‘I know you did not wish to wed me,’ Isabel began, not really knowing what to say.

The awkward silence stretched further when Patrick picked up the oars and began rowing towards the shoreline.

‘It is a great sacrifice,’ she said dryly, ‘having to spend time with me.’

‘More than you know,’ he muttered.

Isabel dipped her hand in the sea and flicked a palm full of water at his face.

Patrick’s face darkened. Droplets of salt water slid down his bristled cheeks. Before she could move, he trapped her hands in his and pulled her arms around his neck. She clung to him for balance, her heartbeat pounding against her chest.

He wasn’t going to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes. He was fighting against it.

But he didn’t let go of her. His hands caressed her back, holding her, and a secret part of her ached to welcome him. She needed more than this, and yet he held himself back. Embraced in his arms, she pressed her breasts close to him, her body trembling. Her mouth parted, wishing for what he would not give.

Then she lifted her face and kissed him.

Michelle Willingham grew up living in places all over the world, including Germany, England and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antiques shows in manor houses and castles, Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance.

She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame, with a degree in English, and received her master’s degree in Education from George Mason University. Currently she teaches American History and English, and is working on more medieval books set in Ireland. She lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesn’t have her broadsword.

Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com, or e-mail her at michelle@michellewillingham.com

Previous novels by this author:

HER IRISH WARRIOR*

THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH*

*The MacEgan Brothers

HER WARRIOR KING

Michelle Willingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my husband Chuck,

who has always supported my dream.

You’re my own Irish hero.

Author Note

I have always loved stories of royalty, and during my research I found fascinating tales about the many kings of medieval Ireland. The High King was chosen to lead the country, but there were provincial kings and petty kings as well, who would reign over their territories. Kings were not born, but instead were selected by the people. They could also be deposed, if the people were not satisfied with their leader. Approximately 80-100 kings reigned over the tribes of Ireland for hundreds of years.

HER WARRIOR KING is the story of a man struggling with the burden of kingship and a forbidden love of the enemy. I hope you enjoy Patrick MacEgan’s tale and, as always, I love to hear from readers. Visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com for extra features in The MacEgan Brothers series!

Chapter One

England, 1170

Every woman considered stealing a horse and running away on her wedding day, didn’t she?

Isabel de Godred fought the restlessness building within her. It was her duty to obey her father. She understood it, even as she clenched the crimson silk of her kirtle and eyed the stables.

In her heart, she knew an escape was futile. Even if she did manage to leave the grounds, her father would send an army after her. Edwin de Godred was not known for his tolerance. Everything was done according to his orders, and woe to anyone who disobeyed.

The marriage might not be so bad, part of her reasoned. Her betrothed could be an amiable, attractive man who would allow her the freedom to run his estates.

She closed her eyes. No, highly unlikely. Otherwise her father would have paraded the suitor before her, boasting about the match. She knew little about him, save his Irish heritage and rank.

‘Are you ready, my lady?’ her maidservant Clair asked. With a conspiratorial smile, she added, ‘Do you suppose he’s handsome?’

‘No. He won’t be.’ Toothless and ageing. That’s how the man would look. Panic boiled inside her stomach, and Isabel’s steps felt leaden. Her rash escape plan was looking more and more appealing.

‘But surely—’

Isabel shook her head. ‘Clair, Father wouldn’t even let me meet the man at our betrothal. He’s probably half-demon.’

Her maid crossed herself and frowned. ‘I heard he’s one of the Irish kings. He must be wealthy beyond our imaginings.’

‘He isn’t the High King.’ And thank the saints for that. Though she might rule over the tribe, at least she did not have the burden of ruling a country. As they walked down the wooden staircase outside the castle donjon, she wondered how her father had arranged a betrothal in such a short time. He’d gone to aid the Earl of Pembroke’s campaign only last summer.

‘If I could, I’d take your place,’ Clair mused with a dreamy smile.

‘And if I could, I’d give him to you.’ Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible.

Isabel’s imagination conjured up a monster. The man must be unbearable to require such secrecy. Though she knew it was unfair to pass a judgement before she’d met her intended, she couldn’t help but imagine the worst.

‘You’ll be mistress of your own kingdom.’ Clair sighed. ‘Imagine it. You’re to become a queen.’

‘I suppose.’ And that added even more fear to the forthcoming marriage. What did she know about being a queen? She knew how to run an estate and make it profitable, but that was all.

Her father Edwin de Godred, Baron of Thornwyck, awaited her outside the chapel among a small crowd of guests and servants. Tall and thin, his greying beard and moustache were neatly groomed. He examined her with a glance, and Isabel felt like a mare about to be traded. She resisted the urge to show her teeth for inspection.

No, it did not bother her to leave this place. But what should she expect from the Irish king? Was he kind? Cruel? Her nerves wound tighter.

‘Is he here?’ she asked her father, staring at the men waiting near the church.

Edwin gripped her cold fingers, keeping them in a tight grasp as he escorted her to the church. ‘You will meet him soon enough. My men sighted his travelling party a few hours ago.’

‘I would rather have met him at our betrothal,’ she muttered. Her father only grunted a response.

Isabel shivered. Until she saw this man with her own eyes, she’d not surrender her escape plans. With each step, she felt more alone. Her sisters were not here to lend their support. Edwin had not permitted it, and it had hurt more than she’d thought it would.

When they arrived in the courtyard, a well-dressed man was speaking to the priest. He had little hair, save a snowy fringe around his pate.

‘Is that him?’ she asked. Her father didn’t answer. He seemed preoccupied, his gaze focused into the distance.

The older man swallowed hard and wiped his palms upon the hem of his tunic. He glanced around as if searching for someone.

Isabel sent up a silent prayer, her cheeks flaming. God, please save me from this marriage, she thought, even as her father’s hand closed over her wrist.

A moment later, she heard the sound of a horse approaching. Startled, she glanced up at the heavens. ‘That was quick.’

‘What is it?’ Edwin demanded.

‘Nothing.’ Isabel forced a neutral expression onto her face, but the rumbling sound intensified. Her father offered a strange smile, and he motioned for the priest to wait. Moments later, the elderly man stepped among the other guests. So he was not her bridegroom.

The noise grew louder, and her father’s hand moved to his sword hilt. A few guests looked to Edwin, the women glancing around with uncertainty. The priest turned to Isabel, a questioning look on his face.

Isabel froze. There, riding towards the guests, a man emerged. His clothes were little better than rags, dried mud coating the hem of his cloak. And yet he rode a sleek black horse, a stallion worthy of a knight.

His sword was drawn, as if to cut down any man who dared oppose him. Guests scrambled to get away from the horse, several women shrieking.

Isabel’s heart leaped into her throat, but she held herself straight, refusing to scream. Instead she darted behind one of her father’s men, a soldier armed with a bow and arrows.

What was wrong with them? The men hadn’t moved, nor released any arrows. As a single rider, the intruder was an easy target. Would no one stop him?

‘Do something!’ she shouted, but the soldiers ignored her.

The man drew his horse to a halt, sheathing his sword. Isabel’s breath caught in her lungs, a strange sense of foreboding sliding over her. No. This could not be him.

Black hair flowed down his shoulders, his granite eyes burning into hers. He reminded her of a savage barbarian, bold and fearless. He wore a strange garment, a long tunic of blue that draped to his knees, and dun-coloured leggings. A crimson, ragged cloak hung across his shoulders, pinned with a narrow iron brooch the length of her forearm. Gold bands encircled his upper arms, denoting a noble rank.

Her father’s calm acceptance of the interruption could mean only one thing. The barbarian was her betrothed husband. Isabel bit her lip, fighting back the fear and the desire to flee.

Edwin confirmed it with his words. ‘Isabel, this is Patrick MacEgan, king of Laochre.’

She didn’t want to believe him. While the barbarian’s horse and sword suggested a high rank, the man looked as though he’d come from a battlefield rather than a throne. And where were his escorts, his servants? Kings did not travel alone. Her suspicions darkened.

The king dismounted, and Isabel kept a clear eye on his horse. Now, more than ever, she longed to escape. Perhaps she could seek sanctuary in the abbey. There was a slim chance she might make it.

‘You are Lady Isabel de Godred?’ he asked. The lilting accent in his voice sounded foreign in the Norman tongue.

‘I am.’ She stared at the man. ‘Is this the way you usually arrive at a wedding? By trying to kill the guests?’

‘Isabel,’ her father warned. She stilled her voice, fighting back the fear that pounded inside her. His steel eyes studied her dispassionately, and her gaze shifted to his hands. He could tear her apart with them, no doubt.

The barbarian king blinked a second. The fierce expression returned to his face. ‘Let us get the deed done.’

Not if she could help it. He wasn’t at all half-demon. Full-blooded demon, more like. If she ever intended to make an escape, now was her only opportunity.

Isabel dashed towards MacEgan’s horse. She gripped the saddle, trying to haul herself atop the creature before strong arms surrounded her like a shield. Sinewy muscles possessed her in a prison of strength.

Though she fought him, the king lifted her down as though she weighed no more than a fly. He kept her pinioned against his chest. His body heat warmed her cool skin, and the top of her head reached just below his shoulders. In his stance, she could feel the caged fury.

‘I cannot wed you,’ she insisted. This was not the sort of amiable husband who would sit upon a throne and let her handle the household. He was the sort of man who would lock her in chains and feed her body to the crows.

No one listened to her protests. Father Thomas began murmuring the words to the marriage rite. The king took her hand in his, and blood roared in Isabel’s ears.

This could not be happening. This man would steal her away from her homeland, to the island of Erin where she had no family. She’d never see her sisters again. Pain twisted within her skin, and she held back tears.

His hand squeezed hers tighter, and she caught the warning look. Anger rose up within her, permeating and harsh. What had she done to be punished with a husband such as this?

The priest was waiting for her vow. Isabel shook her head and her throat closed up. ‘I will not wed you.’

‘You’ve no more choice than I, a chara.’

Isabel tried to break free of him, but the Irish king overpowered her. ‘You wish to have your freedom, do you not?’

She made no reply. What did he mean?

‘Agree to this marriage, and it shall be yours.’

She did not believe him. Every inch of this man was uncivilised. Her father sent her an icy glare. ‘Look around you, Isabel. If you do not wed the king of Laochre, there is none other who will have you. What man desires a disobedient wife? You bring shame upon yourself.’

Hot tears gathered in her eyes, but Isabel held her ground. The wedding guests appeared uncomfortable.

The king softened his grip upon her wrist. Lowering his voice, he brought his mouth to her ear. His breath made her shiver.

