Forbidden Night With The Prince

Chapter Two

Ronan could not deny that Joan de Laurent had caught his attention. He had been unprepared for the rush of arousal that struck hard when she’d caressed his skin. His shaft had grown erect beneath the water, and her gentle touch had made him imagine her hands elsewhere.

He gritted his teeth, forcing back the image. He had not touched a woman in months now, and he refused to loosen the tight hold upon his desires. The last time he had seduced a woman, it had ended in tragedy. He could not allow himself to weaken again, though his body was rigid with need.

Joan wasn’t the usual sort of woman he normally desired. She carried herself like a holy woman, wearing white and an iron cross upon a chain. If anything, her earlier remark about becoming a bride of the Church seemed likely. She was a virgin and not the sort of woman he normally pursued.

And yet, she had washed him like a woman who desired a man—as if she, too, had her own hidden needs. He hadn’t missed the furious blush in her cheeks, as if she would die before telling him of her desires. There was something she wanted, but her refusal to admit the truth only intrigued him more.

There was no doubt that her brothers had intended to offer Joan’s hand in marriage, hoping she would ascend to an Irish throne. To them, it was an alliance that would elevate Joan’s rank and bring honour to her.

But they knew nothing of the sins Ronan had committed. He never wanted to be King of Clonagh, especially after his brother’s death. If he could have given his life for Ardan’s, he would have done so a thousand times over. For the burden of guilt never left him. Not a day went by that he did not blame himself.

Joan de Laurent wanted to be left alone, and that was the wisest course for both of them.

This morn, he dressed himself in the clothing Queen Isabel had left for him and departed his chamber. It was later than he’d realised, and most of the castle had already broken their fast. Though his body had needed the rest after not sleeping for days, he couldn’t quite suppress the feeling of guilt at lying abed for so long.

Ronan didn’t bother with a full meal but took bread and cheese from a servant as he passed through the Great Chamber. The night of sleep had cleared his head, and now he had to make plans for his attack.

He strode through Laochre, feeling the tug of envy. The castle was massive in size, with Norman soldiers and Irishmen training side by side. There was a sense of order, with each person having a place to fill. It was exactly what he’d hoped for Clonagh. His father and brother would have wanted the same.

The darkness of grief shadowed him, bringing with it a rise of anger. His brother had been kind, responsible, and beloved by all their people. Whereas Ronan had cared naught about what anyone thought and lived his life as he chose. He deserved to lose everything—but his brother hadn’t.

It wasn’t right or fair. He should have died, not Ardan or his young son, Declan. But his failure had caused both their deaths, and Ronan would never forgive himself for it.

He watched the men training, and soon, Warrick and Rhys de Laurent joined him, one on each side. For a time, Ronan said nothing at all, though he knew their silent question. But Joan de Laurent was an innocent—a good woman who didn’t deserve a sinner like him.

Warrick studied him for a moment, his gaze piercing. At last he said, ‘She told you no, didn’t she?’

I didn’t ask her, Ronan thought. But he raised an eyebrow and avoided a direct answer. ‘Why should she agree to wed a man she doesn’t know?’

‘For the same reason she agreed to wed three other men she’d never seen,’ Rhys added. ‘Because our father arranged an alliance.’

Ronan eyed the man. ‘Among my people, we don’t marry a woman without knowing her first. I only met Joan last night, and we’ve spoken for less than an hour.’

‘Our sister won’t let you know her. She has already decided never to marry.’ Rhys stared back at the soldiers. ‘But that isn’t what’s right for her. She needs a husband and a family of her own.’

‘And you’ve already decided this, have you?’ Though he didn’t understand Joan’s reluctance to wed, he was not about to force the issue.

‘Our father would be pleased with the idea of Joan wedding an Irish prince.’

Ronan had no doubt of that. But neither he nor Joan had any interest in marriage. And yet, he wondered if she could convince her brothers to come to an arrangement. He stalled an answer, asking, ‘If she did agree to wed, how many men can you offer me?’

