Her Warrior King. Michelle Willingham
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There would be no children, his own form of revenge. Though Thornwyck could take his tribe prisoner, capturing Laochre and forcing an alliance, at least this was something the Baron could not control.
His wife had stopped shivering at last. She removed her veil and finger-combed her long golden hair to dry. It glowed in the firelight, a vibrant contrast to her crimson silk kirtle.
She rotated to warm another part of her body. When she caught him watching her, she frowned. Patrick turned away and checked on the hares again. After a time, the tantalising aroma of the roasting meat filled the air. The meat dripped with juices, and he cut off a piece with his knife, offering it to her along with a hard loaf of bread. She tore off a piece of bread and handed it back. Nibbling at the hare, she murmured, ‘Thank you.’
‘I was not intending to starve you,’ he said. ‘No thanks is needed.’
‘Not just for the food—’ her face flushed red ‘—also for not bedding me after the ceremony.’ She moved her gaze away, staring at the roasting meat.
Patrick crossed the room and stood before her. She needed to understand her role in this union. Resting his hands upon the table, he trapped her in place. His hands dug into the wood and he hid none of the frustrated anger, nor the vehemence he felt.
‘You needn’t worry that I will bed you now. Or at all, for that matter.’
She blanched, but he held his ground. The marriage was part of a surrender agreement, not a true alliance. She would never be a queen, nor would she bear sons of his blood.
It was best she got used to it now.
Isabel groaned, as rays of sunlight speared her eyes. She tried to uncurl her body from where she’d slept upon the table. Her husband had not protested her choice, and she’d covered her hair with her veil. Even so, she’d had trouble falling asleep for fear of rats.
Such a strange wedding night. She didn’t know what to think of Patrick MacEgan, nor their future together. Her husband stood at the doorway, his back to her. Isabel stifled her surprise. His tunic hung near the dying fire and he was bare from the waist up. His bronzed skin glowed in the sun while rippled muscles revealed his strength.
She held her breath as he stretched. Toothless and ageing he wasn’t. But he’d laid her apprehensions to rest last night. He’d already said he had no intention of bedding her. She should be overwhelmed with relief.
Instead, it made her suspicious. And uneasy about their arrangement. Why would he keep her a virgin? And for how long would he leave her alone? Her father had threatened them both if she was not carrying an heir by the time he arrived in Erin. Edwin de Godred would not hesitate to humiliate her.
Isabel swung down from the table, eyeing the floor for any sign of rodents. Her limbs felt stiff and aching. And, sweet saints, there was more riding this day. Her backside chafed from the journey yesterday.
Patrick turned around. ‘Good. You’re awake. Break your fast and we’ll go.’ He picked up his tunic and donned it, heading back outside.
Isabel spied the fallen length of cloth on the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. A brat, he’d called it. At least it kept her warm in the morning chill. She ate the piece of bread he’d left for her, then ventured outside.
The rising sun glimmered through the forest, while the wet grass shone. ‘Aren’t queens supposed to travel in a litter?’ she grumbled.
‘You aren’t a queen.’
‘But I thought—’
‘You are a bride, but not a queen. You will not rule over my tribe.’
There was anger in his voice, a dark threat that made her tremble. What did he expect from her? As his wife and lady, she had responsibilities to fulfil. She frowned as he lifted her atop his stallion. ‘Then why bother taking me to Erin?’
‘Because the Normans need evidence that I’ve kept my word. Only then will they obey your father’s orders to free my people.’
She did not bother to converse during the remainder of the journey. A flare of annoyance sparked. He did not want her to play any part in their lives. What did he expect her to do? Sit in a corner and spin until she rotted?
Her feelings flamed with silent rage. Aye, she was a Norman, but she had done nothing wrong. She had no choice in this marriage, but she refused to be treated like the enemy.
Last night she’d stayed awake for hours, trying to decide what to do. Though she could behave like a child and try to flee, it would do no good. Either Patrick or her father would bring her back again.
No longer could she return to her home or her people. Whether she willed it or not, as a married woman she had no choice but to remain with Patrick MacEgan.
Her husband claimed Edwin would execute his people if she did not come to Ireland. He’d said there were children threatened.
The very thought numbed her heart. Cruel deeds happened in battle. She’d seen it for herself once, and, even now, she shuddered at the memory of a burning village.
Though her escorts had kept her far away from the carnage, she’d never forgotten the screams of the victims. A young boy, hardly more than three years of age, had stood beside a dead woman, sobbing for his mother. No one had come for him.
She wished she had ordered her escorts to stop. She should have taken the boy with her, even though she had only been fifteen herself. Likely he had died with no one to care for him.
It was possible that Patrick’s people had suffered the same fate as the villagers. She didn’t want to believe it. But what if it were true? How could she live with herself if she let others die because of her own selfish fears?
No, until she fully understood what had happened to his people, she could not leave. She’d accompany her husband to Erin, and learn the truth.
Isabel expelled a breath, gathering her wits. Surely once Patrick saw her skills at running a household, he would allow her to be useful. Somehow, some way, she would find a way to heal the breach between them and make a place for herself.
Her future depended on it.
The coastline loomed before them, shadowed by the sunset. The last vestiges of daylight disappeared beneath the clouded horizon, and Patrick saw his brothers’ horses grazing a short distance away. Relief filled him to know they were safe.
He slowed the stallion’s gait. The waves surged against the sand, spraying foam into the salty air. Their ship waited on the strand for the morning tide, a vessel large enough for their horses and the four of them. Without the help of his brothers, he could not sail it.
Patrick reined his horse near the caves and dismounted. Isabel’s eyelids drooped, her body struggling to remain upright. He lifted her down, and her knees buckled before she regained her footing.
‘I don’t think I ever want to ride a horse again,’ she murmured. He let her lean against him as they moved towards the caves. After several minutes of walking, he spied the golden cast of firelight against the cavern.
Lug, but he looked forward to a good night’s rest. Only amongst his brothers could he relax. Each would give his life for the other.
‘Come.’ He led her to the mouth of the cave. Isabel stumbled across some of the rocks, and he caught her. Though her body had a delicate softness, her strength of will rivalled his own.
His brother Trahern stooped near the entrance, his head nearly touching the stone ceiling. ‘So this fine cailín is your new wife?’
Isabel steadied herself. ‘I am.’
‘I am Trahern MacEgan,’ he introduced himself. ‘And it’s curious I am—why you didn’t run away from my brother? If I had to wed him, I would have done anything to escape.’
She tucked a lock of escaping hair behind her veil and offered a sheepish smile. ‘How do you know I did not try?’