Forbidden Night with the Prince

by Michelle Willingham

  ‘My brother will allow them to keep their traditions,’ Joan said. ‘Warrick knows how much it means to them.’ And she trusted that the people would choose the best man to lead.

  She was about to step back when, to her surprise, he lifted away her iron cross. ‘I have something for you.’ From a fold of his cloak, he withdrew a new wooden cross. The edges were smooth, and the grain of the wood was set in two different directions to create a subtle design.

  ‘Did you make this?’ she asked.

  He placed the new cross around her neck and then rested his hands on her shoulders. ‘I did. You seemed to like my turnip. This will last longer.’

  Knowing that he had carved the cross himself brought a pang to her heart, and she braved a smile. ‘It’s perfect, Ronan.’ She traced the edges of the wood that were silken. ‘Better than the iron one.’

  ‘Iron is cold. Not like you at all.’ He took her hands in his.

  ‘Thank you.’ She squeezed his palms, and he held her hands a moment longer. ‘Are you feeling better now? Your wounds are healing well?’

  Ronan nodded, his palms warm against hers. Being with him was a risk to her heart. He made her want to be with him as his wife, to push back the years of loneliness and make a different future. But the days ahead would be dangerous, and she prayed he would survive the battle to come. Let him be safe, she prayed.

  He released her hands, and she touched the wooden cross again. ‘It’s beautiful, Ronan.’

  His green eyes locked upon hers, and she grew vulnerable to his gaze. He seemed to see deep within her, and her wayward heart faltered.

  To distract herself from the worry, she said, ‘I promised I would meet with my brothers. I will see you at the evening meal later.’

  Rhys and Warrick stood on the far end of the fortress, and she seized the opportunity to meet with them. She hurried towards her brothers, and when she reached them, she was slightly out of breath. Rhys sent her a sidelong look. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I came to ask you for a boon,’ she said quietly. ‘I want you to promise that you will send men to help Ronan. No matter what happens.’

  Her brother’s face tightened. ‘And what do you mean by that, Joan? Has he harmed you in any way?’

  She shook her head. ‘I care about him very much, Rhys. And when he came back wounded... I was so afraid he would die.’ Even now, her heart ached at the thought of Ronan’s injuries. He was improving with each day, but it didn’t diminish the tightness in her gut at the thought of him fighting again.

  Warrick came to stand beside Rhys, and he let out a sigh. ‘I know you believe in the curse, Joan, but it is time to put it behind you.’

  ‘I want to believe it’s over,’ she murmured, ‘more than anything. But I need a little more time.’

  ‘Time for what?’ Rhys asked.

  ‘I want to delay the betrothal until I can be sure Ronan will survive this battle. I beg of you, send the men to help him.’

  ‘I will not endanger the lives of my men because you cannot make up your mind,’ Warrick said.

  ‘It’s not about making up my mind,’ she insisted. ‘I just want to be certain the curse will not take him from me.’

  ‘All men face death in a battle,’ Rhys said. ‘It has nothing to do with a curse. In your heart, you know this.’

  She wanted to believe it. But though she was trying to set aside the past, her fear for Ronan was more real than the curse. When he had been wounded the last time, the pain had struck her to the bone. She couldn’t bear to think of it.

  ‘I want him protected when he goes into battle,’ she insisted. ‘I won’t let him risk his life without enough men to guard him.’

  ‘Warrick and I came to an agreement last night,’ Rhys continued. ‘We will gladly send the men Ronan needs to retake his lands and restore his father to the kingship. But only if you marry him.’

  She started to refuse, but he cut her off. ‘If you do not wed Ronan before he goes to battle, he will return to Clonagh with only the MacEgan soldiers he brought with him. We will do nothing.’

  ‘Why would you turn away from him?’ she demanded. ‘After he has tried to help you find a chieftain for Killalough?’

  ‘Because you want a husband, and he is willing. If you agree to the marriage, we will send three dozen men. If you refuse, we will send no one.’