‘Two dozen Normans and fifty Irishmen,’ Warrick answered. ‘My wife inherited property at Killalough, and we can add our forces. Add the MacEgan soldiers, and it will be enough to retake Clonagh with minimal bloodshed.’

He believed Warrick. That would make nearly seventy-five highly trained men and possibly two dozen more from Laochre.

‘If our sister agrees to wed you,’ Rhys continued, ‘I will send my two dozen Norman soldiers to remain at Clonagh until you’ve driven out the traitors. If Joan is pleased with the marriage, I will send more.’

Ronan said nothing, but his instincts warned him that Joan’s brothers would accept nothing less than a union between them. He decided not to reveal his reluctance, stalling for more time.

‘You have three days to convince her,’ Warrick said. ‘If she has agreed to wed you by the end of those three days, then we will send the men.’ He paused a moment. ‘But if you hurt our sister at all, in thought or in deed, I will burn you alive.’

Which was exactly what a brother was supposed to say. Ronan didn’t react at all, and then Rhys added, ‘Or burning might be too fast. Flaying could be better.’ There was a knowing smile on his face, and he cracked his knuckles.

‘Before you decide to kill me, you should wait until there’s a reason for it,’ Ronan answered.

‘True.’ Warrick clapped him on the back. ‘I must return to my wife at Killalough, and Rhys is coming with me. We will assemble our men and leave Joan in the care of Queen Isabel.’ He regarded Ronan with a steady gaze. ‘Three days.’

* * *

Joan sat against the inner bailey wall with Sorcha, watching over the child as she made flower chains out of dandelions. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine that this was her little girl and not her brother’s. The young child sat down in Joan’s lap, and a surge of yearning filled her. This was what she wanted—to have a child of her own. It was a physical hole inside her, and she knew her time was running out. She should have been married five years ago, and now, she might be too old to bear a child.

The thought of returning to her father’s house to live among people who were afraid of her was disheartening. And yet, what else could she do? She didn’t dare wed again.

Her brothers wanted her to marry whether she wished it or not. Unbidden came the thought of Ronan Ó Callaghan. Joan could not deny that she was intrigued by this man. There was a strength about him, not only physical, but he seemed like one who was strong-willed and stubborn. If anyone could stand up to her brothers’ overprotective ways, it was Ronan. All he wanted in return was men to help him protect his people.

And suddenly, as if in answer to her thoughts, she saw him watching over them in the distance. Sorcha stood and hurried towards him.

‘Sorcha, wait.’ Joan tried to bring the child back, but it was too late. The girl was reaching her hand up to Ronan, while the daisy chain tipped from her dark hair. Joan wanted to groan, for heaven only knew what Sorcha was telling the Irish prince.

Ronan appeared wary of the child, as if he knew not what to do with her. Sorcha put her hand in his. ‘You come,’ she said. Without waiting for him to agree, she led him towards Joan.

When the pair of them were a short distance away, Ronan looked as if he were searching for a way to extricate himself. ‘I should go,’ he started to say, but Sorcha tightened her grip on his hand.

‘No. You have to see Lady Joan. She’s waiting.’

Waiting for what? Joan wondered. She couldn’t quite imagine what the little girl wanted, but the determination on Sorcha’s face rivalled the strongest warriors. Ronan had no choice at all, except to obey the child’s wishes. She tried to hold back her amusement at his discomfort but could not quite manage it.

‘And who have you brought, Sorcha?’ Joan asked. ‘Do you think he needs a flower chain?’ She could not resist teasing him, for the prince appeared uneasy being led about by a three-year-old.

The child shook her head. ‘No. The flowers are mine. You hold his hand.’ She brought the prince closer and then reached for Joan’s hand, joining them together. ‘There.’

