*The MacEgan Brothers
Someone grabbed her. His hand clamped over her mouth, the other arm gripping her waist as he spun her around. A blade of moonlight slipped from behind the clouds, casting a beam upon his face.
She froze at the sight of Ewan MacEgan. By the Rood, she’d never thought to see him again. What was he doing here?
His sculpted bare chest gleamed silver, his pectoral muscles rising and falling as he breathed.
“Looking for something?” he accused.
The last time she’d seen Ewan, he’d been a gangly boy of sixteen. The boy had become a man. A handsome one at that. His dark blond hair was cut short, emphasizing a lean face and a strong jawline. Broad shoulders revealed a tight strength she hadn’t remembered. Ridged muscles lined his abdomen, down to…
Oh, dear God above. He was naked.
With that, every coherent thought left her. He looked like a savage Celt. Ewan had a wildness about him that made her uneasy.
He released one wrist and ripped her hood free.
“You’re a woman.”
She couldn’t gather up her thoughts to answer and before she knew it, his mouth came down upon hers.
Taming Her Irish Warrior
Harlequin® Historical
Author Note
When I first began writing the Irish medieval stories of The MacEgan Brothers, the youngest brother, Ewan MacEgan, always held a special place in my heart. I’ve been eagerly awaiting the day when I could give this awkward, boyish and fiercely loyal hero the heroine of his dreams. Now that the adolescent boy has grown into a strong, passionate man, Ewan is about to meet his match in Honora St. Leger.
As a girl, Honora dreamed of wielding a sword and fighting alongside her father’s men. As a widow, she wages her own battle against losing her heart to Ewan, the man she loved many years ago. She can only be with Ewan if he sacrifices everything, and she refuses to let him surrender his future.
I hope you enjoy Ewan MacEgan’s tale, and I also invite you to download the love story of Honora’s sister Katherine and her handsome knight Sir Ademar, The Warrior’s Forbidden Virgin, available now in eBook form from Harlequin Historical Undone! You can also find behind-the-scenes information about my books and the other four MacEgan brothers on my Web site: www.michellewillingham.com. Trahern MacEgan will be next, and I look forward to writing his book.
I love to hear from readers, and you may e-mail me at [email protected] or write to me at P.O. Box 2242, Poquoson, VA 23662.
TAMING HER IRISH WARRIOR
MICHELLE WILLINGHAM
To all the readers who asked me for Ewan’s story.
Thank you so much for all of your
support and encouragement.
Praise for Michelle Willingham
HER WARRIOR SLAVE
“Michelle Willingham writes characters that feel all too real to me. The tortured soul that is Kieran really pulled at my heartstrings. And Iseult’s unfailing search for her lost child made this book a truly emotional read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Willingham skillfully combines a cast of wonderfully original characters with a refreshingly different, meticulously detailed setting to create a vivid tale of love and danger in medieval Ireland.”
—Chicago Tribune
HER WARRIOR KING
“The MacEgan tales just keep getting better. With Her Warrior King, Michelle Willingham has set a new standard of excellence. We will all be impatiently awaiting the next novel.”
—CataRomance, 4.5 stars
THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH
“[A] thought-provoking tale of love in the second installment of The MacEgan Brothers.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews, 4 stars
“I know we all wish we could have a MacEgan for our very own but since we cannot, be sure and pick up this not-to-be-missed tale of The MacEgan Brothers, The Warrior’s Touch.”
—CataRomance, 4.5 stars
HER IRISH WARRIOR
“Willingham not only delves into medieval culture, she also tells the dark side of being a woman in that era…The bright side is that in romantic fiction, a happy ending is expected, and it’s delivered in this excellent, plot-driven, page-turner of a book.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews, 4 stars
Available from Harlequin®Historical and MICHELLE WILLINGHAM
*Her Irish Warrior #850
*The Warrior’s Touch #866
*Her Warrior King #882
Her Warrior Slave #922
*Taming Her Irish Warrior #966
Other works include
Harlequin Historical Undone eBooks
*The Viking’s Forbidden Love-Slave
*The Warrior’s Forbidden Virgin
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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
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Chapter One
England—1180
The wood creaked, a faint noise that hardly anyone would notice. But Honora St Leger had trained herself to perceive details such as this, the underlying hints of a man’s presence.
He was here. The thief she’d been waiting to capture.
Her knees ached against the cold stone floor of the chapel, and though she pretended to pray, she inched her way closer to the altar and the sword she’d hidden beneath it.
