The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1

by Michelle Willingham

  Ruarc came forward and knelt at her feet. ‘My queen,’ he said solemnly.

  She offered her hand, raising him to stand. ‘Do you accept my husband as your king now?’

  ‘I do, yes. And I apologise for my wrongdoing.’

  Isabel looked upon the faces of the MacEgan tribe, her eyes brimming with tears. She smiled, greeting each of them in their own language as she passed. When she spoke with the last man, she suddenly saw her father.

  Edwin de Godred dismounted and strode forward. He wore full battle armour, and his gaze passed over her as if inspecting her for injuries. ‘I understand this enemy tribe thought to take you hostage.’ He glared at the ringfort. ‘But at least your husband had enough sense to come after you. Even if he should have waited for our forces.’

  ‘I thought your forces would attack Laochre,’ she dared.

  He shook his head. ‘I gave you my word.’ He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘You are well, Daughter?’

  ‘Thanks to my husband.’ She heard Patrick come up behind her, and his arm moved around her shoulders in a protective gesture.

  ‘Good.’ Edwin glanced at the Normans. ‘I think the Earl of Pembroke will leave Laochre in peace. He has his sights on wedding King Dermot’s daughter Aoife.’ With a glance towards the ringfort belonging to the Ó Phelan tribe, he added, ‘What of them?’

  Patrick spoke up. ‘Strongbow may do as he wishes. The Ó Phelan tribe seems overly confident that they can withstand the enemy.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Edwin cast a doubtful look. ‘It’s a small enough piece of land, but it may have its uses.’ He paused a moment. ‘I wish you good fortune, Isabel. And happiness.’

  Without waiting for a reply, her father turned away and rejoined his army. Though he had not said as much, Isabel felt as though he’d given his blessing. And a part of her softened, inwardly forgiving him.

  Patrick lifted Isabel into his arms, a possessive expression upon his face. He set her atop Bel, then swung up behind her. ‘Send the hostages back to Donal Ó Phelan with an escort of Norman soldiers,’ he ordered. ‘And the rest of you return to Laochre.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Isabel asked.

  He spurred the horse into a gallop. Leaning forward, he whispered in her ear. ‘I’m going to do what I should have done long ago.’

  ‘What is that?’

  His hand moved to caress her breast. ‘I’m going to tie you to my bed and ravish you until you cannot walk.’

  * * *

  To Isabel’s surprise, cheers erupted from the ringfort when Patrick rode inside. Though it was nearly the middle of the night, torches blazed inside the fortress. All the folk awaited them, down to the children sleeping in their mothers’ arms.

  Patrick lifted her down, and the Normans removed their helms, kneeling in tribute. Isabel managed a smile, but inside she wanted to weep with gratitude. She was home, where she belonged. Patrick’s hand rested upon the small of her back, a silent reminder of support.

  Behind them rode the remainder of the tribe. They, too, joined in the thunderous noise of approval. Isabel walked among them, feeling overwhelmed by their acceptance. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She didn’t know when she had begun to cry, but after so many weeks of being an outsider, it was hard not to release her feelings.

  Patrick clasped her hand in his. ‘We have brought our queen home safely.’ He drew her in the centre of the rath, and Isabel dried her tears while the Irish and Normans offered their good wishes.

  ‘Because of our lady and her efforts, Strongbow spared our fortress.’ To the Normans he added, ‘I thank you for defending Laochre in our absence.’

  Isabel caught the look of understanding that passed between both sides. Although it would take time for the men to blend together and see each other as friends, at least they had built trust between them.

  Then her husband addressed all of the people. ‘It is late, but on the morrow we will host a feast in the Great Chamber. All are welcome.’

  She translated Patrick’s proclamation for the Norman forces, and then accepted the good wishes of both Irish and Norman alike.

  Patrick stood by her side, his palm caressing her back until Isabel longed to retreat to the privacy of their chamber. At last, he dismissed the remainder of the folk and led her away.

  They raced up the winding staircase, and when they reached the top, Patrick lifted her into his arms and carried her inside his bedchamber. He bolted the door behind them, staring at her like a barbarian warrior. Slowly, he let her slide down his body until Isabel couldn’t wait any more.

  She met his kiss with her own frenzied need. Their clothes fell away in a rushed tangle of hands until at last they stood skin to skin. Patrick lowered his mouth to her throat, and Isabel sighed as shivers erupted over her body. Her nipples tightened, and he kissed the tight buds until she moaned.

  ‘I love you,’ he murmured against her skin. He led her to the bed, laying her down upon the soft coverlet. ‘I’m never letting you leave me, a ghrá. You’re mine.’

  She watched him with eyes filled with love. ‘As you are mine.’ Embracing him, she revelled in the feeling of his body against hers. ‘I love you, Patrick.’