  ‘You would sentence him to die, if you abandoned him,’ she argued.

  ‘No, you would,’ Rhys countered.

  Her brother’s accusation burned her to the core. She wanted to rage at him for putting her in such an impossible position. This was about more than a curse—it was about dominion. Her brothers intended to bend her to their will, until she had no choice but to acquiesce.

  Emotion clogged her throat, and she faced Rhys. ‘I cannot take that risk.’

  Her brother only shrugged. ‘His life is in your hands, Joan. The choice is yours.’

  Chapter Six

  That evening, the men gathered in the centre of Killalough for the competitions. Three of the Ó Neills had been chosen to compete as chieftain. Ronan sat beside Joan, who had been quiet most of the day. He was pleased to see her wearing the wooden cross he’d carved, yet he sensed that something was troubling her. Even her brothers had been evasive.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Joan nodded, but he noted the flush on her cheeks and the tension in her stance. For a time, she didn’t speak, but kept her attention upon the contests. At last, she ventured, ‘Who do you think will win the contests?’

  ‘Possibly Bertach. He won the wrestling match earlier.’ Ronan’s interest was not on the competitors but on Joan. He didn’t like seeing her so troubled.

  ‘Strength doesn’t always make a good leader,’ she remarked. ‘Wisdom is better.’

  ‘It can be,’ he agreed. Though Bertach had seemed intelligent enough when he’d spoken with the man. ‘But the people will not respect a man who cannot fight.’ She said little, and he could tell that she was distracted this night. ‘Which of the men do you prefer?’

  At that, her gaze shifted to him. There was a flare of interest in her eyes—almost as if she was thinking of him. Then abruptly, she masked it. ‘I don’t know. They are all strangers to me.’ She thought a moment and added, ‘You should ask them questions to test their knowledge.’

  It was a sound idea, and he agreed with her. ‘I will ask the brehons to give them a series of tests to determine which man can make sound decisions.’

  She nodded, but it still seemed as if her mind was preoccupied. Although her brothers had drawn up the betrothal agreement, she had delayed in signing it. Ronan understood her reasons, but time was running out.

  He took her hand in his and said, ‘I intend to return to Clonagh to speak with Odhran. I will ask about my father and negotiate for his release if he is still alive.’

  She appeared uneasy by his declaration. ‘Do you think that’s wise when you were wounded the last time? It will be dangerous.’

  He agreed with her, but he had no intention of going alone. ‘I will have a dozen men with me. We will not attack, unless there is a need.’ Though he had wanted to attack Clonagh with full forces, her brothers had cautioned him against it. They had advised him to seek help from his loyal kinsmen and try to free the hostages first. Else, Odhran would likely kill every prisoner.

  Joan paled, and she shifted her gaze towards Rhys and Warrick. ‘You’ve only just recovered from your wounds. How can you leave so soon?’

  ‘I must know why my own people are being held hostage.’ There were too many questions, and he needed to understand what control Odhran held over the Ó Callaghans.

  ‘I don’t want you to go back.’ Her voice was soft, laced with fear.

  ‘I have no choice, Joan.’

  She closed her eyes and nodded. ‘I know. But I canno
t help but worry.’ Her blue eyes were filled with concern, and he squeezed her hand in reassurance.

  ‘There is something else.’ He caressed her hand with his thumb, knowing she would not like this. ‘Your brothers have agreed to send more men with me. But they are demanding that we wed before I go.’

  Her face blanched, and she started to shake her head. ‘I cannot, Ronan.’

  ‘Are you afraid of becoming my wife?’

  ‘You know why I am afraid,’ she answered. ‘The last time you went to Clonagh, they nearly killed you. I don’t want you to be hurt.’

  He stared hard at her, and for the first time, he wondered if she would ever agree to a union between them. ‘I lived through the last battle, Joan. Have faith in me.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘I want to believe that the curse is broken. Or that it was never real. But the truth is, I cannot send you off into battle without feeling as if my heart is being torn apart.’

