Patrick’s face was close enough to feel his warm breath upon her cheek. ‘I’ll come back for you soon.’
Her body betrayed her with the warmth that flooded through her. She forced herself to look away.
He deposited her inside the tent and tossed a length of wool at her. ‘Cover yourself with the brat to stay warm.’
As he started towards the horse, her fear doubled. What if a thief or a murderer came after her? She would be alone, de-fenceless. ‘I would like a weapon,’ she added hastily. ‘Please.’
He turned and shot her a look of disbelief. ‘For what purpose?’
‘In case someone attacks. Or an animal.’ Isabel crawled outside the tent and pointed to his quiver. ‘I know how to use a bow and arrows.’
‘No weapons. I do not intend to go far, and I’d rather you didn’t shoot me when I return.’ He drew up his hood and mounted the stallion, disappearing into the woods.
At that, the rain began. It was a hard, pounding rain that soaked through the silk of her kirtle. A thickness rose in the back of her throat as Isabel huddled inside the tent. Rivulets of cold rain spattered against the heavy cloth, and she cursed Patrick for bringing her here. She cursed her father for arranging this marriage. She cursed herself for not throwing herself off the horse when Patrick had stolen her.
Mud caked her lower limbs as the rain pounded harder. Her veil clung to her neck in an icy grasp. In the distance, she heard an eerie howling noise. Hastily she sent up another silent prayer.
The last thing she needed was for her new husband to truly be eaten by wolves.
CHAPTER TWO
Patrick’s stallion raced across the Welsh plains, the rain soaking through him. The brittle weather helped clear his mind of the resentment.
When he’d accepted the kingship, it had meant making sacrifices. His personal feelings were nothing when it came to the needs of the tribe. He’d married the Norman woman, and now he had the means to free his people.
Shadowed against the horizon, he saw his brothers’ camp, the firelight flickering against the orange-and-crimson sunset. When he reached the men, he dismounted.
‘Lovely weather,’ his brother Trahern remarked. He stood beside the fire, which they had shielded from the rain with a hide stretched before it. Trahern’s brown hair dripped with water, along with his curling beard. He towered over both his brothers, his height rivalling that of a legendary giant.
‘It seems appropriate for my wedding day.’ Patrick tethered Bel, patting the stallion.
Their other brother Bevan stood, pacing. ‘I was wondering how long it would take you to arrive. I wouldn’t put it past your Norman bride to stab you in your sleep.’
Patrick shrugged. ‘She’s harmless.’
‘We were there behind the church wall,’ Trahern admitted. ‘She didn’t exactly throw herself into your arms.’
‘You shouldn’t have risked it. I didn’t want you to come.’
‘And miss our eldest brother’s wedding? I think not.’ Trahern grinned. He lifted his face skyward and let the rain fall directly on his face. ‘The Norman guards never saw us. It was easy enough to remain hidden, so long as we stayed away from the guests.’
‘I don’t trust Thornwyck.’ Bevan sat before the fire, the light illuminating a scar across one cheek. Unlike his brother, he raised a hood to block the rain. ‘And we’d never let you go alone. The Normans might have taken you prisoner.’
Patrick neared the sputtering fire and held out his hands to warm them. ‘Did Thornwyck’s men follow us?’
‘No.’ Bevan answered. ‘But I doubt he’ll wait until Lughnasa. He’ll bring more forces and try to take Laochre.’
Patrick accepted a horn of mead and swallowed. Grim resignation cast its shadow upon him. ‘I won’t let our men become slaves to the Normans.’
‘And how will you stop him?’
‘I have plans,’ he lied. But he didn’t have any notion of what to do. The orders he carried would free his people. Yet, the rest of the surrender agreement required the Normans to be housed among them. The thought of blending the two sides together made his head ache.
‘And what about your bride?’ Bevan demanded. ‘You cannot allow her to rule as your queen.’
‘I know.’
It seemed almost like a faded dream that he’d wed her. He didn’t feel married, much less to a Norman. Never would his tribe accept her. He needed to isolate her for her own protection. ‘I’m going to take her to Ennisleigh. She’ll stay out of harm’s way.’