  To her surprise, he leaned down and picked up her fallen veil. In a single motion, he rent it in half.

  ‘What are you—?’

  But the answer became clear when he gently tied each wrist to the bed posts. ‘I told you what I would be doing to you, my lady wife.’ He slid a finger beneath her bonds, testing to be sure they weren’t too tight.

  Isabel wanted to protest, but being unable to move offered a strange excitement. Her husband pinioned her body beneath his own, his mouth whispering what he planned to do to her.

  And oh, sweet saints, he did exactly that. With his hungry mouth, he blazed a path across her naked body, teasing and tempting her. He spread her thighs apart, lifting her hips for a more intimate kiss. Heat shot through her, while her wicked warrior tormented her until she spasmed.

  His hands moved over her breasts, lightly pinching the nipples until they rose up, heavily aroused. His mouth encircled each tip, sucking hard until wetness surged between her legs.

  ‘I wanted you from the first moment I saw you,’ he breathed, whispering across her skin. ‘And I fell in love with you the day you swam the channel.’

  He positioned his length between her legs, sliding deep within. Isabel wanted so badly to embrace him, but with her hands trapped, she could only accept the sweet torture.

  With long strokes, he touched the very heart of her. ‘I want to give you children and spend each day waking beside you.’

  He reached out and untied her wrists, freeing her. Isabel embraced him, raising her knees to take him deeper. The fierce pleasure rocked her backwards, but she clung to him as the sensations built up higher.

  He increased his pace, driving into her until at last Isabel screamed. He plunged deep inside, his face tightening as he poured himself within her.

  She clung to him, shaking with the raw pleasure. Kissing him again, she revelled in the satisfaction of lying in his arms.

  Patrick nuzzled her cheek, smiling wickedly as he withdrew from her body. ‘It may take a while before you bear me a child.’ His hands ran over the curve of her body to rest upon her womb. ‘We’ll have to make up for lost time.’

  ‘Some day soon,’ she whispered, praying his prediction would come true. ‘But only if you let me stay here at Laochre.’

  ‘Forever, a ghrá.’ He kissed her deeply, and then rolled out of bed to cross the room. He returned, holding the silver diadem. ‘This belongs to you, as is your right.’ He placed the crown upon her head. The metal warmed against her skin, but her husband’s touch distracted her more.

  Isabel lay in his arms and offered up her own prayer of thanksgiving.

  ‘What did you say?’ her husband murmured against her lips sleepily.

  ‘I thanked God for not saving me from this marriage,’ she replied.

  And
then, as night cast its spell over them, her warrior king made love to her once again.

  * * * * *

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-1139-5

  HER WARRIOR KING

  Copyright © 2008 by Michelle Willingham

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  www.eHarlequin.com

  Her Irish Warrior

  MICHELLE WILLINGHAM

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  ChapterNineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER ONE

  The island of Erin, 1171 AD

  Genevieve de Renalt’s breath burned in her lungs as she ran. Every muscle in her body cried out with exhaustion, but she refused to stop. With every step, freedom came a little closer. In the distance she heard hoofbeats approaching. He was coming for her.

  I am such a fool, she thought. She needed a horse, supplies, and coins if she had any hope of success. But there had been no time. She had seen the opportunity to flee and seized it. Even if her flight was doomed to failure, she had to try.

  This was her only chance to escape her betrothed. The thought of Sir Hugh Marstowe was like a dull knife against an open wound. For she had loved him once. And now she would do anything to escape him.

  Hugh kept his horse at an easy trot. He was playing with her, like a falcon circling its prey. He knew he could catch her with no effort at all. Instead, he wanted her to anticipate him. To fear him.

  He had controlled her for the past moon, deciding how she should behave as his future wife. She’d felt like a dog, cowering beneath his orders. Nothing she said or did was ever good enough for him. Her nerves tightened at the memory of his fists.

  Loathing surged through her. By the saints, even if her strength failed her she had to leave. She stumbled through the forest, her sides aching, her body’s energy waning. Soon she would have to stop running. She prayed to God for a miracle, for a way to save herself from this nightmare. If she stayed any longer she feared she would become a shell of a woman, with no courage, no life left in her at all.

  A patch of blackberry thorns slashed at her hands, the briars catching her cloak. The afternoon light had begun to fade, the twilight creeping steadily closer. Genevieve fought back tears of exhaustion, pulling at the briars until her hands were bloody.

  ‘Genevieve!’ Hugh called out. His voice sent a coil of dread inside her. He had drawn his horse to a stop at the edge of the woods. The sight of him made her stomach clench.

  I won’t go back. Stubbornly, she pushed her way through the gnarled walnut trees until she reached the clearing. Frost coated the grasses, and she stumbled to her knees while climbing the slippery hillside.

