Her Warrior King

Grey eyes, the colour of freshly hewn stone, stared at her with intensity. Isabel wanted to look away, but she forced herself to meet his scrutiny. Her warrior husband could do anything to her, and there was naught she could do to stop him. It was her duty to submit. Even so, her fingers dug into the damp earth.

Patrick didn’t move. Gossamer shivers erupted across her skin at the dark heat in his gaze.

‘Sleep, a chara.’

At the invitation to escape, Isabel scrambled away from him. She huddled against the cave wall, shivering, yet her skin blazed as though it were on fire. Suddenly she was afraid of the unexpected yearning he evoked. Blood raced within her veins, her skin sensitive.

By the Blessed Mother, she had wanted him to draw closer. Though his demeanour was rough and savage, a primitive part of her yearned to know him.

What was the matter with her? What had happened to her loyalty? Everything about this man bespoke his barbarian nature. From her childhood, she’d heard tales of the ancient Celts who rode into battle naked, their faces painted blue.

She could almost picture Patrick’s face painted a fierce shade of indigo, fighting against the Norman invaders. He had practically stolen her from her own wedding. He hadn’t bothered to celebrate with feasting or participate in the ceremonial bedding. He was unpredictable, and she didn’t trust him to keep his vow. One moment he seemed to desire her; the next he grew distant.

She wanted him to stay away. She didn’t like the unexpected longings that tempted her. He frightened her with his dangerous manner.

Patrick’s brothers disappeared outside, leaving them alone. Isabel buried her face in her knees. Though she shivered partly from cold, her mind clenched with uneasiness.

Moments later, a warm cloth fell across her shoulders. Isabel stood, drawing the shawl across her shoulders. Patrick held out a ragged gown. ‘Put this on. You need to wear the clothing of a tribeswoman now.’

The coarse woollen dress was unlike any she had seen, a long gown that draped to her ankles with voluminous sleeves. She turned her back to him while she put it on. ‘Am I to be a slave, then? It is the colour of horse dung.’

The edges of his mouth tipped. ‘I did not have time to barter for the colours you wanted. You may embroider the léine when we arrive in Eíreann.’

When she turned back to face him, Patrick adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. She stood only inches from an embrace.

In time, he exerted a gentle pressure upon her shoulders, forcing her to lie upon the cloak he’d spread upon the ground. He tucked the edge around her shoulders and spread the mantle across her. ‘Sleep. We’ve a long journey on the morrow.’

Isabel turned away to feign sleep. Ever since the wedding, she had felt frozen in stone.

Shadowed against the darkness of the cave, her husband stood guard. She sensed a wildness within him, a feral hunter who would show no mercy.

Patrick turned and caught her gaze. Steel eyes disarmed her, while the flesh of her body rose with heat. What was wrong with her? Why could she not shut him out?

‘Will we reach your fortress in a day’s journey?’

He shook his head. ‘But I will take you to your new home.’

Isabel faltered, suddenly understanding more than she wanted to. ‘Where is that?’ He wasn’t going to abandon her in Erin, was he?

‘You wanted your freedom,’ he said. ‘I will grant that to you. You will remain upon the island of Ennisleigh.’

Her heart sank, a coldness surrounding her. ‘Alone?’

He inclined his head. ‘It is for your own protection. I cannot say what my tribe would do to you, were you to live among them.’

‘I’ve done nothing to harm anyone.’

‘Norman blood runs within your veins. It is enough.’

Isabel huddled before the fire, her mind surging with anger. Did he think she would agree to this bargain? ‘I won’t be a prisoner there. You’ve no right to treat me as such.’

‘My duty is to keep you safe. It’s the only way.’

‘Your people disobey your commands, then?’

He tensed, as though her words were made of thorns. ‘You know me not, Isabel. Do not presume to judge me. I seek only to make the best of this arrangement.’

‘What is best for you.’

‘What is best for all of us.’

She clenched her teeth. So the Irish king believed he could exile her without a fight?

Patrick MacEgan had no idea just how difficult she could be.

Chapter Three

White sails rippled in the wind, and in back of the vessel, the horses whinnied their displeasure at being trapped in one place. Patrick could sympathise with them. After a full day of nothing but grey skies and an endless sea, he longed to walk upon solid ground. Though he sailed when necessary, he disliked being at the whim of the seas.

In the distance, the green hills of his homeland emerged, fragments of the shoreline ridged with sandy earth and limestone. Patrick’s chest constricted with emotion at the sight of it. As a lad, he’d once run along the strand, playing with boyhood friends. Now, he held a different memory of these shores. The Norman invaders had landed here, spilling the blood of his people. And that of his eldest brother Liam.

His hand moved to his sword hilt, feeling the unfamiliar warmth of ivory and wood. The weapon was one he’d inherited by right, but he had not grown accustomed to it. A ruby, worn smooth by generations of MacEgan kings, rested in the hilt. Once, they had commanded an imposing presence upon the land. But his father’s men were used to tribal raids, not organised warfare. Most could wield a sword, but they had no formal training in how to withstand the enemy in large numbers.

He meant to change that now. The only way to protect themselves from the Normans was to learn their weaknesses. He would bring the soldiers among them, watch their training, and force his men to learn. Then he could use the Normans’ own strategies against them in battle.

Mists encircled the island of Ennisleigh while storm clouds gathered along the horizon. The craggy rocks protected a small ringfort atop the hill, enclosing seven stone huts. Only a score of ageing survivors remained. Proud and set in their ways, the folk had refused to join the remainder of his tribesmen on the mainland.

His gaze moved towards his wife. Isabel’s golden hair tangled in a web about her shoulders, shadows lining her eyes. She studied the land without any emotion in her face.

‘That is where you will live,’ he told her, pointing towards the island.

Her posture stiffened. She looked as though she was considering throwing herself into the dark waters. He wouldn’t put it past her.

‘You will have your freedom there,’ he said softly. ‘And in this way I can grant you my protection.’

She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Protection? We both know it is my prison.’ She turned her face away from the island, her veil whipping in the breeze.

‘There is nowhere else for you to go.’ Why could she not accept the truth? Her father’s men had murdered his. His tribe would never bid her welcome upon the mainland. But Ennisleigh had emerged virtually unscathed from the battle. It was an island sanctuary amidst the fighting at his own fortress.

The harsh scent of salt permeated the air while gulls screeched around them. A low fog skirted the ghostly island. With his brothers’ help, he drew in the sail, eager to get off the ship.

As they neared the dock, his brothers slowed the oars. Bevan held the craft steady while Patrick stepped on to the wooden pier. He reached down and helped Isabel off the ship. She took a few unsteady steps, and then walked across the planks towards the beach.

‘Let the horses off for some food and water,’ Patrick directed Bevan. ‘Then we’ll take them back to Laochre.’

‘I’ll get food for us,’ Trahern offered. ‘I’m wanting a taste of something fresh.’

Before his brother could leave, Patrick warned, ‘Keep the islanders away. Tell them to remain in their huts for this day and not to bother Lady Isabel.’ The islanders loved nothing more than gossip, and he knew his Norman bride would provide fodder for many nights’ conversation.