‘Did you make that?’ she asked, pointing to the chair and table.
‘My grandfather did.’ A slight hint of pride brimmed in his voice.
Isabel sat down upon the chair, studying the carvings to avoid looking at Patrick. She didn’t know why he’d brought her into his private chamber, but the tightness of his jaw and the caged tautness of his body made her uncomfortable. It was as though he wanted to berate her for her interference, but didn’t know how to begin.
In the corner, a large grey-and-white cat slept. It made her smile. ‘At least I won’t have to worry about the rats this night.’
Patrick did not return her smile. ‘You have much more to worry about, a chara.’ He stood near her, his stance intimidating.
But Isabel squared her shoulders and let him see that she wasn’t afraid. She’d made her decision to help them without taking anyone’s life. It had felt good to offer her skill, though it wasn’t wanted.
‘Go on. I know you’re angry. Tell me that it wasn’t my place to intervene, and that I don’t belong here.’
‘You seem to believe my orders are unnecessary.’ A hard rim of iron coated his conversational tone.
She rose from the chair. ‘I’m not a child, Patrick. I make my own decisions. And from where I stood, you needed my help.’
He did not soften. Instead, he moved forward. His black hair framed a grim, resigned face. In the firelight, the golden bands around his upper arms gleamed. ‘You could have been hurt. I won’t allow that.’
She shot him a doubtful look. ‘You’re only angry because a woman saved your men.’ She knew better than to think he cared whether anything happened to her.
‘What if you’d missed?’
‘I never miss my aim.’
‘It was far too dangerous. And since you have such difficulty with obedience, you will remain in this chamber for a night and a day. You will stay confined until I give the order for your release.’
Isabel didn’t like that idea at all. She bargained for time. ‘You’re injured. Let me tend your cut.’
‘It’s nothing. And I need to speak with my men.’
‘Are you afraid I might hurt you?’ She feigned a motherly croon. Taking his hand, she led him to the bed. ‘Sit down. I promise to be gentle.’
He cast a disbelieving look, as if he didn’t think it were possible. With a soft push, she forced him to be seated. Even in such a position, his height nearly reached hers. ‘What are you doing, Isabel?’
‘Stalling,’ she answered honestly. ‘You can continue ordering me around when I’ve finished binding your injury.’
His mouth twitched, but he held out his wounded arm. Isabel removed his leather bracer and saw that the blade had only sliced the surface. His arm would not need stitching.
‘It isn’t as bad as it looks.’ She lowered his hand, planning to get water, but he pulled her forward until she stood between his thighs. His powerful muscles pressed against her legs. The touch of his body seemed to melt away the clothing she wore, burning her own skin.
‘When did you learn Irish?’ he asked. The deep tone of his voice washed over her like honey.
‘Annle is teaching me. I don’t know very much yet.’
He stared at her, his eyes catching the light until they turned silver. The roughened stubble of beard, the fullness of his mouth, seemed to beckon.
He was one of the most powerful men in Erin. A handsome king whose kiss ripped apart her imaginings of what a husband was like. The raw masculinity of him made her crave his forbidden touch.
She forced herself to step backward. ‘I’ll get water and linen.’ Her voice was not strong, revealing the uneasiness she felt.
Why was he looking at her this way, as if he wanted to share her bed? This marriage was not going to last much longer. She crossed the room, grasping a pitcher of water.
Gather yourself together, Isabel, she warned herself. Don’t fall prey to him. With steady hands, she poured the water into a basin. She knew better than to let this intimacy deceive her. Patrick MacEgan did not see her as his wife, only an inconvenience.
When she turned back, he removed the other bracer and then lifted away his tunic. Bare-chested, he sat upon the bed watching her. His dark hair covered the back of his neck, and sweet saints, he made her nervous. Her plan to delay her imprisonment now seemed foolhardy.
She cradled the basin against her stomach, almost like a shield. Dipping the edge of her brat into the water, she wiped the blood away.
‘Aren’t you afraid of ruining your wrap?’ he asked.
