Her Warrior King

by Michelle Willingham

  She turned away, tears burning her cheeks.

  His hands touched her shoulders. ‘I am sorry, a chara.’ He moved her hair aside, drying her tears. Then he raised her to stand before him.

  Powerful and sleek, her husband intimidated her with his strength. Her body trembled with the knowledge of what he must do. ‘Patrick,’ she breathed.

  His hand moved up her back, the lazy touch prickling across her skin beneath the thin layer of fabric.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said brusquely. Before she could say another word, his mouth crashed down upon hers. Isabel clutched at him for balance, her mind hardly able to think. The forbidden heat of his mouth, and his hands moving over her skin made her burn for more.

  He lifted away her overdress, his mouth hungry upon hers. Isabel clung to him, trying to silence her fears. But when he lowered her léine and bared her skin, she tried to cover herself.

  Patrick trapped her hands at her sides, looking upon her with intensity. Though she had wanted him to share her bed at the gathering, now she was afraid. This was a man trapped by duty, infuriated by her father’s will. Not a husband who wanted to touch her.

  With a kiss, he conquered her, battling for control. He placed her hands upon his chest, and Isabel felt the violence of his heart beating. She moved her hands over the firm muscles, and then drew her hands lower to his hips.

  His hard arousal rubbed against her, and her breath splintered, her womanhood responding by growing moist.

  In a single motion, Patrick picked her up and lowered her on to the bed.

  Inside, this was killing him. He wanted her; there was no question of that. But he resented being forced into this.

  He caressed her hips, moving down her thighs, and she jerked. ‘Shh,’ he whispered, opening her legs. With his hands, he teased her womanhood, stroking her until she trembled. He inserted a finger and felt from the wetness that she was ready for him.

  He removed his trews and covered her body with his own. Guilt and resentment flayed him, for he wanted to join with his wife. The Baron’s command infuriated him, but, worse, he craved touching Isabel. He didn’t deserve taking pleasure from this moment.

  Patrick closed his eyes, steadying his willpower. He shouldn’t do this, for it would make it even more difficult to end the marriage. But instead, the softness of her silken skin, the sweetness of her, invaded his mind and drove out all reason.

  He poised at the entrance and slid himself inside, inch by inch until he felt the barrier of her maidenhead. Then he plunged inside her and broke the fragile membrane.

  Her cry of shock caught him like a fist in the gut. Had he hurt her? Shame invaded, and he watched her face for signs of pain.

  He moved inside her a few times, but then stopped. At the moment, he despised himself for what he’d done. He could have shed a few drops of blood on the sheets without even touching her. Edwin de Godred wouldn’t have known the difference.

  But selfishly, he’d seized this moment, wanting to be with her. And she hadn’t known any pleasure at all.

  He withdrew without letting himself come to fulfilment. Upon the sheets he saw the evidence of her lost virginity.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he managed to ask.

  Her face was pale and stricken. Isabel turned away, sitting with her back to him as she pulled the léine over her bare skin. The silence cut him like a blade, and he dressed quickly, stripping off the sheets.

  ‘I am sorry, a stór,’ he murmured. As he left her chamber, he damned himself for what he’d done.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I sabel stood beside the window, staring outside at the crowd gathered. The women mingled inside the ringfort, smiling and anxiously awaiting their husbands.

  She hugged her waist, feeling numb about what had just happened. Her body ached, and her heart was hurting. Patrick had started to treat her like a lover, arousing feelings deep within her. And then he’d stopped. Without any warning at all, he had joined their bodies and ended it.

  Why? Did he loathe touching her that much?

  A soft knock came at the door, but she gave no reply.

  ‘Isabel?’ The voice of her father intruded, and she heard the door creak open.

  She didn’t know what he wanted now, nor did she particularly care. Hadn’t he done enough? ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Are you—did he—?’ Her father seemed at a loss for words. Good. He deserved it, after what he’d forced.

