The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1

by Michelle Willingham

  Patrick knew it. But he could never tear down the walls built by his grandfather before him. They had withstood Norse attacks and countless invader assaults before this time.

  ‘We must be ready for them,’ she said.

  We. She spoke as though she intended to fight among them.

  ‘Why would you wish to stand with us? Would you betray your own father?’

  Her expression faltered. For a moment he saw a flash of uncertainty.

  ‘I hope it would never come to that.’ She tried to muster a smile, but her mouth tightened. ‘And my father has no need to attack Laochre again. As your wife, I—’

  ‘He believes you are my queen,’ Patrick said. And it could not have been further from the truth. He’d tried to keep Isabel away for her own protection. Sooner or later the attacks would begin again. And he feared the Normans would turn on them.

  Isabel tugged at the cloak around her shoulders. ‘I know why you wed me. But I don’t understand why you won’t let me help you. I have a duty to these people. I can’t stay behind on Ennisleigh.’

  Though her gesture was a woman’s plea, she conjured up unwanted desire. He tensed beneath her touch. What was the matter with him? She was a Norman.

  Isabel drew close to him. Her hair hung down, the faint scent of salt clinging to her. He found himself staring at her mouth. Soft and full, her lips fascinated him.

  She’s your wife, his body argued, and a beautiful woman.

  ‘I don’t want you hurt,’ he said.

  Liar, his conscience accused. He didn’t want to be tempted by her.

  ‘It is time to leave.’ He extended his hand, turning away to break the spell she had cast.

  ‘Wait.’ Her eyes lowered, and she took his hand. ‘I saw the children today.’ Her fingers joined with his, and the softness of her skin distracted him. ‘You wed me to save them.’

  He wanted to pull away, but the touch of her hand seemed to burn through his skin. ‘You knew that on our wedding day.’

  ‘But I never understood you.’ Her eyes filled with compassion, and he grew uncomfortable. She didn’t understand, couldn’t understand what had happened to his people. It was beyond anything she had ever experienced.

  ‘I want to help them,’ she said. ‘You never sent for my dowry, did you?’

  ‘I’ve no need for household goods.’

  ‘What of the gold and silver?’ she asked. ‘I could help replenish your supplies.’

  He didn’t want anything from her or her family. Though she made the offer in good faith, he couldn’t accept it. It was his responsibility to provide for his people, not hers. He’d not let her become involved, particularly since their marriage was not permanent. He wouldn’t use her that way.

  ‘There is no need for your dowry.’ He took several steps away from her. ‘We are leaving now.’

  ‘If you take me back to Ennisleigh, I’ll only swim back again.’

  He didn’t doubt she would make good upon the threat. Instead, he tightened his grip upon her hand. ‘Trahern suggested I chain you down. The thought did occur to me.’

  ‘Try it, Irishman, and you’ll be sorry for it.’

  As he guided her outside, he didn’t miss the stares from his people. The women’s expressions were filled with hate, while his men regarded her with suspicion.

  No one smiled, no one spoke. Isabel kept her chin raised, feigning indifference. But he saw the slight tremble in her hands and the way she did not look at anyone.

  ‘Is that our queen?’ a young child asked, pointing.

  His mother shushed him, murmuring, ‘No. She’s a Norman like the others.’

  Patrick did not correct the woman, for she had spoken his own thoughts. Though Isabel was now his wife, she was still one of the enemy. And he needed to remember that instead of feeling pity for her.

  He needed to place her back upon Ennisleigh, away from his people. And, most especially, away from himself.

  * * *

  Ruarc stopped outside his home, a strange sound coming from within. His hand automatically went to his dagger as he opened the hide door.

  Sosanna knelt beside a low wooden table, her shoulders huddled as she wept. Her tears brought Ruarc to her side immediately.

  ‘What is it? Should I send for a healer?’

  She shook her head and rested her cheek on the cold earthen floor. Her hand moved to her stomach, but she said nothing.

  He helped ease her to her pallet, and it bothered him to see her so pale and fragile. It was as though she were dying and he could do nothing to stop it.

