Forbidden Night with the Prince

by Michelle Willingham

  The women had kept out of view, and so had the children. Which meant that it was dangerous for them to leave their homes. There were few mercenaries visible, and another realisation took root. ‘He’s keeping hostages, isn’t he?’

  At that, one of the men nodded. Before Ronan could question them further, a roar sounded from the opposite end of the fortress. He saw more armed men approaching, and his time was running out. There was no alternative but to leave once again.

  ‘I will return with an army,’ he promised. He tossed the bow aside and climbed down the ladder. When he reached the gates, he saw Darragh standing with a waiting horse. Ronan had no time to wonder why, but he mounted the gelding and urged it into a hard gallop. There were no arrows fired towards him, nor did anyone follow.

  He rode hard through the meadows, questioning what he had seen. There was no trace of violence, no sense of suffering—only the men’s confirmation that he was right about hostages.

  But then, Darragh had given him a horse to aid his escape. His former friend had not helped him fight, but neither had he abandoned him to die. The gesture sobered him, making him wonder why these men were so afraid to act against Odhran. The only man who had dared to attack was the lone mercenary. Not one of his own people had raised a weapon against him—and that gave him reason to hope.

  Ronan joined the others near the place where they had tethered their horses. Joan’s brothers were waiting, and as soon as he drew near, Warrick demanded, ‘What happened? You’re bleeding.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ He refused to dwell on the wound, though he was starting to feel light-headed. ‘They let me go. We’ll talk more when we get further away from Clonagh. Odhran’s men might still pursue us. I don’t want to take that chance.’

  Yet, his clansmen had not immediately followed. It was as if they had held back, unwilling to fight a battle that wasn’t theirs.

  Ronan rode among the men for the rest of the day, turning over the matter in his mind. Though he had hoped to gain insight about his enemy, he had found only more questions. Odhran had hostages and was using them to control his kinsmen. Likely the women and children from what he could tell.

  By nightfall, Ronan spied the gleam of torches in the distance, surrounding the walls of Killalough. His head ached from the exertion of riding, and his ribs burned from the wound. The world was spinning, and he needed to rest and treat the injury. He knew he had been bleeding for hours, but the frigid cold had helped him push back the pain.

  Ahead, he spied Joan waiting, along with a few other women. The moment she saw him, she came running towards him. Yet when she reached his side, her image blurred. A ringing sounded in his ears, and he attempted to dismount. The moment his feet hit the ground, his knees sagged.

  He was hardly aware of what Joan was saying, but there was terror in her voice when he collapsed to the ground. Ronan put his hand to his side, and it came back soaked in blood. He wanted to tell her that it was nothing, only a slip of his enemy’s sword, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

  His last image was of Joan’s stricken face as darkness closed around him.

  * * *

  ‘He’s not dead, Joan.’

  Her brother, Rhys, was trying to speak in a calm voice, but his words did nothing to allay the dread rising within her. He said something about Ronan being wounded in a sword fight, but all she could remember was the blood. No one could lose that much blood and survive, she was certain. Tears stung at her eyes, and she followed her brothers into one of the guest chambers. They carried Ronan inside and sent for the healer, but her mind was crying out with fear.

  No, he hadn’t died yet. But perhaps it was because she had not yet signed the betrothal. Inside, she felt numb, horrified that she had been wrong about breaking the curse.

  The healer was shaking her head and speaking in Irish, pointing towards the door for them to leave. Joan understood that there were too many people in the room. She stood and guided her brothers towards the door. ‘I will help her. Leave us,’ Joan ordered. She had the right to be here at Ronan’s side.

  Warrick pressed a hand to her shoulder. ‘It was just a small wound, Joan. He will heal quickly.’

  But he didn’t know that. No one did.

  Joan raised her chin and stared hard at her brother. ‘I will stay with him.’ She didn’t want to hear false reassurance. Her heart was already beating swiftly out of fear, for she knew the danger of a fever. One wound could end a man’s life, and Ronan’s battle had only begun.

