Forbidden Night with the Prince

by Michelle Willingham

  His own anger softened when he realised she was overcome with her own emotions. She genuinely blamed herself for their deaths and thought that she had to prevent his as well.

  He gentled his tone. ‘I am not going to die, Joan.’

  But she said nothing more. Instead, she rode alongside him, shielding her feelings in a frozen mask.

  Ronan watched over her as they continued their ride towards Killalough. Though she kept her head held high, it was only a façade. When he glimpsed her face, he saw a tear sliding down one cheek.

  Never had any woman wept for him. Ronan hardly knew what to say or do. Finally, he tried to console her. ‘It will be all right, Joan.’

  But she refused to look at him. ‘Will it? I’m not so certain any more.’

  ‘We will make the best of a marriage between us,’ he said. It was all he could offer her.

  ‘A marriage without children?’ she countered.

  In this, he would not relent. He did not want to be a father—not after Declan’s death. Despite Joan’s heartfelt wish, he could not agree.

  ‘If need be,’ he answered.

  ‘And what if I refuse?’ she said coolly. ‘I have said already that I want a child more than all else.’

  ‘You will agree to the marriage,’ he said softly, ‘or I will tell your brothers that you surrendered your virtue to me.’

  * * *

  Frustration and humiliation coursed through Joan during the remainder of the journey. How could Ronan demand this of her? She had wanted to save his life, and in return, he intended to imprison her within a marriage with no possibility of children.

  Her actions ensured that she could not walk away from Ronan or deny the betrothal. Her brothers would be furious with her choice, and she could not tell them what had happened.

  How had it come to this? She had mistakenly believed that offering her innocence would break the curse. But there was no sense of peace within her, no sense that the bad luck had been lifted away. After she had given herself to Ronan, there was naught to calm the storm of emotions—instead, she felt more confused than ever. It was as if she had lain with him out of desire instead of her hope of protecting him. She had enjoyed every moment in his arms, but now, he was cold and unyielding in his demand for a true betrothal. His anger held a note of vengeance, and she knew not how to ease the tension between them.

  * * *

  They arrived at Killalough by nightfall. Joan gritted her teeth as servants took their horses and led them into the Great Chamber. Ronan rested his palm against the small of her back, and his touch was possessive. There was no doubting what he meant to say to her brothers.

  Warrick sat at the high table upon a dais beside his wife, while Rhys stood waiting for them at the bottom of the steps. Her older brother approached and embraced her lightly before greeting Ronan. ‘I am glad to see you are both well. Have you come to a decision, then?’

  ‘We have,’ Ronan answered. He took her hand, and when he squeezed her fingers, there was no doubting his silent command. ‘We will draw up the betrothal agreement tonight.’

  Joan wanted to argue, but the firm pressure on her hand was a warning not to speak. Yet she had no intention of remaining silent. ‘I have terms of my own to add to the betrothal,’ she told her brothers. ‘We can discuss them later, after we dine.’

  Ronan leaned in to her ear. ‘And what terms are those?’

  As they followed her brother towards the dais, she murmured, ‘I will tell you later.’ She was not about to reveal her own demands until the time was right. If he intended to force her hand, then she was not about to back down from her own wishes.

  ‘Come and join us at the table,’ Warrick said, gesturing for them to sit beside him. He introduced Ronan to his wife, Rosamund, who was expecting another child. Rosamund’s face appeared pale, as if this new pregnancy had not been easy on her. She cradled one infant while a nursemaid held the other. Joan sent her a sympathetic smile, her heart softening at the sight of the babies.

  Ronan bowed in greeting. ‘My lady.’

  ‘It is my pleasure to meet you,’ Rosamund answered. ‘Perhaps we can speak later, and you can share your wisdom with me about governing an Irish clan. The Ó Neills have no interest in learning our language, and it has been difficult to help them.’

  Joan recognised Rosamund’s offer as a way of building ties between them. If Ronan helped them bridge the challenges of the clan, it would bring them together as allies.

