Awakened by the Prince's Passion

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘I will meet with her later, if I could have a moment to wash?’ He directed his question towards the queen. ‘I might make a better impression when I’m not covered in blood.’ Though he had no intention of courtship, the delay would give him time to decide how to handle the situation.

  ‘I will send you a bath and someone to tend you,’ Isabel answered. A serene smile slid over her face, and if he didn’t know better, he’d imagine she was plotting something.

  As he followed the servants away from the Great Chamber, he had the sense that his life was being rearranged.

  * * *

  ‘You’ve gone mad.’ Joan stared at her brothers, making no effort to hide her anger. ‘Do you honestly believe I will agree to another betrothal after what just happened? I won’t do it.’

  ‘Go and speak with him,’ Rhys suggested. ‘I am giving you the opportunity to choose your next betrothal. He may be...different from the other men you meant to marry, but he is an Irish prince.’

  ‘Think of what you are saying,’ she insisted. ‘Every man I’ve been promised to has died. Do you think I want to bring a death sentence upon someone else?’

  ‘You are letting your fears command your life,’ her brother said quietly. ‘I will send him to you, and you can make that decision for yourself. His name is Ronan Ó Callaghan.’

  Joan knew exactly which man her brother was referring to. The moment the prince had ridden into the inner bailey wearing bloodstained armour, he had caught her notice. There was an untamed savage quality to him, as if he cared naught about anything or anyone. And yet, when she’d noticed him staring, her skin had prickled with sensation. His green eyes burned with a fierce intensity that stole her breath. His blond hair was cut short, and there was a rough bristle upon his cheeks.

  She had been playing with her young niece, Sorcha, and the little girl had also noticed the man. Joan had been about to bring her inside when Sorcha had pointed at him and said, ‘He’s the man you’re going to marry.’

  Joan had shushed her niece, knowing that it was only the fancy of a small child. At times, Sorcha seemed to have traces of the Sight, where she predicted things before they happened. But not this time. Joan believed it was best if she never accepted another betrothal—not until she learned how to break the curse.

  Her brother, Warrick, drew closer. He was quiet and not as overbearing as Rhys. He studied her a moment and then said, ‘Ronan Ó Callaghan needs our help, Joan. His stepbrother attacked their tribe and took the king as a hostage before he stole the throne for himself. He asked if we would send men to aid his cause.’

  ‘You may help the prince if you wish, but that doesn’t mean I’ll marry him.’ She saw no harm in them strengthening ties with Irish nobility, but it didn’t mean she would stand back and allow her brothers to manipulate her life.

  ‘No one is forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do,’ Warrick reassured her. He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘I’m only suggesting that you give it a chance. Meet with him and see what you think.’

  And what good would that do? She simply couldn’t imagine trying a fourth time for a husband. No matter what she might desire, Fate had forced her to be alone. It had become her life, this gnawing loneliness that stretched out before her. Furthermore, she couldn’t imagine that this man would even cast a second look at her. She was four-and-twenty, far too old for a husband.

  ‘If you want to help him, then do so. I am not stopping you,’ she answered quietly. ‘But I will not be betrothed again.’ For a time, her brothers fell silent, no longer arguing. This was her life, was it not? And despite her desire for a child, she would suppress those dreams if it meant avoiding the curse.

  A moment later, Queen Isabel joined them within the solar, and she held the hand of her young son Liam. She wore a gown the colour of rubies with a silver torque at her throat and another thin band around her forehead. ‘Will you come with me, Lady Joan?’

  The urge to refuse came to her lips. But they were guests here, and she could not disregard the rules of hospitality. Warrick was trying to forge a strong alliance with the MacEgans for the sake of his holdings in Killalough. It would not do to offend the queen.

  ‘Of course,’ she murmured, following Queen Isabel into the hallway. Joan knew full well that the queen might try to talk her into a marriage with Ronan. But she had no intention of becoming the victim of matchmaking. Instead, she feigned ignorance and changed the subject. ‘Your son is such a dear boy. He looks about the same age as Sorcha.’