‘I would be happy to see both of these garments set on fire,’ she answered. ‘Sadly, I have nothing else to wear.’ She finished wiping the cut and set the brat upon the bed.
‘Haven’t you?’ His voice grew deeper, seductive. He rose, standing so close, she felt the hard evidence of his desire.
His expression transformed into a man bent upon conquest. He pulled her into his embrace, until she could feel the heat of his skin against hers.
‘Don’t,’ she whispered. His mouth was a bare shadow away, and saints, she wanted him to kiss her.
‘You should know that your Norman blood is the only thing that keeps me from joining with you. If you were Irish, you would lie naked upon that bed with me inside you.’
His words shocked her. Before her feet could move, his mouth lowered to hers. Like an uncivilised savage, she expected him to bruise her mouth. But instead, he took his time. Slowly, with infinite tenderness, he explored her mouth.
‘If you were Irish, I would remove this gown.’ His hands moved up to cup her breasts. With his thumb, he teased the nipples until desire made her insides ache. ‘I’d take you into my mouth and make you forget everything else.’
The taste of him shook her senses. Never had a man kissed her like this. He didn’t conquer, but silently asked her to yield. Teasing, arousing in the way he probed with his tongue, until she allowed him entrance.
Against the softness of her shift, her nipples tightened. Without warning, she found her arms about his waist, clinging for balance. Her sensitive breasts grazed against the heavy wool of the léine.
His tongue moved over her lips in a caress, and she opened to him. At once, the kiss changed into everything she’d feared. Ruthless and demanding, he cupped her bottom, letting her feel the fierceness of his desire against her womanhood.
She ached to feel him, her body growing wet with need. She hungered in a way she couldn’t understand. And she wanted to curse him, for somehow she understood that this was her punishment. To desire him and to be left unfulfilled.
‘I’m not Irish,’ she managed, pushing him away. Her knees wanted to give way, and she sat down upon the bed.
‘Be glad you aren’t,’ he said.
Without another word, he left. Isabel heard the door lock, imprisoning her. And she sank down upon the bed, not knowing what he planned to do next.
Or how she could convince him to release her from his bedchamber.
Chapter Twelve
P atrick returned to his chamber late at night when he knew she was sleeping. The sight of her curled up on his bed made him ache with wanting her. Her soft, golden hair was braided, and she still wore the loathsome brown léine. Her body was half-tangled in the coverlet, while a long bare leg lay exposed to him. He wanted to touch her skin, to feel those long legs wrapping around his waist.
Lug, he didn’t need this. He’d thought it would be so easy to keep her confined upon Ennisleigh. She would lead her life and he, his own.
Instead, she had fought for them. He’d ordered her to remain behind, but she had taken up a bow and shot the Ó Phelan chieftain like a female warrior of old. He hadn’t guessed she possessed such skill. But now, as he studied her upper arms, he saw the moulded strength from practice. She had clearly aimed to wound the chieftain, not to kill him. And she had enough confidence to shoot in the midst of a fight, knowing she would not hit one of them.
Rarely had anyone surprised him. N
ot only had she given them the victory, she had spoken Irish. He’d never thought to hear his own language coming from her lips.
He moved to sit upon the bed. Her body heat allured him, making him want to remove his clothes and pull her close. He didn’t dare sleep beside her. Already she was stealing away his logic, making him consider bedding her.
He wouldn’t break the vow. No matter how much he desired her, he couldn’t risk a child.
Patrick sank down upon a chair. His arm stung from the earlier cut, and he’d wrapped linen around it. Moonlight pooled over his wife’s face. In sleep, she appeared pensive, trusting. But by God, she was beautiful. He supposed he deserved this penance, to be driven mad with wanting and to be unable to possess her. If Liam had lived, he’d never have set eyes upon Isabel de Godred.
He closed his eyes, leaning back against the chair. Even now he could not dwell here without remembering his older brother’s presence. As he unbuckled the sword from his waist, he wondered if he would ever be a true king.
