A lifetime of being good...

One night of sin!

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

Warriors of the Night miniseries

Book 1—Forbidden Night with the Warrior

Book 2—Forbidden Night with the Highlander

Book 3—Forbidden Night with the Prince

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

—RT Book Reviews on Forbidden Night with the Warrior

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

—RT Book Reviews on Forbidden Night with the Highlander

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

Also by Michelle Willingham

Forbidden Vikings miniseries

To Sin with a Viking

To Tempt a Viking

Warriors of Ireland miniseries

Warriors of Ice

Warriors of Fire

Warriors of the Night miniseries

Forbidden Night with the Warrior

Forbidden Night with the Highlander

Forbidden Night with the Prince

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Forbidden Night with the Prince

Michelle Willingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07395-0

FORBIDDEN NIGHT WITH THE PRINCE

© 2018 Michelle Willingham

Published in Great Britain 2018

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

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

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

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

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To Beth Broderick, a great friend who always has

time to talk while our dogs play together. I appreciate

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

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

canine romance, and thank goodness they’re both

fixed or we’d be overrun with puppies.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

1175

Joan de Laurent was cursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He may be kind. His children could become yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three betrothals. Three deaths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the one whose death was his fault.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ronan tensed at that, for he had no desire to wed anyone, especially after all the mistakes he’d made. ‘I will not hide behind a woman’s skirts. Or in this case, her soldiers.’ His negligence had cost others their lives, and it was better if he remained unmarried.

‘Rhys and Warrick came to Ireland for their sister’s betrothal,’ the king began, ‘but her intended husband died. You may want to consider a Norman alliance with them. They hold lands at Killalough, and they are looking for a new marriage for their sister.’ Patrick reached towards his wife’s hand, and the queen smiled warmly at him. Then he ruffled the hair of his son. ‘Meet her and decide for yourself.’

No. He would never bind a woman to him for the sake of her soldiers. Better to hire mercenaries who would leave once he had no further need of them. He had forsworn all women since his brother’s death. And that would not change.

Before he could refuse the offer, Rhys de Laurent interrupted. ‘Although I am willing to consider a new betrothal for our sister, I should warn you that Joan is...somewhat opposed to marriage.’

Good. It was far easier to refuse a marriage with a reluctant bride. The man’s warning eased Ronan’s tension, for he didn’t intend to consider it either. ‘Forgive me, but I am more concerned about the safety of my people. It has been two days, and I need to bring men to overthrow the usurper as soon as possible. Any discussion of marriage must wait until I have freed them.’

The two Normans exchanged a look. Then the younger brother shrugged. ‘We may be able to help you. But I will leave that decision to our sister. If you can convince her to grant you the soldiers, then you may have the men.’

It was clear that her brothers had a greater interest in arranging a betrothal for their sister than in offering help to a stranger. Ronan was beginning to feel like a pawn, commanded by invisible hands.

He hid his annoyance and met Warrick’s gaze squarely. ‘Is she here?’ He had to be careful not to anger these men by outwardly refusing her. Instead, it might be better to convince the Norman lady that they were not suited.

‘Joan is sitting with my daughter,’ Rhys answered. ‘Just there, in the white gown.’

A strange sense of premonition filled him, for the woman in white had intrigued him from the moment he’d seen her at Laochre. Her dark hair framed an innocent face with clear blue eyes. She was beautiful, but there was a sadness surrounding her.

‘I will meet with her later, if I could have a moment to wash?’ He directed his question towards the queen. ‘I might make a better impression when I’m not covered in blood.’ Though he had no intention of courtship, the delay would give him time to decide how to handle the situation.

‘I will send you a bath and someone to tend you,’ Isabel answered. A serene smile slid over her face, and if he didn’t know better, he’d imagine she was plotting something.

As he followed the servants away from the Great Chamber, he had the sense that his life was being rearranged.

* * *

‘You’ve gone mad.’ Joan stared at her brothers, making no effort to hide her anger. ‘Do you honestly believe I will agree to another betrothal after what just happened? I won’t do it.’

‘Go and speak with him,’ Rhys suggested. ‘I am giving you the opportunity to choose your next betrothal. He may be...different from the other men you meant to marry, but he is an Irish prince.’