  Isabel’s face brightened. ‘Liam is a good lad, though he does get into mischief.’ She lifted him to her hip and dropped a kiss upon his head.

  The boy squirmed in her arms and demanded, ‘I want to walk.’

  The queen let him down and motioned for a servant to come forward. ‘Take Liam to his nurse. It’s late and time for bed.’ She leaned down to kiss his cheek. ‘I’ll come and say goodnight soon.’

  He kissed his mother and hugged her before following the servant down the hall. The familiar longing filled Joan’s heart, though she braved a smile. ‘You must be very proud of him.’

  ‘I am. I hope to have many children, God willing.’ But there was a slight sadness in her voice that suggested she might have lost a child before.

  Another maid followed them down the hall towards one of the chambers. The queen turned the corner and then stopped in front of the door. ‘I know your brothers told you of Ronan Ó Callaghan’s troubles. He is an ally of ours and a friend.’

  And here it was—the queen’s attempt at matchmaking. Joan steeled herself and forced a smile. ‘Warrick did tell me, yes. But he also spoke of trying to arrange another marriage for me.’ She took a slight step back. ‘If you are asking me to speak with the prince for that reason, I must refuse. I do not wish to be married.’

  The queen laughed softly. ‘Your brother’s ambitions for your marriage stretch high, if that is what he believes. No, Lady Joan. You are Norman, like I am, and you know our customs well. I have given Ronan our hospitality, and we will grant him men to aid in his cause.’

  Her reassurance eased Joan’s tensions somewhat. But she asked, ‘Then why have you brought me to his chamber?’

  ‘After the battle, Ronan asked for a hot bath. I would have asked one of my ladies to serve him, but I thought you might wish to do so. You could meet the prince and decide if your brothers should fight with him.’

  It was the custom of noblewomen to help bathe their guests, and Joan understood that the queen was granting her the opportunity to learn more about Ronan Ó Callaghan for her brothers’ sake. ‘So long as you are not trying to set up a betrothal.’

  The queen shook her head. ‘His family was trying to arrange a marriage to another king’s daughter from Tornall, from what I have heard.’

  It felt as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders, and Joan could breathe again. ‘I am very glad to hear this.’

  Queen Isabel smiled at her. ‘Go now, and see what you can learn for your brothers’ sake. You need not fear that we are arranging a marriage.’

  Joan inclined her head and entered the chamber. Ronan was not inside, but the queen assured her that he would arrive shortly. The servants had already filled the tub with hot water, and Joan busied herself by arranging the soap and all that she would need.

  Knowing that this man was merely a guest and nothing more eased all the tension from her mood. She had tended many visitors in her father’s castle over the years, and this man would be no different.

  After a time, the door opened and Ronan stood at the threshold. He was a tall man, and she guessed that the top of her head came to his chin. His chainmail armour was covered in blood and would need to be cleaned. Beneath the shadows of his green eyes, she saw weariness and strain. His blond hair was matted, and she wondered what it would feel like to touch his unshaved cheeks. She could not deny that he was attractive,
and she forced a calm smile on her face.

  From the wry expression, it seemed that he, too, believed others were trying to make a match between them. He spoke in Irish at first, and she shook her head, for she did not understand his words. Then he drew closer and spoke in the Norman language, ‘Did your brothers arrange this?’

  She shook her head. ‘The queen did.’ With a light shrug, she said, ‘But I am here to tend your bath, nothing more.’

  He stared at her for a moment, as if he wasn’t certain whether to believe her. She met his gaze frankly, for what did she have to hide?

  At last, he asked, ‘Will you help me with my armour?’

  ‘Of course.’ She aided him in removing his outer tunic, followed by the heavy hauberk. The weight of the chainmail was staggering, but she laid it carefully on the floor, along with the tunic. ‘I can arrange for a servant to clean it for you tonight, if you like.’ The sight of the dried blood was sobering, for she realised the extent of the fighting he had endured.