She was startled by the warmth of his callused palm and the way his fingers covered hers. Joan was about to pull away, but Ronan closed his grip. He wore a dark leather tunic and leather arm bracers. His trews covered his powerful thighs, and a sword hung at his waist. Though he was a prince, he was also undeniably a warrior.

Sorcha began walking away, as if her task was now complete. Joan asked, ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m hungry, and Father is waiting for me.’ She pulled the drooping flower chain back on to her hair and then hurried up the stairs to her father. Rhys scooped her into his arms and held her against his hip.

Joan wasn’t certain what to say except, ‘My niece is not subtle, is she?’

‘She is very bold for one so young.’ He released her hand and then asked, ‘Why did your brother bring her to Ireland?’

Joan walked alongside him as they passed by the soldiers. ‘Rhys and Warrick came to witness my wedding, and Sorcha was rather demanding about wanting to attend. Truthfully, I think Rhys brought her along because Sorcha can be challenging. His wife, Lianna, just gave birth to another baby, and he thought it would give her time to rest with their son.’

Joan wished she could have stayed in Scotland to cradle the newborn, for there was nothing more wonderful than the feeling of an infant nestled against her heart.

‘Do you have many nieces or nephews?’

‘Two nieces and two nephews,’ she answered. ‘Sorcha is the eldest. Mary and Stephen are twin babies, born to Warrick and his wife, Rosamund. Edward is Sorcha’s little brother, who was only born a month ago.’

Ronan eyed her and ventured, ‘You want children of your own, do you not?’

Joan nodded without thinking. Then she stopped herself and said, ‘I do, but I suppose it is not meant to be.’ She could not imagine a fourth man dying before their marriage. The idea made her shudder.

‘Why do you say that?’

She didn’t know how to answer him, for he would never understand her reluctance. Instead, she kept her answer simple. ‘After three failed betrothals, I do not believe I will ever marry.’

He waited for her to elaborate, and when she did not, he stopped walking. ‘Why not?’

Because they all die. Her face reddened, and she shrugged. ‘You will say I am foolish if I tell you the reason.’

‘You are foolish,’ he repeated with a faint smile. ‘Now tell me the reason.’

An unexpected laugh broke free before she could stop herself. Perhaps she should tell him the truth, and then he might leave her alone.

Joan thought a moment and said, ‘If you were betrothed to a woman, and she died before you could wed, it would be a misfortune. If it happened a second time, you would feel uneasy. But after it happened a third time?’ She shook her head. ‘I am cursed never to marry. If I am betrothed a fourth time, that man will surely perish.’ She raised her chin to face him, waiting to hear his protests.

Yet he didn’t smile or scoff at her fears. Instead, he seemed to consider her confession, and he asked, ‘Was that why you refused to marry any man?’

She nodded. ‘I do not want to bring death, simply because I am cursed.’ Again, Joan waited for him to mock her beliefs, but he only remained pensive for a time.

At last he said, ‘Many of my men have their own beliefs regarding life and death, especially in battle. One wears a red ribbon around his left ankle, and he claims that it saved his life. Another has not cleaned his armour in over a year.’ He wrinkled his face. ‘God above, but it reeks.’ Then he relaxed and added, ‘You are not alone in your way of thinking.’

‘My brothers don’t believe me. They think it’s only a coincidence. And though they may be right, I cannot help but feel responsible for the deaths of each one.’

Ronan began walking alongside her once again. ‘Would you have married any of those men, if they had not died?’

A tightness caught within her chest. When she was seventeen, she had been thrilled about her first betrothal. Her girlish dreams had blossomed as she had imagined a husband and a family of her own. But then those dreams had been shattered, time and again.

At last, she nodded. ‘The first two were good men, from what I could tell. The last one was...older, but I could have managed.’ Though the idea of bedding Murdoch Ó Connor was not particularly a welcome one. Joan couldn’t quite visualise lying with such a man.

Although she could easily indulge in the unholy thoughts she’d had about Ronan. His muscled body, sleek from water, had tempted her in ways she didn’t even understand. She had felt an echo of sensation when she had run her fingers over his bare skin.