‘Think of what you are saying,’ she insisted. ‘Every man I’ve been promised to has died. Do you think I want to bring a death sentence upon someone else?’

‘You are letting your fears command your life,’ her brother said quietly. ‘I will send him to you, and you can make that decision for yourself. His name is Ronan Ó Callaghan.’

Joan knew exactly which man her brother was referring to. The moment the prince had ridden into the inner bailey wearing bloodstained armour, he had caught her notice. There was an untamed savage quality to him, as if he cared naught about anything or anyone. And yet, when she’d noticed him staring, her skin had prickled with sensation. His green eyes burned with a fierce intensity that stole her breath. His blond hair was cut short, and there was a rough bristle upon his cheeks.

She had been playing with her young niece, Sorcha, and the little girl had also noticed the man. Joan had been about to bring her inside when Sorcha had pointed at him and said, ‘He’s the man you’re going to marry.’

Joan had shushed her niece, knowing that it was only the fancy of a small child. At times, Sorcha seemed to have traces of the Sight, where she predicted things before they happened. But not this time. Joan believed it was best if she never accepted another betrothal—not until she learned how to break the curse.

Her brother, Warrick, drew closer. He was quiet and not as overbearing as Rhys. He studied her a moment and then said, ‘Ronan Ó Callaghan needs our help, Joan. His stepbrother attacked their tribe and took the king as a hostage before he stole the throne for himself. He asked if we would send men to aid his cause.’

‘You may help the prince if you wish, but that doesn’t mean I’ll marry him.’ She saw no harm in them strengthening ties with Irish nobility, but it didn’t mean she would stand back and allow her brothers to manipulate her life.

‘No one is forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do,’ Warrick reassured her. He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘I’m only suggesting that you give it a chance. Meet with him and see what you think.’

And what good would that do? She simply couldn’t imagine trying a fourth time for a husband. No matter what she might desire, Fate had forced her to be alone. It had become her life, this gnawing loneliness that stretched out before her. Furthermore, she couldn’t imagine that this man would even cast a second look at her. She was four-and-twenty, far too old for a husband.

‘If you want to help him, then do so. I am not stopping you,’ she answered quietly. ‘But I will not be betrothed again.’ For a time, her brothers fell silent, no longer arguing. This was her life, was it not? And despite her desire for a child, she would suppress those dreams if it meant avoiding the curse.

A moment later, Queen Isabel joined them within the solar, and she held the hand of her young son Liam. She wore a gown the colour of rubies with a silver torque at her throat and another thin band around her forehead. ‘Will you come with me, Lady Joan?’

The urge to refuse came to her lips. But they were guests here, and she could not disregard the rules of hospitality. Warrick was trying to forge a strong alliance with the MacEgans for the sake of his holdings in Killalough. It would not do to offend the queen.

‘Of course,’ she murmured, following Queen Isabel into the hallway. Joan knew full well that the queen might try to talk her into a marriage with Ronan. But she had no intention of becoming the victim of matchmaking. Instead, she feigned ignorance and changed the subject. ‘Your son is such a dear boy. He looks about the same age as Sorcha.’

Isabel’s face brightened. ‘Liam is a good lad, though he does get into mischief.’ She lifted him to her hip and dropped a kiss upon his head.

The boy squirmed in her arms and demanded, ‘I want to walk.’

The queen let him down and motioned for a servant to come forward. ‘Take Liam to his nurse. It’s late and time for bed.’ She leaned down to kiss his cheek. ‘I’ll come and say goodnight soon.’

He kissed his mother and hugged her before following the servant down the hall. The familiar longing filled Joan’s heart, though she braved a smile. ‘You must be very proud of him.’

‘I am. I hope to have many children, God willing.’ But there was a slight sadness in her voice that suggested she might have lost a child before.

Another maid followed them down the hall towards one of the chambers. The queen turned the corner and then stopped in front of the door. ‘I know your brothers told you of Ronan Ó Callaghan’s troubles. He is an ally of ours and a friend.’