  ‘Thank you. I am Ronan Ó Callaghan,’ he said.

  ‘I am Joan de Laurent. You met my meddling brothers, Rhys and Warrick, not long ago.’ She smiled at the prince, not wanting him to be ill at ease around her—especially when she had no intention of following her brothers’ wishes. ‘Pay them no heed.’

  He nodded and stripped off his remaining armour until he stood only in his trews. Joan kept her gaze upon the floor and took the rest of the heavy chainmail, averting her gaze as he stepped into the tub of water. When she was certain he was covered, she turned around.

  A strange flush suffused her cheeks at the sight of him. His broad shoulders were exposed in the narrow tub, and he was heavily muscled. Water droplets slid over his bare skin, and she felt a strange ache within her body. So very odd.

  ‘Is the water warm enough?’ she asked.

  ‘It is.’ He reached for a cake of soap, but she took it first and dipped her hands in the water, lathering it. The Irish prince was silent while she moved behind him and washed his back. He flinched slightly when she scrubbed away the dirt with a linen rag. It was a task she had done for many of her family’s guests, a common courtesy.

  Yet, somehow, with this man, it seemed different. She was conscious of his bare skin and the touch of her hands over the firm male flesh. With her hands, she scooped water over the soap and rinsed it away, following the path with her hands.

  ‘Were you wounded in the battle?’ She didn’t want to inadvertently hurt him by touching a sensitive place.

  But he only shook his head. ‘Nothing serious. Only a few bruises.’

  Joan tried to behave as if he were an ordinary visitor, but the truth was, she did find him attractive. He was nothing like other visitors she had tended in the past. Not only was he handsome, but his body appeared hewn from stone with its hardened muscle.

  Her cheeks burned with the flush of interest. If he had been her first betrothal, she would have been quite pleased about him claiming her innocence. She liked what she saw, and the very thought of a man like this touching her made her feel breathless. Suddenly, she was beginning to understand the teasing remarks she had overheard by other women in the past. Washing this man made her own skin tighten with anticipation, and she became more aware of him.

  ‘You must be weary after this journey,’ she said. ‘It looks as if you rode here straight from the battlefield.’

  ‘I did,’ he admitted. ‘It took two days to reach Laochre.’

  Her heart softened at the realisation that Ronan had sacrificed everything to reach the MacEgans quickly. It was evident that he’d gone without sleep and food until now, hoping to help his people. He was a man of honour, and she admired his inner strength.

  Ronan was so quiet, it seemed that his thoughts were troubling him. She helped him lean back, and she filled a pitcher with warmed water, pouring it over his hair. It was a strangely intimate task, and the air grew heated as she lathered soap into his hair. He closed his eyes and relaxed against the tub. Joan found herself staring at his muscled arms and the way the water slid over the hardened planes.

  She could almost imagine herself kissing this man, feeling his arms around her. A sudden aching caught her between her legs, stirrings of an unfamiliar desire. She didn’t understand these feelings, but her breasts tightened beneath her gown.

  To distract herself, she rinsed the soap from his hair. Ronan opened his eyes and caught her gaze.

  ‘You have a soothing touch, my lady.’

  All words fled her brain, and she managed only a nod. His green eyes stared into hers, and she found herself fascinated by his mouth. She forced her attention back to the soap in her hands. ‘I—I was sorry to hear that your father is now a captive.’

  Ronan’s expression turned grim. ‘He is. But not for long, I hope.’

  She knew he needed an army to help him fight, and she understood that this was not a king’s son who remained behind stone walls while his men fought to defend the Kingdom. This man would venture into battle with no fear, only aggression. His bloodstained armour proved it beyond all doubt.

  Ronan sat up, resting his arms on the wooden tub. It was time to wash his chest, but her heartbeat quickened at the thought. She wanted to touch him, to slide her fingers over his bare skin and explore his body. Beneath her palms, she felt the rise of his pectoral muscles and his swift heartbeat. His broad chest filled the tub, and she suddenly imagined him standing up, fully naked.