He caught her stare and she blinked, wishing her blush had not betrayed her interest. Better to gain control over her senses and put an end to these unspoken desires.

Ronan stopped walking near the barbican gate. In the distance, the coast was visible, and the sun shone upon the water. ‘Do you want to walk a little further?’

She thought about it for a time, wondering if she dared to be alone with him. He seemed like a man of honour, and she doubted if he would harm her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say the same for his own well-being, given what had happened to the men in her past.

With a shrug, she said lightly, ‘If you think it’s safe to be in my presence. You still might die.’

Ronan’s mouth curved in a smile. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

* * *

As they continued through the gate and into the open meadow, Ronan studied Joan’s appearance. She was indeed an attractive woman, though the white gown made her face appear too pale. She veiled her dark hair, but he had seen for himself how the wild locks tangled around her shoulders with a hint of curl. Any man would be pleased with her beauty.

She would have been a perfect second wife for his brother, Ardan. Ronan could easily imagine the pair of them—his quiet, kind-hearted brother and this woman. Joan was virtuous and gentle, someone who deserved a good man for a husband—not a hardened warrior like himself. The shadowed thread of regret wound around his conscience before he forced it back.

‘When will you return to Clonagh to take back your lands?’ she asked quietly.

‘Within a few days. I need to scout out their defences.’ His mood darkened at the thought of his people living under the threat of Odhran. His stepbrother’s rebellion had struck hard with a ruthless strength, and it gnawed at Ronan’s conscience. Odhran had used hired mercenaries to slaughter their guards and take hostages. King Brodur had been seized, and Ronan had cut down four men, trying to save his father from captivity.

But when his enemies had attempted to surround him, he’d had no choice but to run.

Shame darkened his mood, though he knew patience was necessary for the success of this conquest. He needed men to accompany him and information about his enemy’s weaknesses before he could invade.

Joan remained silent during their walk, staring out at the water. They continued through the grasses, passing by grazing sheep. He walked alongside her, and he could smell the faint scent of flowers emanating from her skin.

With each moment he spent at her side, he felt the silent chiding of Fate. He’d been a man who had lived in the moment and sought pleasure wherever he could find it. Now, he wasn’t suited to being anyone’s husband, and he had nothing to offer. She was right to turn down the betrothal.

‘I think you should put aside your reluctance and wed the King of Tornall’s daughter,’ Joan suggested. ‘You could ally yourself with her father’s men and defend your people. She is Irish, like you, and it would unite your kingdoms.’

It was a sensible suggestion, and one he had considered. But there was a greater threat to his clan if he accepted help from that tribe. ‘If I do that, then King Tierney might try to claim Clonagh for his own. He will exert his own political power because I would owe him a debt.’

Joan gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. ‘Perhaps.’ She walked to the edge of the clearing, and looked out over the sea. A short distance away was the island of Ennisleigh, a fortress the men used to scout invaders attacking by sea. There was a ruined keep that stood there, one they had not bothered to rebuild. It gave the appearance of no threat at all, but Joan knew that there were many soldiers guarding the outpost day and night. It was a deliberate means of protecting Laochre from seaborne invaders.

‘The island is beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘I do love the sea. Is Clonagh far away from here?’

‘It is. The fortress lies two days north,’ he admitted. ‘We have forests but no coast.’

They stood for a while, watching over the waves. Strands of her dark hair escaped from her veil, and Joan tried to force them back. The winds grew stronger, and at last, she laughed, removing the veil entirely. The dark curls framed her face, and her cheeks were rosy from the chill. Only a few months ago, he would have stolen a kiss and tried to tempt her. She made him want to push back the boundaries between them and find out whether there was a woman of passion beneath her innocent exterior.

When she saw him staring, her smile faded. ‘Is something wrong?’