‘Your father holds the lives of my people under his control: men, women and children. The only way to save them is if I wed you. And wed you I shall, a chara, be assured of it.’

A single tear slid free, staining her cheek. The truth broke through, unwanted. Her father’s conquest in Erin had made her into a bargaining pawn, her own wishes meaningless. This was a political alliance, and the king’s rigid expression made it clear he would not accept a refusal.

Was he telling the truth? Would children and women die if she refused? She turned and studied her father. In his eyes she saw no mercy.

She looked closer at Patrick MacEgan. Past the anger she saw exhaustion. And a hint of sadness. If he was right, if innocents would die without her acceptance… She closed her eyes, knowing she could not escape her fate. In that moment the chains of obligation tightened around her.

When the priest asked for her vow again, she forced herself to nod aye. Within moments, the rite had ended. Her husband brushed a kiss of peace upon her cheek, and Isabel clenched her teeth to keep from screaming.

Throughout the Mass, Patrick kept her hand imprisoned in his. She barely heard the priest’s words, her head spinning with disbelief. So fast. Wedded to a man she didn’t know, a king who lived a world apart from her homeland.

Afterwards, they walked into the inner bailey. Isabel’s stomach roiled at the scent of the wedding feast prepared. Peacocks, a roasted pig, and all manner of exotic fare awaited them. She couldn’t imagine touching a bite of it. Celebrating was the furthest thing from her mind.

Patrick stopped in front of his horse. ‘We leave now. Say farewell to your father, for you will not see him for a long time.’

His command caught her unawares. ‘But my belongings and dowry,’ she protested. ‘The wagons—’

‘We’ll send for them later.’

Isabel cast a glance towards Edwin de Godred. No longer did she see the face of her father, a man she had tried desperately to please. Now she saw a man willing to sell her into marriage with the devil, should it further his own ambitions.

Her father moved forward. ‘You cannot depart until the marriage is consummated.’

‘I have met our agreement.’ Patrick’s expression hardened, and his palm moved down to the hollow of her spine. Isabel stiffened at the mark of possession. ‘You need not doubt the rest. But it will be on my terms, not yours.’

Lord Thornwyck deliberated before at last handing over a scroll of sealed parchment. ‘If she is not carrying an heir by the time I return to Laochre, I will require evidence that she is no longer a virgin.’

Isabel’s face burned with mortification. Now it seemed they viewed her as a brood mare. Terror lanced her at the idea of submitting to the Irish king. Though he’d granted her a reprieve from the ceremonial bedding, she had no doubt he would want to share her bed later this night. Her skin prickled beneath the touch of his hand upon her body. The awareness of him only heightened her fears.

‘At Lughnasa, we’ll expect you,’ Patrick replied. He did not await a response, but lifted her on to his horse. He swung up behind her, spurring the stallion into a gallop.

The horse raced onwards while strong arms confined her in an iron grip. Neither her father, nor his men, made any move to stop him. Isabel’s last thought was, God, this was not what I meant when I begged you to save me from this marriage.

Patrick kept the woman in a firm grip as they rode through the fields. He needed to put distance between them and Thornwyck’s fortress. Though the Baron had let him leave freely, he didn’t trust the Normans to keep their word.

Isabel de Godred had startled him. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t a wife who’d accused him of trying to murder the guests. He’d hoped for a plain-faced, biddable maiden who would follow his orders. Instead, fate had granted him a beautiful woman who looked as though she’d never obeyed a command in her life. Even now her body tensed against his, as though she were contemplating escape.

In silent response, he tightened his hold. Without Isabel’s presence, he could not free his people. The orders signed by Thornwyck were not enough. The Norman captain had to see her for himself.

Patrick stared at the horizon, wondering if he would glimpse his brothers. Though he’d ordered them to remain beyond the Welsh border, he suspected they hadn’t. During the wedding Mass, he’d caught a slight motion to his left. But when he’d turned, there was nothing.

Then again, his brothers were well trained. Like shadows, if they didn’t want to be seen, no one would find them. The fear of anything happening to his family added yet another rope of tension to this tangled web.

Brutal memories slashed at his heart, of the children who had died in the fires. His brother’s wife, stolen and killed by the Norman invaders. So much loss. And all because of Thornwyck and the Earl of Pembroke’s forces. He could hardly think about the woman he held in his arms, for she was one of them.

After several hours, he drew his horse Bel to a stop. He chose a spot near a stream, out in the open where Isabel could not run. He lifted her down. ‘Rest for a moment and slake your thirst. Fill this in the stream, and then we’ll go further.’

She accepted the water bag. ‘Why did you wed me?’ Eyes the colour of polished walnut gazed at him steadily. ‘You said the lives of your people depended on this marriage.’

Not a tear fell from her eyes, nor did she scream. Quiet and pensive, she met his attention openly.

‘You were part of the surrender terms when your father conquered our fortress. If I didn’t wed you, he swore to kill all of the survivors.’

She blanched. ‘I don’t believe he would really have done that.’

He didn’t know what kind of sheltered walls had veiled her eyes, but he refused to equivocate Edwin de Godred’s actions. ‘Believe it.’

She took a few steps towards the stream, her steps faltering. He doubted if she was accustomed to riding for long distances. If she were any other woman, he’d likely stop for the night.

But she wasn’t. She was one of them and not to be trusted. As long as he remained upon English soil, he had no way of knowing whether Thornwyck would keep their agreement. Even now, his people might be suffering. Two score of Norman soldiers held them prisoner.

He wasn’t about to waste time with wedding feasts, or with bedding the woman. The sooner they reached Eíreann, the better.

Patrick knelt beside the stream and lifted the cold water to his lips. Isabel sat nearby, her hands folded in her lap.

The wind skimmed against her veil, lifting it to reveal a length of golden hair. With full lips and high cheekbones, her brown eyes illuminated her face. For a moment, he almost pitied her. No woman should have to endure a marriage like this one.

She handed him the water bag. ‘What am I to call you? Your Majesty? My sovereign lord?’

‘Patrick will do.’ Though he had earned the rank of petty king, reigning over his tribe, it had been hardly a year. He had not yet grown accustomed to being their leader. He didn’t know how his father and eldest brother had shouldered the responsibility so easily. Every decision he made, he questioned. Especially the agreement with the Baron of Thornwyck.

‘You promised me my freedom. Do you intend to give it to me now?’

He shook his head. ‘When we reach Eíreann. I give you my word.’

‘And is your vow worth anything?’

He folded his arms. It was becoming apparent why Thornwyck had offered his daughter as part of the arrangement. ‘Are you always this difficult?’

‘Always.’

Her bluntness almost made him smile. ‘Good. I’ve no need for a spineless woman.’ He lifted her atop the stallion once more. A flash of irritation crossed her face, but she made no complaint.

She had courage; he’d grant her that. Even still, he could never forget what her people had done to his. Worse, the marriage was only part of the surrender terms. The rest of the treaty made slavery seem inviting. The price he’d paid for the lives of his people was far too high.

As he urged his horse onwards, he could only pray that his tribe could endure what lay ahead.

Isabel clung to the hope that somehow the improper marriage was not binding. She knew better than to try an escape. Without a horse of her own and supplies, she wouldn’t survive. Not unless she could find someone to help her.

But who? Edwin de Godred had made it clear that he wanted this alliance. He didn’t seem to care that his youngest daughter was now bound to a foreigner, and an uncivilised one at that.

Why had she ever agreed to this? She should have listened to her instincts instead of believing Patrick’s tale about captive women and children.

They rode through a forest, the road curving in the midst of fallen leaves. Stately oaks and rowans crowned the path, their branches weaving a canopy high above them. The landscape of her homeland faded into a sea of green and rich earth.

Near the Welsh border, slate-grey mountains wore a halo of afternoon sunlight. They rose above the landscape, beautiful and stark. Flocks of sheep dotted the hills, flecks of white against the sea of green. The spring air cooled her skin, a reminder of the coming night.

Perhaps it would be the last time she saw England. She tried to quell the panic. You must not be afraid, she told herself. Keep your wits about you. Erin cannot be so bad.

But her stray thoughts kept returning to the wedding night. She glanced down at MacEgan’s hands, roughened with labour. They were not at all smooth like a nobleman’s. His forearms controlled the horse’s reins, revealing a subdued strength.

‘Night approaches,’ she ventured. ‘Do you plan to ride in the darkness?’

There was no reply. She tried again, raising her voice.

‘Perhaps when it has grown too dark to see our path, a tree will knock you senseless. Then I could run away.’

Again, silence. The man might as well have been a statue from his stoic demeanour.

‘Or if I am fortunate, wolves might devour us.’ She pondered the thought, imagining other ideas that could make this day any worse.

‘You talk overmuch, a chara. In a few hours, we camp for the night.’

Isabel clamped her mouth shut. The thought of stopping for the night, alone with this man, unsettled her. Even now, riding against the heat of his body, kindled her nervousness. He sheltered her, confining her in arms chiselled with a warrior’s strength.

Would it be that unbearable to feel his body joining with hers? Her maidservant had sighed over the pleasure of lying in a man’s arms, but Isabel remained unconvinced. Her warrior husband had not a trace of gentleness. She dreaded the thought of sharing a bed with him.

After a time, Patrick drew the horse to a stop. The lavender sky swelled with shadowy clouds. She could feel moisture gathering in the air. Ahead, she saw no inn, only more trees.

Her husband moved with a fluid grace, pulling her down from the horse. ‘Do not try to run.’

She almost laughed. ‘And where would I go?’

‘Wherever you planned to travel when you tried to steal my horse.’ He took her hands and led her into the woods. From his pack of supplies, he brought out a pile of heavy cloth, which unfolded into a small tent. It was hardly large enough for a single person, let alone both of them. He finished setting up the tent and gestured towards it. ‘Wait here. I’ll hunt for food.’

Isabel glanced at the swelling clouds, hoping he meant for her to sleep within the tent alone. She started towards the shelter when Patrick stopped her. His gaze held hers, a predatory man who would show no mercy. ‘You should rest until I return. We’ve more riding to do before we stop for the night.’

Isabel gathered her composure. ‘Don’t you have any supplies here? There’s no need to hunt.’ She glanced up at the twilight horizon, more than a little fearful. What if he abandoned her in this place?

Patrick’s face was close enough to feel his warm breath upon her cheek. ‘I’ll come back for you soon.’

Her body betrayed her with the warmth that flooded through her. She forced herself to look away.