And here it was—the queen’s attempt at matchmaking. Joan steeled herself and forced a smile. ‘Warrick did tell me, yes. But he also spoke of trying to arrange another marriage for me.’ She took a slight step back. ‘If you are asking me to speak with the prince for that reason, I must refuse. I do not wish to be married.’

The queen laughed softly. ‘Your brother’s ambitions for your marriage stretch high, if that is what he believes. No, Lady Joan. You are Norman, like I am, and you know our customs well. I have given Ronan our hospitality, and we will grant him men to aid in his cause.’

Her reassurance eased Joan’s tensions somewhat. But she asked, ‘Then why have you brought me to his chamber?’

‘After the battle, Ronan asked for a hot bath. I would have asked one of my ladies to serve him, but I thought you might wish to do so. You could meet the prince and decide if your brothers should fight with him.’

It was the custom of noblewomen to help bathe their guests, and Joan understood that the queen was granting her the opportunity to learn more about Ronan Ó Callaghan for her brothers’ sake. ‘So long as you are not trying to set up a betrothal.’

The queen shook her head. ‘His family was trying to arrange a marriage to another king’s daughter from Tornall, from what I have heard.’

It felt as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders, and Joan could breathe again. ‘I am very glad to hear this.’

Queen Isabel smiled at her. ‘Go now, and see what you can learn for your brothers’ sake. You need not fear that we are arranging a marriage.’

Joan inclined her head and entered the chamber. Ronan was not inside, but the queen assured her that he would arrive shortly. The servants had already filled the tub with hot water, and Joan busied herself by arranging the soap and all that she would need.

Knowing that this man was merely a guest and nothing more eased all the tension from her mood. She had tended many visitors in her father’s castle over the years, and this man would be no different.

After a time, the door opened and Ronan stood at the threshold. He was a tall man, and she guessed that the top of her head came to his chin. His chainmail armour was covered in blood and would need to be cleaned. Beneath the shadows of his green eyes, she saw weariness and strain. His blond hair was matted, and she wondered what it would feel like to touch his unshaved cheeks. She could not deny that he was attractive, and she forced a calm smile on her face.

From the wry expression, it seemed that he, too, believed others were trying to make a match between them. He spoke in Irish at first, and she shook her head, for she did not understand his words. Then he drew closer and spoke in the Norman language, ‘Did your brothers arrange this?’

She shook her head. ‘The queen did.’ With a light shrug, she said, ‘But I am here to tend your bath, nothing more.’

He stared at her for a moment, as if he wasn’t certain whether to believe her. She met his gaze frankly, for what did she have to hide?

At last, he asked, ‘Will you help me with my armour?’

‘Of course.’ She aided him in removing his outer tunic, followed by the heavy hauberk. The weight of the chainmail was staggering, but she laid it carefully on the floor, along with the tunic. ‘I can arrange for a servant to clean it for you tonight, if you like.’ The sight of the dried blood was sobering, for she realised the extent of the fighting he had endured.

‘Thank you. I am Ronan Ó Callaghan,’ he said.

‘I am Joan de Laurent. You met my meddling brothers, Rhys and Warrick, not long ago.’ She smiled at the prince, not wanting him to be ill at ease around her—especially when she had no intention of following her brothers’ wishes. ‘Pay them no heed.’

He nodded and stripped off his remaining armour until he stood only in his trews. Joan kept her gaze upon the floor and took the rest of the heavy chainmail, averting her gaze as he stepped into the tub of water. When she was certain he was covered, she turned around.

A strange flush suffused her cheeks at the sight of him. His broad shoulders were exposed in the narrow tub, and he was heavily muscled. Water droplets slid over his bare skin, and she felt a strange ache within her body. So very odd.

‘Is the water warm enough?’ she asked.

‘It is.’ He reached for a cake of soap, but she took it first and dipped her hands in the water, lathering it. The Irish prince was silent while she moved behind him and washed his back. He flinched slightly when she scrubbed away the dirt with a linen rag. It was a task she had done for many of her family’s guests, a common courtesy.

Yet, somehow, with this man, it seemed different. She was conscious of his bare skin and the touch of her hands over the firm male flesh. With her hands, she scooped water over the soap and rinsed it away, following the path with her hands.