  ‘Aye.’ She turned to face him, clenching her hands behind her back. ‘It’s done now, and I think you’ve interfered with my marriage enough. I want you to leave us. Go and join whatever armies you like, but don’t return here.’ Her face grew taut with anger. ‘And see to it that the Earl stays far away from here.’

  Her father’s expression turned uncomfortable. ‘I only wanted to make you a queen, Isabel. You could not have wed a more powerful man had you remained in England.’

  That much was true. But Patrick’s power was the last thing she wanted. She wanted only a man who could care for her, and perhaps give her children one day. A husband, not a king.

  ‘Please go,’ she whispered.

  Edwin looked as though he wanted to cross the room and offer an embrace, but he didn’t. His face furrowed, but at last he nodded and left her alone.

  Isabel helped the women cook for most of the afternoon, and more than a few ladies waited nervously upon the shore for a sign of their husbands. Her own nerves were wound up tightly, for she knew not whether she would see Patrick this night. She had taken extra care with her appearance, both longing to see him and afraid of what he might say.

  Thank the blessed saints, her father had gone. And though she understood the forthcoming threat of invasion, she wanted to pretend that all would be well.

  The first boats arrived as the sun drenched the horizon in bronzed red. For the first time, she saw the Norman men smiling. A few of the women wept tears of joy while their husbands kissed them heartily. She watched one soldier’s face transform with awe at the sight of a newborn babe. The babe reached out to touch his father’s face, and Isabel stood transfixed at the sight.

  Her smile of welcome strained when there was no sign of Patrick. Although she moved among the folk, ensuring that all had enough to eat or drink, her spirits fell. It grew worse when the folk began to pair off, after the children had gone to sleep.

  She remained outside the donjon, stepping past couples who kissed in darkened shadows. With each step, her heart felt heavier.

  When she reached a more isolated part of the island, she sat against a large stone, listening to the waves. She had let herself get her hopes up, wishing Patrick would return. She wanted to talk with him, to understand what had happened between them this morn.

  And then, as if emerging from the dark sea, her husband climbed over the rise of the hill. The sky had grown dark with only the moon to illuminate his presence. The silver rays gleamed against the black of his hair.

  ‘I almost did not come,’ he said, his voice deep.

  Isabel did not stand, but turned back to the water. ‘Why did you?’

  He knelt down beside her. ‘To apologise.’ He took her hand, and said, ‘You didn’t deserve what I did to you.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘It had to happen sooner or later.’

  ‘Not that way.’ He released her hand, contrition etching his face. ‘I allowed my temper to gain the better of me.’

  His cheek was smooth, his jaw tense. Isabel could see the deliberation in his eyes, the frustration. And she held the power to soothe it.

  She stood and touched her palms to his shoulders. Patrick drew her closer until she could feel his body against hers. Though his grasp was easy, she sensed his desire.

  ‘Why did you bring the women here?’ he asked. ‘I forbade it.’

  ‘Because I am not convinced that our people cannot join together,’ she whispered. ‘The Normans need someone to fight for, someone to protect. Who better than their own loved ones?’
<
br />   ‘My tribesmen won’t allow it.’

  ‘They could stay upon the island,’ Isabel offered.

  ‘There is not enough space. Even now, I do not know where you plan to house them.’

  ‘The night is warm,’ she reminded him. ‘The men and women will need no huts for shelter. This evening the island will be filled with lovers.’

  Her skin felt flushed, her body awakened to desire. She tried to calm the tempest raging within her, but she wanted nothing more than to remain here with him, to finish what they had begun this morning. Like the other men and women, she wanted to surrender to her husband’s desires.

  ‘What is it you want from me, a stór?’ he asked. In his dark grey eyes, she saw tumult and indecision.

  ‘I want my husband. Not a king,’ she whispered. She wanted the man she sensed he could be, a passionate lover who would fulfil the desires kindling inside of her.

  ‘I cannot give up being a king,’ he said. ‘It is my burden to shoulder.’

  She was afraid of that. ‘What will happen to us now?’