He deposited her inside the tent and tossed a length of wool at her. ‘Cover yourself with the brat to stay warm.’

As he started towards the horse, her fear doubled. What if a thief or a murderer came after her? She would be alone, defenceless. ‘I would like a weapon,’ she added hastily. ‘Please.’

He turned and shot her a look of disbelief. ‘For what purpose?’

‘In case someone attacks. Or an animal.’ Isabel crawled outside the tent and pointed to his quiver. ‘I know how to use a bow and arrows.’

‘No weapons. I do not intend to go far, and I’d rather you didn’t shoot me when I return.’ He drew up his hood and mounted the stallion, disappearing into the woods.

At that, the rain began. It was a hard, pounding rain that soaked through the silk of her kirtle. A thickness rose in the back of her throat as Isabel huddled inside the tent. Rivulets of cold rain spattered against the heavy cloth, and she cursed Patrick for bringing her here. She cursed her father for arranging this marriage. She cursed herself for not throwing herself off the horse when Patrick had stolen her.

Mud caked her lower limbs as the rain pounded harder. Her veil clung to her neck in an icy grasp. In the distance, she heard an eerie howling noise. Hastily she sent up another silent prayer.

The last thing she needed was for her new husband to truly be eaten by wolves.

Chapter Two

Patrick’s stallion raced across the Welsh plains, the rain soaking through him. The brittle weather helped clear his mind of the resentment.

When he’d accepted the kingship, it had meant making sacrifices. His personal feelings were nothing when it came to the needs of the tribe. He’d married the Norman woman, and now he had the means to free his people.

Shadowed against the horizon, he saw his brothers’ camp, the firelight flickering against the orange-and-crimson sunset. When he reached the men, he dismounted.

‘Lovely weather,’ his brother Trahern remarked. He stood beside the fire, which they had shielded from the rain with a hide stretched before it. Trahern’s brown hair dripped with water, along with his curling beard. He towered over both his brothers, his height rivalling that of a legendary giant.

‘It seems appropriate for my wedding day.’ Patrick tethered Bel, patting the stallion.

Their other brother Bevan stood, pacing. ‘I was wondering how long it would take you to arrive. I wouldn’t put it past your Norman bride to stab you in your sleep.’

Patrick shrugged. ‘She’s harmless.’

‘We were there behind the church wall,’ Trahern admitted. ‘She didn’t exactly throw herself into your arms.’

‘You shouldn’t have risked it. I didn’t want you to come.’

‘And miss our eldest brother’s wedding? I think not.’ Trahern grinned. He lifted his face skyward and let the rain fall directly on his face. ‘The Norman guards never saw us. It was easy enough to remain hidden, so long as we stayed away from the guests.’

‘I don’t trust Thornwyck.’ Bevan sat before the fire, the light illuminating a scar across one cheek. Unlike his brother, he raised a hood to block the rain. ‘And we’d never let you go alone. The Normans might have taken you prisoner.’

Patrick neared the sputtering fire and held out his hands to warm them. ‘Did Thornwyck’s men follow us?’

‘No.’ Bevan answered. ‘But I doubt he’ll wait until Lughnasa. He’ll bring more forces and try to take Laochre.’

Patrick accepted a horn of mead and swallowed. Grim resignation cast its shadow upon him. ‘I won’t let our men become slaves to the Normans.’

‘And how will you stop him?’

‘I have plans,’ he lied. But he didn’t have any notion of what to do. The orders he carried would free his people. Yet, the rest of the surrender agreement required the Normans to be housed among them. The thought of blending the two sides together made his head ache.

‘And what about your bride?’ Bevan demanded. ‘You cannot allow her to rule as your queen.’

‘I know.’

It seemed almost like a faded dream that he’d wed her. He didn’t feel married, much less to a Norman. Never would his tribe accept her. He needed to isolate her for her own protection. ‘I’m going to take her to Ennisleigh. She’ll stay out of harm’s way.’

Bevan relaxed, resting his hands upon his knees. ‘Good. We’ve enough problems without her.’ He pointed off in the distance. ‘I assume you tied her to a tree? Otherwise, you’ll have to track her down again.’

‘I thought about it.’ Patrick recalled his bride’s attempt to escape before the wedding. ‘But, no, I left her in the tent.’

‘Why didn’t you bring her here?’

‘Because he wants privacy, dolt.’ Trahern elbowed Bevan. ‘A man should enjoy his wedding night.’

Patrick said nothing, but let his brothers think what they would. He forced back the anger rising inside him. He had no intention of touching his bride, nor making her his wife. He couldn’t imagine siring a child with her.

The marriage would not be permanent. After Lughnasa, as soon his tribe drove out the Normans, Isabel and he could go their separate ways. He intended to petition the Archbishop to end the union. A pity he couldn’t have wed her in Eíreann. The laws of his own land made it far easier to dissolve an unwanted marriage.

‘I should go back,’ he said quietly. ‘I have to hunt a meal for this night.’

Trahern uncovered a brace of hares. ‘Take these to feed your bride a memorable wedding supper.’

‘I was going to eat those,’ Bevan muttered. But he shrugged and added, ‘Safe journey to you.’

‘We’ll meet you at the coast in another day.’ Patrick embraced his brothers and bid them farewell. ‘Slán.’

He slung the hares across his mount and set forth to return to Isabel. He allowed Bel to take the lead, since the last traces of sunlight were slipping behind the mountains.

As he galloped across the fields, he vowed that Isabel de Godred’s presence would not interrupt his life, nor would she threaten the MacEgan tribe in any way.

When he arrived back at the tent, Isabel’s shoulders were bent forward, her wet hair plastered against her dress. Deep brown eyes blazed with indignity.

‘I’ve brought food,’ Patrick said, holding up the two hares. ‘And if you can endure the journey, there’s an abandoned cottage not far from here.’

She nodded, shivering inside the tent. ‘Anything with a fire.’

He helped her pack up the temporary shelter and eased her back on to the horse. She winced, but said nothing about the pain. When he swung up behind her, her body trembled violently.

Coldness iced his heart. She deserved none of his pity. A means to an end, she was. Nothing more. Despite his resolve, guilty thoughts pricked at him for treating a woman like this.

She is a Norman, his brain reminded him. He could not lose sight of that.

Leaning forward, he increased the speed of his mount. Her posture remained rigid, not accepting any of his body’s warmth. He should be thankful that she didn’t weep or cling to him. And yet it was a first for him, to have a woman shrink away.

As each mile passed, the silence continued. Finally, he reached the outskirts of a forest. Near the edge stood the abandoned hut he’d seen on his journey earlier. The last of the sunlight rimmed the landscape, unfurling the night. He slowed Bel and eased up on the reins, letting the stallion walk towards the shelter.

When they arrived, he dismounted and helped her down. Isabel stared at the thatched wattle-and-daub hut, frowning. ‘I can see why it was abandoned.’

The roof needed fresh thatching and one section of the wall sagged, as though the hut might collapse. Patrick let Bel wander over to a small ditch filled with water. Then he opened the door for Isabel.

‘Go inside while I tend to my horse,’ he ordered. He removed the saddle and rubbed down the stallion. When he’d finished, he entered the hut and was thankful to find a small pile of dry firewood inside. He used some of the fallen thatch to make a pile of tinder. With flint and steel, he sparked a flame. Isabel hung back, watching him.

‘I thought you had left me,’ she murmured.

‘Is that not what you wanted?’

‘I had no wish to be deserted in the middle of nowhere,’ she said. She shivered again, nearing the small blaze he’d kindled in the hearth. ‘I was frightened,’ she admitted.

‘Wolves?’

Her lips pursed and she shook her head. ‘Thieves. Someone might have come, and I couldn’t have defended myself.’

There was a grain of truth in it. She was right. He had been negligent in protecting her, but he made no apology.

‘Are you hungry?’

At her nod, he continued, ‘I’ll start cooking the meat. In the meantime, there’s a flask of mead tied to the saddle. Go and fetch it.’

Isabel stepped outside, and Patrick tended the fire until he had a strong flame burning. He didn’t worry she would try to escape. They were miles from anywhere, and the darkness would prevent her from fleeing.

With his knife, he finished skinning the hares and spitted them. He set the hares above the fire and Isabel returned with the mead. Suddenly she shrieked and dropped the flask. It struck the earth, but did not shatter. Patrick drew his sword, but no one stood at the door. A large rat raced past her, darting around.

When the rodent charged, Isabel grabbed a heavy branch from the pile of firewood and swung it, battering the floor and screeching when the animal neared her skirts.

The rat skittered away from the fire, and Patrick ducked when her club nearly missed his head.

‘What in the name of Lug is going on?’ he demanded. ‘The animal is on the ground.’

‘Get it out of here!’ she wailed. Her horrified expression, coupled with the wild swinging of the branch, forced him to act. Patrick opened the door and kicked the rodent outside.

Isabel stood on a wooden bench, still wielding the branch. She held her hand to her heart, her mouth tight with fear. This was more than the disgust he’d seen on the faces of most women. She’d been terrified.

‘You’ve seen rats before,’ he remarked.

Though Isabel nodded, her fear didn’t diminish. ‘I hate them. And mice. And anything that nibbles.’

He couldn’t resist the urge to tease her. ‘They’re probably living in the thatch.’

A whimper sounded from her lips. ‘Please, God, no.’

He moved closer and disarmed her, tossing the branch onto the hearth. Standing before her, he saw her shudder. Her veil had come loose from the thin gold circlet, and she clutched the crimson kirtle. Though she raised her eyes to his, the fear in them was so great, he felt badly for his teasing.

He studied her, the warm brown eyes and the pale cheeks. She smelled like a mixture of honeysuckle and rose, every inch a lady. Though she tried to keep her courage, her fear of something else was stronger. It was the fear of a woman who had never lain with a man before.

Soaked as she was, the silk outlined every curve. His imagination conjured up wicked thoughts, of sliding the silk from her shoulder and tasting the warm woman’s flesh.

He could not weaken. He’d not touch her, though it had been many moons since he’d known the pleasures of a woman’s body.

Instead he changed the subject. ‘That bench is going to collapse.’ Isabel grimaced, her eyes watching the floor as though she expected an army of rats to invade the cottage.

At her hesitation, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the opposite side of the hut. Her body was cold against his, and he set her down upon a table. Isabel tucked her knees up, shivering. Patrick returned to the hearth and turned the roasting hares over. ‘Why do they bother you so much?’