  A strange silence permeated the meadow. From her vantage point atop the hill, she caught a glimpse of movement. The dying winter grass revealed the presence of a man.

  No—men, she realised. Irishmen, dressed in colours to blend in with their surroundings. Behind them, at the bottom of the hill, she saw a single rider. The warrior sat astride his horse, his cloak pinned with an iron brooch the size of her palm. He did not reach for the sword at his side, but his stance grew alert. A hood concealed his face, and a quiet confidence radiated from him.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, he watched her. She could not tell if he was a nobleman or a soldier, but he carried himself like a king. With a silent gesture to his men, they scattered and disappeared behind another hill.

  Her heart pounded, for he could strike her down with his sword. Nonetheless, she squared her shoulders and stared at the man. She walked towards him slowly, even as her brain warned her that warriors such as he did not treat women with mercy.

  But he had a horse. A horse she needed if there was any chance of escaping Hugh.

  The man’s gaze locked with hers. If she screamed, it would alert Hugh to their presence. Precious seconds remained, and soon Hugh would overtake her.

  ‘Please,’ she implored him. ‘I need your help.’ Her ragged voice sounded just above a whisper, and for a moment she wondered if the soldier had heard her. Upon his cloak she noticed a Celtic design. This time she repeated her request in Irish. The man’s posture changed, and after a moment that stretched into eternity he turned his horse away. Within seconds he disappeared behind a hill, along with Genevieve’s hope.

  * * *

  Bevan MacEgan cursed himself for his weakness. From the moment she spoke he had recognised the woman as a Norman. The familiar hatred had risen within him, only to be startled by the desire to help her.

  She had awakened the ghost of a memory. With her face and dark hair, the first vision of her had evoked a nightmare he’d tried to forget for two long years. He closed his eyes, willing himself to block her out.

  He’d seen her fleeing, long before he had given the order for his soldiers to hide among the hills. Her attacker did not intend to kill her. Were that the case, he could have done so already. No, the Norman’s intent was to capture the woman.

  And by turning away he’d let it happen.

  He’d been forced to choose between the safety of his men and a woman he didn’t know. And, though he knew he’d made the right decision, his sense of honour cringed. He was supposed to protect women, not let them come to harm.

  But if he interfered now, his battle plans could go awry. He dared not risk the lives of his men by giving away their position. Their attack depended upon the element of surprise. He needed to watch and wait for the right moment.

  He found himself issuing orders. ‘I want five men to accompany me inside the fortress. Take the others and surround the outer palisade. At sunset, light the fires.’

  ‘You’re going after her, aren’t you?’ the captain of his men remarked.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You cannot save them all. She is only a woman.’

  ‘Do as I command.’ Tá, it was an unnecessary risk. But in the woman’s eyes he had seen pure terror—the same terror as in his wife’s eyes just before the enemy had taken her captive.

  And he felt the same helplessness now.

  Bevan chose the men who would accompany him and led them towards the fortress of Rionallís. It was his land, stolen by the invaders. With the help of his men, he meant to take it back.

  Rionallís was not a rath, like the other fortresses, but slightly larger. Within it he’d built an earth and timber castle, similar to the Norman style. He knew every inch of it, and exactly how to penetrate its defences.

  At his command, the men moved into position. Bevan waited until they were ready, and pushed away the brambles h
iding the entrance to the souterrain. The secret tunnel led beneath the fortress, into the chambers used for storage.

  He glanced up at the donjon, silhouetted by a blood-red sunset. Inwardly, he prayed for victory.

  The chill of the souterrain passage surrounded him as he entered. He had not been here for the past year and a half, and he noted the emptiness of the storage chambers. They should have been filled with bags of grain and clay-sealed containers of food. His people would suffer this winter unless he did something to help them.

  Though he hadn’t known about the conquest of his lands until now, he blamed himself. He had allowed his grief to consume him while he hired his sword as a mercenary to other tribes. And last spring the Normans had descended upon Rionallís like locusts, feeding off the labour of his people and desecrating his home. His small army was outnumbered, but he knew the territory well. He would stop at nothing to drive out his enemy.

  When he reached the ladder leading into one of the stone beehive-shaped cottages, he paused. He wished he had not seen the Norman woman, her eyes filled with fear as she pleaded for help. It would have been easy to simply hate them all and kill them, spilling their blood for vengeance. But the woman complicated matters.

  She was a pretty cailín, with a sweet face and deep blue eyes. An innocent, who deserved his protection. He had been unable to save his wife from her attackers. But he could save this woman.

  It should have made him feel better. Instead, it added a further element of risk to an already dangerous attack. And yet his mind grasped the possibilities. She would make a good hostage, providing him with the means to regain the fortress. Afterwards he would grant her the freedom she so desired.