‘Were you wounded in the battle?’ She didn’t want to inadvertently hurt him by touching a sensitive place.

But he only shook his head. ‘Nothing serious. Only a few bruises.’

Joan tried to behave as if he were an ordinary visitor, but the truth was, she did find him attractive. He was nothing like other visitors she had tended in the past. Not only was he handsome, but his body appeared hewn from stone with its hardened muscle.

Her cheeks burned with the flush of interest. If he had been her first betrothal, she would have been quite pleased about him claiming her innocence. She liked what she saw, and the very thought of a man like this touching her made her feel breathless. Suddenly, she was beginning to understand the teasing remarks she had overheard by other women in the past. Washing this man made her own skin tighten with anticipation, and she became more aware of him.

‘You must be weary after this journey,’ she said. ‘It looks as if you rode here straight from the battlefield.’

‘I did,’ he admitted. ‘It took two days to reach Laochre.’

Her heart softened at the realisation that Ronan had sacrificed everything to reach the MacEgans quickly. It was evident that he’d gone without sleep and food until now, hoping to help his people. He was a man of honour, and she admired his inner strength.

Ronan was so quiet, it seemed that his thoughts were troubling him. She helped him lean back, and she filled a pitcher with warmed water, pouring it over his hair. It was a strangely intimate task, and the air grew heated as she lathered soap into his hair. He closed his eyes and relaxed against the tub. Joan found herself staring at his muscled arms and the way the water slid over the hardened planes.

She could almost imagine herself kissing this man, feeling his arms around her. A sudden aching caught her between her legs, stirrings of an unfamiliar desire. She didn’t understand these feelings, but her breasts tightened beneath her gown.

To distract herself, she rinsed the soap from his hair. Ronan opened his eyes and caught her gaze.

‘You have a soothing touch, my lady.’

All words fled her brain, and she managed only a nod. His green eyes stared into hers, and she found herself fascinated by his mouth. She forced her attention back to the soap in her hands. ‘I—I was sorry to hear that your father is now a captive.’

Ronan’s expression turned grim. ‘He is. But not for long, I hope.’

She knew he needed an army to help him fight, and she understood that this was not a king’s son who remained behind stone walls while his men fought to defend the Kingdom. This man would venture into battle with no fear, only aggression. His bloodstained armour proved it beyond all doubt.

Ronan sat up, resting his arms on the wooden tub. It was time to wash his chest, but her heartbeat quickened at the thought. She wanted to touch him, to slide her fingers over his bare skin and explore his body. Beneath her palms, she felt the rise of his pectoral muscles and his swift heartbeat. His broad chest filled the tub, and she suddenly imagined him standing up, fully naked.

What was the matter with her? She sloshed water against his skin to rinse it, and hurriedly pulled back to fetch the drying cloth.

‘Do you know why they sent you to attend my bath?’ he asked in a gruff tone.

Joan fumbled for a reason. ‘B-because you are a king’s son and an honoured guest.’ She took the cloth and spun, holding it out and averting her eyes. She heard the splash of water as he stood. He took the cloth from her, drying himself while she turned her back.

When she risked a glance, she saw that he had tied the cloth around his hips. His abdomen was ridged, and a slight line of hair directed her gaze lower. Her breath caught as she imagined the rest of him, but she dragged her attention back to his face.

‘Queen Isabel said you are promised to another,’ she reminded him. ‘The King of Tornall’s daughter, I believe.’

His expression twisted. ‘No, she is mistaken. There is no formal betrothal between us, despite what my father wanted.’

Though she revealed no reaction, inwardly she wondered if the queen had brought them together on purpose. It was indeed likely.

Ronan crossed his arms and stared at her. She couldn’t quite guess his thoughts, but his gaze passed over her slowly as if he were memorising her features.

She fumbled for something to say but could not come up with a single word. He was staring at her as if he found her beautiful. And a piece of her spirit warmed to it.

‘Is something wrong?’ He took a step closer and reached out to touch her nape. The warm wetness of his hand was a distraction she hadn’t anticipated.

‘What are you doing?’

He pulled at her veil, revealing her long dark hair. ‘I want to see you. It seems reasonable enough, given how much you have seen of me.’