She covered her face in her knees. ‘My sisters. Patrice and Melisande played a trick on me when I was small. They put mice in my hair while I was sleeping.’ She shuddered again. ‘I’ve never forgotten the feeling of them climbing on my face, getting tangled in my hair.’

‘Are they your younger sisters?’ he asked.

‘Older.’ She raised her gaze to his. ‘I’m not a wealthy heiress, in case you thought to claim land.’

‘I have no need of land. And your father and I came to a different agreement during the betrothal.’

An agreement where Thornwyck intended his grandsons to be future kings of Eíreann. Patrick tossed another limb on to the fire. There would be no children, his own form of revenge. Though Thornwyck could take his tribe prisoner, capturing Laochre and forcing an alliance, at least this was something the Baron could not control.

His wife had stopped shivering at last. She removed her veil and finger-combed her long golden hair to dry. It glowed in the firelight, a vibrant contrast to her crimson silk kirtle.

She rotated to warm another part of her body. When she caught him watching her, she frowned. Patrick turned away and checked on the hares again. After a time, the tantalising aroma of the roasting meat filled the air. The meat dripped with juices, and he cut off a piece with his knife, offering it to her along with a hard loaf of bread. She tore off a piece of bread and handed it back. Nibbling at the hare, she murmured, ‘Thank you.’

‘I was not intending to starve you,’ he said. ‘No thanks is needed.’

‘Not just for the food—’ her face flushed red ‘—also for not bedding me after the ceremony.’ She moved her gaze away, staring at the roasting meat.

Patrick crossed the room and stood before her. She needed to understand her role in this union. Resting his hands upon the table, he trapped her in place. His hands dug into the wood and he hid none of the frustrated anger, nor the vehemence he felt.

‘You needn’t worry that I will bed you now. Or at all, for that matter.’

She blanched, but he held his ground. The marriage was part of a surrender agreement, not a true alliance. She would never be a queen, nor would she bear sons of his blood.

It was best she got used to it now.

Isabel groaned, as rays of sunlight speared her eyes. She tried to uncurl her body from where she’d slept upon the table. Her husband had not protested her choice, and she’d covered her hair with her veil. Even so, she’d had trouble falling asleep for fear of rats.

Such a strange wedding night. She didn’t know what to think of Patrick MacEgan, nor their future together. Her husband stood at the doorway, his back to her. Isabel stifled her surprise. His tunic hung near the dying fire and he was bare from the waist up. His bronzed skin glowed in the sun while rippled muscles revealed his strength.

She held her breath as he stretched. Toothless and ageing he wasn’t. But he’d laid her apprehensions to rest last night. He’d already said he had no intention of bedding her. She should be overwhelmed with relief.

Instead, it made her suspicious. And uneasy about their arrangement. Why would he keep her a virgin? And for how long would he leave her alone? Her father had threatened them both if she was not carrying an heir by the time he arrived in Erin. Edwin de Godred would not hesitate to humiliate her.

Isabel swung down from the table, eyeing the floor for any sign of rodents. Her limbs felt stiff and aching. And, sweet saints, there was more riding this day. Her backside chafed from the journey yesterday.

Patrick turned around. ‘Good. You’re awake. Break your fast and we’ll go.’ He picked up his tunic and donned it, heading back outside.

Isabel spied the fallen length of cloth on the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. A brat, he’d called it. At least it kept her warm in the morning chill. She ate the piece of bread he’d left for her, then ventured outside.

The rising sun glimmered through the forest, while the wet grass shone. ‘Aren’t queens supposed to travel in a litter?’ she grumbled.

‘You aren’t a queen.’

‘But I thought—’

‘You are a bride, but not a queen. You will not rule over my tribe.’

There was anger in his voice, a dark threat that made her tremble. What did he expect from her? As his wife and lady, she had responsibilities to fulfil. She frowned as he lifted her atop his stallion. ‘Then why bother taking me to Erin?’

‘Because the Normans need evidence that I’ve kept my word. Only then will they obey your father’s orders to free my people.’

She did not bother to converse during the remainder of the journey. A flare of annoyance sparked. He did not want her to play any part in their lives. What did he expect her to do? Sit in a corner and spin until she rotted?

Her feelings flamed with silent rage. Aye, she was a Norman, but she had done nothing wrong. She had no choice in this marriage, but she refused to be treated like the enemy.

Last night she’d stayed awake for hours, trying to decide what to do. Though she could behave like a child and try to flee, it would do no good. Either Patrick or her father would bring her back again.

No longer could she return to her home or her people. Whether she willed it or not, as a married woman she had no choice but to remain with Patrick MacEgan.

Her husband claimed Edwin would execute his people if she did not come to Ireland. He’d said there were children threatened.

The very thought numbed her heart. Cruel deeds happened in battle. She’d seen it for herself once, and, even now, she shuddered at the memory of a burning village.

Though her escorts had kept her far away from the carnage, she’d never forgotten the screams of the victims. A young boy, hardly more than three years of age, had stood beside a dead woman, sobbing for his mother. No one had come for him.

She wished she had ordered her escorts to stop. She should have taken the boy with her, even though she had only been fifteen herself. Likely he had died with no one to care for him.

It was possible that Patrick’s people had suffered the same fate as the villagers. She didn’t want to believe it. But what if it were true? How could she live with herself if she let others die because of her own selfish fears?

No, until she fully understood what had happened to his people, she could not leave. She’d accompany her husband to Erin, and learn the truth.

Isabel expelled a breath, gathering her wits. Surely once Patrick saw her skills at running a household, he would allow her to be useful. Somehow, some way, she would find a way to heal the breach between them and make a place for herself.

Her future depended on it.

The coastline loomed before them, shadowed by the sunset. The last vestiges of daylight disappeared beneath the clouded horizon, and Patrick saw his brothers’ horses grazing a short distance away. Relief filled him to know they were safe.

He slowed the stallion’s gait. The waves surged against the sand, spraying foam into the salty air. Their ship waited on the strand for the morning tide, a vessel large enough for their horses and the four of them. Without the help of his brothers, he could not sail it.

Patrick reined his horse near the caves and dismounted. Isabel’s eyelids drooped, her body struggling to remain upright. He lifted her down, and her knees buckled before she regained her footing.

‘I don’t think I ever want to ride a horse again,’ she murmured. He let her lean against him as they moved towards the caves. After several minutes of walking, he spied the golden cast of firelight against the cavern.

Lug, but he looked forward to a good night’s rest. Only amongst his brothers could he relax. Each would give his life for the other.

‘Come.’ He led her to the mouth of the cave. Isabel stumbled across some of the rocks, and he caught her. Though her body had a delicate softness, her strength of will rivalled his own.

His brother Trahern stooped near the entrance, his head nearly touching the stone ceiling. ‘So this fine cailín is your new wife?’

Isabel steadied herself. ‘I am.’

‘I am Trahern MacEgan,’ he introduced himself. ‘And it’s curious I am—why you didn’t run away from my brother? If I had to wed him, I would have done anything to escape.’

She tucked a lock of escaping hair behind her veil and offered a sheepish smile. ‘How do you know I did not try?’

‘More’s the pity you didn’t succeed.’ Trahern released a laugh. ‘Come and eat with us, sister. Bevan here is scowling because he lost our wager. He thought you’d run.’

The scar across Bevan’s cheek whitened. He offered no kiss of welcome, and Patrick did not press for the courtesy. He’d rather his brother hold his silence.

He led her towards the fire. Isabel huddled close to the flames, shivering to get warm. Her hand moved to her backside, and she closed her eyes as if to suppress the pain.

‘There will be no more riding,’ Patrick reassured her. In truth, he was glad of it himself, though he did not relish the voyage at dawn. He hated being powerless and at the mercy of the wind.

‘I am glad of it.’ Isabel let the brat slide from her shoulders. A damp tendril of hair curled across her shoulders, down to a slender waist. She met his gaze with a forthright stare of her own.

He tore his gaze away. She might be a beautiful woman, but he had no right to look. The vow he’d made, to leave her untouched, strangled anything his traitorous body wanted.

Trahern coughed. Patrick recognised the silent message and moved away from Isabel. His brother opened a pouch, offering a loaf of bread, then passed a horn of ale. Isabel accepted a portion of bread and quenched her thirst. He noticed the exhaustion haunting her face. Her brown eyes were strained, her skin appearing far too pale.

While he satisfied his own hunger, he watched her surreptitiously. She had removed her veil, turning aside from them. Tangled locks of golden hair rested against her neck, and she began rebraiding it. He had never seen a woman perform the task before, since he had no sisters. It seemed almost intimate, watching her weave the strands with slender fingers. She sat beside the cavern wall with her knees drawn up. Almost like a child.

But the silhouette of her woman’s body could not be denied. The rain had moulded the dress to her skin, and puckered nipples stood out, making him wonder what it would be like to touch her.

She was forbidden. It was the only explanation of why she kindled any form of desire. He moved to the entrance of the cave, breathing deeply. The night air smelled of salt, and the last of the sun disappeared beneath the waves.

‘What will become of me when we reach Erin?’ Isabel asked finally.

‘I will grant you your freedom, as I vowed.’ If he kept her exiled upon Ennisleigh, she could move about as she pleased upon the island, doing harm to none. And he would not have to see her each day, nor be tempted by her.

‘I wish to know my responsibilities.’

‘You need not trouble yourself.’

‘Because I will never be a queen, isn’t that right?’ Bleak weariness settled in her eyes, and Isabel turned away from him.

Never had she felt more alone. She had not been allowed to bring a maid with her, nor any of her belongings. Desolation rose within her, an icy cloak of loneliness.

A piece of wood cracked in the fire, sending sparks into the air. Flickering shadows cast darkness across Patrick’s face. His brothers sat against the opposite wall, their heads lowered in muted conversation.

‘What about the estate? I do have experience running a castle household. Or shall I handle the accounts? I am not familiar with your lands, but perhaps—’ She broke off her rush of babbling when Patrick drew nearer.

With a roughened palm, he lifted her chin until she was forced to look at him. In the erratic fire glow, a subtle intimacy cloaked the cave.

‘You are responsible for nothing.’ The smooth baritone of his voice and the nearness of him made Isabel tremble. Beneath the thin fabric of her kirtle, her breasts tightened. She couldn’t breathe, her mind racing with clouded thoughts of escape.

Grey eyes, the colour of freshly hewn stone, stared at her with intensity. Isabel wanted to look away, but she forced herself to meet his scrutiny. Her warrior husband could do anything to her, and there was naught she could do to stop him. It was her duty to submit. Even so, her fingers dug into the damp earth.