  He traced the line of her jaw, touching his nose to hers. ‘I don’t know.’ His honesty made her feel even more vulnerable, afraid to seize this moment. Afterwards, everything would go back to the way it was before. He would reign over Laochre while she remained behind on Ennisleigh. And she didn’t know if she could bear it.

  ‘Will you grant me one night?’ she whispered. Though she was afraid of being hurt again, she saw past his hesitation. Without the threat of her father, with just the two of them alone, could he not set everything else aside?

  ‘I hurt you this morn,’ he argued.

  ‘Aye, you did.’ She reached up and wound her arms around his neck. ‘So make me forget what happened.’

  With that, Patrick stepped back and unfastened the brooch that pinned his cloak. He spread the garment on the grass before them, like a blanket.

  ‘One night,’ he swore.

  Her heart thrummed against her chest, the anticipation filling every part of her. His hands caressed her hair, and his mouth skimmed over her temple.

  He whispered endearments in Irish, words she had only just come to understand. As he undressed her, Isabel shivered. Bared before him with only the moonlight, the fears and doubts threatened to consume her.

  But then, he disrobed, standing before her like a pagan immortal. His warrior’s body captured her attention, with carved muscles and a few white scars that stood out from his golden skin.

  He laid her down upon the woollen cloth, covering her chilled skin with his flesh. His erection rested upon her stomach, his hands moving over her skin.

  ‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,’ he murmured, kissing her throat.

  Her breasts tightened, aroused by the feel of his body against hers. His skin blazed with heat, his mouth lowering to the hardened tip of her nipple. When he tasted her, the shocking sensation pulsed a wave of delicious agony through her body. His hands moved over her skin, touching every part of her.

  ‘I wanted you from the first moment I saw you,’ he confessed. ‘Even when you tried to run from me.’

  ‘I thought you hated me,’ she whispered.

  ‘I hated myself for weakening to an enemy.’ He kissed her shoulder, turning his attention to the other breast. With soft circles, he teased her with his tongue. At the tip of her nipple, he sucked hard and she fisted her hands in his cloak. Her body delighted in the wickedness of his mouth. Her hips moved against him, cradling his length against her.

  She met his touch with her own hunger, both afraid and desperately needing him. Her womanhood ached for the fullness of him inside of her.

  ‘Am I still your enemy?’ she whispered.

  ‘Not tonight.’ The deep baritone of his voice wrapped around her like an embrace. He brushed his hands across her warmed flesh. ‘Tonight I intend to make you suffer the way you’ve tormented me for the past months. I’m going to love you until you can’t stop shaking.’

  He wrapped them in his cloak, a cocoon of warmth. When he kissed her again, Isabel wrapped her arms around his waist, palming his buttocks. The tightness of his muscles fascinated her, and he groaned when she opened her legs, letting him rub his length against her wetness.

  She could hardly breathe from the pleasure of sensations filling up inside of her. His hand reached between her legs and he slipped a single finger inside her. With slow, easy strokes, he kindled her arousal, rubbing her womanhood until she arched against him.

  ‘Patrick,’ she moaned, needing him inside her. She touched him, running her hands over his chest and shoulders. ‘Please.’

  Instead of answering her plea, he bent his head to her breasts once more, tonguing her nipples until she cried out.

  Her hand closed over his hardened manhood, stroking him. Patrick’s expression shadowed, and he hissed as she explored the texture of his skin. He felt like warm satin, and she was surprised to hear his answering groan when she cupped him.

  ‘Enough,’ he growled. He trapped her hands beneath him, spreading her legs apart with a knee. Then she felt the thickness of him at her entrance, slowly penetrating her. It was nothing like this morning. He moved with no haste, letting her stretch to accept him. When he was fully sheathed inside her body, he stopped moving. For a moment she wondered if it was over.

  And then he lifted up and began to move inside her. Trembling waves of arousal crashed over her, as a frenzy of desire seemed to build and shift. He increased his movement, filling her and withdrawing, building up the pace until something tightened deep within her womb. The startling sensations built up higher and higher until he plunged deeply inside her and she broke apart in his arms. He covered her cry of pleasure with a kiss, still moving.