She gaped at that. ‘No, that is unnecessary.’ She reached out for her veil, but he continued to stare, holding the length of linen under one arm. Joan let out a sigh and stared back. His green eyes held interest, which she didn’t want at all. ‘Give me my veil, my lord.’

But he held it and ignored her command. ‘You are fair of face. It surprises me that you are not yet married.’

Because they all died, she wanted to answer. It was quite a hindrance.

Still, her vanity warmed to his words. She wished she could stop herself from reacting so strongly to this man. And so, she squared her shoulders and changed the conversation in a new direction. ‘I bid you good fortune in winning back your castle and rescuing your father.’

‘I need your brothers’ help,’ he admitted. ‘But they will not give up soldiers...not unless you can convince them to fight for my people’s sake.’ His voice was deep and husky, and her wayward thoughts turned down the wrong path.

Now what did he mean by that? He was a stranger to her, and she had no reason to intervene on his behalf. But she could not deny that he attracted her.

‘I am not opposed to helping your cause,’ she said slowly, ‘but how do you suppose I should convince my brothers? Do you intend to pay them for their soldiers?’ Warrick and Rhys would never endanger their men on behalf of a stranger—even if he was an Irish prince. ‘They will want something in return.’

‘I can offer them an alliance and protection for Killalough, once my father is king again. But I leave that answer in your hands,’ he said. ‘You will know what your brothers want in return better than me. And if you do manage to convince them on my behalf, I would grant you your own wish.’

Joan nearly choked at the offer. It wasn’t as if she could ask this man for a baby. That was a conversation she could never imagine. Even so, she felt the flustered heat rising once more. Wild thoughts entered her mind, of lying naked upon her bed. Would Ronan enter her chamber and touch her intimately? Would he claim her body night after night, in the hopes that his seed would take root?

She closed her eyes and forced the sensual vision away. Despite the curse, she could not imagine falling into such sin. Not to mention, her brothers would eviscerate him for touching her.

‘N-no, I don’t need anything from you.’ She clenched her hands at her sides, trying to calm the restlessness within. But it was difficult with him wearing only the drying cloth and standing so near.

‘I think you do. But you don’t want to tell me what it is,’ Ronan predicted. His voice was low and deep, almost tempting. She started to turn away, but he caught her hand. ‘Why is that?’

Because it would be a terrible mistake. Even if she enjoyed his body in the way her brothers’ wives had said she would.

No, she had no choice but to remain untouched for the rest of her life. It did not matter that she wanted a baby of her own. She had to content herself with her nieces and nephews. Why, then, was the thought so bleak?

‘Well?’ he prompted. His thumb stroked the centre of her palm, and her body yearned for more. She imagined him caressing her in other places, and it sent a flare of need between her legs.

Stop this, she warned herself and straightened. ‘I don’t have to tell you what I want. Only that it has nothing to do with you.’

‘You don’t like me.’ From the way he said it, it seemed almost like a challenge. And he was wrong—she liked what she saw very much. He unnerved her in a way no man ever had.

But she kept her tone calm and said, ‘I like you well enough. But that doesn’t mean we need to make a bargain between us. I will speak to my brothers, but the choice is theirs as to whether our men will fight for you.’

He studied her a moment and told her, ‘Your brothers wanted me to barter marriage in exchange for their army.’

She wanted to curse at their meddling. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘That will never happen.’

The prince was silent for a moment, and the only sound in the chamber was the dripping of water. ‘Good. Then we are in agreement.’

His blunt statement should have reassured her, but she had not expected his refusal. Instead, she waited for him to elaborate. ‘I cannot be wedded right now,’ he continued. ‘My first concern must be for my people.’

Joan understood that. He had been forced into a desperate position, one where lives were at stake. And she offered her own sympathy. ‘You are right to fear for them, and I hope you can save them. I will do what I can to convince Warrick and Rhys. But they don’t want to accept that marriage is the last thing I want.’

‘Especially to a man like me.’ There was a mocking note in the midst of his deprecating remark.

Joan softened her voice. ‘If I ever intended to marry, I would consider you—or at least, a man like you. But as I said before, I cannot wed anyone.’

