The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1

by Michelle Willingham

  Críost, she was doing this on purpose, using her body to tempt him from thinking about the game. Two could play this.

  ‘It’s warm in here,’ he remarked, unlacing his tunic and raising it over his head. Bare-chested, he reached out and captured her knight.

  Isabel’s eyes widened, but a few moves later, she loosened the laces of her gown. When she moved her bishop out of his path, she bared a single shoulder.

  ‘You’re not going to win that way.’ He fully intended to conquer the black queen, and he wasn’t at all interested in what his wife planned to take off next.

  ‘Check,’ she replied.

  Damn it, she had his queen cornered. He moved the piece out of her attack and a few moves later, he’d put her in check.

  ‘Your move,’ he reminded her.

  Isabel stood. ‘I’m thirsty. Would you like a cup of mead?’

  ‘I want you to finish this game. I’m about to win.’

  She shrugged and poured herself a cup. Sipping it slowly, she knelt beside the chess board. With her fingers, she loosened the ties of the gown even more.

  ‘Your gown stays on,’ he gritted out. Concentrate on the game, he warned himself. But curse it all, he wasn’t all that interested in winning any more. He’d much rather spend this night with Isabel, kissing her again.

  ‘Checkmate.’ She leaned against her palm, smiling serenely at him.

  How in the name of Lug had she managed that? But there was no escaping it. She’d won, without question. Again.

  Patrick shoved the game board aside, letting the pieces fall where they would. Isabel had no time to react before he seized her waist and pulled her to him, devouring the mouth that had captivated him for the past hour. She tasted of honeyed sweetness, and carnal temptation.

  Her hands moved across his chest, tracing the outline of his muscles. He jerked at the touch, then took her hands in his grip. For the thousandth time, he cursed the fact that she was a Norman. He wanted her in his bed, wanted to know her body intimately.

  But it would only tangle matters further. If she were still a virgin, the Archbishop could easily dissolve their marriage. If he gave in to temptation, it would double the amount of gold needed to bribe the Church.

  With regret, he broke away. ‘Goodnight, a stór.’

  Her expression was dazed, a woman caught up in the same storm of desire he felt. But she managed a nod. ‘Goodnight.’

  He turned away, lying down upon his own pallet while she slept at the opposite side of the hut. He ached to feel her body against his.

  And for the remaining hours until dawn, he chided himself for ever agreeing to this game.

  * * *

  In the faint light of dawn, Patrick watched Isabel pour water into a basin, sponging off her face and neck. Her fair hair hung unbound around her shoulders, and she wore only a shift. Droplets of water slid over her neck, and his body responded immediately. He wanted to lift her hair aside and kiss her, dragging her onto the pallet with him.

  In the end, he’d dragged himself outside, dousing his own face with water to clear away the unwanted desire. The cold morning air chilled him, and he blessed it for cooling his ardour.

  He was about to leave the ringfort when he heard the dull clanging of the tower bell. His eyes narrowed upon the dark swathe of smoke rising up from the mainland, a visible signal from Laochre. He expelled a curse and began to run.

  ‘What is it?’ Isabel called out from behind him.

  ‘An attack on our fortress. Likely the damned Ó Phelans, raiding our cattle.’

  ‘What should we do to help?’

  ‘Stay here. Ruarc and I will take care of Laochre.’ He saw his cousin already running towards him, to the boat awaiting them on the strand. Within moments, they had pushed the boat into the water, boarding the vessel as it cleared the shore.

  Isabel stood behind while a few of the islanders grabbed spears and other weapons, moving down to the rocky side of the island. Moments later, they emerged with boats from within a small cavern of rock. She hadn’t noticed it before, since she’d been searching closer to the sandy shore. But at least she knew where they kept their boats, and she could travel to Laochre without swimming.

  As Patrick rowed towards the opposite shore, she caught his gaze. For the first time, she was afraid for him.

  Foolish, she was, to let herself worry. It was a cattle raid, nothing more. Skirmishes such as these never took a man’s life. He wanted her to remain behind and do nothing. But her nerves prickled at the thought of Patrick becoming injured.

