Her Warrior King. Michelle Willingham
Читать онлайн книгу.
Keep your wits about you. Erin cannot be so bad.
But her stray thoughts kept returning to the wedding night. She glanced down at MacEgan’s hands, roughened with labour. They were not at all smooth like a nobleman’s. His forearms controlled the horse’s reins, revealing a subdued strength.
‘Night approaches,’ she ventured. ‘Do you plan to ride in the darkness?’
There was no reply. She tried again, raising her voice.
‘Perhaps when it has grown too dark to see our path, a tree will knock you senseless. Then I could run away.’
Again, silence. The man might as well have been a statue from his stoic demeanour.
‘Or if I am fortunate, wolves might devour us.’ She pondered the thought, imagining other ideas that could make this day any worse.
‘You talk overmuch, a chara. In a few hours, we camp for the night.’
Isabel clamped her mouth shut. The thought of stopping for the night, alone with this man, unsettled her. Even now, riding against the heat of his body, kindled her nervousness. He sheltered her, confining her in arms chiselled with a warrior’s strength.
Would it be that unbearable to feel his body joining with hers? Her maidservant had sighed over the pleasure of lying in a man’s arms, but Isabel remained unconvinced. Her warrior husband had not a trace of gentleness. She dreaded the thought of sharing a bed with him.
After a time, Patrick drew the horse to a stop. The lavender sky swelled with shadowy clouds. She could feel moisture gathering in the air. Ahead, she saw no inn, only more trees.
Her husband moved with a fluid grace, pulling her down from the horse. ‘Do not try to run.’
She almost laughed. ‘And where would I go?’
‘Wherever you planned to travel when you tried to steal my horse.’ He took her hands and led her into the woods. From his pack of supplies, he brought out a pile of heavy cloth, which unfolded into a small tent. It was hardly large enough for a single person, let alone both of them. He finished setting up the tent and gestured towards it. ‘Wait here. I’ll hunt for food.’
Isabel glanced at the swelling clouds, hoping he meant for her to sleep within the tent alone. She started towards the shelter when Patrick stopped her. His gaze held hers, a predatory man who would show no mercy. ‘You should rest until I return. We’ve more riding to do before we stop for the night.’
Isabel gathered her composure. ‘Don’t you have any supplies here? There’s no need to hunt.’ She glanced up at the twilight horizon, more than a little fearful. What if he abandoned her in this place?
Patrick’s face was close enough to feel his warm breath upon her cheek. ‘I’ll come back for you soon.’
Her body betrayed her with the warmth that flooded through her. She forced herself to look away.
He deposited her inside the tent and tossed a length of wool at her. ‘Cover yourself with the brat to stay warm.’
As he started towards the horse, her fear doubled. What if a thief or a murderer came after her? She would be alone, defenceless. ‘I would like a weapon,’ she added hastily. ‘Please.’
He turned and shot her a look of disbelief. ‘For what purpose?’
‘In case someone attacks. Or an animal.’ Isabel crawled outside the tent and pointed to his quiver. ‘I know how to use a bow and arrows.’
‘No weapons. I do not intend to go far, and I’d rather you didn’t shoot me when I return.’ He drew up his hood and mounted the stallion, disappearing into the woods.
At that, the rain began. It was a hard, pounding rain that soaked through the silk of her kirtle. A thickness rose in the back of her throat as Isabel huddled inside the tent. Rivulets of cold rain spattered against the heavy cloth, and she cursed Patrick for bringing her here. She cursed her father for arranging this marriage. She cursed herself for not throwing herself off the horse when Patrick had stolen her.
Mud caked her lower limbs as the rain pounded harder. Her veil clung to her neck in an icy grasp. In the distance, she heard an eerie howling noise. Hastily she sent up another silent prayer.
The last thing she needed was for her new husband to truly be eaten by wolves.
Chapter Two
Patrick’s stallion raced across the Welsh plains, the rain soaking through him. The brittle weather helped clear his mind of the resentment.
When he’d accepted the kingship, it had meant making sacrifices. His personal feelings were nothing when it came to the needs of the tribe. He’d married the Norman woman, and now he had the means to free his people.
Shadowed against the horizon, he saw his brothers’ camp, the firelight flickering against the orange-and-crimson sunset. When he reached the men, he dismounted.
‘Lovely weather,’ his brother Trahern remarked. He stood beside the fire, which they had shielded from the rain with a hide stretched before it. Trahern’s brown hair dripped with water, along with his curling beard. He towered over both his brothers, his height rivalling that of a legendary giant.
‘It seems appropriate for my wedding day.’ Patrick tethered Bel, patting the stallion.
Their other brother Bevan stood, pacing. ‘I was wondering how long it would take you to arrive. I wouldn’t put it past your Norman bride to stab you in your sleep.’
Patrick shrugged. ‘She’s harmless.’
‘We were there behind the church wall,’ Trahern admitted. ‘She didn’t exactly throw herself into your arms.’
‘You shouldn’t have risked it. I didn’t want you to come.’
‘And miss our eldest brother’s wedding? I think not.’ Trahern grinned. He lifted his face skyward and let the rain fall directly on his face. ‘The Norman guards never saw us. It was easy enough to remain hidden, so long as we stayed away from the guests.’
‘I don’t trust Thornwyck.’ Bevan sat before the fire, the light illuminating a scar across one cheek. Unlike his brother, he raised a hood to block the rain. ‘And we’d never let you go alone. The Normans might have taken you prisoner.’
Patrick neared the sputtering fire and held out his hands to warm them. ‘Did Thornwyck’s men follow us?’
‘No.’ Bevan answered. ‘But I doubt he’ll wait until Lughnasa. He’ll bring more forces and try to take Laochre.’
Patrick accepted a horn of mead and swallowed. Grim resignation cast its shadow upon him. ‘I won’t let our men become slaves to the Normans.’
‘And how will you stop him?’
‘I have plans,’ he lied. But he didn’t have any notion of what to do. The orders he carried would free his people. Yet, the rest of the surrender agreement required the Normans to be housed among them. The thought of blending the two sides together made his head ache.
‘And what about your bride?’ Bevan demanded. ‘You cannot allow her to rule as your queen.’
‘I know.’
It seemed almost like a faded dream that he’d wed her. He didn’t feel married, much less to a Norman. Never would his tribe accept her. He needed to isolate her for her own protection. ‘I’m going to take her to Ennisleigh. She’ll stay out of harm’s way.’
Bevan relaxed, resting his hands upon his knees. ‘Good. We’ve enough problems without her.’ He pointed off in the distance. ‘I assume you tied her to a tree? Otherwise, you’ll have to track her down again.’
‘I thought about it.’ Patrick recalled his bride’s attempt to escape before the wedding. ‘But, no, I left her in the tent.’
‘Why