Ronan released her hand, his gaze penetrating. She was acutely aware of him and the heat of his skin. It took an effort not to rest her hands upon his hewn chest, sliding her fingers over the ridge of thick muscle.

‘Your brother told me that your intended husband died,’ he said. ‘I am sorry for it.’

It happens too often, she wanted to say but didn’t. Instead, she answered, ‘I had never seen him before. I didn’t know anything about Murdoch.’

‘What will you do now?’

She shrugged. ‘I may enter a convent. Or perhaps I will return to my father’s house and look after him, now that he is a widower.’ She glanced down at him, still distracted that he wore only a drying cloth. ‘I should go and let you get dressed.’

‘Not yet.’ His demeanour shifted, and he took on a commanding tone. In that moment, he was a prince in every sense of the word. ‘I need an army to help take back my kingdom. The MacEgans will help, and possibly your brothers’ men. But once they leave, my father’s stepson will only drive our supporters out again.’

Her brow furrowed, for she didn’t quite understand what he wanted from her.

Then he continued, ‘I need men who will dwell among us until I know who is loyal.’

‘Why not ask the King of Tornall?’ Joan suggested. ‘Surely he would send men to help you.’

‘As I said before, I have no formal alliance with them—only an understanding. But if I ask him to send soldiers...’

‘He would want you to marry his daughter,’ she finished.

‘Yes. And I have met Siobhan. She is not as reasonable as you are.’

At that, she almost smiled. Reasonable was not a word most men used when describing her. ‘You think I’m reasonable because I don’t want to marry?’

‘Yes.’ He took a step closer. ‘And you may know how I can convince your brothers’ men to stay longer.’

Her gaze shifted towards his bare skin, distracting her again. ‘They would stay for a time if you paid them. But how long do you think they are needed?’

‘Half a year, at least. Perhaps longer.’

She was beginning to understand why her brothers were suggesting a betrothal. Such a length of time would be difficult, not to mention costly.

But Ronan raised his green eyes to hers and asked, ‘Do you think you can help me persuade your brothers?’ His voice was deeply resonant, like an invisible caress. Her wayward imagination conjured up the vision of his hands around her waist, pulling her near. She felt herself yielding, wanting something she could not name.

‘I—I don’t know. I could try.’ And with that, she fled, no longer trusting herself around this man.

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do you have many nieces or nephews?’

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

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

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

‘Why do you say that?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I won’t apologise,’ he said gruffly. ‘I wanted to kiss you.’

‘I don’t need an apology,’ she murmured. Her heart was racing, her skin tightening with unspoken need. Between her legs, she ached, and it was a struggle to calm herself. ‘But we both know it was a mistake.’ They would never marry, and she could not risk falling into temptation.

His eyes locked upon hers as if he didn’t believe her. ‘You kissed me back.’ There was a pointed question in his statement, but she had no idea how to answer it.

Instead, she blurted out, ‘It would have been bad manners not to.’

At that, he threw back his head and laughed. His green eyes warmed with humour, and he rested his hand on the small of her back. ‘So it would.’ And though she knew it had been unwise, she did not regret kissing him.

Ronan guided her back towards the castle, and for a time, she held her silence. She knew better than to imagine that this man wanted her for anything other than her brothers’ soldiers. He wanted to take back his fortress, nothing more.

The prince slowed his pace and studied her. ‘You surprised me, Lady Joan. And it makes me consider another possibility. Would you consider a betrothal with me, even if we did not marry? Your brothers would grant me the men I need, and I would grant you whatever you desire.’

‘I—I don’t know.’ She had never considered the possibility, but the very thought of wedding a man like Ronan made her blush. One kiss had turned her knees to water, and her heartbeat was still racing.

‘Surely there is a way we could help each other.’

She steeled herself and stopped walking. Did she dare to tell him the truth of what she wanted most? Likely not, for she hardly knew this man. It shamed her to admit that she wanted a child so badly, she was willing to consider bearing one out of wedlock.

He had suggested a betrothal without an actual marriage. It made her wonder if that was a way around the curse. Ronan seemed to be a kind man, and there was no doubt she felt an attraction to him.