Bevan relaxed, resting his hands upon his knees. ‘Good. We’ve enough problems without her.’ He pointed off in the distance. ‘I assume you tied her to a tree? Otherwise, you’ll have to track her down again.’
‘I thought about it.’ Patrick recalled his bride’s attempt to escape before the wedding. ‘But, no, I left her in the tent.’
‘Why didn’t you bring her here?’
‘Because he wants privacy, dolt.’ Trahern elbowed Bevan. ‘A man should enjoy his wedding night.’
Patrick said nothing, but let his brothers think what they would. He forced back the anger rising inside him. He had no intention of touching his bride, nor making her his wife. He couldn’t imagine siring a child with her.
The marriage would not be permanent. After Lughnasa, as soon his tribe drove out the Normans, Isabel and he could go their separate ways. He intended to petition the Archbishop to end the union. A pity he couldn’t have wed her in Eíreann. The laws of his own land made it far easier to dissolve an unwanted marriage.
‘I should go back,’ he said quietly. ‘I have to hunt a meal for this night.’
Trahern uncovered a brace of hares. ‘Take these to feed your bride a memorable wedding supper.’
‘I was going to eat those,’ Bevan muttered. But he shrugged and added, ‘Safe journey to you.’
‘We’ll meet you at the coast in another day.’ Patrick embraced his brothers and bid them farewell. ‘Slán.’
He slung the hares across his mount and set forth to return to Isabel. He allowed Bel to take the lead, since the last traces of sunlight were slipping behind the mountains.
As he galloped across the fields, he vowed that Isabel de Godred’s presence would not interrupt his life, nor would she threaten the MacEgan tribe in any way.
* * *
When he arrived back at the tent, Isabel’s shoulders were bent forward, her wet hair plastered against her dress. Deep brown eyes blazed with indignity.
‘I’ve brought food,’ Patrick said, holding up the two hares. ‘And if you can endure the journey, there’s an abandoned cottage not far from here.’
She nodded, shivering inside the tent. ‘Anything with a fire.’
He helped her pack up the temporary shelter and eased her back on to the horse. She winced, but said nothing about the pain. When he swung up behind her, her body trembled violently.
Coldness iced his heart. She deserved none of his pity. A means to an end, she was. Nothing more. Despite his resolve, guilty thoughts pricked at him for treating a woman like this.
She is a Norman, his brain reminded him. He could not lose sight of that.
Leaning forward, he increased the speed of his mount. Her posture remained rigid, not accepting any of his body’s warmth. He should be thankful that she didn’t weep or cling to him. And yet it was a first for him, to have a woman shrink away.
As each mile passed, the silence continued. Finally, he reached the outskirts of a forest. Near the edge stood the abandoned hut he’d seen on his journey earlier. The last of the sunlight rimmed the landscape, unfurling the night. He slowed Bel and eased up on the reins, letting the stallion walk towards the shelter.
When they arrived, he dismounted and helped her down. Isabel stared at the thatched wattle-and-daub hut, frowning. ‘I can see why it was abandoned.’
The roof needed fresh thatching and one section of the wall sagged, as though the hut might collapse. Patrick let Bel wander over to a small ditch fi
lled with water. Then he opened the door for Isabel.
‘Go inside while I tend to my horse,’ he ordered. He removed the saddle and rubbed down the stallion. When he’d finished, he entered the hut and was thankful to find a small pile of dry firewood inside. He used some of the fallen thatch to make a pile of tinder. With flint and steel, he sparked a flame. Isabel hung back, watching him.
‘I thought you had left me,’ she murmured.
‘Is that not what you wanted?’
‘I had no wish to be deserted in the middle of nowhere,’ she said. She shivered again, nearing the small blaze he’d kindled in the hearth. ‘I was frightened,’ she admitted.
‘Wolves?’
Her lips pursed and she shook her head. ‘Thieves. Someone might have come, and I couldn’t have defended myself.’
There was a grain of truth in it. She was right. He had been negligent in protecting her, but he made no apology.