  Once the men were gone, the healer removed the bloody tunic, revealing a jagged wound across his ribs. Though it wasn’t deep, it had bled for a long time. The stubborn man hadn’t even bothered to wrap it.

  Her emotions ran wild between anger that he hadn’t taken care of himself and fear that the curse would come upon him. Joan reached out to touch him, but he didn’t respond. He seemed completely unaware of her presence, and fear doubled within her.

  The healer handed her a basin and motioned for Joan to go and bring back water. She took it and filled the basin. Though she tried to remain calm, her hands trembled when she passed the water to the healer. She wanted to ask the woman so many questions. Would Ronan live? How bad were his wounds? But she could say nothing at all.

  The healer washed Ronan’s wound and bandaged it. Joan sat beside his pallet on the floor. She smoothed back the hair at his forehead, so afraid that he would grow feverish. Though she knew the woman would not understand her words, she asked quietly, ‘Will he live?’

  The healer’s gaze was kindly, and she reached out to squeeze Joan’s hand. Then she rose from her place beside Ronan. She mixed up some herbs and placed them in a wooden cup. Then she poured boiling water over the herbs to steep into a tea. She placed it on a low table nearby. Then she sent a questioning look to Joan, and Joan nodded, understanding her meaning. ‘I won’t leave him.’

  The healer brought over more water and a linen cloth. She touched Ronan’s forehead and soaked the linen in the water before wringing it out to place upon his head. The healer gestured towards the cup and pointed to Ronan. It was clear that the healer wanted Ronan to drink the tea, and Joan nodded, pointing back at the cup. ‘I will ensure that he drinks it.’

  The healer’s expression curved in a gentle smile before she left them alone. Once she had gone, Joan studied Ronan’s unconscious form. ‘I warned you this might happen,’ she said softly. ‘But you didn’t believe me.’

  With a sigh, she arranged the linen across his forehead. Though she had wanted to hope that she had broken the curse, it did not seem possible now. He had been harmed with the mere suggestion of a betrothal.

  Joan took his hand in hers, feeling such guilt. No matter what choice she made, it brought danger upon him. If she turned away and refused to wed him, her brothers would not send men to aid his cause. Or if she stayed, it was likely he would die in battle. ‘I cannot be the cause of your death,’ she whispered as an unwanted tear slid down her cheek.

  She never should have let herself have feelings for this man. It hurt so badly, she felt as if a blade had sliced her in half. A dark fury boiled within her that Fate would curse her so. She had never done anything to deserve this, and she wanted to rage against the heavens for the misfortune.

  She wept in silence for the life she wanted but could never have. Why could other women love a man and bear him children? Why not her?

  You should leave Ronan, her conscience urged. If you care enough, you should let him go to save his life.

  But she didn’t know if she had the courage to walk away. For now, Joan could only sit beside him and pray that he would recover from these wounds.

  She caressed his hand with her thumb, so worried about him. But she was startled when his fingers curled around hers in a gentle squeeze.

  ‘Ronan, are you awake?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ His voice was rough, heavy with p
ain, and he winced.

  Despite his discomfort, her eyes welled up with tears of thankfulness. At least he was starting to awaken. Joan squeezed his hand in return, trying to gather command of her emotions.

  ‘You were wounded at Clonagh,’ she told him. ‘The healer tended you, and she left a tea for you to drink.’ She had to release his hand to get the tea, and found that it had cooled. ‘Here. This should help you feel better.’

  She raised the cup to his lips, and he tried to drink. From his expression, she guessed that the herbs tasted bitter. But he did drink half of it before he turned his head aside.

  ‘What did you see at Clonagh?’ she asked.

  He was silent for a time before he admitted, ‘It was strange. I saw nothing at all. There was no violence, no evidence of suffering.’

  She put the cup down. ‘Did it seem that your kinsmen were happy?’