  ‘I will speak with their leaders on your behalf,’ Ronan offered. ‘There may be a way of meeting their needs and yours. But you must have someone here who can translate until you have learned the Irish language. And they must learn the Norman tongue in return.’

  Joan noticed that her brothers said nothing of the translator they already had. It only confirmed her suspicions that they were trying to draw Ronan in, bringing them together.

  ‘The difficulty is that our home is in England,’ Rosamund admitted. ‘We need to appoint a chieftain to govern on our behalf. But choosing the right man will be a challenge when we cannot converse properly.’

  ‘I will speak with your men later this night and learn what I can,’ Ronan agreed.

  ‘Good,’ Warrick answered. ‘I have a few men who may suit as chieftain, but I would welcome your opinion.’

  Ronan nodded and accepted a trencher of food from a servant. He sat beside her, and though he hardly spoke at all, he seemed fully aware of her presence. His hard thigh pressed against hers, and it evoked a memory of the forbidden night they had shared.

  His fingers brushed against hers during the meal, and Joan was startled by her body’s awakening. Never in her life had any man made her feel such a strong response. It was as if she remembered his hands moving over her bare skin, and she yearned for more. She veiled her reaction by taking a sip of wine.

  ‘I am glad to hear that you have agreed to this betrothal, Joan,’ Rhys said at last. ‘It seems that my daughter Sorcha was right.’ To Ronan, he added, ‘She predicted that Joan would marry a prince, but our father did not believe it.’ Then he turned back to her. ‘You said that you had terms of your own before you would agree to the betrothal. What is it you want?’

  Ronan’s hand moved to her leg beneath the table in an unspoken warning. Joan paid it little heed, for she had to lay down her own expectations. She would not wed a man who intended to take her brother’s soldiers and ignore her desires. If she was forced into marriage, she would demand that he fulfil his end of the bargain.

  She faced both brothers. ‘I want a child of my own. I am not as young as most maidens, and I dare not wait very long.’

  Ronan squeezed her knee, and she caught the silent message: Don’t do this.

  But he was the one who seemed to want a celibate marriage. She could not agree to a union with no promise of ever having children. It would be heartbreaking.

  ‘If I do not conceive a child by Yuletide, I will annul the marriage,’ she finished.

  Ronan’s hand tightened over hers, his green eyes turning to stone.

  Her brothers appeared discomfited by the condition. ‘Joan, Yuletide is not a reasonable length of time.’

  But Ronan intervened and said to her brothers, ‘If you will excuse us for a moment, Joan and I need to talk about this further.’

  In other words, he was going to try to talk her out of it. But she added, ‘While I speak with Ronan, you may decide how many of your men you will send to Clonagh.’

  She stood from her place and kept her hand in Ronan’s. From the firm grip of his hand, there was no doubting his anger. He had tried to force her into this marriage, but she would not go meekly—not unless he yielded to her own wishes.

  They walked outside the main donjon and into the inner bailey. But instead of choosing a place to speak, Ronan led her outside the gates.

  They walked only
a few paces before he stopped. ‘Why would you even speak of an annulment?’

  ‘Because you have said that you will not give me a child,’ she answered. ‘How can I marry a man who will not grant me the one thing I long for most?’

  He stood back from her, his hands at his sides. ‘I cannot be a father, Joan. It’s not something I want.’

  ‘Why?’ The word blurted forth before she could stop it. She tried to soften it, saying, ‘Help me to understand.’

  He grasped her waist and stared at her. It seemed as if he were trying to decide whether to speak. She didn’t push but simply waited. His green eyes held a blend of anger and grief. Finally, he admitted, ‘Because I am to blame for my nephew’s death. Both my brother and his son would still be alive if it weren’t for me.’