Would it be so wrong to surrender her virtue to this prince and take him into her bed? Or was the risk too great? In the eyes of the church, a formal betrothal was nearly the same as a marriage. She would not be the first woman to lie with her intended husband before the vows were spoken.

Her brothers might kill him, even if the curse did not. But she could not deny that Ronan had awakened sensual longings within her.

Her face felt as if it were on fire, but she decided to tell him the truth. ‘You asked me what I wanted.’

‘Yes. Name it, and if it is in my power to give, this I will do.’ He turned to regard her. His green eyes gazed upon her with interest, and she felt her blush rising again.

‘The truth is, I want a child of my own.’

For a long moment, he stared at her in disbelief. She could not read the emotions on his face, but it seemed as if she had struck a nerve. It made her wish she hadn’t spoken at all. Perhaps he didn’t desire her after all, despite the kiss they had shared. Perhaps he found her lacking, a woman to be pitied. Her stomach twisted with humiliation, but at last he spoke.

‘A child is something I cannot give you. Not ever.’

The finality in his voice startled her, for although she had expected a refusal, she had not anticipated the cold anger in his voice. She didn’t ask him why, for it was clear that he did not want to speak of it.

So be it. There would be no betrothal between them, and they would go their separate ways. It should have been a relief—and yet, she felt a sense of regret. Ronan Ó Callaghan was the first man she had been attracted to in years. His kiss had taken her breath away, leaving her wanting more. But it was not meant to be.

As they returned to the castle, the weight of silence descended over them.

* * *

Joan had originally planned to return to Killalough with her brothers, but Queen Isabel had begged her to stay for the Samhain festivities. She would rather have retreated to their fortress, but Warrick and Rhys had told her to stay, to appease the queen and to keep good relations with the MacEgan tribe. They would send an escort for her within a few days.

She had no doubt that they were trying to arrange a match with Ronan. Although she had already told them it was not a possibility, her brothers were ignoring her.

The autumn air was crisp, and Joan strode through the inner bailey, carrying a basket of turnips. Several of the children followed, begging her to save the largest turnip for them to carve. Tonight, they would place lights within the turnips and carry the lanterns to keep away the evil spirits.

She found that it was entertaining to carve the turnips into faces. After distributing the turnips among the children, she chose one for herself and went to sit upon the stone steps leading to the battlements. With a small dagger, she began cutting into the vegetable, attempting to form eyes within the reddish-white mass.

Footsteps drew nearer, and a shadow crossed over her. When she glanced up, she saw Ronan standing there. He was holding a large turnip of his own. Joan wasn’t quite certain why he had come to speak with her. It seemed that he’d been avoiding her since he’d kissed her. Now, he was behaving as if nothing were amiss.

Without asking, he sat down beside her and compared their turnips. ‘Mine is bigger.’

She almost laughed, for it sounded like exactly something her brothers might say in teasing. There was a hint of wickedness in his eyes, and she realised he was trying to mend the awkwardness between them. Her mood softened, and it did seem that he wanted to become friends once again.

And so, she met his teasing with her own response. ‘Size doesn’t matter, my lord.’

A sinful smile curved over his mouth, making her flush. ‘I’ve heard otherwise.’

‘Most people say it’s what you do with your size that matters,’ she parried. His grin widened at the entendre, and she added, ‘I have two brothers. Your jest is not a new one.’ She carved a notch in the turnip, but her blade slipped and nicked the vegetable.

‘Is that meant to be a face?’ he asked. He took out his own dagger and began notching his turnip. Which was, in fact, bigger than hers.

‘It is.’ She wasn’t particularly artistic, but it did have the necessary parts. ‘Those are the eyes, and that’s the nose.’

‘You cut his nose off.’

‘No, he was wounded in battle. It’s still there.’ To emphasise her point, she cut a line across the surface. ‘That’s a terrible scar. He was trying to save his lady from the enemy and suffered for her sake.’

‘And she was taken away and was lost forever,’ he finished. ‘He died of a broken heart.’

‘That wasn’t the ending I had planned.’ She carved another notch into the turnip, attempting to make the face smile. ‘I was thinking that she would see beneath his scars to the man he truly was. And then he would bring her home with him to love for always.’

