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
A sudden sense of foreboding slid within Joan’s veins, but she forced herself to ask, “What must I do?”
“You must go to him this night, and surrender your innocence,” Annle answered. “Then the curse cannot touch him, because his essence will be bound to yours. And if he is a man of honor, he will wed you to save your virtue.”
For a moment, she could hardly breathe. I cannot.
How could she even imagine such a thing? She knew nothing of seduction, and the price was far too great. Her mind spun with the implications.
Yet, earlier, he had started to speak of a betrothal once more. She had cut him off, believing it was impossible. But what if she was mistaken? What if she could find a way to break the curse and seize a life with Ronan? Was that not worth the risk?
Author Note
Forbidden Night with the Prince is the third book in the Warriors of the Night series.
In this story, Joan de Laurent is deeply superstitious about marriage, since every man she has been betrothed to has died. But when she meets Irish prince Ronan Ó Callaghan, she longs for an end to the deaths and a new beginning. Ronan is intrigued by the beautiful noblewoman who only wears white and refuses to wed. But will an unexpected attraction, a potion from a wisewoman, and one forbidden night be enough to break the curse?
Book one in this series is Forbidden Night with the Warrior, the story of Warrick de Laurent and Rosamund de Courcy. Book two is Forbidden Night with the Highlander, the romance between Rhys de Laurent and Liana MacKinnon. You might also enjoy the story of Aileen and Connor MacEgan in The Warrior’s Touch, part of the MacEgan Brothers series.
If you’d like me to email you when I have a new book out, please visit my website at michellewillingham.com to sign up for my newsletter. As a bonus, you’ll receive a free story, just for subscribing!
MICHELLE WILLINGHAM
Forbidden Night with the Prince
RITA® Award finalist Michelle Willingham has written over twenty historical romances, novellas and short stories. Currently she lives in southeastern Virginia 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.
Books by Michelle Willingham
Harlequin Historical
Warriors of the Night
Forbidden Night with the Warrior
Forbidden Night with the Highlander
Forbidden Night with the Prince
Warriors of Ireland
(linked to The MacEgan Brothers)
Warrior of Ice
Warrior of Fire
Forbidden Vikings
To Sin with a Viking
To Tempt a Viking
The MacEgan Brothers
Her Warrior Slave (prequel)
Her Warrior King
Her Irish Warrior
The Warrior’s Touch
Taming Her Irish Warrior
Surrender to an Irish Warrior
Warriors in Winter
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
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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
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
Excerpt from Saying I Do to the Scoundrel by Liz Tyner
Chapter One
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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 w
ant 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 ba
cks 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.
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