He bowed his head, praying for strength and the wisdom he lacked. Then he lifted his gaze to Isabel, and prayed for the steadfast resolve to leave her untouched.
For one day soon, he’d have to let her go.
If anyone discovered what he’d planned, it would mean his execution. Ruarc rode quickly, urging the mare faster. Wind whipped past his face, whispering warnings. He’d have to be back soon, before anyone discovered both he and the horse were gone.
Raw energy and fear pulsed through him, tightening his nerves. This was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was necessary. No longer could he trust his own king. Patrick had failed to keep the Normans out, and because of it, one of them had dishonoured his sister.
As he crossed into the boundaries of the Ó Phelan land, he slowed his pace. He’d been raised to view them as an enemy tribe, not to be trusted. Many a time, he’d fought alongside the MacEgans during a raid. He had a few scars to show for it, along with fresh cuts from earlier.
But now he needed their help.
Guilt sank deeply into his heart. Sosanna had tried to take her own life, and he blamed himself. He should have been there for her, should have protected her better. She was his little sister, and he was responsible for her.
But more than sister and brother, they had been close friends ever since she’d returned from fostering. Years ago, they’d made a bargain. She’d chosen a potential wife for him, and he’d set his sights upon Liam MacEgan for her own husband. Neither of them had wed, in the end. After the battle, he couldn’t consider taking a wife until he’d found someone to look after Sosanna.
She hadn’t conceived her child during the Norman invasion. No, this babe was from last winter, long after they’d suffered defeat. From her refusal to speak, he could only imagine that it must be one of the Normans living among them. And for the past few moons, she’d had to look upon the bastard’s face every day.
But who was it?
She wouldn’t answer. And so, he was left with no choice but to get rid of every Norman. It wouldn’t be easy. King Patrick had wed one of them. And Críost, but the chieftain of the Ó Phelans would be wanting vengeance after what the lady Isabel had done to him.
He drew his horse up to the gates of the ringfort and waited. He scented the acrid smoke of cooking fires, mingled with the animals. It took moments for the Ó Phelan men to sight him, and one loosed an arrow. Ruarc raised his shield, catching the shaft in the wood. Though he suspected the shot was a warning, he wouldn’t put it past them to kill him where he stood. He prayed that this visit would work to his advantage and not become his death.
Raising his palm and shield, he rode in the midst of his enemy. A few of the men drew their weapons, but Ruarc kept his gaze fixed upon the chieftain’s dwelling. He kept his purpose firmly in his mind, ignoring the insults.
A man’s fist swung towards him, but Ruarc caught the wrist. He tightened his grip and stared at the man. ‘I could break your wrist and then you’d not be able to hold a weapon again.’ The man paled and withdrew his hand. Ruarc raised his voice. ‘I’ve come to speak with your chieftain, Donal Ó Phelan.’
Moments later, the door to a large thatched stone hut opened. The chieftain wore a blue cloak to conceal his injury. Black eyes bore into him with distaste. ‘What do you want?’
‘I have a proposition for you. I’ll discuss it with you in private.’
‘You’ll present it here or not at all. I’m sure your offer holds interest for many of my people.’
So be it. Ruarc regarded the chieftain. ‘I want my cousin removed from power. The Normans have infiltrated our rath, and we haven’t the forces to drive them out. I’ve come to ask for your help.’
‘And make you the new king, is that it?’
Ruarc said nothing. He did want the kingship. It could have been his, but for Patrick’s greater skill with a sword. Ever since his cousin’s crowning, he had increased his own training. He didn’t like being second best.
But at least he understood loyalty to the tribe. He’d never have accepted such a coward’s bargain, wedding a Norman. ‘If I become king of Laochre, I can grant you lands to the west.’
The chieftain’s eyes grew cunning as he considered the offer. ‘Come inside, then. I may be able to help you.’
Isabel awoke, not knowing where she was. She squinted at the morning sunlight and something soft tickled her nose.
