Forbidden Night With The Prince

He watched the men training, and soon, Warrick and Rhys de Laurent joined him, one on each side. For a time, Ronan said nothing at all, though he knew their silent question. But Joan de Laurent was an innocent—a good woman who didn’t deserve a sinner like him.

Warrick studied him for a moment, his gaze piercing. At last he said, ‘She told you no, didn’t she?’

I didn’t ask her, Ronan thought. But he raised an eyebrow and avoided a direct answer. ‘Why should she agree to wed a man she doesn’t know?’

‘For the same reason she agreed to wed three other men she’d never seen,’ Rhys added. ‘Because our father arranged an alliance.’

Ronan eyed the man. ‘Among my people, we don’t marry a woman without knowing her first. I only met Joan last night, and we’ve spoken for less than an hour.’

‘Our sister won’t let you know her. She has already decided never to marry.’ Rhys stared back at the soldiers. ‘But that isn’t what’s right for her. She needs a husband and a family of her own.’

‘And you’ve already decided this, have you?’ Though he didn’t understand Joan’s reluctance to wed, he was not about to force the issue.

‘Our father would be pleased with the idea of Joan wedding an Irish prince.’

Ronan had no doubt of that. But neither he nor Joan had any interest in marriage. And yet, he wondered if she could convince her brothers to come to an arrangement. He stalled an answer, asking, ‘If she did agree to wed, how many men can you offer me?’

‘Two dozen Normans and fifty Irishmen,’ Warrick answered. ‘My wife inherited property at Killalough, and we can add our forces. Add the MacEgan soldiers, and it will be enough to retake Clonagh with minimal bloodshed.’

He believed Warrick. That would make nearly seventy-five highly trained men and possibly two dozen more from Laochre.

‘If our sister agrees to wed you,’ Rhys continued, ‘I will send my two dozen Norman soldiers to remain at Clonagh until you’ve driven out the traitors. If Joan is pleased with the marriage, I will send more.’

Ronan said nothing, but his instincts warned him that Joan’s brothers would accept nothing less than a union between them. He decided not to reveal his reluctance, stalling for more time.

‘You have three days to convince her,’ Warrick said. ‘If she has agreed to wed you by the end of those three days, then we will send the men.’ He paused a moment. ‘But if you hurt our sister at all, in thought or in deed, I will burn you alive.’

Which was exactly what a brother was supposed to say. Ronan didn’t react at all, and then Rhys added, ‘Or burning might be too fast. Flaying could be better.’ There was a knowing smile on his face, and he cracked his knuckles.

‘Before you decide to kill me, you should wait until there’s a reason for it,’ Ronan answered.

‘True.’ Warrick clapped him on the back. ‘I must return to my wife at Killalough, and Rhys is coming with me. We will assemble our men and leave Joan in the care of Queen Isabel.’ He regarded Ronan with a steady gaze. ‘Three days.’

* * *

Joan sat against the inner bailey wall with Sorcha, watching over the child as she made flower chains out of dandelions. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine that this was her little girl and not her brother’s. The young child sat down in Joan’s lap, and a surge of yearning filled her. This was what she wanted—to have a child of her own. It was a physical hole inside her, and she knew her time was running out. She should have been married five years ago, and now, she might be too old to bear a child.

The thought of returning to her father’s house to live among people who were afraid of her was disheartening. And yet, what else could she do? She didn’t dare wed again.

Her brothers wanted her to marry whether she wished it or not. Unbidden came the thought of Ronan Ó Callaghan. Joan could not deny that she was intrigued by this man. There was a strength about him, not only physical, but he seemed like one who was strong-willed and stubborn. If anyone could stand up to her brothers’ overprotective ways, it was Ronan. All he wanted in return was men to help him protect his people.

And suddenly, as if in answer to her thoughts, she saw him watching over them in the distance. Sorcha stood and hurried towards him.

‘Sorcha, wait.’ Joan tried to bring the child back, but it was too late. The girl was reaching her hand up to Ronan, while the daisy chain tipped from her dark hair. Joan wanted to groan, for heaven only knew what Sorcha was telling the Irish prince.