  There was such ragged pain in his expression, she could not say anything. ‘I have no desire to ever have children of my own,’ he finished. ‘Not after what happened to them.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ But even as she spoke, she knew the words would not heal his wounds. Instead, she rested her hand upon his shoulder a moment before he pulled away. The guilt weighed heavily upon him, and it bothered her that he would not accept comfort. She couldn’t imagine what had happened but did not ask. It could only bring back harsh memories, and her heart ached for his loss.

  ‘Now, the only one left in my family is my father.’ His tone remained leaden. ‘I may have lost him, too.’

  Joan’s heart bled for him. ‘We will do all we can to save Brodur.’

  His expression turned shielded. ‘Then you must agree to the marriage offer as it stands. I need your brothers’ men to fight back.’

  Her lips pressed together as she considered it. Ronan wanted a marriage in name only, with no hope of children. He had lost his kingdom, and until he regained it, there was nowhere for them to live. She understood that all his concentration rested on freeing his father from captivity and restoring the throne. Marrying her was a means to an end. And if she agreed to these terms, it might save his kinsmen—but it would consign her to a life without the child she wanted.

  She knew he would still invade Clonagh, with or without her brothers’ men. He would fight his enemies, and if there were not enough men to help him, he would die. That was a fact, regardless of whether she agreed to wed him. If she refused the betrothal, her brothers would not help him at all. The blame for his death would lie on her shoulders.

  ‘I cannot agree to those terms,’ she said quietly, ‘but I will delay signing a betrothal agreement. My brothers will still send men to help you win back Clonagh, since they believe you have my consent for a marriage.’

  It was the best she could offer to Ronan. A part of her was deeply afraid that it would not be enough. She prayed she had broken the curse and that he would be safe during the battles ahead. Although they were not formally betrothed, she worried that he could be hurt, simply by being so near to her. It would be wiser to close off her heart and steel herself against the inevitable danger. But whenever she looked at Ronan, she saw a man stronger than any other. The intensity of his gaze, and the way he made her heartbeat quicken, touched her like no one else.

  She had lived her life in fear during the past few years, only to lose every man she had been betrothed to. She didn’t want to lose him, too. Yet, she could not imagine a marriage where he shielded himself, refusing to share her bed. It was an impossible arrangement.

  In his eyes, she saw a man who would sacrifice everything for his family. He would surrender his own life for his father’s. She admired his loyalty and strength of will. But only time would reveal whether the curse was broken and whether they could have a true marriage between them.

  Chapter Five

  One day later

  It was well before dawn, and Ronan had gathered a dozen soldiers to accompany him to Clonagh. His emotions hardened with anger towards his stepbrother Odhran. He knew not what he would find this morn, but he prayed his father would be alive. Tension knotted in his stomach as they approached his homeland. The autumn air was frigid with a hint of ice in the wind. The horses walked in silence as they approached, and frost coated the ground.

  Rhys and Warrick had accompanied him, along with the other MacEgans who had travelled with them this far. There were a dozen men total, enough to surround the fortress and to survey its defences, but not enough to attack.

  This day, his intention was to observe his enemy and learn Odhran’s weaknesses. He needed to understand why such a small group of rebels had gained control of the Ó Callaghans. Once he learned the truth, he intended to destroy those who had stolen his father’s throne.

  He had no doubt of the danger. If any of them was discovered spying, they could be killed by Odhran’s men. Ronan could only hope that he would never be forced to kill one of his own kinsmen.

  They left their horses tethered by the stream so they could continue their approach on foot. ‘When I give the signal, I want you to split off and surround the ringfort,’ Ronan commanded. ‘There will be no bloodshed. I need to know how many men are guarding Clonagh and whether they hold any prisoners. If any of my people are in danger, I want to know immediately.’

  He explained which men would go in each direction and insisted, ‘Stay hidden, and do not fight unless you are in danger. I want only information this morn. Tell me if my father is still alive, and find him if you can.’