  Last night, she had almost broken through to him. She didn’t know what else to do, but he had wanted her. No longer did she doubt it. What she couldn’t understand was why he continued to keep her away from him. It frustrated her beyond all being. She was his wife, and by the saints, she’d had her fill of this. The only way to convince him to accept her as a MacEgan was to fight for her place.

  She whirled around and strode back to the ringfort, her mind working rapidly. Without a moment’s hesitation, she opened the door to the storage hut containing weapons. Battle axes, maces, bows, spears and knives lined the wall.

  Isabel studied the supplies and chose a bow hanging from a wooden peg. The familiar curve of the wood and the taut bowstring kindled a wave of unexpected homesickness. She hadn’t touched a bow since she’d left England, and none of the islanders knew she could use it. She suspected Patrick would not let her near a weapon for fear of her loyalty.

  Annle entered the hut. ‘No.’ She voiced a fierce argument in Irish, but Isabel couldn’t understand much beyond the command to stay.

  ‘I can use a bow,’ Isabel said, gesturing towards the weapon, ‘and I’m not going to stay here while they attack my husband’s fortress. I have to help them.’

  She swung a quiver of arrows over her shoulder. The light weight evoked such strong memories, of the times when she’d gone hunting alone in the forest. Her common sense warned that she’d only killed deer and small game, never a man.

  Isabel’s fingers tightened upon the bow. She could easily strike her mark, ending a life. The question was, did she want to? Entering this battle was more than simply helping them against an enemy. It meant facing danger herself.

  By now, the men would have reached the opposite shore. She knew Patrick was a strong fighter, from the deeply carved muscles and the confidence with which he moved.

  Even now, he wouldn’t want her to come, wouldn’t want her to join in the fight. It was the greatest of risks, to demand her place among them.

  But there was no other choice.

  * * *

  Battle cries cut through the sounds of horses and terrified cattle. Patrick ran alongside Ruarc, enraged at the sight of the signal smoke rising from the top of the round tower. The Ó Phelan chieftain and a dozen men had gathered outside the ringfort.

  Early morning sunlight crept across the land, illuminating the shadows and revealing the position of the men. Patrick quickened his pace, furious that they would dare a raid during the daylight hours. His men had done their share of raiding amongst the other tribes, but always in the dark of night. This was a greater insult, implying that there was no means of stopping their attack.

  As they closed the distance, the last grove of trees stood between them and the enemy. He paused near the edge, motioning for Ruarc to keep silent. For a moment they could set aside their differences. This was a confrontation both of them needed to win.

  He raised his hand, asking Ruarc to wait. Ahead, he saw Trahern and Bevan fighting, along with a small handful of his tribesmen. Where were the Normans? He saw no sign of Sir Anselm or any of the others.

  A sense of foreboding nettled his stomach. As a combined force, there was no question that victory was within their grasp. But the Normans were nowhere to be seen. He’d thought Sir Anselm would stand by them and help fight off the Ó Phelans. Now he knew it was not so. A resigned bitterness settled in his gut. The enemy lines hadn’t blurred at all. Any understanding h
e’d felt towards the soldiers disappeared.

  Ruarc signalled his intent to flank the Ó Phelans around the right. Patrick moved left. A roar emerged from his throat, as he drew his sword and met the blade of one of the Ó Phelan men. The impact reverberated through his arm, and he released his rage, fighting on behalf of his people.

  Their chieftain charged him, and Patrick blocked the blow. Donal Ó Phelan was a tall, thin man with hair that hung down his back and a black beard reaching to his chest. Golden earrings adorned his lobes along with a torque about his throat.

  ‘Hiding behind the skirts of your men, are you, King Patrick?’

  The deliberate use of his rank sounded like a taunt. ‘You don’t want this fight,’ Patrick warned. ‘The Normans are within the walls.’

  ‘They are fighting for you, are they?’ Donal looked around in mock surprise. ‘Well, where are they, then?’