A sennight ago, the thief had stolen a wooden cross from the chapel. And last night, a chalice had gone missing. Her father’s men had found nothing, not a trace of the thief.
The hairs stood up on the back of her neck, her instincts roaring. Closer now. Her breathing grew steadier as she mentally steeled herself for battle.
She reached beneath the altar cover, finding the cool metal hilt of the sword. The candles extinguished from a sudden gust of air.
Honora leapt to her feet, poised to strike. The soft s
ound of footsteps betrayed the man’s presence. Darkness shielded both of them, and she used her other senses to her advantage. Although she could not see her opponent, neither could he see her.
The rhythm of footsteps shifted, and fear suddenly arced through her. Oh, Jesu. There were two of them.
The air within the chapel shifted without warning, and instinct made her swing the sword behind her. Her blade struck steel, and the thief parried, the blow numbing her arm.
Where had the cur gotten a sword? A sword meant he was no ordinary thief—he was a trained fighter. Her pulse quickened, her fear rising. Though she had full confidence in her skills, fighting blind made it more challenging.
And there was still someone else in the chapel, someone she couldn’t see. The footsteps quickened, though she could not tell if they were running towards her or running away.
She swung the blade and was rewarded with a hiss of pain. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘What do you want?’
Silence.
When she sliced the sword again, it missed. She halted the blade, listening. Nothing remained but the coolness of air coming from the open door. Not a footstep, not a foreign breath marred the stillness. Both men had vanished.
Why?
Unless one of the men had driven the other off. Like an unseen protector.
She frowned, dropping to her knees again. The sword hilt warmed beneath her palm while her heart pulsed with energy. It had been half a year since she’d fled her husband’s home, Ceredys, and returned to her father’s donjon. She’d thought she was safe here at Ardennes. Now, she wasn’t so certain.
It unnerved her that this thief kept returning, as though he were searching for something. But what?
Honora contemplated returning to her chamber, but her sister Katherine was still abed. She couldn’t endanger her by leading the attackers there.
Instead, she lit the candles once more, trying to calm herself while the familiar scent of beeswax and old incense filled the space.
With her sword in hand, she sat against the stone wall. Though it was freezing and uncomfortable, she tucked her feet beneath her skirts.
It was then that she noticed the missing chest. She had brought it back from Ceredys, a gift given by her mother-in-law, Marie St Leger.
Now stolen.
Furious, she eyed the empty space where it had rested only moments ago. As she murmured a silent prayer for Marie’s soul, she vowed she would bring the thief to justice.
‘She won’t wed you.’
Ewan MacEgan shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun beginning to sink below the horizon. His brother’s prediction came as no surprise to him. He was the youngest son, with not much more than a tiny plot of land. What right did he have, thinking he could win the hand of an heiress? None at all.
But this was Lady Katherine of Ardennes, the woman he’d idolised since he was a lad of sixteen. While others had mocked his clumsiness, she had smiled at him, reassuring, ‘You’ll beat all of them one day.’
Though she was only a girl of fourteen years, Lady Katherine’s quiet faith had sustained him. Now that she had grown up to be a lady worthy of a thousand suitors, he intended to wed her.
‘I’ve known her since we were children,’ Ewan told his brother.
Bevan drew his horse to a stop by the river and let the animal drink. ‘That was five years ago. Her father will want her to wed a wealthy nobleman, not a penniless Irishman.’
‘I’ll gain my own wealth,’ Ewan answered. ‘Enough to build whatever kingdom she desires.’ Though he spoke with confidence, like Bevan, he had his doubts that Lord Ardennes would even consider him as a suitor for Katherine. The only thing in his favour was his royal bloodline, for his eldest brother, Patrick, was king of their province in Éireann.
Bevan rested his arm upon the horse and regarded him. ‘Let us help you. Take the land Patrick offered.’
‘I won’t take what I haven’t earned. I’ll get the land myself, or not at all.’ He would not be a leech, feeding off the family’s wealth.
‘Too proud, are you?’ The scar upon Bevan’s cheek tightened. ‘It won’t do you any good here. The girl’s family possesses wealth beyond your imaginings. She’ll marry a nobleman of the highest rank. You haven’t a chance.’
Ewan refused to believe it. ‘I have to try.’ He stiffened, keeping his gaze fixed upon the horizon. Urging his mount forwards, he tried to behave as if he didn’t see the pity on his brother’s face.
