Taming Her Irish Warrior

He meant it, too. She gripped her skirts, wanting to rend the fabric out of frustration. ‘Yes, Father.’

She was about to leave, when he added one more warning. ‘Behave yourself, Honora.’

She had no appetite for breaking her fast, no matter that the rest of the guests were partaking of the delicious array of foods. Honora strode through the Hall, trying to ignore the men enjoying their meal.

Her father’s vow made it impossible not to notice them. Most were younger, and all wealthy.

Well, all, save one. Her gaze flickered upon Ewan MacEgan. His blond hair was slightly tousled, as though he’d raked his hand through it. From the way his sleeve tightened against his upper arm … Holy Virgin, there was no denying his strength.

Ewan reached for an apple, adding it to the food he’d already selected to break his fast. Honeyed cakes, bread, braised lamb and fresh salmon were piled high before him.

It was a wonder there was any food left, Honora thought to herself. Ewan had always been one to enjoy a meal, but from the look of him, there was not a trace of fat—only raw muscle.

‘Did you find the man you were looking for?’ he asked, when she was forced to walk past him.

Honora pretended as though he hadn’t spoken. Blood rushed to her face at the memory of last night. It was easier to remember Ewan as the boy, not the man. When she walked past the trestle table, he reached out and caught her wrist.

‘Let me pass.’

‘Not yet. Where is your sister? I’ve not seen her this morn.’

Honora took his palm, trying to force her way out of his grasp. ‘I imagine she is surrounded by her other suitors, listening to them describe the pearl of her skin or the silk of her hair. Now if you’ll excuse me—’

Ewan stood, still holding her wrist. If she twisted away, the skin would bruise. But standing this close to him, she could smell the clean scent of him, like summer rain. He wore a forest-green tunic and brown trews, rather like a huntsman. His fair hair was cut short, resting against his neck. Vivid green eyes warmed as they looked upon her.

‘Your father spoke of a tournament. To prove my strength and ability to protect his daughter, so he said.’

No, it was more like parading the men in front of them. Like animals for the choosing,Honora thought sourly.

‘Let go of me, Ewan.’

He turned over her palm, studying the rough calluses from years of wielding a sword. ‘Are you still as good as you used to be?’ There was a hint of challenge beneath his words.

She knew what he meant. And though she had kept it hidden from her father, she trained among the men at least once every sennight. ‘Better.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’ His shrewd expression revealed that he hadn’t forgotten any of the sword matches they’d fought against one another. And though she had won often, Ewan had never once complained about being bested by a woman. Many a time he could have revealed her secret. Instead, he’d held his silence and trained even harder.

Now, she wasn’t so certain she could win against him. His body was larger, his muscles firm. When he’d lifted her up, it was as if it took no effort at all.

As he bit into a piece of bread, she found herself watching the way his tunic clung to his body, tightening across his chest. She remembered Ewan’s warm skin pressing close to hers, and his ardent kiss, the rush of sweet aching.

The direction of her thoughts was disconcerting, and Honora forced her mind back to the present. At Ewan’s side, she spied a familiar weapon.

‘I want my dagger back.’

He shrugged. ‘And you’ll have it. Once you’ve told me what I wish to know.’

‘I already told you. I don’t know where Katherine is.’

‘That isn’t the price of your dagger.’

‘Then what is?’

‘Tell me more about your sister. What does she covet? What gifts can I bring her that will give me an advantage over the others?’

Honora didn’t answer at first. A sliver of anger balled up inside, wounding her pride. She didn’t want to give him information about Katherine, didn’t want to aid his courtship.

But it wasn’t jealousy, she told herself. No, it was simply that Ewan wasn’t the man for Katherine. He was far too aggressive, too bold for her sister’s gentle ways.

‘What about an animal?’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps a kitten. I haven’t seen many cats around, and it might be useful to her.’

‘A kitten,’ she repeated, while mad thoughts of vengeance flowed through her mind. Her conscience prickled, but she stamped it down. It would serve him right for kissing her, stealing her dagger and demanding information about Katherine.

‘No one has given her a kitten, thus far,’ she admitted.

Jesu. Now she would have to go to confession. Thank goodness Father Louis was nearly deaf. She could confess to murder, and the priest would offer the same absolution as ever.

Ewan released her wrist. ‘Was that so difficult?’ He unsheathed the dagger and handed it to her, pommel first. ‘And you should have the blacksmith adjust this weapon. The balance is off.’

‘It was broken once.’ Her husband, Ranulf, had destroyed the blade in a fit of temper, tossing it into the fire. Honora had never expected to see it again, but she’d found it among her belongings shortly after she’d left Ceredys. Marie St Leger must have ordered it repaired, though Honora didn’t know why. Though she was grateful for the dagger’s return, she disliked the large pommel the blacksmith had added, preferring a simpler design.

Honora rubbed her wrist and tucked the weapon into her girdle without another word. She strode away, trying to push her way past the irrational anger. What was it about Ewan MacEgan that tangled up her sense of reason? As a child, she’d lost her head over him. As a woman, she found him entirely too confident.

Entirely too handsome and strong.

Oh, she needed to bash her head against the stone wall. Perhaps that would knock some sense into her. She didn’t need a man like him, or any man. Despite her father’s wishes, she would never marry again.

But if she didn’t, Nicholas would force her to leave Ardennes and return to Ceredys. The very thought made her skin turn to ice. She wasn’t ready yet. Nicholas wasn’t about to lend her men against John, and she didn’t have soldiers of her own.

She’d tried to hire mercenaries two moons ago, believing that they could remove John from power and allow her to return to Ceredys. But she’d learned the darker side of soldiers, for they’d stolen her money and done nothing in return. Her naïvety had cost her dearly.

No, she needed men of honour. And men of that nature required more coins than she had.

Her father’s suggestion that she wed a man with an army wouldn’t do, either. A new husband would have no interest in going to war against John of Ceredys.

There was no one to help.

A frisson of grief curled over her. Marie St Leger, John’s grandmother, might have known what to do, had she lived. She had been one of the most intelligent ladies Honora had ever known. Strong-willed and furious with her own sons, Marie treated her like a daughter. And it was because of Marie that she’d managed to escape at all.

It broke her heart to think of the woman’s death, only a single moon ago. She’d kept her vow to pray for Marie’s soul each night.

Honora blinked back the wetness rising in her eyes. She needed a moment to herself, a chance to think. Perhaps if she rode out from the castle, she’d find a solution for the people of Ceredys.

She walked to the stables and ordered a groom to prepare her palfrey. When the horse was ready, she urged the animal away from the castle grounds. Two guards joined her as escorts, but she ignored them, pretending for a moment that she was alone.

A light summer rain began to fall, misting her cheeks as she rode. The scent of horse and musty earth made her throat tighten. Why did this have to happen? Was God punishing her for her disobedience as a girl? She’d gone against the natural order of things, wanting to be more like a warrior than a woman.

And it was wrong, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t she content herself with womanly things? Why was there such a need inside, to be as strong as a man?