Ronan appeared wary of the child, as if he knew not what to do with her. Sorcha put her hand in his. ‘You come,’ she said. Without waiting for him to agree, she led him towards Joan.

When the pair of them were a short distance away, Ronan looked as if he were searching for a way to extricate himself. ‘I should go,’ he started to say, but Sorcha tightened her grip on his hand.

‘No. You have to see Lady Joan. She’s waiting.’

Waiting for what? Joan wondered. She couldn’t quite imagine what the little girl wanted, but the determination on Sorcha’s face rivalled the strongest warriors. Ronan had no choice at all, except to obey the child’s wishes. She tried to hold back her amusement at his discomfort but could not quite manage it.

‘And who have you brought, Sorcha?’ Joan asked. ‘Do you think he needs a flower chain?’ She could not resist teasing him, for the prince appeared uneasy being led about by a three-year-old.

The child shook her head. ‘No. The flowers are mine. You hold his hand.’ She brought the prince closer and then reached for Joan’s hand, joining them together. ‘There.’

She was startled by the warmth of his callused palm and the way his fingers covered hers. Joan was about to pull away, but Ronan closed his grip. He wore a dark leather tunic and leather arm bracers. His trews covered his powerful thighs, and a sword hung at his waist. Though he was a prince, he was also undeniably a warrior.

Sorcha began walking away, as if her task was now complete. Joan asked, ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m hungry, and Father is waiting for me.’ She pulled the drooping flower chain back on to her hair and then hurried up the stairs to her father. Rhys scooped her into his arms and held her against his hip.

Joan wasn’t certain what to say except, ‘My niece is not subtle, is she?’

‘She is very bold for one so young.’ He released her hand and then asked, ‘Why did your brother bring her to Ireland?’

Joan walked alongside him as they passed by the soldiers. ‘Rhys and Warrick came to witness my wedding, and Sorcha was rather demanding about wanting to attend. Truthfully, I think Rhys brought her along because Sorcha can be challenging. His wife, Lianna, just gave birth to another baby, and he thought it would give her time to rest with their son.’

Joan wished she could have stayed in Scotland to cradle the newborn, for there was nothing more wonderful than the feeling of an infant nestled against her heart.

‘Do you have many nieces or nephews?’

‘Two nieces and two nephews,’ she answered. ‘Sorcha is the eldest. Mary and Stephen are twin babies, born to Warrick and his wife, Rosamund. Edward is Sorcha’s little brother, who was only born a month ago.’

Ronan eyed her and ventured, ‘You want children of your own, do you not?’

Joan nodded without thinking. Then she stopped herself and said, ‘I do, but I suppose it is not meant to be.’ She could not imagine a fourth man dying before their marriage. The idea made her shudder.

‘Why do you say that?’

She didn’t know how to answer him, for he would never understand her reluctance. Instead, she kept her answer simple. ‘After three failed betrothals, I do not believe I will ever marry.’

He waited for her to elaborate, and when she did not, he stopped walking. ‘Why not?’

Because they all die. Her face reddened, and she shrugged. ‘You will say I am foolish if I tell you the reason.’

‘You are foolish,’ he repeated with a faint smile. ‘Now tell me the reason.’

An unexpected laugh broke free before she could stop herself. Perhaps she should tell him the truth, and then he might leave her alone.

Joan thought a moment and said, ‘If you were betrothed to a woman, and she died before you could wed, it would be a misfortune. If it happened a second time, you would feel uneasy. But after it happened a third time?’ She shook her head. ‘I am cursed never to marry. If I am betrothed a fourth time, that man will surely perish.’ She raised her chin to face him, waiting to hear his protests.

Yet he didn’t smile or scoff at her fears. Instead, he seemed to consider her confession, and he asked, ‘Was that why you refused to marry any man?’

She nodded. ‘I do not want to bring death, simply because I am cursed.’ Again, Joan waited for him to mock her beliefs, but he only remained pensive for a time.

At last he said, ‘Many of my men have their own beliefs regarding life and death, especially in battle. One wears a red ribbon around his left ankle, and he claims that it saved his life. Another has not cleaned his armour in over a year.’ He wrinkled his face. ‘God above, but it reeks.’ Then he relaxed and added, ‘You are not alone in your way of thinking.’