  She met his gaze, and in her eyes, he saw the gleam of unshed tears. ‘I would rather walk away from you and save your life than risk losing you. I care for you, Ronan.’

  Despite her claim, he suspected another cause of her turmoil—that she had no faith in his fighting skills at all. Anger and frustration swelled up within him, and he needed a way of releasing the tension before he spoke words he didn’t mean.

  He strode away from her and went to join the men competing to become chieftain. They were preparing to fight with colc swords, and he seized one, intending to join in. The fight would let him release the pent-up anger, and it would reveal which of the three men had the greatest skills in swordplay.

  ‘Who will fight me?’ he demanded. ‘I want to see your skills with a sword.’

  Bertach stepped forward, his own weapon in hand. ‘I will fight you.’ He picked up a shield, and someone tossed Ronan one to use.

  He gave Bertach no time to prepare but lunged at the man, swinging the sword hard. Bertach raised his shield to deflect the blow and struck in retaliation. Their swords clanged together, and Ronan lost himself in the fight.

  With every blow, he fought back against the doubts Joan held. He would return to Clonagh, even without her brothers’ men if need be. It was dangerous, yes, but he would never turn away from his people if they were imprisoned.

  Perspiration lined his skin, and he was pleased with Bertach’s fighting. The man defended himself well, and he was quick on his feet. It felt good to fight, and Ronan quickened his pace, testing Bertach’s reactions. The man was breathing hard, but he kept up his endurance.

  Ronan was about to strike again, when a blur of motion caught his attention. A woman screamed, and he jerked his head to see a small boy running towards them.

  ‘Da, don’t let him hurt you!’ the boy called out, just as Bertach’s sword swung hard.

  Ronan reacted out of gut instinct, throwing up his shield and shoving the child out of the way.

  ‘Danu...’ Bertach breathed in shock. His sword was embedded in the wood of Ronan’s shield, only inches from where the child had been.

  The boy was sobbing, and Bertach dropped his weapon, gathering the child in his arms. Ronan left both his sword and shield and walked away. His hands were trembling, and his mind replayed the boy’s actions over and over. Had he not thrown up his shield, the boy would be dead, killed by his father’s own hand. Dimly, he heard Bertach’s wife weeping as both of them embraced the child.

  Ronan couldn’t bring himself to see them. Instead, he trudged out of the gates into the open fields. The sun was sinking lower, covering the grasses with golden twilight. He needed to be alone, to push back the ghosts of the past.

  But then he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. When he turned, he saw Joan silhouetted by the torches. She appeared as shaken as he felt. ‘Ronan, where are you going?’

  He didn’t know, nor did he care. Instead, he turned his back on her and continued striding through the fields. A few sheep grazed nearby, and he wandered towards the rocky hillside. There was an outcropping halfway up, and he decided to climb it.

  It shouldn’t have surprised him that Joan followed him, but she doggedly trailed him until she reached the same stony plateau.

  ‘You saved his life,’ she murmured. ‘They want you to return so they can thank you.’

  He sat upon the limestone and stared off at the horizon. ‘If he is alive, it’s enough for me. I don’t need their thanks.’

  She sat beside him, adjusting her white skirts upon the stone. For a time, she waited for him to speak. Then he said, ‘You needn’t stay here, Joan. Go back to the others.’

  But she didn’t move. ‘You’re thinking of your nephew, aren’t you?’

  His thoughts were bound up tightly within him, and he had no desire to share them. It was easier to close himself off, to pretend as if nothing had happened. And yet, she already sensed the turmoil within him and had not hesitated to join him.

  He didn’t know why, after she’d refused to accept him as her husband. Though she claimed that she cared for him, she had little trust that his battle skills could overcome her prophetic fears.

  ‘Perhaps you were given a second chance this day,’ she offered. ‘Were it not for you, the boy would have died.’

  Though he knew she was only trying to reassure him, the words did nothing to allay the guilt he carried. ‘There were no second chances for Declan.’

