Forbidden Night With The Prince

‘My brothers don’t believe me. They think it’s only a coincidence. And though they may be right, I cannot help but feel responsible for the deaths of each one.’

Ronan began walking alongside her once again. ‘Would you have married any of those men, if they had not died?’

A tightness caught within her chest. When she was seventeen, she had been thrilled about her first betrothal. Her girlish dreams had blossomed as she had imagined a husband and a family of her own. But then those dreams had been shattered, time and again.

At last, she nodded. ‘The first two were good men, from what I could tell. The last one was...older, but I could have managed.’ Though the idea of bedding Murdoch Ó Connor was not particularly a welcome one. Joan couldn’t quite visualise lying with such a man.

Although she could easily indulge in the unholy thoughts she’d had about Ronan. His muscled body, sleek from water, had tempted her in ways she didn’t even understand. She had felt an echo of sensation when she had run her fingers over his bare skin.

He caught her stare and she blinked, wishing her blush had not betrayed her interest. Better to gain control over her senses and put an end to these unspoken desires.

Ronan stopped walking near the barbican gate. In the distance, the coast was visible, and the sun shone upon the water. ‘Do you want to walk a little further?’

She thought about it for a time, wondering if she dared to be alone with him. He seemed like a man of honour, and she doubted if he would harm her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say the same for his own well-being, given what had happened to the men in her past.

With a shrug, she said lightly, ‘If you think it’s safe to be in my presence. You still might die.’

Ronan’s mouth curved in a smile. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

* * *

As they continued through the gate and into the open meadow, Ronan studied Joan’s appearance. She was indeed an attractive woman, though the white gown made her face appear too pale. She veiled her dark hair, but he had seen for himself how the wild locks tangled around her shoulders with a hint of curl. Any man would be pleased with her beauty.

She would have been a perfect second wife for his brother, Ardan. Ronan could easily imagine the pair of them—his quiet, kind-hearted brother and this woman. Joan was virtuous and gentle, someone who deserved a good man for a husband—not a hardened warrior like himself. The shadowed thread of regret wound around his conscience before he forced it back.

‘When will you return to Clonagh to take back your lands?’ she asked quietly.

‘Within a few days. I need to scout out their defences.’ His mood darkened at the thought of his people living under the threat of Odhran. His stepbrother’s rebellion had struck hard with a ruthless strength, and it gnawed at Ronan’s conscience. Odhran had used hired mercenaries to slaughter their guards and take hostages. King Brodur had been seized, and Ronan had cut down four men, trying to save his father from captivity.

But when his enemies had attempted to surround him, he’d had no choice but to run.

Shame darkened his mood, though he knew patience was necessary for the success of this conquest. He needed men to accompany him and information about his enemy’s weaknesses before he could invade.

Joan remained silent during their walk, staring out at the water. They continued through the grasses, passing by grazing sheep. He walked alongside her, and he could smell the faint scent of flowers emanating from her skin.

With each moment he spent at her side, he felt the silent chiding of Fate. He’d been a man who had lived in the moment and sought pleasure wherever he could find it. Now, he wasn’t suited to being anyone’s husband, and he had nothing to offer. She was right to turn down the betrothal.

‘I think you should put aside your reluctance and wed the King of Tornall’s daughter,’ Joan suggested. ‘You could ally yourself with her father’s men and defend your people. She is Irish, like you, and it would unite your kingdoms.’

It was a sensible suggestion, and one he had considered. But there was a greater threat to his clan if he accepted help from that tribe. ‘If I do that, then King Tierney might try to claim Clonagh for his own. He will exert his own political power because I would owe him a debt.’

Joan gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. ‘Perhaps.’ She walked to the edge of the clearing, and looked out over the sea. A short distance away was the island of Ennisleigh, a fortress the men used to scout invaders attacking by sea. There was a ruined keep that stood there, one they had not bothered to rebuild. It gave the appearance of no threat at all, but Joan knew that there were many soldiers guarding the outpost day and night. It was a deliberate means of protecting Laochre from seaborne invaders.

‘The island is beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘I do love the sea. Is Clonagh far away from here?’

‘It is. The fortress lies two days north,’ he admitted. ‘We have forests but no coast.’

