrick. It’s far worse than ill luck. It’s a curse.’

‘I don’t believe in curses,’ Rhys argued.

I have no choice but to believe in it, Joan thought. In the past seven years, she’d had three failed betrothals and every man had perished. There was no other possible explanation.

‘We will return to Killalough and decide what we should do now,’ Warrick said. ‘Do you want to go home to England?’

‘I don’t know,’ Joan whispered. She stared out at the rolling green hills of Ireland, feeling so lost and uncertain. If her brothers brought her home again, she would have to explain to her father that yet another man had died. And, though it was through no fault of her own, she did not want to face Edward’s annoyance.

‘You could stay with Rosamund for a time,’ Warrick suggested. His wife was a close friend of Joan’s, and for a moment she considered it. If nothing else, Rosamund might help her find a way to fill up her days.

‘Or we may wish to consult with the king of the MacEgan tribe at Laochre. He may be able to arrange a new betrothal, if you wish,’ Rhys suggested.

That was the last thing she wanted. Joan was weary of being a pawn, offered up to strangers in the hopes of making a strong marriage alliance.

It was time to put aside dreams that would never be. Better to live her life as she chose and to make her own decisions.

* * *

Ronan Ó Callaghan was a prince exiled from his kingdom. In a matter of hours, his birthright had been stripped away. His stepbrother Odhran had overthrown the king and slaughtered innocents, seizing the throne for himself.

And you did nothing but run, his conscience taunted. Coward.

Never would he forget the resigned look upon his father’s face when they had taken him hostage. Brodur had met Ronan’s gaze with the sadness of one who had expected failure. And that look had cut deeper than any sword.

Guilt suffocated him, though he knew Odhran would have killed him if he’d stayed. Someone had to seek out help and bring back their allies to retake the fortress. What good would it do his people if he was dead? They needed outside forces to help.

And yet...he had to face the reality that this was a betrayal that had come from within. Although Odhran and his mother Eilis had lived at Clonagh for only the past five years, they had slipped behind his father’s defences. Brodur had trusted them, only to be betrayed by his wife and stepson.

Some of his kinsmen had chosen Odhran’s side and turned their backs on their king. There was no way to know who had remained loyal and who was a traitor.

Fury burned within Ronan, along with the need for vengeance. He had escaped with the clothes on his back, a sword, and a single horse. And now, after riding for two days, he had reached the Laochre stronghold of the MacEgan king.

King Patrick ruled over the southern province, and the MacEgan tribe was numbered among their allies. Ronan intended to humble himself and ask the king for aid in taking back his lands at Clonagh—no matter the cost.

The square towers of Laochre were a blend of wood and stone, for King Patrick had rebuilt the castle in the Norman style. The MacEgan lands stretched for miles, from the hilltop of Amadán, all the way to the coast. Even the island of Ennisleigh fell under their dominion. If anyone could help him, it was this tribe.

Ronan rode towards the gates, ignoring his own exhaustion. He hadn’t slept in days and had only stopped for the horse’s sake, not his own. No doubt he appeared like little more than a beggar, for his armour was stained with blood. But he would meet with the king and appeal for help.

The soldiers allowed him to enter, and Ronan gave his horse into the care of a stable lad. His vision blurred, and he fought back the weariness that struck hard. He hadn’t eaten in so long, the smell of food hit him like a physical blow. It was only the years of training and discipline that made it possible to hide the exhaustion and hunger.

He started to walk up the stairs when he glimpsed a woman on the other side of the inner bailey. She stood out from the others like a beam of sunlight. There was no doubt she was of noble birth from the snowy-white gown she wore in the Norman style. She was veiled, and a lock of dark hair rested upon one shoulder. Though she had a subdued beauty, her smile caught his attention and held it.

Who was she? Possibly a relative to Queen Isabel, but he could not be certain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan saw a young girl, possibly three years of age, running towards the woman in white. That was the reason for her smile. The girl hurled herself into the woman’s arms, and the woman laughed as she picked her up, kissing her cheek. He guessed it was her mother.

But then the young girl pointed directly at him and whispered to the woman. The woman studied him, her smile fading. Then she shushed the girl and took her hand, leading the child away.

A grim ache tightened within him. Though he knew it was only a child’s curiosity, it felt like an accusation—as if he were a monster come to life. A cold chill slid over his spine as he thought of the children who had fought at Clonagh, trying to save their fathers.

And the one whose death was his fault.

You were not meant to be their prince, the dark voice of his conscience whispered. Ardan was destined to be the king, not you.