  Her léine hung down, and she wore no girdle about it. Ruarc frowned, studying his sister closer. Without a warning, he moved his hand to her middle.

  Horror creased her face. Ruarc couldn’t conceal his shock, couldn’t breathe. By the gods. She was carrying a child. From the size of her stomach, she would give birth by the end of the summer. How had he been so blind as not to see it?

  ‘Who did this to you?’ he asked, unable to keep the rage from his voice. ‘Tell me the name of the bastard, and by Lug, I swear I’ll slit his throat.’

  His sister said nothing. She didn’t have to. Already he knew that one of the Normans had hurt her.

  ‘Sosanna?’ he asked, softening his voice.

  A tear slid down her cheek and she turned from him. Huddled amongst the furs, she would not speak.

  Death was too good for any of the Normans. Ruarc strode outside, his fists curling up. It took only seconds to find an enemy soldier. Blood seemed to swim before his eyes, and he released his rage, snapping the man’s head backward with a punch.

  Taken by surprise, the Norman hesitated a fraction before retaliating with his own strike. Ruarc dodged the blow and pounded at the enemy’s ribs.

  He’d passed beyond all reason. All he could think of was hurting the unknown man who had harmed his sister. One of these men had taken away his sister’s voice and her pride. And they would pay dearly for it.

  He tasted blood, enduring bruises, but getting in a few solid punches of his own. Lug, if he had a sword, he’d love to slaughter them all.

  Another Norman joined in. Ruarc struck a kick to the man’s gut, spinning to punch another. A rib cracked, and Ruarc dove at the first man, slamming his fist into the Norman’s jaw.

  Then something hard struck his head. His vision blurred, and he dropped to the ground. Dimly he was aware of his hands confined, his body dragged across the ground. They forced him to sit with his back against a post. Leather bindings tightened across his wrists as his kinsman regarded him.

  ‘You will remain here until your king returns,’ Bevan MacEgan commanded. ‘And I don’t think that will be until tomorrow’s sunrise. You’d best pray that the gods show mercy upon you. For Patrick won’t.’

  Ruarc raised his eyes to Bevan’s. ‘They hurt my sister. And they should burn for what they did to her.’

  He saw the flash of recognition in Bevan’s eyes. Of all the men, his cousin understood. He’d lost his own wife Fiona to the invaders.

  ‘She deserves vengeance,’ Ruarc said beneath his breath. ‘None of them should be alive.’

  Bevan rose, crossing his arms as he regarded the Normans. From inside Ruarc’s hut, Sosanna emerged. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her hands clenched around her middle. There was nothing in her eyes, save resignation.

  ‘I agree,’ Bevan said quietly. ‘The Normans have much to answer for.’

  * * *

  Isabel held on to the edges of the wooden boat as Patrick rowed towards the island. She felt like a child facing punishment from a parent. Her husband’s face held the creases of deep rage.

  ‘I cannot believe you swam that far,’ Patrick said, his arm muscles flexing against the pull of the tide. Crimson streaks of sunlight rippled upon the water. The sea had grown calm, a contrast to her husband’s temper. ‘You could have drowned.’

  ‘I could have, yes.’ She managed a chagrined smile, though it did nothing to soften his gruffness. ‘I re
alised that when I was halfway across. By then, it was too late to turn back.’

  ‘Don’t do something that foolish again,’ he warned. His oars sliced through the water, drawing them closer to the island.

  ‘Next time, I’ll borrow a boat.’ If she could find one, that is. She had no desire to experience such cold water again.

  ‘There won’t be a next time.’

  Isabel was growing tired of his high-handed ways. His orders were from an effort to control her, not concern for her safety. ‘Do not be so sure of that.’

  Shadows silhouetted his face. He stopped rowing and let the oars rest upon the wood. ‘What are you trying to prove, Isabel?’

  She tucked her hands between her knees, suddenly aware of the intensity of him. His steel-grey eyes held such anger. The lean planes of his face held no sympathy, nothing but a fierce warrior.

  ‘I won’t be commanded by a man who chooses to exile me.’

  ‘Won’t you?’ He rested his forearms upon his knees, the leather bracers emphasising the deeply cut muscles.