They stood for a while, watching over the waves. Strands of her dark hair escaped from her veil, and Joan tried to force them back. The winds grew stronger, and at last, she laughed, removing the veil entirely. The dark curls framed her face, and her cheeks were rosy from the chill. Only a few months ago, he would have stolen a kiss and tried to tempt her. She made him want to push back the boundaries between them and find out whether there was a woman of passion beneath her innocent exterior.

When she saw him staring, her smile faded. ‘Is something wrong?’

Only an urge that he shouldn’t have. He brushed back the strands of hair from her face, cupping her face. He studied those deep blue eyes that mirrored the sea, and admired the curve of her cheek. Unlike a young maiden who would shy away or giggle, she met his gaze openly.

She was untouched, a woman of innocence. Her white gown reminded him of that, and he knew she would never consent to a marriage. But Joan de Laurent intrigued him. He wanted to taste those full lips, to see what sort of secrets she was keeping from the world. And more than that, he wanted to understand why this woman had captured his attention.

Her hand moved to cover his, as if she wanted to pull away. And yet, she didn’t. The touch of her fingers upon his was spellbinding, and he locked his gaze with hers.

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

He let his hand drift downward to her shoulder before he held her waist in both hands. For a moment, he kept her captive, simply watching. For a woman who did not want to marry, she made no effort to escape him. Instead, she waited for him to answer her question.

‘Even if there were no curse, we could not wed. We are not suited.’ He knew it down to his bones. Joan de Laurent was a good woman, the sort who deserved a decent man. Not one who had caused a tragedy for his family.

‘I agree that we are very different,’ she said quietly. ‘You are an Irish prince, and I am the daughter of a Norman earl. We have nothing at all in common.’

His hands moved up her spine, and he felt like a bastard, wanting to push back the boundaries between them. But she was a forbidden craving he wanted to taste.

‘It’s more than that, Joan. Trust me when I say you would never want a man like me.’ He drew his hands down again in a soft caress, resting them upon her hips.

She closed her eyes as if his touch had burned through her. From the colour in her cheeks, he knew the effect he was having on her, but he wasn’t ready to let her go—not yet.

‘W-why would you say such a thing?’ she stammered. ‘Have you done something terrible?’

He had. Something so terrible, he dared tell no one at all. And if he didn’t gather his self-control, he was about to trespass upon this innocent woman’s virtue.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it? Since we will never wed.’ He released her from his grasp, expecting her to pull away from him. But she kept her hands upon his chest, above his beating heart. He wore no armour, but the simple heat of her palms burned through the leather tunic, arousing him deeply. He remembered how it had felt when her slick hands had soaped his wet skin, and desire had taken hold of his senses.

‘I don’t think you’re as bad as you say you are,’ she murmured.

It was almost a challenge, and one he was prepared to face. He reached back to her waist and pulled her closer.

‘You’re right, a stór. I’m far worse.’

And with that, he lowered his mouth to hers and claimed a kiss.

* * *

The heat of his mouth was scalding, a demand—not a request. Joan tasted his longing, and when he held her closer, her hips pressed to his. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal, and to her shock, she responded to him, growing weak with need. Never in her life had she been kissed like this, though her first two betrothed husbands had kissed her. Her breasts tightened, and she could not catch a single breath as Ronan claimed her.

His tongue slid within her mouth in a silent temptation, and she could do nothing except surrender. What startled her the most was her own racing heart. She wanted this man, yearned for his touch. He attracted her in all the wrong ways until she hardly cared at all. His hands threaded through her hair, tangling the strands as he kissed her hard. She opened to him, yielding to the onslaught until she could scarcely catch her breath.

You cannot have him, her mind warned. He was forbidden to her, and she should not give in to these longings. Else he would die.

But she was kissing him back, meeting him with the answer of her own veiled desires. For so many years, she had been promised to strangers with her father’s seal upon the betrothal—just before those men had lost their lives. The sweet stolen kisses had stopped when she’d lost each one. And she’d never realised how much she needed a man’s touch until now. It was as if someone had ripped apart her inhibitions, exposing her deepest desires. She faltered at the thought of Ronan claiming her body, giving her a child.

But the thought of seeing his sightless eyes staring back at her brought a tremor of heartache.

No, she could not take the risk of his death. Not even for one forbidden night.