  He shook his head. ‘There was very little noise. No children or dogs roaming around. One of Odhran’s men attacked me, but no one else did.’ He told her about Darragh giving him a horse and allowing him to escape.

  ‘It sounds as if Odhran is controlling them in some way,’ she said. ‘What about your father? Did you see him?’

  ‘There was no sign of him. I think he must be dead.’

  The heaviness in his voice revealed his unspoken sorrow, and she moved her hand to his forehead. ‘I pray he is not, for your sake.’

  He let out a rough sigh. ‘I need to speak with your brothers to learn what else they saw. I know we can take back the fortress with our combined forces, but I believe Odhran is holding hostages. We must be careful in our attack.’

  She nodded, and he caught her hand in his. For a moment, he looked into her eyes. ‘You’ve been crying, Joan.’

  She saw no reason to deny it. ‘You frightened me. I was so afraid you would die.’

  ‘But I did not.’ He reached up and cupped her cheek. ‘I’m still alive.’

  She took comfort from his touch, knowing that he wanted her to believe in him. He had survived the battle.

  Deep within, a fragile wisp of hope took root. Was it possible that she had broken the curse? Would he have died otherwise? She laced her fingers with his, praying it was possible.

  ‘I am so glad,’ she whispered, meeting his green eyes. She squeezed his hand and released it as she stood. ‘I will go and find food for you. Get some sleep for now.’

  She would try to talk with her brothers about sending more men, though she knew not what they would say. But in the end, she would do whatever was necessary to protect Ronan.

  * * *

  Ronan awakened with a jolt to the sound of an infant screaming. For a moment, his lungs constricted with fear as he thought of Ardan’s son. But then, Declan had been three years of age, not a baby. It took Ronan a moment to realise that he was staying at Killalough, and the crying child must be one of Warrick’s twins.

  He tried to calm his racing heartbeat to fall asleep once more. And yet, the sound of the wailing infant remained outside his chamber. He closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. The sword wound on his ribs throbbed, despite the poultice and bandages. The healer had given him more tea to prevent a fever, and she had returned twice more to check on him.

  But he could not fall back to sleep this night—not with the noise of a sobbing child.

  Ronan rose from his sleeping pallet and opened the door. He saw Rosamund walking up and down the hallway with two babies in her arms.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I think the twins are getting teeth, and both of them are in pain.’ She bounced her daughter, who had her fist in her mouth and was bawling. ‘How is your wound, Ronan?’

  ‘It will be well enough in a few days.’ He leaned against the wall, feeling unsettled by the presence of the babies. Rosamund clearly had her hands full, and Warrick was nowhere to be seen.

  When her son began to wail, Rosamund handed the infant to him. ‘Could you take Stephen for a moment while I settle Mary?’

  She gave him no choice but to hold the boy. For a moment, the infant appeared confused, and then he started fussing. Ronan shifted the baby’s position until he held him on the opposite side, facing Rosamund. ‘There’s your mother, lad. She’s gone nowhere.’

  The infant lowered his mouth to Ronan’s hand and began gumming at his finger. What was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t recall a time when an infant had attempted to gnaw at him before.

  ‘Perhaps you should send for Warrick,’ he offered. ‘I fear I might drop your son.’ He had tried to have little contact with children, especially after what had happened to Declan. But it seemed as if Fate was forcing him to face the past. He was deeply conscious of how small the infant was, how helpless. And he cradled the boy closer, as if to protect him.

  ‘Is your wound hurting you?’ Rosamund asked.

  ‘It’s bearable.’

  He waited for her to reclaim the boy, but instead, Rosamund smiled warmly. ‘Warrick is walking along the fortress walls to inspect our defences here at Killalough. He will be back soon enough, if you can stand to hold the baby a moment or two longer.’ She eyed her son. ‘Warrick felt the same way as you when he held Stephen for the first time. But you won’t drop him. I trust you.’

  While she likely believed she was being reassuring, her words were a spear that thrust through his heart. Ardan had trusted him once, and his son had died from it. He didn’t deserve anyone’s trust.