  Joan reached out to his shoulder, and her gentle touch was a silent invitation to tell her the rest. He didn’t want to reveal any of it, but he sensed that she was not passing judgement upon him. There was only quiet understanding in her gaze.

  ‘Declan drowned because I was too distracted to watch over him.’ He made no effort to hide the self-loathing in his voice. ‘My brother Ardan was in a council meeting with my father and the other leaders of our tribe. I didn’t attend that day, because I had no interest in their conversations. Instead, I was with Declan’s nursemaid.’ He gritted his teeth, wishing he had never flirted with the young woman. ‘While I kissed her, the boy wandered off. After Declan went missing, I tried to search for him.’

  Ronan clenched his hands together, feeling the tension knotting within him. He waited for Joan to speak or ask questions. Instead, she continued to rest her hand against his shoulder.

  ‘When Ardan and my father learned what happened, they joined in my search. But it was my brother who found his son in the river.’ The memory of Ardan’s anguished face haunted him to this day. ‘Declan had fallen through the ice and drowned. Ardan pulled his body out.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she murmured. ‘It must have been terrible for both of you.’

  He stood, for there were no words to describe the grief or the guilt. ‘I will blame myself for his death every day for the rest of my life.’

  She held out her hand, and he helped her up from the limestone. He was half-expecting to hear her agree with him, but she simply kept his palm in hers. ‘It was a terrible accident.’

  ‘Ardan was in the freezing water for too long,’ Ronan admitted. ‘He caught a fever and died a sennight later. First, he lost his wife in childbirth and then his son. After Declan died, he lost the will to live.’

  The stricken look on Joan’s face mirrored the emotion in his heart. He could hardly return the embrace when she moved into his arms. She held him close, and he breathed in the scent of her hair. He didn’t deserve the comfort, but her arms around him seemed to fill the empty holes of loss.

  He drew back and saw the sorrow in her eyes. ‘And now you know why I will never sire a child. Not even for you.’

  * * *

  Joan didn’t know what to say to him after such a revelation. The weight of such grief was crushing, and she couldn’t imagine how Ronan had endured after his brother had died. This was a man who was punishing himself for being alive after losing his loved ones.

  Now, she underst
ood his need for redemption. This was why he had to rescue his father and restore Clonagh. He could never live in peace until he had atoned for his sins. His face was ravaged with pain, and she held back her own tears.

  ‘You should go back,’ he said at last. ‘Your brothers will be worried about you.’

  ‘Walk with me,’ she urged. ‘I don’t want to return alone.’ Though she made it sound as if she needed him to protect her, the truth was, she didn’t want him to be alone right now.

  He shadowed her on the walk back to Killalough, and she felt the heaviness of his mood. Now she understood why he did not wish to have children of his own—it was not because he disliked them. He was afraid of being unable to protect them.

  He had allowed his own fears to overshadow the truth, just as she had. Ronan had asked her to set aside her fears, to wed him and trust that he would be strong enough to fight and survive. Perhaps it was time to try.

  With each step, a new clarity emerged. Avoiding marriage would not necessarily keep Ronan safe—but it would bind her in loneliness. She could not protect him by walking away; it would only endanger him more.

  Although he did not wish to sire children, she understood now that it was born of his own guilt. In time, he might face his fears and overcome them—just as she had to. She wanted to heal his invisible wounds, for despite his past mistakes, he was a good man and she would not turn away from him.

  The decision calmed her, and it felt right. Marrying Ronan was the only way her brothers would send men to help. And no matter what happened, she cared deeply for this man.

  When they reached the fortress, Bertach came forward with his wife and son. He gripped Ronan’s hand, and spoke rapidly in Irish. Joan didn’t doubt that the man was thanking him for saving his son’s life. One by one, the people surrounded him, until she was separated from Ronan.

  Her brother, Rhys, came to stand beside her. Joan glanced up at him. ‘I will wed him before he leaves for Clonagh.’

  ‘Are you certain this is what you want?’ He rested his hand upon her shoulder in silent support.