Her Warrior King. Michelle Willingham
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draped across his strong shoulders, while leather bracers encased his forearms. ‘I have arranged a hut for us, this night.’
‘I am sleeping here in the donjon.’ Where you cannot touch me, she thought. She didn’t trust him for a moment. He might claim he had no intention of bedding her, but eventually he would want sons.
Patrick seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Sleep wherever you wish. It matters not to me. But the nights are cold.’
Her skin prickled, but she did not look away. ‘You’re not staying here on the island, are you?’
He took another step closer until his body almost touched hers. His gaze assessed her, and in his eyes she saw fury. ‘As I said before, I won’t be sharing your bed.’
‘Good.’ Don’t look away, she warned herself. Though every part of her wanted to run from him, she held steady. ‘But I want to dwell at your fortress on the mainland.’ Once she saw his home and people, she would know whether he’d lied to her about the damage. And then she could decide whether to stay or leave.
‘No.’
Isabel continued, ‘I’ve had no choice in what has happened to me. I’ve lost my home, my family and now I’m forced to live here. Put yourself in my place.’
‘Put yourself in mine,’ he countered, his expression hardening. ‘I watched my people die at your father’s blade. Did you think I wanted a Norman as my wife?’
Isabel did not let him see how he affected her. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘No.’ He pulled away, his visage growing cool. His glance moved across the thatched cottages within the ringfort. ‘But to them, you are an enemy.’
And he viewed her in the same light, it seemed.
‘What am I to you?’ she whispered.
‘A means towards peace,’ he replied. ‘But you have my protection. Call our marriage what you will.’
Isabel closed her mind to the images he evoked. She needed no imagination to see the coarse barbarian before her. His tunic stretched against battle-hewn muscles. Black hair contrasted sharply against his warrior’s face and granite eyes. His face never seemed to smile.
‘There was no choice for either of us, Isabel.’ Like a droplet of water, his baritone slid over her. The very sight of him made her want to flee. At her belt, she palmed the familiar hilt of her eating knife.
A spark of amusement seemed to soften his eyes. ‘Do you think to stab me with that?’
‘Widowhood looks promising.’
He reached out and captured her wrist, holding her still. ‘I’ll return to you later with the supplies you’ll need.’
‘I hope not.’
He ignored her. ‘In the meantime, you may explore the island.’ He turned to leave and the wind slashed at his threadbare cloak, revealing its holes.
Her mind warned her not to be deceived by appearances. A king Patrick MacEgan might be, but beneath the cloak of his authority lay the demeanour of a warrior. Merciless, unyielding. And fiercely loyal to his people.
After he’d gone, she began traversing the island as he’d suggested. She needed to learn every inch of her prison, for only then could she find a way to reach the mainland.
Chapter Four
Patrick’s palm curled across his spear as he waited near the wooden gates. His brothers held steady by his side, all mounted and heavily armed. His skin prickled with coldness, as though he were standing outside himself. At any moment, the Normans might break their word and attack. He gripped the spear so tightly his knuckles grew white. Silently he murmured prayers that they wouldn’t be slaughtered where they stood.
The darkening sky turned indigo, storm clouds rising. He smelled earth and peat smoke, along with his people’s fear. And now it was time to open the gates to their enemy.
Behind him stood the remainder of his tribe. A motley group of farmers, blacksmiths, and labourers, their fighting skills were few. His best men had surrendered their lives in battle, and only these remained.
Each held his weapon of choice, from the eldest grandsire down to the youngest boy. The women stood further back, but they held their own weapons in readiness. Pale and stoic, they awaited his command.
‘You’re making a mistake,’ a low voice muttered. His cousin Ruarc had already unsheathed his sword and looked ready to skewer any man who passed through the gates. ‘They’re going to kill us all.’
Ruarc wore the blue colours of the MacEgan tribe and held a battle-scarred wooden shield. Like the others, his body had grown thinner during the harsh winter. At his temples, war braids hung down, framing his bearded face. ‘We should fight them. Drive them out.’ He lifted his sword in readiness.
‘We made a bargain.’
‘We can still fight. There are enough of us.’
‘No.’ Enough blood had been shed. Their tribe had been conquered, and surrender was the price of their lives. ‘I’ve kept my word, and I believe Thornwyck will keep his.’
‘Your beliefs will not matter if we die,’ Ruarc replied. The rigid hatred carved upon his cousin’s face would not be swayed. Patrick turned his back, refusing to justify himself. He had made his decision, and because of it, his people would live.
He caught sight of a young boy, hiding behind his mother’s skirts. The child’s innocent face burned into his mind. He studied each member of his tribe. Once, they had numbered over a hundred. Now, there were hardly two score in total. The heaviness of loss numbed everything else.
All around them, the wooden palisade was the only remaining barrier of protection. The dying scent of burning peat encircled the air. Rays of the sunset filtered through the edges of the gate while dusk conquered the day. It was time to face the inevitable.
‘Open the gates,’ he ordered.
Two men raised the heavy entrance gate. Beyond them stood two mounted captains and the Norman soldiers, wearing chain mail armour. Patrick mounted his steed and urged the animal forward.
Though he tried to maintain a façade of calm, it was difficult to still the energy rising inside him. What if they broke the agreement and attacked? He prayed he had made the right choice.
From a distance, the Norman army held their weapons and shields in readiness. Swords raised, and with arrows nocked to bowstrings, they awaited the command to kill. Eyes cold, they would fight to the death.
Yet, when he drew nearer, he saw the faces of men. Weary, hungry, like himself. They had obeyed their leader, taking the lives of his people.
Was he expected to welcome them? Though he had restrained Ruarc’s sword arm, his own desire for vengeance was harder to quell. For these men had killed his eldest brother.
Regret pierced him at the memory of Liam’s death. Though he could not know which soldier had struck his brother down, he’d not forget what had happened.
Darkness and anger filled him at the memory. He blamed himself. He should have reached Liam in time, blocking the enemy’s sword. And though he longed to release the battle rage within, he could not let his people’s lives be the penalty for it. His personal vengeance would have to wait.
Patrick beckoned to one of the captains, and the Norman approached, his hand upon his sword. Patrick palmed his own hilt, watchful of the enemy. ‘I am Patrick MacEgan, king of Laochre.’
‘I am Sir Anselm Fitzwater,’ the Norman replied. ‘Lord Thornwyck gave me command of these men.’
Sir Anselm did not remove his helm, nor did he release his grip upon the sword. The Norman’s cheeks were clean shaven, his lips marred by a long battle scar that ran to his jaw. His face was impassive, as though he were accustomed to his