‘There are others who might be more suitable,’ Bevan continued, softening his tone. ‘Someone from Éireann. You don’t need to live here, among enemies. Wed an Irish cailín.’
Give up this Herculean task, was what his brother meant. Don’t reach for what you cannot possibly achieve.
It was what his brothers had counselled him, long ago when he’d expressed his desire to be a warrior. He had not possessed the natural talents of Patrick or Bevan. And though he’d poured himself into the training, his skills came from brute strength rather than finesse. Despite all the failures he’d suffered, he had overcome his weaknesses to become the man he was now.
Could he not do the same with winning a bride? Persistence counted for something, didn’t it?
He turned to Bevan. ‘She is the one I want.’
His brother expelled a sigh, drawing his horse to a stop. Although they were less than five miles from the donjon, Bevan turned his gaze westwards. ‘Be sure of it, Ewan.’
They travelled alongside one another for the remainder of the journey, not speaking. The landscape was familiar to him, verdant fields that rolled into hills. In five years, none of it had changed.
It struck him suddenly that he’d been content here. Though most of his kinsmen viewed Normans as the enemy foreigners, Ewan had never seen them as such. He’d spent three years among them, after Bevan’s wife, Genevieve, had arranged it. He’d finished his fostering with her father, Thomas de Renalt, the Earl of Longford. There, he had finally learned to fight.
A sense of unease passed over him, and he glanced at the scars upon his palms. Although the wounds had healed long ago, his hands were stiff. Grasping a sword took his full concentration, and he’d had to compensate for his awkwardness in other ways.
But he deserved the scars, for what he’d done to Bevan. He risked a glance at his older brother, wishing to God he hadn’t betrayed him. And though Bevan had forgiven him, he felt unworthy of it.
Ahead, he spied the castle that belonged to the Baron of Ardennes. The fortification was a blend of stone and wood. The outer bailey wall stretched high, perhaps the height of two men. The inner donjon held stone battlements and wooden outbuildings. Though he had not dwelled within the fortress, he had visited a time or two, along with his foster-father.
He tensed as they drew close to the barbican gate, wondering if Katherine would remember him.
Or Honora.
His grip tightened on the reins. During his fostering, Honora had nearly killed him on three different occasions. Accidents, she’d claimed. Though it was forbidden for women to train, that did nothing to stop her. She’d wanted to learn swordplay, like him, and he’d reluctantly offered instruction.
She was married now, he’d heard. Perhaps to a husband who could tame her wildness. He’d never met a woman so eager to wield a blade. And though he’d tried to avoid her, Honora had followed him everywhere.
Would that her sister had worshipped him so.
Despite the number of men vying for her hand, he intended to win Katherine first—no matter what it entailed. Anticipation rose up inside him, for soon he would conquer her heart.
The thief was among the suitors who had come for her sister; Honora was certain of it. With so many strangers, it would be simple enough to avoid notice.
She’d waited many hours until darkness shrouded the castle once more. In the ebony cloak of night, she moved soundlessly. Past the guards, keeping to the shadows while they conversed and played games of dice.
Find the ch
est, find the thief. It was as simple as that. Already, she had searched the Hall, but there was no trace of it among the low-born knights and retainers. All that remained were the private chambers reserved for guests of noble birth.
Not a sound did she make when she entered the first chamber. After searching the men’s belongings, she found nothing. She slid against the wall, moving towards the next chamber. Ahead, she spied the guard standing by the staircase.
Honora held her breath, praying he wouldn’t see her. Her father would murder her if he knew what she was doing.
When she reached the next chamber, she opened the door. Inside, silence permeated the space. She moved closer to a pile of belongings, staring at the shadows for a glimpse of the chest.
Abruptly, someone grabbed her. His hand clamped over her mouth, the other arm gripping her waist as he spun her around. Honora fought, kicking at his legs, but he lifted her up, pressing her back against the wall. A blade of moonlight slipped from behind the clouds, casting a beam upon his face.
She froze at the sight of Ewan MacEgan. By the Rood, she’d never thought to see him again. What was he doing here?
His sculpted bare chest gleamed silver, his pectoral muscles rising and falling as he breathed. Her heartbeat pounded, her skin prickling with gooseflesh, despite the warm summer heat.
‘Looking for something?’ he accused. His muscles did not appear taxed in the least by her body weight.
The last time she’d seen Ewan, he’d been a gangly boy of sixteen. Tall and thin, she remembered him as an awkward fighter, driven to succeed. He’d trained night and day, struggling to gain expertise.
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