  Patrick swung his sword, releasing the brunt of his anger. By God, it felt good to wield a blade against an enemy. He thrust his weapon forward, not missing a step even when the Ó Phelan blade skimmed his arm. Blood trickled down to the leather bracers, and Patrick struck hard. The force sent Ó Phelan stumbling backward. The chieftain grunted, but Patrick held steady, waiting for the man to strike again.

  A moment later, an arrow pierced Donal’s shoulder. The chieftain roared with pain, echoed by one of his men who caught an arrow tip in his hand.

  Though Patrick didn’t know who had shot the arrows, he seized the advantage. ‘Leave our lands before the next arrow takes your heart.’

  The chieftain’s face blackened. ‘What coward attacks from the forest?’ He turned to the trees and barked, ‘Show yourself!’

  A woman emerged from the grove, mounted upon one of their horses. She held an arrow knocked to the bowstring. Though she kept her face and head covered with a brat, Patrick recognised the hideous brown léine. It could only be Isabel.

  He wanted to strangle his wife. How could she even think of joining them, risking her life among an enemy tribe? If she had ventured further, the men wouldn’t have hesitated to cut her down, woman or not.

  ‘Who are you?’ Donal Ó Phelan demanded.

  She lowered the brat, revealing braided golden hair and a face that had come to haunt him. ‘Tá sé Isabel MacEgan.’

  The sound of his wife speaking Irish stunned him. He hadn’t known she could understand any of their language. When had she begun to learn?

  And then it struck him—she’d called herself a MacEgan. Though it was wrong, a curious sense of satisfaction and pride filled him. She had shown more courage than most women, facing down an enemy tribe as if she were one of them. As if she’d earned the right to be a MacEgan.

  He forced his mind away from the significance, snapping his attention back to Donal Ó Phelan.

  ‘She is my wife,’ he interrupted. ‘And unless you want her to release the next arrow, you should go.’ He kept his voice even, as though he were fully aware of Isabel’s intentions. In truth, he didn’t know what she planned to do.

  Donal Ó Phelan stared at her and grunted. Without taking his eyes from her, he tore the arrow shaft from his shoulder and snapped it. Though the wound bled badly, he mounted his horse and commanded his men to follow. Not until they were gone did Patrick breathe easier.

  ‘Go inside the rath, and see if everyone is all right,’ Patrick ordered Ruarc. ‘We’ll follow in a moment.’

  Fear and anger snarled knots of tension inside him. He didn’t know whether to punish Isabel or thank her. Instead, he beckoned for her to come forward. He sheathed his sword, his fist curling around the hilt.

  Her recklessness might have cost them everything. She could have been hurt or killed. If she died, the tribe would suffer for it. His anger swelled up, threatening to spill over.

  When she reached him, she lowered the bow. ‘Was anyone hurt? Did you lose any of the sheep or cattle?’

  He reached out and took the weapon. ‘This does not belong to you.’

  She covered his palm, gripping the weapon. ‘It was on the island. And so it does belong to me.’

  ‘I ordered you not to come. It wasn’t safe.’

  ‘I stayed out of the way,’ she argued. The firm set of her mouth and the stubborn glint in her eyes warned him that she saw nothing wrong with what she’d done. His hand slid around her waist, holding her in place.

  Chains and manacles definitely had their appeal.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘But I stopped them. They didn’t take any of our livestock.’

  ‘You embarrassed the chieftain of the Ó Phelan tribe. He won’t soon forget what you did.’

  ‘Then he shouldn’t have been out trying to steal cattle, now, should he?’

  She grasped his hand to pull away, but he held her fast. ‘You aren’t going anywhere.’ For this night she would stay at Laochre.

  At least then he could keep a closer eye upon her.

  * * *

  It was the first time she’d been inside Patrick’s bedchamber. Deep blue curtains hung down from the canopy bed, and a simple wooden table and chair stood by a window. When she neared the table, she noticed elaborate carvings upon the wood. It must have taken years to create such a work of art.

  ‘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. Hi
s 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.