  ‘No.’ Behind the weight of responsibility, he was a handsome warrior. What would he be like if he weren’t so angry? Isabel hadn’t missed the way the Irish women had watched him.

  ‘Were you betrothed to anyone before you wed me?’ she asked.

  Patrick shook his head. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Because the women had stared at him as though he were a delicious cake dripping with honey. ‘You aren’t terribly ugly,’ she offered. ‘And you are a king.’

  ‘Not terribly ugly?’ His mouth twitched. ‘And here I thought I was a barbarian monster.’

  She nodded her agreement, and his lips curved upwards.

  He let the boat glide through the water, and his intent stare made her shiver.

  Isabel changed the subject. ‘Erin is very beautiful at night.’

  ‘It is.’ His mouth softened. Grey eyes fixed upon her, his voice rich and seductive. ‘Very beautiful.’

  Colour flooded her face. Isabel forced herself to look away. With the darkening sky above them and the sea all around, everything seemed to fall away.

  What would it be like for him to kiss her? She covered her mouth with her hands, willing the sudden thought away. Her father’s threat haunted her. He wanted her to bear Patrick’s child. What would he do when he learned she was still a virgin? He’d sworn to come only a few months from now at harvest time. Would he demand a ceremonial bedding? She would not put it past him to humiliate her in such a way.

  ‘I know you did not wish to wed me,’ she began, not really knowing what to say. ‘But I meant what I said earlier. I’d rather we be friends.’

  The awkward silence stretched further when Patrick picked up the oars and began rowing again towards the shoreline. ‘Trahern wants me to stay with you tonight to keep up appearances.’

  It wasn’t precisely what she had in mind, but it was better than nothing. If they shared a meal and conversation, she might uncover what sort of man her husband truly was. He wore the mask of a king at every moment.

  ‘It is a great sacrifice,’ she said drily, ‘having to spend time with me.’

  ‘More than you know,’ he muttered.

  Isabel dipped her hand in the sea and flicked a palm full of water at his face.

  Patrick’s face darkened. Droplets of salt water slid down his bristled cheeks. ‘That was a childish thing to do.’

  ‘That was not a nice thing to say,’ she retorted.

  Seconds later, a splash of frigid water struck her own face. Patrick’s wet hand proclaimed his guilt and wickedness gleamed in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t start this.’ Isabel set her hand back in the water as a threat. ‘There’s already one war between us.’

  Before she could move, he trapped her hands in his. The weight of his body moved her astern. His thighs surrounded her legs, his chest invading her space.

  A trickle of water slid down his neck and dripped upon her skin. Her nipples tightened at the cold sensation. With his dark hair framing his face, her attention moved to his mouth again. His firm lips captivated her.

  The rocking of the boat moved his body against hers, and she felt the evidence of his desire. The shocking sensation heated her skin, her body needing to be closer to him.

  Though she didn’t understand why, he pulled her arms around his neck. She clung to him for balance, her heartbeat pounding against her chest. No longer did she feel the chill of the water. Instead, her body burned in a way she didn’t understand. She wanted to feel his skin upon hers, and she flushed at the thought.

  He wasn’t going to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes. He was fighting against it.

  But he didn’t let go of her. His hands caressed her back, holding her away from the hard wood of the boat. A secret part of her ached to welcome him. She wanted his hands to move over her, caressing her. She needed more than this, and yet he held himself back.

  Embraced in his arms, she pressed her breasts close to him, her body trembling. Her mouth parted, wishing for what he would not give.

  Then she lifted her face and kissed him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Need roared through him at the soft touch of her mouth. The innocent taste of her sent him reeling. Patrick plundered her mouth, tasting her forbidden sweetness. Caveats coursed through his mind, but he ignored them. He wanted to kiss this frustrating woman, to drive her from his thoughts.

  Though he didn’t know what had possessed her to kiss him, he wasn’t going to let her go. Not until he exorcised the craving for her.

  His mouth moved over hers, and he felt her shuddering. Deliberately he softened the kiss, nipping at her lower lip. She opened to him and he slid his tongue in her mouth.