His gut tightened, and he forced away the shadowed guilt. There was nothing he could do now except try to mend the mistakes he’d made. He was here for only one purpose—to seek help for Clonagh. The last thing he needed was the distraction of a woman.

When he reached the top of the stairs, Sir Anselm approached to greet him. The Norman knight had been a loyal vassal for several years now, and he had visited Clonagh on several occasions on behalf of the MacEgans.

‘My lord, this is a surprise.’ The knight raised his knee as a gesture of respect.

But although Ronan was a flaith and a king’s son, the traditional greeting only reminded him that he was Lord of Nothing right now. He had been unable to stop the attack on Clonagh, and many would blame him for it.

Ronan followed the knight inside the donjon, his mood darkening. It was difficult to remain patient, for he recognised their urgent situation. He needed soldiers to help him retake the fortress, well-trained men who could seize power from his stepbrother without harming his people.

Sir Anselm led him inside, and Ronan strode through the Great Chamber. Dozens of men and women were gathered at one end of the donjon where the king’s brother, Trahern MacEgan, was telling stories. King Patrick and Queen Isabel were seated at the dais along with their young son and two other men—Normans from the look of their armour.

Sir Anselm led him towards the steps, and the king’s attention centred upon him. Ronan realised that he should not have entered their keep in such a state, covered in enemy blood. The queen’s expression faltered with sympathy, and she summoned a servant to her side, leaning in to whisper a command.

‘I was not expecting your visit, Ronan,’ King Patrick said solemnly. ‘Come and dine with us.’ He motioned for him to sit at the end of their table. A servant brought food, and it took Ronan a great effort not to devour the bread and stew. He’d eaten next to nothing over the past few days, and he finished the food within minutes. The servant brought him more, and he managed to eat more slowly during the second helping.

King Patrick introduced the two men as Rhys and Warrick de Laurent, and he switched into the Norman tongue so the men would understand. Ronan was glad that his father had forced him to learn many languages, though he’d resented the education at the time of his fostering. Even now, he wasn’t certain why the king was drawing these men into the conversation, but they appeared to be warriors. Ronan welcomed help from any source, whether Norman or Irish.

The king began by saying, ‘I did hear that Clonagh was attacked a few nights ago, and that your father, King Brodur, is a hostage. Our neighbouring tribe at Gall Tír informed us of this.’

Ronan nodded and continued speaking in the Norman language. ‘A few nights ago, my stepbrother Odhran gathered his forces and took my father prisoner.’ He began relating the story, keeping all emotion from his voice when he spoke of those who had died. A part of him still felt that he should have stayed, despite the danger. But he knew that the MacEgan allies were their best hope.

Once again, his attention shifted when he saw the woman in white entering the Great Chamber. She balanced the little girl on her hip, lowering her to sit among the other children who were listening to the bard. The child squirmed and then got up to wander around the gathering space. The woman trailed the young girl, keeping a close watch over her.

For some reason, the two Normans tensed when they saw his distraction, and Ronan forced his gaze back to them. ‘I have come to ask for soldiers,’ he finished. ‘I cannot let my people suffer beneath Odhran’s rule. But they were too afraid to fight back against their own kinsmen. And I need to restore my father to his throne.’

The king exchanged a glance with the other two Normans. It seemed as if he was asking their opinion, and Warrick de Laurent spoke at last. ‘How many men do you need?’

‘Two dozen,’ Ronan answered. ‘Three would be better, but if they are strong fighters, it will be enough.’

‘And once you take back Clonagh, what means do you have to keep it?’

He paused. ‘Once I restore my father to his throne and drive out Odhran, we should be able to maintain order with the remaining men.’

A flicker of doubt crossed King Patrick’s face. ‘What happened to Queen Eilis during the attack?’

The mention of his father’s wife renewed his anger. For Eilis had betrayed him as surely as her son. ‘She supported her son’s rebellion and did nothing to aid my father.’

At that, King Patrick sobered. ‘I know what it is to face treachery from within your own castle walls. But you cannot exile your father’s wife. That is Brodur’s decision to make.’

He had not considered those implications. His father might not set his queen aside, and if so, Ronan would be unable to displace the woman, even if he did take back Clonagh. ‘What do you suggest?’

The king exchanged a look with the de Laurent warriors. ‘You should claim the throne for yourself and take a wife. One with an army of her own who can defend Clonagh from any further threats. Keep the men there for at least a year, and then you will know who is truly loyal.’