Forbidden Night With The Prince

Joan pulled back from him with reluctance, knowing that she could not surrender to her desires. At least, not unless the curse could be broken—if that was even possible.

‘I won’t apologise,’ he said gruffly. ‘I wanted to kiss you.’

‘I don’t need an apology,’ she murmured. Her heart was racing, her skin tightening with unspoken need. Between her legs, she ached, and it was a struggle to calm herself. ‘But we both know it was a mistake.’ They would never marry, and she could not risk falling into temptation.

His eyes locked upon hers as if he didn’t believe her. ‘You kissed me back.’ There was a pointed question in his statement, but she had no idea how to answer it.

Instead, she blurted out, ‘It would have been bad manners not to.’

At that, he threw back his head and laughed. His green eyes warmed with humour, and he rested his hand on the small of her back. ‘So it would.’ And though she knew it had been unwise, she did not regret kissing him.

Ronan guided her back towards the castle, and for a time, she held her silence. She knew better than to imagine that this man wanted her for anything other than her brothers’ soldiers. He wanted to take back his fortress, nothing more.

The prince slowed his pace and studied her. ‘You surprised me, Lady Joan. And it makes me consider another possibility. Would you consider a betrothal with me, even if we did not marry? Your brothers would grant me the men I need, and I would grant you whatever you desire.’

‘I—I don’t know.’ She had never considered the possibility, but the very thought of wedding a man like Ronan made her blush. One kiss had turned her knees to water, and her heartbeat was still racing.

‘Surely there is a way we could help each other.’

She steeled herself and stopped walking. Did she dare to tell him the truth of what she wanted most? Likely not, for she hardly knew this man. It shamed her to admit that she wanted a child so badly, she was willing to consider bearing one out of wedlock.

He had suggested a betrothal without an actual marriage. It made her wonder if that was a way around the curse. Ronan seemed to be a kind man, and there was no doubt she felt an attraction to him.

Would it be so wrong to surrender her virtue to this prince and take him into her bed? Or was the risk too great? In the eyes of the church, a formal betrothal was nearly the same as a marriage. She would not be the first woman to lie with her intended husband before the vows were spoken.

Her brothers might kill him, even if the curse did not. But she could not deny that Ronan had awakened sensual longings within her.

Her face felt as if it were on fire, but she decided to tell him the truth. ‘You asked me what I wanted.’

‘Yes. Name it, and if it is in my power to give, this I will do.’ He turned to regard her. His green eyes gazed upon her with interest, and she felt her blush rising again.

‘The truth is, I want a child of my own.’

For a long moment, he stared at her in disbelief. She could not read the emotions on his face, but it seemed as if she had struck a nerve. It made her wish she hadn’t spoken at all. Perhaps he didn’t desire her after all, despite the kiss they had shared. Perhaps he found her lacking, a woman to be pitied. Her stomach twisted with humiliation, but at last he spoke.

‘A child is something I cannot give you. Not ever.’

The finality in his voice startled her, for although she had expected a refusal, she had not anticipated the cold anger in his voice. She didn’t ask him why, for it was clear that he did not want to speak of it.

So be it. There would be no betrothal between them, and they would go their separate ways. It should have been a relief—and yet, she felt a sense of regret. Ronan Ó Callaghan was the first man she had been attracted to in years. His kiss had taken her breath away, leaving her wanting more. But it was not meant to be.

As they returned to the castle, the weight of silence descended over them.

* * *

Joan had originally planned to return to Killalough with her brothers, but Queen Isabel had begged her to stay for the Samhain festivities. She would rather have retreated to their fortress, but Warrick and Rhys had told her to stay, to appease the queen and to keep good relations with the MacEgan tribe. They would send an escort for her within a few days.

She had no doubt that they were trying to arrange a match with Ronan. Although she had already told them it was not a possibility, her brothers were ignoring her.

The autumn air was crisp, and Joan strode through the inner bailey, carrying a basket of turnips. Several of the children followed, begging her to save the largest turnip for them to carve. Tonight, they would place lights within the turnips and carry the lanterns to keep away the evil spirits.

She found that it was entertaining to carve the turnips into faces. After distributing the turnips among the children, she chose one for herself and went to sit upon the stone steps leading to the battlements. With a small dagger, she began cutting into the vegetable, attempting to form eyes within the reddish-white mass.

Footsteps drew nearer, and a shadow crossed over her. When she glanced up, she saw Ronan standing there. He was holding a large turnip of his own. Joan wasn’t quite certain why he had come to speak with her. It seemed that he’d been avoiding her since he’d kissed her. Now, he was behaving as if nothing were amiss.

Without asking, he sat down beside her and compared their turnips. ‘Mine is bigger.’

She almost laughed, for it sounded like exactly something her brothers might say in teasing. There was a hint of wickedness in his eyes, and she realised he was trying to mend the awkwardness between them. Her mood softened, and it did seem that he wanted to become friends once again.

And so, she met his teasing with her own response. ‘Size doesn’t matter, my lord.’

A sinful smile curved over his mouth, making her flush. ‘I’ve heard otherwise.’

‘Most people say it’s what you do with your size that matters,’ she parried. His grin widened at the entendre, and she added, ‘I have two brothers. Your jest is not a new one.’ She carved a notch in the turnip, but her blade slipped and nicked the vegetable.

‘Is that meant to be a face?’ he asked. He took out his own dagger and began notching his turnip. Which was, in fact, bigger than hers.

‘It is.’ She wasn’t particularly artistic, but it did have the necessary parts. ‘Those are the eyes, and that’s the nose.’

‘You cut his nose off.’

‘No, he was wounded in battle. It’s still there.’ To emphasise her point, she cut a line across the surface. ‘That’s a terrible scar. He was trying to save his lady from the enemy and suffered for her sake.’

‘And she was taken away and was lost forever,’ he finished. ‘He died of a broken heart.’

‘That wasn’t the ending I had planned.’ She carved another notch into the turnip, attempting to make the face smile. ‘I was thinking that she would see beneath his scars to the man he truly was. And then he would bring her home with him to love for always.’

‘That isn’t what happens in real life, Lady Joan.’

Joan set down her knife to look at him. With a shrug, she said, ‘It’s my story, and I can end it however I like.’ She wasn’t entirely surprised that he had disregarded the love story. Her brothers would have done the same.

‘Wouldn’t it be more interesting my way?’ he suggested. ‘Unpredictable is better.’ He continued to carve at the vegetable, flicking bits of the turnip to the ground.

‘I prefer a happier ending. One that ends in love.’

‘Love doesn’t always end happily.’

The dark tone of his voice suggested that he had experienced even more loss than she’d imagined. Had he loved a woman who had died during the attack on Clonagh? Or worst of all, had it involved a child? His vehement statement that he would never sire children made her wonder what had happened. A sudden ache caught her, for she had not thought of this. ‘I am sorry if you lost someone you loved. Did it happen during the attack?’

He let out a slow breath. ‘No. It was a few months before.’

She didn’t know what else to say, except to touch his shoulder with sympathy. The sudden flash of interest in his eyes caught her unawares, for she had not expected it. She pulled back her hand as if it had caught on fire, feeling embarrassed.

To distract herself, Joan tilted her head to get a better look at the turnip he was carving. At first, it seemed only like a series of lines. Then he turned it towards her, and she was startled to see the gnarled face of a grandfather etched within the vegetable. It was truly remarkable that he had captured such a powerful image with only a few strokes of the blade.

‘Oh, my,’ she murmured. ‘This is wonderful. You cannot possibly risk burning this carving with a candle.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s only a turnip, Lady Joan.’