Patrick didn’t move. Gossamer shivers erupted across her skin at the dark heat in his gaze.

‘Sleep, a chara.’

At the invitation to escape, Isabel scrambled away from him. She huddled against the cave wall, shivering, yet her skin blazed as though it were on fire. Suddenly she was afraid of the unexpected yearning he evoked. Blood raced within her veins, her skin sensitive.

By the Blessed Mother, she had wanted him to draw closer. Though his demeanour was rough and savage, a primitive part of her yearned to know him.

What was the matter with her? What had happened to her loyalty? Everything about this man bespoke his barbarian nature. From her childhood, she’d heard tales of the ancient Celts who rode into battle naked, their faces painted blue.

She could almost picture Patrick’s face painted a fierce shade of indigo, fighting against the Norman invaders. He had practically stolen her from her own wedding. He hadn’t bothered to celebrate with feasting or participate in the ceremonial bedding. He was unpredictable, and she didn’t trust him to keep his vow. One moment he seemed to desire her; the next he grew distant.

She wanted him to stay away. She didn’t like the unexpected longings that tempted her. He frightened her with his dangerous manner.

Patrick’s brothers disappeared outside, leaving them alone. Isabel buried her face in her knees. Though she shivered partly from cold, her mind clenched with uneasiness.

Moments later, a warm cloth fell across her shoulders. Isabel stood, drawing the shawl across her shoulders. Patrick held out a ragged gown. ‘Put this on. You need to wear the clothing of a tribeswoman now.’

The coarse woollen dress was unlike any she had seen, a long gown that draped to her ankles with voluminous sleeves. She turned her back to him while she put it on. ‘Am I to be a slave, then? It is the colour of horse dung.’

The edges of his mouth tipped. ‘I did not have time to barter for the colours you wanted. You may embroider the léine when we arrive in Eíreann.’

When she turned back to face him, Patrick adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. She stood only inches from an embrace.

In time, he exerted a gentle pressure upon her shoulders, forcing her to lie upon the cloak he’d spread upon the ground. He tucked the edge around her shoulders and spread the mantle across her. ‘Sleep. We’ve a long journey on the morrow.’

Isabel turned away to feign sleep. Ever since the wedding, she had felt frozen in stone.

Shadowed against the darkness of the cave, her husband stood guard. She sensed a wildness within him, a feral hunter who would show no mercy.

Patrick turned and caught her gaze. Steel eyes disarmed her, while the flesh of her body rose with heat. What was wrong with her? Why could she not shut him out?

‘Will we reach your fortress in a day’s journey?’

He shook his head. ‘But I will take you to your new home.’

Isabel faltered, suddenly understanding more than she wanted to. ‘Where is that?’ He wasn’t going to abandon her in Erin, was he?

‘You wanted your freedom,’ he said. ‘I will grant that to you. You will remain upon the island of Ennisleigh.’

Her heart sank, a coldness surrounding her. ‘Alone?’

He inclined his head. ‘It is for your own protection. I cannot say what my tribe would do to you, were you to live among them.’

‘I’ve done nothing to harm anyone.’

‘Norman blood runs within your veins. It is enough.’

Isabel huddled before the fire, her mind surging with anger. Did he think she would agree to this bargain? ‘I won’t be a prisoner there. You’ve no right to treat me as such.’

‘My duty is to keep you safe. It’s the only way.’

‘Your people disobey your commands, then?’

He tensed, as though her words were made of thorns. ‘You know me not, Isabel. Do not presume to judge me. I seek only to make the best of this arrangement.’

‘What is best for you.’

‘What is best for all of us.’

She clenched her teeth. So the Irish king believed he could exile her without a fight?

Patrick MacEgan had no idea just how difficult she could be.

Chapter Three

White sails rippled in the wind, and in back of the vessel, the horses whinnied their displeasure at being trapped in one place. Patrick could sympathise with them. After a full day of nothing but grey skies and an endless sea, he longed to walk upon solid ground. Though he sailed when necessary, he disliked being at the whim of the seas.

In the distance, the green hills of his homeland emerged, fragments of the shoreline ridged with sandy earth and limestone. Patrick’s chest constricted with emotion at the sight of it. As a lad, he’d once run along the strand, playing with boyhood friends. Now, he held a different memory of these shores. The Norman invaders had landed here, spilling the blood of his people. And that of his eldest brother Liam.

His hand moved to his sword hilt, feeling the unfamiliar warmth of ivory and wood. The weapon was one he’d inherited by right, but he had not grown accustomed to it. A ruby, worn smooth by generations of MacEgan kings, rested in the hilt. Once, they had commanded an imposing presence upon the land. But his father’s men were used to tribal raids, not organised warfare. Most could wield a sword, but they had no formal training in how to withstand the enemy in large numbers.

He meant to change that now. The only way to protect themselves from the Normans was to learn their weaknesses. He would bring the soldiers among them, watch their training, and force his men to learn. Then he could use the Normans’ own strategies against them in battle.

Mists encircled the island of Ennisleigh while storm clouds gathered along the horizon. The craggy rocks protected a small ringfort atop the hill, enclosing seven stone huts. Only a score of ageing survivors remained. Proud and set in their ways, the folk had refused to join the remainder of his tribesmen on the mainland.

His gaze moved towards his wife. Isabel’s golden hair tangled in a web about her shoulders, shadows lining her eyes. She studied the land without any emotion in her face.

‘That is where you will live,’ he told her, pointing towards the island.

Her posture stiffened. She looked as though she was considering throwing herself into the dark waters. He wouldn’t put it past her.

‘You will have your freedom there,’ he said softly. ‘And in this way I can grant you my protection.’

She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Protection? We both know it is my prison.’ She turned her face away from the island, her veil whipping in the breeze.

‘There is nowhere else for you to go.’ Why could she not accept the truth? Her father’s men had murdered his. His tribe would never bid her welcome upon the mainland. But Ennisleigh had emerged virtually unscathed from the battle. It was an island sanctuary amidst the fighting at his own fortress.

The harsh scent of salt permeated the air while gulls screeched around them. A low fog skirted the ghostly island. With his brothers’ help, he drew in the sail, eager to get off the ship.

As they neared the dock, his brothers slowed the oars. Bevan held the craft steady while Patrick stepped on to the wooden pier. He reached down and helped Isabel off the ship. She took a few unsteady steps, and then walked across the planks towards the beach.

‘Let the horses off for some food and water,’ Patrick directed Bevan. ‘Then we’ll take them back to Laochre.’

‘I’ll get food for us,’ Trahern offered. ‘I’m wanting a taste of something fresh.’

Before his brother could leave, Patrick warned, ‘Keep the islanders away. Tell them to remain in their huts for this day and not to bother Lady Isabel.’ The islanders loved nothing more than gossip, and he knew his Norman bride would provide fodder for many nights’ conversation.

‘Should we reveal she is your wife?’ Trahern asked.

Patrick gave a curt nod. Trahern took the pathway up to the ringfort entrance while Bevan led the horses along the strand. Sunlight illuminated the ruined rath of Ennisleigh. Patrick waited a few moments before extending a hand to help Isabel up the steep walkway.

She did not accept his assistance, but set her face with determination. He kept his pace slow while she steadied her footing upon the path.

‘Why are you leaving me here?’ Before he could answer, she added, ‘And if you tell me one more time it’s for my own protection, I might seize your dagger and cut out your tongue.’

He didn’t believe she’d do it. ‘You won’t. After all, you’re afraid of mice.’

‘I’m not afraid of you.’

He stopped and leveled a glare at her. ‘Perhaps you should be, a chara.’ Before she could dive towards the blade at his side, he trapped her wrists.

She struggled to break free of him, muttering, ‘I should have stolen a horse when I had the chance.’

Patrick didn’t know what she meant by that reply, but he would not relent. ‘As I said, you have your freedom here. Live as you choose.’

‘But stay away from you and your tribe.’

He released her. ‘Yes.’ There would never be a time when she could be one of them. The sooner she understood that, the better for both of them. For a moment, he tore his gaze from her and stared out at the azure sea.

A stubborn glint lit her eyes. He didn’t know what she planned, but he didn’t like it.

‘Does my father know of my exile?’ she asked.

The question was a subtle threat. ‘You are no longer his concern.’

‘I will be when he arrives at Lughnasa,’ Isabel warned. ‘If this marriage allowed you to save the lives of your people as you claim, then I should at least be allowed to live among the tribe.’

‘I never said you would be living with us.’ Her assertion did not concern him in the least. By Lughnasa, his forces would be strong enough to drive out all of the Normans.

‘Aren’t you afraid of what my father might do?’

‘No.’ Though he’d conceded defeat in battle and wedded Isabel, he refused to be commanded by a Norman. ‘Edwin de Godred holds no power here.’

And the Baron would hold no power within the privacy of their marriage, either. If Isabel ever bore a child, it would not be of his blood. After they’d defeated Edwin’s men, he intended to sever the union. It would have to wait until after the harvest, but that would give him enough time to gather the funds needed to coerce the Archbishop.

Isabel strode past him, her mood furious. When they reached the crest of the hill, she stopped short. A moment later, her lips parted in surprise.

She saw its beauty, as he did. One side of the island near the channel was fierce and rugged, while glittering sand embraced the side closest to the sea.

Isabel held herself motionless. Her eyes held a muted awe as she surveyed the landscape.

A moment later, her softness disappeared. Rebellion brewed in her eyes, along with something else…like sorrow. ‘I don’t belong here.’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘You don’t. But it’s the only place for you.’ He closed himself off to her feelings. His duty was to his tribe. There was no place for guilt. And yet, he found himself fascinated by the soft lips that argued with the ferocity of a warrior.

‘I’ll find a way to leave.’

His hand captured her nape, her hair tangling in his grasp. With mock seriousness he added, ‘Then I’ll have to chain you.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘I’ll dare anything.’ He met her challenge, even as her hands struggled against him. Fury flashed in her eyes, and he caught himself staring at her mouth. Full, with an intriguing lower lip.

Immediately he released her, angry with himself for even considering touching her. ‘I will return to you this night, after I have tended to my own fortress. You’ll need supplies.’

‘Why bother? I’m sure your tribe would prefer that you starved me to death and mounted my head upon the gate.’

He didn’t comment. For some, she wasn’t too far off from the truth.

Tall grasses swelled in the breeze, brushing against their knees as they walked. Up ahead, stone beehive-shaped cottages stood against the perimeter of the palisade wall. He inspected them, searching for signs of damage. He was satisfied to see none. Only his family’s dwelling had suffered, and it could be rebuilt.