  But before Ronan could hand the infant back to Rosamund, he felt the small body growing slack against him. For a moment, he feared the worst, only to realise that the boy had fallen asleep. The baby’s head rested against Ronan’s forearm, his mouth still sucking at his finger.

  ‘You have a good hand with children,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you for your help. Will you follow me back to my chamber where we can put them in their cradles?’

  Ronan wanted nothing more than to give the boy back to Rosamund, but she offered him no other choice. While he followed her, she said, ‘I am so happy for Joan and you. You don’t know how lonely she was for so many years. It was terrible what happened with the men she was betrothed to.’

  ‘It was,’ he agreed. ‘But that is in the past now.’ Though he knew it was late and Joan was asleep, he almost wished she could have stayed. He was glad of her presence, and it had soothed him.

  ‘I think you will make a good marriage between you,’ Rosamund said. ‘And I hope you have many children.’

  He couldn’t even grasp the idea, for it sent a cold chill of fear through him. But he said nothing at all.

  Rosamund stopped in front of her chamber and pushed open the door. He followed her inside, and she showed him where the two cradles were. He was careful not to disturb the boy as he laid him on his back.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ Rosamund said. ‘I am sorry for disturbing you from your rest.’

  He gave a noncommittal nod and bade her a good night before he returned to his chamber. His ribs were aching, and he still felt restless, his mind too preoccupied to sleep. Instead, he searched through a bag of his belongings and withdrew a carving knife and a bit of wood. He leaned back against the wall and let his mind drift as he shaped the wood with the blade. He thought of Joan and her desire for a child.

  She would make a good mother, just like Rosamund. He could easily imagine her walking with a fussing infant, soothing the child at her breast. But God help him, he didn’t know if he could give Joan a baby. He wasn’t meant to be a father. He wasn’t at all the kind, patient man Ardan had been. Too often, Ronan had let other distractions keep him from his duties.

  When he thought of his brother, he remembered Ardan lifting Declan on his shoulders while the boy squealed with delight. Sometimes he tickled his young son, and the burst of laughter had made Ronan smile.

  An empty ache caught him, as he wondered if he could ever be the
man his brother had been.

  His blade moved over the ash wood, flicking chips and curls to form the shape he wanted. It was a simple design, but one that would suit Joan well.

  Over the next hour, he distracted himself from the pain by wielding his blade against the wood. And when it was finished, he hoped she would be pleased with it.

  Then he turned his attention to another gift, this one for Rosamund’s babies. He chose a few thin pieces of wood and shaved the edges until they were soft and round. Last, he bored holes within each one, stringing them along a bit of twine. When he shook the twine, the wood rattled. He imagined young Stephen shaking the rattle and gumming the round bits of wood.

  After he had finished with the gifts, he wrapped them up and set them aside. It was only an hour or so before dawn, but the work had helped occupy his mind. He lay back upon his pallet, imagining Joan’s face when he gave her the carving.

  Though he knew not if she would like it, it was something he could offer of himself.

  * * *

  Over the next few days, Joan avoided the conversation she needed to have with Ronan. His wound was healing, and he’d gone to speak with several of the Ó Neill men to help her brothers choose a chieftain.

  Though she could not understand his Irish words, there was an air of command about Ronan, as if he knew exactly how to speak with the men. She studied those who wanted to lead, judging them by their stance and her own instincts. There seemed to be an agreement of some kind, and soon, all the men dispersed.

  Ronan caught her watching and came to join her. ‘We will hold competitions tonight. Those who want to become chieftain must voice their claim and engage in contests until we have chosen the strongest and wisest from among them.’

  ‘And what if you have a man who is wiser but not stronger?’

  He nodded towards the people. ‘Each man will have a wooden bowl. The people will place one stone in the bowl, and whichever bowl holds the most stones will be their chieftain. But I have told them that they must abide by the wishes of Warrick and Rosamund, since the land is theirs.’