  The sensation mimicked the sexual act he was denying himself. Her tongue met his, and Lug, his body hardened into stone. Right now he could think of nothing better than to remove her clothes and make love to her in the boat.

  He kissed her cheek, the tender spot behind her ear. Then a gasping cry spilled from her lips when he kissed the softness between her neck and shoulder.

  ‘Patrick,’ she whispered. He forced his mouth away from her delectable skin, and he kissed her lips again to silence her. He wanted nothing to interrupt this moment.

  Sunset bathed her body in golden rays while the boat moved in the gentle rhythm of the tides. Her hands slid beneath his tunic, caressing his chest. By the gods, she was taking his honour apart. Even now, he rationalised that there would be no true harm in making love to her. He could still set her aside later, and she could marry another.

  But if there was a child, he’d be forever bound to her. He couldn’t break the vow he’d made, never to let her bear a child of his blood. If he succumbed to this temptation, he might as well surrender everything to the Normans. Never did he want the tribe to fall into their hands, nor lose what his kinsmen had died for. And giving Isabel a child was rewarding Edwin de Godred for his conquest. He couldn’t do it.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Isabel’s lips were swollen from the kiss, and she touched her throat as if afraid of him. And well she should be. At the moment his control was about to snap.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ she whispered.

  ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

  At the harsh words, she closed her eyes with embarrassment. He could see that he’d hurt her feelings, but could not bring himself to soothe her.

  Patrick glanced behind him and saw how close they were to shore. Without thinking, he jumped over the side of the boat, extinguishing the evidence of his lust in the waist-deep water. The frigid waves cooled his desire instantly, a welcome respite.

  He guided the boat on to the strand, helping her step on to the sands. Dragging the vessel beyond the tide’s reach, he gathered up the two large bundles of supplies and strode up the path towards the ringfort.

  Isabel remained behind him, still standing where he’d left her. The breeze lifted her hair, billowing the brat from her shoulders. Lik
e a legendary goddess, she appeared born of the sea. The water swelled to touch her ankles, but she stepped away.

  He forced himself to walk up the hill, entering the rath. Eventually her footsteps sounded behind him. He walked to the stone hut they had shared last night and pushed open the door, dropping the supplies inside the entrance. It took time to kindle a fire, but he coaxed a small flame and fed it with tinder. At last he added the peat bricks.

  He heard the door close, and Isabel stood at the entrance watching him. In the dim light, her golden hair gleamed. With graceful steps, she neared the fire.

  Gods above, he didn’t know how he would endure a full night, knowing that she was within reach of him.

  ‘What food do we have?’ Isabel asked, kneeling beside the supplies.

  ‘I have no idea what Trahern packed. I told him to send enough for a sennight.’

  He stood warming himself while she untied the bundles. A moment later, he heard her cry out with joy. Had Trahern packed a bit of mutton? Or roasted fowl?

  ‘A comb!’ Isabel revealed her prize, smiling as though she’d been handed a treasure. He hadn’t thought of such a simple need, and he frowned. His wife held it out as though Trahern had sent her a sack of gold pieces.

  ‘What of the food?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, there’s bread and dried apples. Some meat, too.’ Joy brightened her eyes. ‘But, oh, the comb. Thank the saints.’

  She knelt beside the fire, dragging the carved antler comb through her hair. Gently, she untangled the strands, pulling her hair over one shoulder.

  What would it be like to touch that hair? Silken, like spun sunlight, he supposed. It fell to her hips, and he pictured her lying upon the pallet wearing nothing but her hair.

  He prayed Trahern had packed the chess set. For otherwise he’d need another swim this night.

  * * *

  The wind bit into his bare chest as Ruarc fought the leather bindings. Bevan had left him there alone, bared from the waist up. Blood caked his wrists from where he’d fought against the restraints. His face had swollen up, his lips cracked.

  He didn’t care about any of it. But he feared for his sister. Earlier, Sosanna had come to see him. She’d touched his head, then his cheek. She shook her head as if to reprimand him. Then sadness filled her eyes. Moments later, she’d walked outside the ringfort.