Smoke curled from the outdoor cooking fires, wisping tendrils of burning peat. His stomach growled as the scent of hot pottage mingled in the air. Just in front of the fortress, a large stretch of land bloomed green with seedlings.

He heard the soft sounds of conversation, but none of the islanders emerged from their huts. Good. They had obeyed his brothers’ warning. Even still, he was certain that all eyes watched them from behind the hide doors.

He led Isabel towards the ruined fortress built by his grandsire. It stood on the highest point of the island, its proud walls humbled by fire.

This was the place where he’d often run away from home. Patrick laid a hand against a charred beam, remembering the broad laugh of his grandsire Kieran MacEgan. ‘This dwelling is mine.’

‘How did it burn?’ Isabel asked. ‘Was it the invaders?’

Patrick shook his head. ‘The islanders set it on fire, so the Normans would believe they were already under attack.’

He didn’t blame the islanders for burning it. His grandsire would have wanted it that way. Better to burn it than to let it fall into Norman hands. ‘And they saved themselves,’ he added.

The main building was mostly intact, save the burned walls. It would not be a comfortable place to live, but it provided a dry roof. In most places, Patrick amended, recalling holes in the ceiling.

At that moment Bevan and Trahern returned with two sacks of supplies. Trahern held a steaming meat pie in one hand, while he bit deeply into another. Patrick caught a sack tossed by Trahern. He hadn’t missed the way Isabel’s eyes devoured the mutton pie with unrestrained longing.

He offered one to her, and Isabel half-moaned when she bit into it. Her eyes remained closed, her lips tasting the food as if she’d never been more satisfied.

Patrick jerked his attention away. The look on her face might be unintentional, but his body could not help responding to her. This marriage would be far easier to endure if his wife had a nose missing or hideous scars. Instead, she had the face of the goddess Danu.

Patrick nodded for Trahern and Bevan to accompany him outside the dwelling. ‘What news have you heard from the islanders?’

‘The Ó Phelan clan is gathering its forces,’ Bevan told him. A grim edge of finality lined his brother’s voice. ‘They’re planning to attack while we are vulnerable.’

And here he’d thought matters could not get worse. First the Normans, now another clan. The Ó Phelans had easily survived the invasion. He suspected they had turned traitor, bribing the Normans or making other arrangements.

‘Prepare the men,’ Patrick commanded. ‘They need to be ready for an attack.’

Bevan shrugged. ‘I could, but it will be for naught.’

‘You think me incapable of defending our tribe?’ Patrick asked, his voice cold and hard.

‘I do,’ Bevan replied. ‘Especially since you must open your gates to the foreigners. Norman bastards.’ He spat upon the ground, hatred brewing in his eyes. Shaking his head in disgust, he added, ‘You should never have wed her.’

‘I had no choice and well you know it. Stop dwelling on what cannot be changed. The men must be ready. Thornwyck has orders to destroy Laochre, do we fail to meet the terms of surrender,’ he reminded Bevan.

‘At least we’d die without bringing traitors among us.’

‘Not everyone wishes to die.’ Their gazes locked in an unspoken battle of wills. Patrick knew his brother would lay down his life in a moment, especially after the Normans had murdered his wife in the last battle. ‘Open the gates to the Norman soldiers. I will speak to them when night falls.’

‘How can you betray us like this?’ Bevan’s fists were clenched, his eyes burning with fury. ‘If you let them in, I’ll not stay.’

‘Then go back to Rionallís,’ Trahern urged. ‘You haven’t been to your own fortress since Fiona died.’

An icy cast of pain flickered across Bevan’s countenance. ‘I’ve no further need of Rionallís.’

‘Your people need you there,’ Patrick reminded him gently. The past year had not been kind to Bevan, with the loss of his wife and child.

‘I have pledged my sword to those who fight against the Normans. If my own brother will not join me, then I will go elsewhere.’

Patrick watched Bevan tread towards the shoreline, but he made no move to stop his brother.

‘Ruarc is gathering others against you,’ Trahern warned. ‘We need Bevan at our side, else you could lose your position as king.’

At the mention of his cousin, the tension inside of him wound tighter. ‘Ruarc is more interested in power than the needs of this tribe.’

‘Then do not lose the people’s faith.’ Trahern pressed a hand to Patrick’s shoulder. ‘They prefer you as their king, but I cannot say what will happen when you bring the Normans among us. Ruarc has not forgotten his defeat at your hands.’

Though his cousin posed a threat, Patrick could not allow one man’s dissent to sway him from his duty to the tribe. He steeled himself, his gazed fixed upon the empty horizon. The sun touched the water’s edge, spilling gold and crimson across the waves.

‘This night, we open the gates to the Norman soldiers,’ Patrick commanded. ‘Those who attempt harm towards our people will not live to see the dawn.’

The island held a mystical beauty, almost pagan in its contrast of stone and grass. Isabel’s throat grew dry, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

She walked the perimeter of the dwelling, studying the blackened walls. At one time, the wooden structure must have stretched skyward, with stairs leading up to the bedchambers. She kicked one of the support posts, noting that it was indeed solid.

A chill in the air brought goose bumps on her arms. Even now, the ground seemed to sway after being on the boat for so long. Her body ached with the need for sleep, but she could not succumb to it. How could she close her eyes, when she was surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar land? As small as it was, she needed to study the island and become acquainted with the people.

A hollowed feeling invaded her stomach. Would they try to kill her because of her Norman blood? Patrick had said she would never reign as queen here. A part of her was grateful for it. What did she know about ruling anyone? She preferred to remain unseen, running the household without all eyes upon her.

After her sisters had married, she’d taken care of Thornwyck Castle. Nearly two dozen servants had worked under her command, and she’d taken pride in mastering the inner workings of the dwelling.

Not that Edwin de Godred had ever noticed, or uttered a word of praise.

Isabel shivered and walked back to the entrance of the donjon. In the distance, she saw Patrick speaking with his brothers. Trahern and Bevan disappeared down the slope of the hill, moving towards the boat. Her husband strode towards her, with all the fierceness of an invader.

His black hair fell against his shoulders, eyes of steel boring into hers. The folds of his cloak draped across his strong shoulders, while leather bracers encased his forearms. ‘I have arranged a hut for us, this night.’

‘I am sleeping here in the donjon.’ Where you cannot touch me, she thought. She didn’t trust him for a moment. He might claim he had no intention of bedding her, but eventually he would want sons.

Patrick seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Sleep wherever you wish. It matters not to me. But the nights are cold.’

Her skin prickled, but she did not look away. ‘You’re not staying here on the island, are you?’

He took another step closer until his body almost touched hers. His gaze assessed her, and in his eyes she saw fury. ‘As I said before, I won’t be sharing your bed.’

‘Good.’ Don’t look away, she warned herself. Though every part of her wanted to run from him, she held steady. ‘But I want to dwell at your fortress on the mainland.’ Once she saw his home and people, she would know whether he’d lied to her about the damage. And then she could decide whether to stay or leave.

‘No.’

Isabel continued, ‘I’ve had no choice in what has happened to me. I’ve lost my home, my family and now I’m forced to live here. Put yourself in my place.’

‘Put yourself in mine,’ he countered, his expression hardening. ‘I watched my people die at your father’s blade. Did you think I wanted a Norman as my wife?’

Isabel did not let him see how he affected her. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘No.’ He pulled away, his visage growing cool. His glance moved across the thatched cottages within the ringfort. ‘But to them, you are an enemy.’

And he viewed her in the same light, it seemed.

‘What am I to you?’ she whispered.

‘A means towards peace,’ he replied. ‘But you have my protection. Call our marriage what you will.’

Isabel closed her mind to the images he evoked. She needed no imagination to see the coarse barbarian before her. His tunic stretched against battle-hewn muscles. Black hair contrasted sharply against his warrior’s face and granite eyes. His face never seemed to smile.

‘There was no choice for either of us, Isabel.’ Like a droplet of water, his baritone slid over her. The very sight of him made her want to flee. At her belt, she palmed the familiar hilt of her eating knife.

A spark of amusement seemed to soften his eyes. ‘Do you think to stab me with that?’

‘Widowhood looks promising.’

He reached out and captured her wrist, holding her still. ‘I’ll return to you later with the supplies you’ll need.’

‘I hope not.’

He ignored her. ‘In the meantime, you may explore the island.’ He turned to leave and the wind slashed at his threadbare cloak, revealing its holes.

Her mind warned her not to be deceived by appearances. A king Patrick MacEgan might be, but beneath the cloak of his authority lay the demeanour of a warrior. Merciless, unyielding. And fiercely loyal to his people.

After he’d gone, she began traversing the island as he’d suggested. She needed to learn every inch of her prison, for only then could she find a way to reach the mainland.

Chapter Four

Patrick’s palm curled across his spear as he waited near the wooden gates. His brothers held steady by his side, all mounted and heavily armed. His skin prickled with coldness, as though he were standing outside himself. At any moment, the Normans might break their word and attack. He gripped the spear so tightly his knuckles grew white. Silently he murmured prayers that they wouldn’t be slaughtered where they stood.

The darkening sky turned indigo, storm clouds rising. He smelled earth and peat smoke, along with his people’s fear. And now it was time to open the gates to their enemy.

Behind him stood the remainder of his tribe. A motley group of farmers, blacksmiths, and labourers, their fighting skills were few. His best men had surrendered their lives in battle, and only these remained.

Each held his weapon of choice, from the eldest grandsire down to the youngest boy. The women stood further back, but they held their own weapons in readiness. Pale and stoic, they awaited his command.

‘You’re making a mistake,’ a low voice muttered. His cousin Ruarc had already unsheathed his sword and looked ready to skewer any man who passed through the gates. ‘They’re going to kill us all.’

Ruarc wore the blue colours of the MacEgan tribe and held a battle-scarred wooden shield. Like the others, his body had grown thinner during the harsh winter. At his temples, war braids hung down, framing his bearded face. ‘We should fight them. Drive them out.’ He lifted his sword in readiness.

‘We made a bargain.’

‘We can still fight. There are enough of us.’

‘No.’ Enough blood had been shed. Their tribe had been conquered, and surrender was the price of their lives. ‘I’ve kept my word, and I believe Thornwyck will keep his.’

‘Your beliefs will not matter if we die,’ Ruarc replied. The rigid hatred carved upon his cousin’s face would not be swayed. Patrick turned his back, refusing to justify himself. He had made his decision, and because of it, his people would live.