‘Are you hungry?’
At her nod, he continued, ‘I’ll start cooking the meat. In the meantime, there’s a flask of mead tied to the saddle. Go and fetch it.’
Isabel stepped outside, and Patrick tended the fire until he had a strong flame burning. He didn’t worry she would try to escape. They were miles from anywhere, and the darkness would prevent her from fleeing.
With his knife, he finished skinning the hares and spitted them. He set the hares above the fire and Isabel returned with the mead. Suddenly she shrieked and dropped the flask. It struck the earth, but did not shatter. Patrick drew his sword, but no one stood at the door. A large rat raced past her, darting around.
When the rodent charged, Isabel grabbed a heavy branch from the pile of firewood and swung it, battering the floor and screeching when the animal neared her skirts.
The rat skittered away from the fire, and Patrick ducked when her club nearly missed his head.
‘What in the name of Lug is going on?’ he demanded. ‘The animal is on the ground.’
‘Get it out of here!’ she wailed. Her horrified expression, coupled with the wild swinging of the branch, forced him to act. Patrick opened the door and kicked the rodent outside.
Isabel stood on a wooden bench, still wielding the branch. She held her hand to her heart, her mouth tight with fear. This was more than the disgust he’d seen on the faces of most women. She’d been terrified.
‘You’ve seen rats before,’ he remarked.
Though Isabel nodded, her fear didn’t diminish. ‘I hate them. And mice. And anything that nibbles.’
He couldn’t resist the urge to tease her. ‘They’re probably living in the thatch.’
A whimper sounded from her lips. ‘Please, God, no.’
He moved closer and disarmed her, tossing the branch onto the hearth. Standing before her, he saw her shudder. Her veil had come loose from the thin gold circlet, and she clutched the crimson kirtle. Though she raised her eyes to his, the fear in them was so great, he felt badly for his teasing.
He studied her, the warm brown eyes and the pale cheeks. She smelled like a mixture of honeysuckle and rose, every inch a lady. Though she tried to keep her courage, her fear of something else was stronger. It was the fear of a woman who had never lain with a man before.
Soaked as she was, the silk outlined every curve. His imagination conjured up wicked thoughts, of sliding the silk from her shoulder and tasting the warm woman’s flesh.
He could not weaken. He’d not touch her, though it had been many moons since he’d known the pleasures of a woman’s body.
Instead he changed the subject. ‘That bench is going to collapse.’ Isabel grimaced, her eyes watching the floor as though she expected an army of rats to invade the cottage.
At her hesitation, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the opposite side of the hut. Her body was cold against his, and he set her down upon a table. Isabel tucked her knees up, shivering. Patrick returned to the hearth and turned the roasting hares over. ‘Why do they bother you so much?’
She covered her face in her knees. ‘My sisters. Patrice and Melisande played a trick on me when I was small. They put mice in my hair while I was sleeping.’ She shuddered again. ‘I’ve never forgotten the feeling of them climbing on my face, getting tangled in my hair.’
‘Are they your younger sisters?’ he asked.
‘Older.’ She raised her gaze to his. ‘I’m not a wealthy heiress, in case you thought to claim land.’
‘I have no need of land. And your father and I came to a different agreement during the betrothal.’
An agreement where Thornwyck intended his grandsons to be future kings of Eíreann. Patrick tossed another limb on to the fire. There would be no children, his own form of revenge. Though Thornwyck could take his tribe prisoner, capturing Laochre and forcing an alliance, at least this was something the Baron could not control.
His wife had stopped shivering at last. She removed her veil and finger-combed her long golden hair to dry. It glowed in the firelight, a vibrant contrast to her crimson silk kirtle.
She rotated to warm another part of her body. When she caught him watching her, she frowned. Patrick turned away and checked on the hares again. After a time, the tantalising aroma of the roasting meat filled the air. The meat dripped with juices, and he cut off a piece with his knife, offering it to her along with a hard loaf of bread. She tore off a piece of bread and handed it back. Nibbling at the hare, she murmured, ‘Thank you.’