  What was the matter with her? She sloshed water against his skin to rinse it, and hurriedly pulled back to fetch the drying cloth.

  ‘Do you know why they sent you to attend my bath?’ he asked in a gruff tone.

  Joan fumbled for a reason. ‘B-because you are a king’s son and an honoured guest.’ She took the cloth and spun, holding it out and averting her eyes. She heard the splash of water as he stood. He took the cloth from her, drying himself while she turned her back.

  When she risked a glance, she saw that he had tied the cloth around his hips. His abdomen was ridged, and a slight line of hair directed her gaze lower. Her breath caught as she imagined the rest of him, but she dragged her attention back to his face.

  ‘Queen Isabel said you are promised to another,’ she reminded him. ‘The King of Tornall’s daughter, I believe.’

  His expression twisted. ‘No, she is mistaken. There is no formal betrothal between us, despite what my father wanted.’

  Though she revealed no reaction, inwardly she wondered if the queen had brought them together on purpose. It was indeed likely.

  Ronan crossed his arms and stared at her. She couldn’t quite guess his thoughts, but his gaze passed over her slowly as if he were memorising her features.

  She fumbled for something to say but could not come up with a single word. He was staring at her as if he found her beautiful. And a piece of her spirit warmed to it.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ He took a step closer and reached out to touch her nape. The warm wetness of his hand was a distraction she hadn’t anticipated.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He pulled at her veil, revealing her long dark hair. ‘I want to see you. It seems reasonable enough, given how much you have seen of me.’

  She gaped at that. ‘No, that is unnecessary.’ She reached out for her veil, but he continued to stare, holding the length of linen under one arm. Joan let out a sigh and stared back. His green eyes held interest, which she didn’t want at all. ‘Give me my veil, my lord.’

  But he held it and ignored her command. ‘You are fair of face. It surprises me that you are not yet married.’

  Because they all died, she wanted to answer. It was quite a hindrance.

  Still, her vanity warmed to his words. She wished she could stop herself from reacting so strongly to this man. And so, she squared her shoulders and changed the conversation in a new direction. ‘I bid you good fortune in
winning back your castle and rescuing your father.’

  ‘I need your brothers’ help,’ he admitted. ‘But they will not give up soldiers...not unless you can convince them to fight for my people’s sake.’ His voice was deep and husky, and her wayward thoughts turned down the wrong path.

  Now what did he mean by that? He was a stranger to her, and she had no reason to intervene on his behalf. But she could not deny that he attracted her.

  ‘I am not opposed to helping your cause,’ she said slowly, ‘but how do you suppose I should convince my brothers? Do you intend to pay them for their soldiers?’ Warrick and Rhys would never endanger their men on behalf of a stranger—even if he was an Irish prince. ‘They will want something in return.’

  ‘I can offer them an alliance and protection for Killalough, once my father is king again. But I leave that answer in your hands,’ he said. ‘You will know what your brothers want in return better than me. And if you do manage to convince them on my behalf, I would grant you your own wish.’

  Joan nearly choked at the offer. It wasn’t as if she could ask this man for a baby. That was a conversation she could never imagine. Even so, she felt the flustered heat rising once more. Wild thoughts entered her mind, of lying naked upon her bed. Would Ronan enter her chamber and touch her intimately? Would he claim her body night after night, in the hopes that his seed would take root?

  She closed her eyes and forced the sensual vision away. Despite the curse, she could not imagine falling into such sin. Not to mention, her brothers would eviscerate him for touching her.

  ‘N-no, I don’t need anything from you.’ She clenched her hands at her sides, trying to calm the restlessness within. But it was difficult with him wearing only the drying cloth and standing so near.

  ‘I think you do. But you don’t want to tell me what it is,’ Ronan predicted. His voice was low and deep, almost tempting. She started to turn away, but he caught her hand. ‘Why is that?’

  Because it would be a terrible mistake. Even if she enjoyed his body in the way her brothers’ wives had said she would.