The grey-and-white cat padded across her torso, eyeing her as if wondering how a human had come to occupy her bed. Isabel ruffled the cat’s head, and the feline pushed into Isabel’s palm, purring lightly. A moment later, the cat deposited herself on Isabel’s lap, cleaning herself with her tongue.
Isabel eased the cat off and rose from the bed, stretching. She didn’t remember Patrick coming back inside the room. It had been a long time since she’d lain in a proper bed, and for the first time in many nights, she’d slept well.
A blue length of cloth rested atop a chair. Isabel walked closer and saw that it was a new gown, the colour of a midnight sky. When she touched it, the softness of the finely woven linen was a stark contrast to the coarse brown wool she now wore. With long voluminous sleeves and a skirt that hung to her calves, the léine was similar to her former kirtles. An emerald overdress lay beneath it.
She couldn’t stop the smile of thankfulness. Though she expected her dowry and her clothing to arrive at any moment now, no longer did she have to dress like a slave.
Turning to the cat, she inquired, ‘What do you think? Should I burn the old gown?’
The feline flicked her tail in the air and sniffed before curling up on the pillow for a nap.
‘You’re right. I should wait until I know if the new gown is truly mine.’ But the desire to be rid of the coarse brown léine overcame any hesitation she might have felt. She stripped off the garment and then her ragged shift. Naked, she pulled the midnight-blue gown over her body. The linen clung to her skin, and she closed her eyes, revelling in the luxury. The overdress took some arranging without a girdle to hold it in place.
Before she had finished, a knock sounded upon the door. ‘Enter,’ she said.
Her husband walked inside, dressed in more common attire this day. It did not diminish the strength and power of his presence. He’d tied his black hair back with a leather thong, and it emphasised the deep planes of his face. Her attention was drawn to his mouth, remembering the way he’d once kissed her.
Right now he was looking at her as though he’d never seen her before. Had she put the gown on wrong? She fumbled with the overdress, wondering how it was supposed to drape.
‘The léine looks well on you,’ Patrick said. He closed the door and bolted it.
‘I’m grateful for it.’ Isabel ventured a smile, but he did not return it. After last night, she didn’t know what else to say. He’d touched her the way a husband would and had left her wanting. But now he behaved as if nothing had happened.
‘Why did you bring me to your chamber last ni
ght?’ she asked.
He crossed the room to stand before her. ‘I didn’t want you causing any more trouble. And, as I’ve said, I intend to keep you here for the next day. You won’t leave this room.’
She glared at him. ‘Why not imprison me in chains, then?’
‘It’s not a bad idea.’
His rough voice transfixed her. She imagined her arms bound while his mouth moved over her bare flesh.
‘I wasn’t being serious.’ She shivered at the thought.
His mouth curved upwards. ‘But I was.’ He captured her hands and drew them to her sides. Her skin warmed beneath the touch of his hands, and she closed her eyes to shut him out.
‘Don’t touch me. Not if you’re going to end the marriage.’
His reply was to cup her cheek, threading his hands through her hair. It was a slow torment, one that pulled apart her willpower. She wanted to sink against him, tasting his mouth against her own. Fierce needs gripped her, and she struggled for composure.
‘What will you do with me?’ she managed to ask.
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
Her hands gripped the edge of her gown while she tamped down her frustration. Did he really intend to keep her here for the remainder of the day? She would go mad, were she forced to remain within the walls with nothing to do.
‘Let me go,’ she urged him. ‘Take me back to Ennisleigh if you must, but don’t make me stay here.’
‘I wanted you to stay on Ennisleigh to begin with. It was for your safety, and you still disobeyed.’
‘I only disobey orders I don’t agree with.’
He muttered a curse beneath his breath. ‘This isn’t about choices, Isabel. It’s about keeping you safe.’
‘You cannot keep someone safe by locking them away,’ she said softly.
She was helpless to understand the king she’d wed. A wall of responsibility hid the man. Only now and again did she catch a glimpse of him. A man who devoted himself to family and his tribe. A man who possessed a dark passion, barely concealed from her.
Her Warrior King Page 14