‘I was not intending to starve you,’ he said. ‘No thanks is needed.’
‘Not just for the food—’ her face flushed red ‘—also for not bedding me after the ceremony.’ She moved her gaze away, staring at the roasting meat.
Patrick crossed the room and stood before her. She needed to understand her role in this union. Resting his hands upon the table, he trapped her in place. His hands dug into the wood and he hid none of the frustrated anger, nor the vehemence he felt.
‘You needn’t worry that I will bed you now. Or at all, for that matter.’
She blanched, but he held his ground. The marriage was part of a surrender agreement, not a true alliance. She would never be a queen, nor would she bear sons of his blood.
It was best she got used to it now.
* * *
Isabel groaned, as rays of sunlight speared her eyes. She tried to uncurl her body from where she’d slept upon the table. Her husband had not protested her choice, and she’d covered her hair with her veil. Even so, she’d had trouble falling asleep for fear of rats.
Such a strange wedding night. She didn’t know what to think of Patrick MacEgan, nor their future together. Her husband stood at the doorway, his back to her. Isabel stifled her surprise. His tunic hung near the dying fire and he was bare from the waist up. His bronzed skin glowed in the sun while rippled muscles revealed his strength.
She held her breath as he stretched. Toothless and ageing he wasn’t. But he’d laid her apprehensions to rest last night. He’d already said he had no intention of bedding her. She should be overwhelmed with relief.
Instead, it made her suspicious. And uneasy about their arrangement. Why would he keep her a virgin? And for how long would he leave her alone? Her father had threatened them both if she was not carrying an heir by the time he arrived in Erin. Edwin de Godred would not hesitate to humiliate her.
Isabel swung down from the table, eyeing the floor for any sign of rodents. Her limbs felt stiff and aching. And, sweet saints, there was more riding this day. Her backside chafed from the journey yesterday.
Patrick turned around. ‘Good. You’re awake. Break your fast and we’ll go.’ He picked up his tunic and donned it, heading back outside.
Isabel spied the fallen length of cloth on the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. A brat, he’d called it. At least it kept her warm in the morning chill. She ate the piece of bread he’d left for her, then ventured outside.
The rising sun glimmered through the forest, while the wet grass shone. ‘Aren’t queens suppos
ed to travel in a litter?’ she grumbled.
‘You aren’t a queen.’
‘But I thought—’
‘You are a bride, but not a queen. You will not rule over my tribe.’
There was anger in his voice, a dark threat that made her tremble. What did he expect from her? As his wife and lady, she had responsibilities to fulfil. She frowned as he lifted her atop his stallion. ‘Then why bother taking me to Erin?’
‘Because the Normans need evidence that I’ve kept my word. Only then will they obey your father’s orders to free my people.’
She did not bother to converse during the remainder of the journey. A flare of annoyance sparked. He did not want her to play any part in their lives. What did he expect her to do? Sit in a corner and spin until she rotted?
Her feelings flamed with silent rage. Aye, she was a Norman, but she had done nothing wrong. She had no choice in this marriage, but she refused to be treated like the enemy.
Last night she’d stayed awake for hours, trying to decide what to do. Though she could behave like a child and try to flee, it would do no good. Either Patrick or her father would bring her back again.
No longer could she return to her home or her people. Whether she willed it or not, as a married woman she had no choice but to remain with Patrick MacEgan.
Her husband claimed Edwin would execute his people if she did not come to Ireland. He’d said there were children threatened.
The very thought numbed her heart. Cruel deeds happened in battle. She’d seen it for herself once, and, even now, she shuddered at the memory of a burning village.
Though her escorts had kept her far away from the carnage, she’d never forgotten the screams of the victims. A young boy, hardly more than three years of age, had stood beside a dead woman, sobbing for his mother. No one had come for him.
She wished she had ordered her escorts to stop. She should have taken the boy with her, even though she had only been fifteen herself. Likely he had died with no one to care for him.
It was possible that Patrick’s people had suffered the same fate as the villagers. She didn’t want to believe it. But what if it were true? How could she live with herself if she let others die because of her own selfish fears?
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 30