He caught sight of a young boy, hiding behind his mother’s skirts. The child’s innocent face burned into his mind. He studied each member of his tribe. Once, they had numbered over a hundred. Now, there were hardly two score in total. The heaviness of loss numbed everything else.

All around them, the wooden palisade was the only remaining barrier of protection. The dying scent of burning peat encircled the air. Rays of the sunset filtered through the edges of the gate while dusk conquered the day. It was time to face the inevitable.

‘Open the gates,’ he ordered.

Two men raised the heavy entrance gate. Beyond them stood two mounted captains and the Norman soldiers, wearing chain mail armour. Patrick mounted his steed and urged the animal forward.

Though he tried to maintain a façade of calm, it was difficult to still the energy rising inside him. What if they broke the agreement and attacked? He prayed he had made the right choice.

From a distance, the Norman army held their weapons and shields in readiness. Swords raised, and with arrows nocked to bowstrings, they awaited the command to kill. Eyes cold, they would fight to the death.

Yet, when he drew nearer, he saw the faces of men. Weary, hungry, like himself. They had obeyed their leader, taking the lives of his people.

Was he expected to welcome them? Though he had restrained Ruarc’s sword arm, his own desire for vengeance was harder to quell. For these men had killed his eldest brother.

Regret pierced him at the memory of Liam’s death. Though he could not know which soldier had struck his brother down, he’d not forget what had happened.

Darkness and anger filled him at the memory. He blamed himself. He should have reached Liam in time, blocking the enemy’s sword. And though he longed to release the battle rage within, he could not let his people’s lives be the penalty for it. His personal vengeance would have to wait.

Patrick beckoned to one of the captains, and the Norman approached, his hand upon his sword. Patrick palmed his own hilt, watchful of the enemy. ‘I am Patrick MacEgan, king of Laochre.’

‘I am Sir Anselm Fitzwater,’ the Norman replied. ‘Lord Thornwyck gave me command of these men.’

Sir Anselm did not remove his helm, nor did he release his grip upon the sword. The Norman’s cheeks were clean shaven, his lips marred by a long battle scar that ran to his jaw. His face was impassive, as though he were accustomed to his enemies surrendering.

‘The terms of the agreement with the Baron of Thornwyck have been met,’ Patrick said, handing him the orders with Thornwyck’s seal. ‘Your men may enter our rath.’

He granted permission, though it was like baring the throats of his people to the enemy sword. He still didn’t know whether the Normans would hold the peace.

‘Where is the Lady Isabel?’ Sir Anselm inquired.

‘She dwells upon Ennisleigh. You may accompany me there on the morrow to see for yourself.’ He glanced over at the island, and a sense of guilt passed over him. Though he hadn’t wanted to bring Isabel amid this battle, he didn’t like leaving her alone either. She would be tired and hungry. It was his responsibility to take care of her.

Sir Anselm shook his head. ‘I will see her this night to ensure her safety. Have her brought here.’

Patrick would not defer to the man’s commanding tone. ‘To do so would endanger her. She is safer upon Ennisleigh, away from this strife.’ He didn’t want her anywhere near the Norman army.

‘You dishonour her, if you do not place her as your queen and lady.’

Patrick’s hand moved to his sword. His horse shifted uneasily, sensing his anger. ‘She is under my protection, and there are those among my people who would sooner see her dead. I see no honour in that.’ The raw wound of defeat still bled in his people’s hearts.

‘It is her rightful place.’

‘Until we have brought peace between our people, she stays where I command.’ Patrick gestured for Sir Anselm to follow him. ‘Your men will join with mine this night in an evening meal. Then you may resume your camp outside the walls.’

‘Our orders are to dwell within the fortress,’ Anselm said.

‘Your men killed ours.’ Patrick tightened his grip upon the reins. ‘None welcome you here.’

‘If your Irishmen raise a weapon against us, they will regret it.’

‘As will your men,’ Patrick replied, anger threading through his voice. Though the captain might expect them to cower before his men, Patrick did not fear their forces. It was a larger threat that concerned him. Although this army had strength, it was only with the combined forces of Robert Fitzstephen, the Earl of Pembroke’s man, that they had defeated his tribe. He had no doubt the Normans would return, along with the Earl.

Patrick gestured towards the large wooden fortress he’d constructed. ‘Your men may enter our Great Chamber.’ He dismounted, handing his horse over to a young lad. Bevan and Trahern remained mounted.

‘Give your horses over to Huon there,’ Patrick instructed, gesturing towards the boy. ‘He’ll see to them.’

He led the Normans inside, standing at the entrance to the fortress as if to guard them. With bitter expressions, most of his kinsmen turned their backs and entered their own huts. They blamed him for this. A few stared, whispering amongst themselves.

Sir Anselm accompanied him inside the main dwelling. From the way his gaze fixed upon the wooden fortress, Patrick wondered if the Norman commander was assessing its worth.

The Great Chamber held no decorations, nothing save weapons mounted upon the walls. Ever since his mother’s death years ago, no woman had made her mark upon the gathering space. The sparse furnishings were functional with two high-backed wooden chairs upon a small dais and five smaller chairs for his brothers and him. The small backless X-shaped chairs were carved from walnut, the seats formed of padded wool.

Now, his duty was to take his rightful place at the head of the table, upon the seat filled first by his grandfather, then his father, and then Liam. He had avoided it, but now he had no choice.

Patrick crossed the room and stood before the table. He rested his hands upon the scarred wood, as if seeking guidance from the men who had stood here before. Then he sat down upon the high-backed chair. The chair beside him remained empty, intended for his wife. It seemed strange to think of himself as married. He’d known that one day he would take a wife, but he’d always imagined it to be a maiden from another tribe. He resented having the choice taken from him.

His kinsmen remained standing while the Normans sat at a low table, helping themselves to the food brought by servants. As the soldiers ate brown bread and mutton, resentment deepened upon his people’s faces. These were their carefully hoarded supplies, and now they had to surrender them to the enemy. Bowls of cooked pottage, dried sweetened apples and a few freshly caught fish were also offered with the meal.

Patrick ate, hardly speaking to his brothers who sat at the further ends of the table. He forced himself to eat the baked fish and bread while speculating what sort of plotting was going on at the tables. He and his brothers spoke the Norman tongue, but his tribesmen didn’t. He didn’t trust either side to keep the peace.

Rising from his seat, he walked towards the doorway, greeting his men as he passed. Near a group of bystanders, he overheard his cousin Ruarc’s remark. ‘If I were king, we would never have allowed the Gaillabh entrance. They would lie dead upon the fields, as they deserve.’

Patrick stopped and directed his gaze towards his cousin. ‘But you are not the king.’

‘Not yet.’

He could not let that remark pass. He’d had enough of criticism and contempt, when he’d done what he could to save their ungrateful lives. His men might doubt his choices, but he could not let them doubt his leadership.

Seizing his cousin by the tunic, he dragged him against the wall. ‘Do you wish to challenge me for that right?’

Ruarc’s face turned purple as he struggled to free himself. His legs grew limp as Patrick cut off the air to his lungs. When at last he released his kinsman, Ruarc slumped to the ground, coughing. Black rage twisted his features. ‘One day, cousin.’

‘Get out.’

Ruarc stumbled towards the door, while the Norman soldiers watched with interest. Patrick took a breath, fighting back the urge to pursue. He’d forgotten himself again and his rank. Kings were not supposed to fight amongst their men. The others appeared uncomfortable at his actions.

‘That was a mistake.’ His brother Bevan came up behind him. Eyeing Ruarc, he added, ‘You made him lose face in front of our kinsmen.’

‘He should not have challenged me.’

‘No. But he’ll be wanting revenge upon you now. I’d watch your back, brother. For that one will be ready with a knife. He still blames you for what happened to Sosanna.’

‘I know it. And that is why I have not banished him.’ Ruarc’s sister Sosanna MacEgan, like many of the women, had suffered during the invasion. Afterwards, Ruarc’s fury towards the Normans had increased tenfold.

Patrick gestured towards his men. ‘Our men should not stand while the Normans sit and eat. We’ll build more tables for the Great Chamber.’

‘Few have any appetite for food.’

‘Except Ewan there.’ Patrick leaned against the entrance wall and pointed to their youngest brother. Nearly three and ten, Ewan had no qualms about dining with the enemy. He sat at the last table, barely visible amid the heavily armed soldiers.

‘A good spy, is Ewan.’ Bevan shook his head in admiration. ‘We will see what he has learned on the morrow. They don’t know he can speak their language.’

‘The Normans must be taught Irish,’ Patrick said. ‘Else a misunderstanding could happen.’

Bevan grunted. ‘I’d rather we send them back to England instead.’

‘It is too late for that.’ He turned to his brother. ‘You are needed here, Bevan. Will you stay?’

Bevan’s visage tensed. ‘I will stay a fortnight. For your sake. But promise me you’ll drive them out.’

‘I’ll do what I can.’ A headache gnawed at him, and he thought again of Isabel. She had no supplies, for he had forgotten to send them. His mind had been so consumed with the Normans, he had not thought of it. What kind of a provider did that make him? And yet he could not leave his men alone. He felt as if he were holding two ends of a rope while both sides pulled against each other.

He should send someone to her. Darkness had descended, bringing a moonlit sky. Patrick gave orders for a sack filled with food and several jugs of mead.

‘What is that for?’ his brother Bevan interrupted.

‘My winsome bride,’ Patrick commented drily. ‘She’ll want to eat and drink over the next few days, I presume.’

‘You’re not thinking of going to Ennisleigh.’ Bevan gestured towards the food.

‘Later, perhaps.’ He didn’t like the thought of Isabel alone, especially with the islanders who did not understand the reason for her presence.

‘Tonight is not the time to leave, brother,’ Bevan argued. ‘Not with such a fragile situation. The men need your calm.’

He knew his brother was right. This night he needed to prevent both sides from killing each other. ‘Would that it were possible. Sir Anselm wishes to see to Lady Isabel’s welfare. He will accompany me to the island later this eventide.’

He glanced over at the knight. Sir Anselm ate slowly, his eyes scrutinising every face as if trying to memorise the men. At this pace, the Norman looked nowhere near to finishing his meal.

‘I’ll return afterwards,’ he assured Bevan.

‘Ewan!’ he called out to his youngest brother. Ewan was caught in the awkward age between child and adolescent. Despite his gangly thin frame, the boy ate as much as a fully grown man.

His brother eyed the roasted mutton before him, as if wondering whether anything could be more important. ‘What is it?’

