Her Warrior King

‘Should we reveal she is your wife?’ Trahern asked.

Patrick gave a curt nod. Trahern took the pathway up to the ringfort entrance while Bevan led the horses along the strand. Sunlight illuminated the ruined rath of Ennisleigh. Patrick waited a few moments before extending a hand to help Isabel up the steep walkway.

She did not accept his assistance, but set her face with determination. He kept his pace slow while she steadied her footing upon the path.

‘Why are you leaving me here?’ Before he could answer, she added, ‘And if you tell me one more time it’s for my own protection, I might seize your dagger and cut out your tongue.’

He didn’t believe she’d do it. ‘You won’t. After all, you’re afraid of mice.’

‘I’m not afraid of you.’

He stopped and leveled a glare at her. ‘Perhaps you should be, a chara.’ Before she could dive towards the blade at his side, he trapped her wrists.

She struggled to break free of him, muttering, ‘I should have stolen a horse when I had the chance.’

Patrick didn’t know what she meant by that reply, but he would not relent. ‘As I said, you have your freedom here. Live as you choose.’

‘But stay away from you and your tribe.’

He released her. ‘Yes.’ There would never be a time when she could be one of them. The sooner she understood that, the better for both of them. For a moment, he tore his gaze from her and stared out at the azure sea.

A stubborn glint lit her eyes. He didn’t know what she planned, but he didn’t like it.

‘Does my father know of my exile?’ she asked.

The question was a subtle threat. ‘You are no longer his concern.’

‘I will be when he arrives at Lughnasa,’ Isabel warned. ‘If this marriage allowed you to save the lives of your people as you claim, then I should at least be allowed to live among the tribe.’

‘I never said you would be living with us.’ Her assertion did not concern him in the least. By Lughnasa, his forces would be strong enough to drive out all of the Normans.

‘Aren’t you afraid of what my father might do?’

‘No.’ Though he’d conceded defeat in battle and wedded Isabel, he refused to be commanded by a Norman. ‘Edwin de Godred holds no power here.’

And the Baron would hold no power within the privacy of their marriage, either. If Isabel ever bore a child, it would not be of his blood. After they’d defeated Edwin’s men, he intended to sever the union. It would have to wait until after the harvest, but that would give him enough time to gather the funds needed to coerce the Archbishop.

Isabel strode past him, her mood furious. When they reached the crest of the hill, she stopped short. A moment later, her lips parted in surprise.

She saw its beauty, as he did. One side of the island near the channel was fierce and rugged, while glittering sand embraced the side closest to the sea.

Isabel held herself motionless. Her eyes held a muted awe as she surveyed the landscape.

A moment later, her softness disappeared. Rebellion brewed in her eyes, along with something else…like sorrow. ‘I don’t belong here.’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘You don’t. But it’s the only place for you.’ He closed himself off to her feelings. His duty was to his tribe. There was no place for guilt. And yet, he found himself fascinated by the soft lips that argued with the ferocity of a warrior.

‘I’ll find a way to leave.’

His hand captured her nape, her hair tangling in his grasp. With mock seriousness he added, ‘Then I’ll have to chain you.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘I’ll dare anything.’ He met her challenge, even as her hands struggled against him. Fury flashed in her eyes, and he caught himself staring at her mouth. Full, with an intriguing lower lip.

Immediately he released her, angry with himself for even considering touching her. ‘I will return to you this night, after I have tended to my own fortress. You’ll need supplies.’

‘Why bother? I’m sure your tribe would prefer that you starved me to death and mounted my head upon the gate.’

He didn’t comment. For some, she wasn’t too far off from the truth.

Tall grasses swelled in the breeze, brushing against their knees as they walked. Up ahead, stone beehive-shaped cottages stood against the perimeter of the palisade wall. He inspected them, searching for signs of damage. He was satisfied to see none. Only his family’s dwelling had suffered, and it could be rebuilt.

Smoke curled from the outdoor cooking fires, wisping tendrils of burning peat. His stomach growled as the scent of hot pottage mingled in the air. Just in front of the fortress, a large stretch of land bloomed green with seedlings.

He heard the soft sounds of conversation, but none of the islanders emerged from their huts. Good. They had obeyed his brothers’ warning. Even still, he was certain that all eyes watched them from behind the hide doors.

He led Isabel towards the ruined fortress built by his grandsire. It stood on the highest point of the island, its proud walls humbled by fire.

This was the place where he’d often run away from home. Patrick laid a hand against a charred beam, remembering the broad laugh of his grandsire Kieran MacEgan. ‘This dwelling is mine.’

‘How did it burn?’ Isabel asked. ‘Was it the invaders?’

Patrick shook his head. ‘The islanders set it on fire, so the Normans would believe they were already under attack.’

He didn’t blame the islanders for burning it. His grandsire would have wanted it that way. Better to burn it than to let it fall into Norman hands. ‘And they saved themselves,’ he added.

The main building was mostly intact, save the burned walls. It would not be a comfortable place to live, but it provided a dry roof. In most places, Patrick amended, recalling holes in the ceiling.

At that moment Bevan and Trahern returned with two sacks of supplies. Trahern held a steaming meat pie in one hand, while he bit deeply into another. Patrick caught a sack tossed by Trahern. He hadn’t missed the way Isabel’s eyes devoured the mutton pie with unrestrained longing.

He offered one to her, and Isabel half-moaned when she bit into it. Her eyes remained closed, her lips tasting the food as if she’d never been more satisfied.

Patrick jerked his attention away. The look on her face might be unintentional, but his body could not help responding to her. This marriage would be far easier to endure if his wife had a nose missing or hideous scars. Instead, she had the face of the goddess Danu.

Patrick nodded for Trahern and Bevan to accompany him outside the dwelling. ‘What news have you heard from the islanders?’

‘The Ó Phelan clan is gathering its forces,’ Bevan told him. A grim edge of finality lined his brother’s voice. ‘They’re planning to attack while we are vulnerable.’

And here he’d thought matters could not get worse. First the Normans, now another clan. The Ó Phelans had easily survived the invasion. He suspected they had turned traitor, bribing the Normans or making other arrangements.

‘Prepare the men,’ Patrick commanded. ‘They need to be ready for an attack.’

Bevan shrugged. ‘I could, but it will be for naught.’

‘You think me incapable of defending our tribe?’ Patrick asked, his voice cold and hard.

‘I do,’ Bevan replied. ‘Especially since you must open your gates to the foreigners. Norman bastards.’ He spat upon the ground, hatred brewing in his eyes. Shaking his head in disgust, he added, ‘You should never have wed her.’