  ‘I haven’t finished with you yet, a chroí.’ His hands moved over her breasts, lifting and teasing them. Isabel gasped for breath, unable to understand the violent need for him.

  He turned her onto her stomach and moved her into a kneeling position. He penetrated her again, grasping her hips and forcing her to accept his length. His erection seemed to grow even harder, and she began to weep at the sensation of him filling her. Over and over, until she sobbed with the aching pleasure.

  At last he roared and withdrew from her, spilling his seed upon the ground beside her.

  She lay beside him, her bare skin warm. Her body trembled with aftershocks, and she reached out to him. He gathered her in his arms, rolling them up in the cloak.

  Isabel buried her face in Patrick’s chest, fighting back tears. Somehow, she had known this would exist between them. And she would have to make the most of this stolen night, for soon enough it would be over.

  At dawn the next morning, the island was filled with pairs of sleeping lovers. Patrick sat beside his wife, who was curled up in his cloak. His mood had become solemn, for he hadn’t ever known it could be like this with a woman. He’d lain with women before, but none had made him feel this way. He wanted to shut out the rest of the world and protect Isabel. His beautiful proud wife, who deserved more than he could give her.

  Though he had not planned on waking her, she rose at the sound of his movement.

  ‘Are you going back?’

  ‘I am.’ He wanted to kiss her again, to love her the way he had twice more last night. But if he did, he’d never leave. ‘Stay with the women until I decide what’s to be done with the families.’

  She let the cloak fall away, sitting naked before him. Her skin glowed in the morning sun, her body tempting him in an open invitation. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting dressed.’ She smiled serenely and picked up her fallen léine. The fabric skimmed over her flesh, and he gritted his teeth.

  Only when she was fully clothed did he dare look at her again. ‘We must gather the people together,’ she suggested. ‘Today is Lughnasa. You said that every man, woman and child of the tribe climbs up to the top of the highest hill.’

  ‘To Amadán, yes,’ he answered, pointing to the
gentle rise of a hill upon the mainland. ‘But it is only a ritual for my tribe.’ He wanted the Normans to take no part in it. Their traditions were their own.

  ‘And what of me?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to remain behind as well?’

  He didn’t know what to say. He should keep her away from the tribe, but with each passing day, he admitted to himself that he wanted her by his side. He wanted her to learn their traditions, to be part of them.

  He sobered, knowing that he had to disregard his own feelings and do what was best for the tribe. ‘You should stay behind with the others,’ he advised. ‘My people have endured much over the past season. They are entitled to enjoy their festival without fighting.’

  She stared hard at him. ‘So this is how it will be. You still will not offer the Normans a place among you. Not even me.’

  The pain in her eyes pierced him. ‘It is not possible.’

  ‘I thought things might be different now,’ she whispered. Hurt surrounded her voice, needling his guilt. ‘After last night…’ Her voice trailed off, as though she knew not what to say.

  He reached out to her, clasping her hand. Her fingers were cold within his palm. ‘I am sorry, Isabel.’

  Isabel bit her lip. Anger coursed through her veins, for he truly would not accept her as his wife because of her heritage. She had believed he saw past her blood and into her heart. She’d been blinded to him, wanting so much for him to accept her.

  She stepped backwards, her skin feeling like ice. ‘No, I am not one of you. I can’t ever be Irish. And though I’ve tried to be part of your tribe, it’s clear that it will never happen.’

  Patrick looked as though he were about to protest, but she cut him off. ‘Do not worry. I’ll behave like the false queen that I am and not disgrace you.’ She picked up her skirts and strode up the path away from him.

  He ran past her and stood in front of her, blocking her way. ‘You deserve better than us, Isabel. Would that I could change things.’

  ‘You have the power,’ she said softly. ‘But you’ve chosen not to use it. You’ve put them in command of your life.’