‘That isn’t what happens in real life, Lady Joan.’

Joan set down her knife to look at him. With a shrug, she said, ‘It’s my story, and I can end it however I like.’ She wasn’t entirely surprised that he had disregarded the love story. Her brothers would have done the same.

‘Wouldn’t it be more interesting my way?’ he suggested. ‘Unpredictable is better.’ He continued to carve at the vegetable, flicking bits of the turnip to the ground.

‘I prefer a happier ending. One that ends in love.’

‘Love doesn’t always end happily.’

The dark tone of his voice suggested that he had experienced even more loss than she’d imagined. Had he loved a woman who had died during the attack on Clonagh? Or worst of all, had it involved a child? His vehement statement that he would never sire children made her wonder what had happened. A sudden ache caught her, for she had not thought of this. ‘I am sorry if you lost someone you loved. Did it happen during the attack?’

He let out a slow breath. ‘No. It was a few months before.’

She didn’t know what else to say, except to touch his shoulder with sympathy. The sudden flash of interest in his eyes caught her unawares, for she had not expected it. She pulled back her hand as if it had caught on fire, feeling embarrassed.

To distract herself, Joan tilted her head to get a better look at the turnip he was carving. At first, it seemed only like a series of lines. Then he turned it towards her, and she was startled to see the gnarled face of a grandfather etched within the vegetable. It was truly remarkable that he had captured such a powerful image with only a few strokes of the blade.

‘Oh, my,’ she murmured. ‘This is wonderful. You cannot possibly risk burning this carving with a candle.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s only a turnip, Lady Joan.’

Did he truly not grasp the talent he had? Why would he deny his skills? She reached out for the turnip and then asked, ‘Have you ever made other carvings? Out of wood, perhaps?’

‘It’s nothing of importance.’ With that, he stood. ‘Add my turnip in with the others. The children can light them and carry them tonight. I will go and help with the bonfires.’

Joan kept the turnip but had no intention of giving it over to be burned. Instead, she put it with her own, marvelling at the detail he’d captured. Ronan had a depth of talent she would never have guessed. The simplicity of his carving touched her heart.

‘I am keeping it,’ she told him. He eyed her for a moment, and then shrugged as if it were nothing. But it revealed another side to this man, one that intrigued her.

In the distance, many of the MacEgans were gathering wood and loading it into wagons to be brought to the hills for the Samhain fires. Before Ronan left her side, there was a sudden outcry near the gates.

Joan rose to her feet and saw a man and a woman arriving on horseback. The man had blond hair, lighter than Ronan’s, and beside him rode a dark-haired woman of such beauty, Joan felt like an old crone. A young girl rode behind them on a smaller horse. The girl’s brown hair was braided neatly, and the woman kept glancing behind her to ensure that the child was well.

‘Who are they?’ she asked Ronan.

‘Connor MacEgan is the king’s younger brother. It looks as if he’s taken a wife.’

Joan moved closer, with Ronan following behind. Connor helped the woman down from her horse, but when Joan drew closer, she saw that he was favouring one hand over the other. The king came forward with Queen Isabel to greet his brother, and the new bride stood back. Her clothing was simple, but the dark woollen cloak accentuated her clear skin and her grey-green eyes.

Connor lifted the girl down from her horse, and she curtsied before the king and queen. Joan gathered with the rest of them and heard him introduce the woman as his bride, Aileen. The child was his daughter, Rhiannon.

There was a moment of fleeting shock on King Patrick’s face before he masked it and welcomed them both. Isabel smiled at the young girl and held out her hand, bringing her over to meet Liam. Aileen followed, and they walked inside the castle.

A pang caught at Joan’s heart when she saw the young family. There was such love between them, she could not hide her own envy of the life she wanted to have.

‘Go and join them,’ Ronan urged. ‘I know you’re wanting to know more.’

She did, but didn’t feel she ought to indulge her curiosity since they were strangers. Even so, Ronan departed to join the men who were carrying wood up the hill of Amadán. After he left, she could not help but look back at him, wondering what other talents he had hidden from everyone else.

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