  He continued leading the group of men towards Clonagh. The horizon had transformed from a deep purple into a softer rose as the dawn approached. Ronan stopped walking, for they were reaching the outskirts of the fortress. He raised his hand in a silent signal, and the men began spreading out around the perimeter of the fortress. There were only a few moments more until dawn, and the men lowered to the ground, keeping their position hidden.

  Ronan moved towards the back of the ringfort where there was only one guard. There was a broken section of the fence, near the bottom, that he had intended to repair before he’d learned of Odhran’s treachery. He peered through the broken wood and counted six men who were lighting outdoor fires. There was no sign of his father, and none of the women had left their homes. There was only the thick cloak of silence, and he knew not what that meant. While there were no signs of violence or a struggle, he was uneasy about the surroundings.

  There were a dozen guards surrounding the fortress, and his instincts warned that something was wrong. Ronan rested his hand upon his sword hilt, waiting for the rest of the people to emerge. When no one did, he realised that he could get no answers by remaining in the shadows. He had to infiltrate the fortress and find out the truth.

  The sun had nearly risen, and he remained on the ground, creeping towards one of the men. He had nearly reached him when one of the guards spied them. The soldier shouted out a warning, and within seconds, torches were lit all along the walls.

  Ronan cursed and unsheathed his weapon. There was no point in secrecy now. To Warrick he commanded, ‘Take the men back. I’ll stay behind to ensure that you get them out alive.’

  ‘You cannot fight them all alone,’ Warrick argued. ‘It would mean your death.’

  But fighting wasn’t his intention. ‘I know this fortress well. I have a better chance of slipping away than any of you. Now go!’

  The men retreated, disappearing into the shadows as they ran back to where their horses were tethered. Ronan moved towards the gates, his sword drawn. A sudden calm descended over him as he prepared to fight. He was badly outnumbered, but he knew these men. In his heart, he didn’t truly believe they would try to kill him.

  When he charged towards the first attacker, he recognised one of Odhran’s mercenaries. The soldier swung his sword, but Ronan had no shield to block it. He ducked, and the blade sliced through empty air. As he dodged the man’s weapon, he spied an archer climbing up the gate tower, preparing to shoot at Warrick’s men. He had to reach the archer before the man could
loose any arrows.

  Ronan needed to end this sword fight quickly. He struck hard against his enemy’s blade and gritted his teeth when the man’s sword slashed his side. He shut down the pain, refusing to let the wound stop him. No doubt Joan would worry over him later, and he concentrated on thoughts of her as he fought. He wanted to win back Clonagh and bring her here to rule at his side. The thought strengthened his resolve, and he continued to lash out, even while moving towards the tower.

  Once he neared the ladder, he quickened his pace, barely avoiding another blow. Behind his attacker, he saw one of his former friends, a man who had once fought alongside him. Darragh didn’t move, but simply watched the fight.

  It infuriated him that his friend’s loyalty had dissolved after so many years. Why would his friends turn against him? Ronan had been willing to sacrifice everything for them, and now, they would not even lift a hand to help him fight.

  ‘When did you become Odhran’s traitor?’ he snapped at Darragh.

  At that, his former friend turned and walked away. Ronan poured his anger into the battle and slashed at his assailant’s stomach, ending the fight.

  He ignored the blood seeping through his tunic and sheathed his sword. The pain was a searing ache, but he hurried up the ladder. He strode towards the archer and ripped the bow free of the man’s hands. ‘Leave them,’ he ordered.

  For a long moment, he stared at the Ó Callaghan guards in disbelief of their betrayal. ‘Where is my father? Did you kill him?’ he demanded. The only answer to his question was silence. But several men lowered their faces as if in shame. Rage flooded through Ronan, and he continued, ‘Or did you want Odhran as your king?’

  Again, they said nothing. But each of the men met his gaze with a hard look. Once again, Ronan was convinced that all was not right. He had not seen the familiar sights and sounds of the morning, with people talking among themselves as they carried out their tasks. Instead, it felt as if the clan was merely going through the motions of everyday life.