‘I need you to go to Ennisleigh. My bride Isabel has no food or supplies for this night. Will you take them to her?’

Ewan’s ears turned red. ‘If you wish.’ He stuffed a small loaf of bread into a fold of his tunic, then tore off another bite of the meat. ‘Is she fair of face?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I heard Sir Anselm say that many noblemen wanted to wed her. Like a princess from one of Trahern’s tales.’

‘She is a woman, like any other.’ Even as he denied her beauty, the vision of her face taunted his memory. The stubborn set to her mouth had caught his attention more than once. And her deep brown eyes held intelligence.

Patrick walked outside with Ewan, staring at Laochre. The wooden fortress wore its battle scars like the rest of the ringfort. Once, he’d dreamed of building one of the largest raths in Eíreann, a dwelling worthy of his tribe. Now he worried about whether they would survive next winter. Though the corn and barley flourished in the fields, he now had to feed even more people with the addition of the Normans.

He led Ewan outside to where his horse was waiting with supplies. ‘Go now. If it rains again, she’ll need a better shelter. I fear she’ll want to dwell inside the fortress.’

Ewan’s eyes widened. ‘Why?’

‘To spite us.’

‘Oh.’ He shrugged. ‘She’ll just get wet, then. But I’ll go and tell her you sent the food.’

‘Do not eat any of it,’ he warned.

‘I wouldn’t.’ The lad’s voice cracked upon the last word.

Patrick hid his smile. ‘Of course you would. I mean it, Ewan. Not a bite.’

He added another loaf of bread to the sack, tying it off. His brother rolled his eyes and set off to the island. Patrick cast a look towards Ennisleigh. He would come to Isabel later. Though she would protest, he had to make her understand that she had no other choice but to make the island her new home.

‘Forgive me for intruding, but might I please light a torch from your fire?’

Isabel spoke to one of the doors, a hide-wrapped entrance with a bundle of wool hanging above it. No one had answered her knock, but she knew they had heard her.

She tried again, knocking upon the wooden frame. Silence. She bit her lip, wondering what they would do to her if she dared open the door. In her hand she held a dead branch she’d picked up from the apple orchard. She had wrapped it in dried grass, but what she really needed was oil or pitch to keep it burning long enough to start a fire.

This was the third door she’d knocked upon. Her quest for fire was not going well, and it was getting dark.

The cosy beehive-shaped stone huts had wisps of peat smoke rising from them. An outdoor hearth stood nearby, but no one had made use of it this night. Blackened bricks of peat remained behind.

Very well. If they weren’t going to help her, she’d simply wait upon Patrick. She strode back to the fortress, pushing open the charred oak door. Her barbarian husband would return eventually. Surely he would not let her freeze to death. He’d gone to enough trouble to bring her to Erin that her death would be an inconvenience.

A low growl rumbled from her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since that small meat pie earlier, and there was nothing inside the broken-down donjon to salvage. At this rate, she’d be reduced to gnawing upon seaweed.

Isabel sat down upon a flat tree stump left behind as a stool and surveyed her dwelling. She had inspected every inch of the fortress, fully aware that the islanders were watching her from inside their huts.

Good. Let them stare. Let them see she was not the enemy they seemed to believe.

Weaponless and alone, her skin prickled with uneasiness. Sometimes the echo of voices carried upon the wind. They spoke in Irish, a language unlike any other she’d heard. She’d tried to learn a few words, but to little avail. The foreign sound had a musical quality to it, and in no way did it resemble the Norman tongue.

She had to learn it. If the king expected her to weep and gnash her teeth at being exiled, he was wrong. She would find a way to survive here.

Night cast its shadowed cloak upon the land, and she shivered in the evening chill. Perhaps she should have stormed one of the stone huts, demanding a torch. Of course, given their cool reception, she supposed they’d sooner set her on fire than give her aid.

A harsh wind cut through her woollen shawl, and Isabel moved towards a more sheltered part of the fortress. She should have accepted her husband’s offer for a hut of her own.

The sound of footsteps made her heart quicken. Isabel reached down and grabbed a small stone.

Of course, if the man had a sword or arrows, the rock would do naught more than give him a headache. Still, it made her feel better. Was it her husband? Or someone coming to harm her? Isabel clutched the rock tighter.

A man’s shadow fell across the darkened ruins of the castle. No, not a man’s. A boy’s.

A young lad with scraggly fair hair stepped across the threshold. He looked as though he’d never made use of a comb. In his hand he held out a sack.

‘What is it?’ she asked, but he made no reply. Instead, he moved forward and handed her the bundle.

Bread. The warm yeasty smell made her mouth water. She hesitated, wondering if Patrick had sent him. ‘Is this for me?’

He gestured towards the supplies, his eyes watching the food. Isabel took the hint and tore off a piece of bread, handing it to him.

‘I suppose you do not speak my language.’

The boy devoured the bread, behaving as though he hadn’t heard her. She found a jug of mead inside the sack and took a long steady drink. The food and drink improved her temperament, and she began making conversation with the boy.

‘I am sorry I do not have a fire to share. On a night like this, it would make my donjon more comfortable.’

She finished the bread and handed the boy the mead to take a sip. He drank deeply and gave it back. ‘Of course, your islanders would not help me. I would build one myself, if I had flint and steel.’

Though he said nothing, his sharp eyes studied her. Despite his rumpled appearance, his face reminded her of Patrick’s.

‘You’re his brother, aren’t you?’ She stood and circled him. The boy appeared uneasy. ‘Well, if he sent you to spy upon me, you can tell him that he isn’t much of a king. His hospitality is greatly lacking.’ With a glance above her, she pointed towards the burned stairs. ‘I should like to retire to my chamber, but it seems I must use a rock for my pallet and dirt to keep warm.’

He rubbed his hands and pointed to the empty hearth. Isabel brightened when he gathered up a small stack of peat and tinder. He reached inside a fold of his cloak and withdrew flint and a steel knife. In moments, he sparked a flame to life.

‘I could kiss you, you know,’ Isabel remarked. ‘Clever lad.’

His ears turned crimson, and he didn’t look at her. Isabel’s expression tightened. ‘You understood what I said, didn’t you?’

He made no reply, but his colour brightened.

‘I might have known.’ She tossed another brick of peat into the fire. ‘Well, then, what’s your name?’

‘Ewan MacEgan,’ he admitted. He took a long sip of mead, still not daring to look at her.

‘Ewan. And why did King Patrick send you in his stead? Did he have other things to do this eventide besides consummating his marriage?’

Mead spewed from his mouth, and the boy choked. ‘He—he was trying to stop a war. Busy, he was. He sent me to give you food and to see what you needed.’

‘A war?’ She shook her head. ‘Do not be foolish. The only war is the one that will happen when your brother comes back here.’

Ewan glanced towards the sack of food. ‘Is all the bread gone?’

‘No.’ She handed him another loaf, which he ate with enthusiasm. Isabel neared the fire and put her hands out to warm herself. ‘You’re young to be here alone,’ she remarked. ‘Who looks after you?’

‘My brothers.’ Ewan’s face turned distant. ‘Last summer my foster parents were killed in the battle. Patrick allowed me to stay here, but he hasn’t made arrangements to send me elsewhere. He’s been busy with the Normans.’

‘Shall I speak to him for you?’

‘No!’ Ewan tore off another piece of bread. Colouring, he added, ‘I like staying here.’

Isabel supposed the men let the boy do as he pleased. Of course he would be happy. But then, she knew what it was like being separated from her family. If it did the boy no harm, he might as well finish his fostering here.

‘Why don’t you take me back to your brother’s fortress?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘I assume there is more food there.’

‘Can’t.’ Ewan took a step backward. ‘If that’s all you’re needing, I’ll come back tomorrow morn.’

‘Why won’t your brother let me live upon the mainland?’ she asked. ‘What harm could I possibly do?’ Unless it meant seeing things she was not supposed to know about.

‘It isn’t you. It’s the others.’

‘Others?’

‘Your father’s soldiers. Patrick has to keep them apart from our men. Otherwise, they’ll kill each other.’ He stood and walked to the entrance, eyeing the grey sea. Isabel followed him and squinted at the opposite shore. In the distance, she saw several torches lining an embankment.

‘I should be going now,’ he said.

She was not about to let the boy leave without answers. Patrick had admitted that the marriage was arranged to save the lives of his people. But why were her father’s soldiers still in Erin?

‘Tell me why the men are here.’ She did not trust Edwin de Godred to bring soldiers without a purpose.

‘Thornwyck’s orders.’ Ewan rubbed his arms, stepping closer to the fire. ‘But they may be fighting even now, if Patrick cannot stop them. It’s the first night he brought them together.’

Isabel took another bite of bread, struggling to think. ‘Does he want to unite the people?’

Ewan shook his head. ‘Patrick doesn’t, no. It can’t be done. The Normans killed our folk in battle.’

‘But my father wants them to live together.’ Isabel understood the deeper implications of her marriage. Edwin intended to conquer the fortress and put her in command. He was counting on her to bring the men together, to become Lady of both sides.

Lady of two sworn enemies. Dear God, she didn’t know if she could manage it. Or if she even wanted to venture into this battle.

It was tempting to hide from all of it, here upon Ennisleigh. Her husband wanted her to stay away. She took a breath, steeling herself. Though it frightened her to even think of visiting a fortress under such conditions, she had to know the full truth of what had happened. Only then could she decide whether or not to stay. Was Patrick telling the truth? Or was he simply holding her prisoner?

‘Let me help you,’ she coaxed the boy. ‘I may know some of the men. I can ask them not to attack.’

Ewan shook his head. ‘You must stay here.’

While the boy rattled off reasons why his brother had forbidden her to leave, Isabel ignored him. She could not remain here any longer.

She followed Ewan down the rocky incline to the sandy beach where he’d hauled the boat. His skinny arms struggled to push the vessel into the water, and she stepped inside before he could get any further.

‘You must go back,’ Ewan argued, his hands poised upon the wood.

‘I am going with you, and you will take me to your brother’s fortress. I’m not staying here.’

Ewan’s hands lowered to his sides. He was staring at something out in the water. Isabel turned to follow his gaze and saw the flare of several torches. The flames cast reflections upon the black sea water.

Amid the harsh glow of the torches, she saw a man with black hair. He wore a dark blue cloak, pinned with an iron brooch. His clothing fairly blended into the night and his boat moved forward with a swift grace. The familiar visage made Isabel grip the sides of Ewan’s boat even tighter.

‘Going somewhere, my wife?’

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