Only an urge that he shouldn’t have. He brushed back the strands of hair from her face, cupping her face. He studied those deep blue eyes that mirrored the sea, and admired the curve of her cheek. Unlike a young maiden who would shy away or giggle, she met his gaze openly.

She was untouched, a woman of innocence. Her white gown reminded him of that, and he knew she would never consent to a marriage. But Joan de Laurent intrigued him. He wanted to taste those full lips, to see what sort of secrets she was keeping from the world. And more than that, he wanted to understand why this woman had captured his attention.

Her hand moved to cover his, as if she wanted to pull away. And yet, she didn’t. The touch of her fingers upon his was spellbinding, and he locked his gaze with hers.

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

He let his hand drift downward to her shoulder before he held her waist in both hands. For a moment, he kept her captive, simply watching. For a woman who did not want to marry, she made no effort to escape him. Instead, she waited for him to answer her question.

‘Even if there were no curse, we could not wed. We are not suited.’ He knew it down to his bones. Joan de Laurent was a good woman, the sort who deserved a decent man. Not one who had caused a tragedy for his family.

‘I agree that we are very different,’ she said quietly. ‘You are an Irish prince, and I am the daughter of a Norman earl. We have nothing at all in common.’

His hands moved up her spine, and he felt like a bastard, wanting to push back the boundaries between them. But she was a forbidden craving he wanted to taste.

‘It’s more than that, Joan. Trust me when I say you would never want a man like me.’ He drew his hands down again in a soft caress, resting them upon her hips.

She closed her eyes as if his touch had burned through her. From the colour in her cheeks, he knew the effect he was having on her, but he wasn’t ready to let her go—not yet.

‘W-why would you say such a thing?’ she stammered. ‘Have you done something terrible?’

He had. Something so terrible, he dared tell no one at all. And if he didn’t gather his self-control, he was about to trespass upon this innocent woman’s virtue.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it? Since we will never wed.’ He released her from his grasp, expecting her to pull away from him. But she kept her hands upon his chest, above his beating heart. He wore no armour, but the simple heat of her palms burned through the leather tunic, arousing him deeply. He remembered how it had felt when her slick hands had soaped his wet skin, and desire had taken hold of his senses.

‘I don’t think you’re as bad as you say you are,’ she murmured.

It was almost a challenge, and one he was prepared to face. He reached back to her waist and pulled her closer.

‘You’re right, a stór. I’m far worse.’

And with that, he lowered his mouth to hers and claimed a kiss.

* * *

The heat of his mouth was scalding, a demand—not a request. Joan tasted his longing, and when he held her closer, her hips pressed to his. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal, and to her shock, she responded to him, growing weak with need. Never in her life had she been kissed like this, though her first two betrothed husbands had kissed her. Her breasts tightened, and she could not catch a single breath as Ronan claimed her.

His tongue slid within her mouth in a silent temptation, and she could do nothing except surrender. What startled her the most was her own racing heart. She wanted this man, yearned for his touch. He attracted her in all the wrong ways until she hardly cared at all. His hands threaded through her hair, tangling the strands as he kissed her hard. She opened to him, yielding to the onslaught until she could scarcely catch her breath.

You cannot have him, her mind warned. He was forbidden to her, and she should not give in to these longings. Else he would die.

But she was kissing him back, meeting him with the answer of her own veiled desires. For so many years, she had been promised to strangers with her father’s seal upon the betrothal—just before those men had lost their lives. The sweet stolen kisses had stopped when she’d lost each one. And she’d never realised how much she needed a man’s touch until now. It was as if someone had ripped apart her inhibitions, exposing her deepest desires. She faltered at the thought of Ronan claiming her body, giving her a child.

But the thought of seeing his sightless eyes staring back at her brought a tremor of heartache.

No, she could not take the risk of his death. Not even for one forbidden night.

Joan pulled back from him with reluctance, knowing that she could not surrender to her desires. At least, not unless the curse could be broken—if that was even possible.