Taming Her Irish Warrior. Michelle Willingham
worthy of a thousand suitors, he intended to wed her.
‘I’ve known her since we were children,’ Ewan told his brother.
Bevan drew his horse to a stop by the river and let the animal drink. ‘That was five years ago. Her father will want her to wed a wealthy nobleman, not a penniless Irishman.’
‘I’ll gain my own wealth,’ Ewan answered. ‘Enough to build whatever kingdom she desires.’ Though he spoke with confidence, like Bevan, he had his doubts that Lord Ardennes would even consider him as a suitor for Katherine. The only thing in his favour was his royal bloodline, for his eldest brother, Patrick, was king of their province in Éireann.
Bevan rested his arm upon the horse and regarded him. ‘Let us help you. Take the land Patrick offered.’
‘I won’t take what I haven’t earned. I’ll get the land myself, or not at all.’ He would not be a leech, feeding off the family’s wealth.
‘Too proud, are you?’ The scar upon Bevan’s cheek tightened. ‘It won’t do you any good here. The girl’s family possesses wealth beyond your imaginings. She’ll marry a nobleman of the highest rank. You haven’t a chance.’
Ewan refused to believe it. ‘I have to try.’ He stiffened, keeping his gaze fixed upon the horizon. Urging his mount forwards, he tried to behave as if he didn’t see the pity on his brother’s face.
‘There are others who might be more suitable,’ Bevan continued, softening his tone. ‘Someone from Éireann. You don’t need to live here, among enemies. Wed an Irish cailín.’
Give up this Herculean task, was what his brother meant. Don’t reach for what you cannot possibly achieve.
It was what his brothers had counselled him, long ago when he’d expressed his desire to be a warrior. He had not possessed the natural talents of Patrick or Bevan. And though he’d poured himself into the training, his skills came from brute strength rather than finesse. Despite all the failures he’d suffered, he had overcome his weaknesses to become the man he was now.
Could he not do the same with winning a bride? Persistence counted for something, didn’t it?
He turned to Bevan. ‘She is the one I want.’
His brother expelled a sigh, drawing his horse to a stop. Although they were less than five miles from the donjon, Bevan turned his gaze westwards. ‘Be sure of it, Ewan.’
They travelled alongside one another for the remainder of the journey, not speaking. The landscape was familiar to him, verdant fields that rolled into hills. In five years, none of it had changed.
It struck him suddenly that he’d been content here. Though most of his kinsmen viewed Normans as the enemy foreigners, Ewan had never seen them as such. He’d spent three years among them, after Bevan’s wife, Genevieve, had arranged it. He’d finished his fostering with her father, Thomas de Renalt, the Earl of Longford. There, he had finally learned to fight.
A sense of unease passed over him, and he glanced at the scars upon his palms. Although the wounds had healed long ago, his hands were stiff. Grasping a sword took his full concentration, and he’d had to compensate for his awkwardness in other ways.
But he deserved the scars, for what he’d done to Bevan. He risked a glance at his older brother, wishing to God he hadn’t betrayed him. And though Bevan had forgiven him, he felt unworthy of it.
Ahead, he spied the castle that belonged to the Baron of Ardennes. The fortification was a blend of stone and wood. The outer bailey wall stretched high, perhaps the height of two men. The inner donjon held stone battlements and wooden outbuildings. Though he had not dwelled within the fortress, he had visited a time or two, along with his foster-father.
He tensed as they drew close to the barbican gate, wondering if Katherine would remember him.
Or Honora.
His grip tightened on the reins. During his fostering, Honora had nearly killed him on three different occasions. Accidents, she’d claimed. Though it was forbidden for women to train, that did nothing to stop her. She’d wanted to learn swordplay, like him, and he’d reluctantly offered instruction.
She was married now, he’d heard. Perhaps to a husband who could tame her wildness. He’d never met a woman so eager to wield a blade. And though he’d tried to avoid her, Honora had followed him everywhere.
Would that her sister had worshipped him so.
Despite the number of men vying for her hand, he intended to win Katherine first—no matter what it entailed. Anticipation rose up inside him, for soon he would conquer her heart.
The thief was among the suitors who had come for her sister; Honora was certain of it. With so many strangers, it would be simple enough to avoid notice.
She’d waited many hours until darkness shrouded the castle once more. In the ebony cloak of night, she moved soundlessly. Past the guards, keeping to the shadows while they conversed and played games of dice.
Find the chest, find the thief. It was as simple as that. Already, she had searched the Hall, but there was no trace of it among the low-born knights and retainers. All that remained were the private chambers reserved for guests of noble birth.
Not a sound did she make when she entered the first chamber. After searching the men’s belongings, she found nothing. She slid against the wall, moving towards the next chamber. Ahead, she spied the guard standing by the staircase.
Honora held her breath, praying he wouldn’t see her. Her father would murder her if he knew what she was doing.
When she reached the next chamber, she opened the door. Inside, silence permeated the space. She moved closer to a pile of belongings, staring at the shadows for a glimpse of the chest.
Abruptly, someone grabbed her. His hand clamped over her mouth, the other arm gripping her waist as he spun her around. Honora fought, kicking at his legs, but he lifted her up, pressing her back against the wall. A blade of moonlight slipped from behind the clouds, casting a beam upon his face.
She froze at the sight of Ewan MacEgan. By the Rood, she’d never thought to see him again. What was he doing here?
His sculpted bare chest gleamed silver, his pectoral muscles rising and falling as he breathed. Her heartbeat pounded, her skin prickling with gooseflesh, despite the warm summer heat.
‘Looking for something?’ he accused. His muscles did not appear taxed in the least by her body weight.
The last time she’d seen Ewan, he’d been a gangly boy of sixteen. Tall and thin, she remembered him as an awkward fighter, driven to succeed. He’d trained night and day, struggling to gain expertise.
The boy had become a man. A handsome one at that. His dark blond hair was cut short, emphasising a lean face and a strong jaw line. Broad shoulders revealed a tight strength she hadn’t remembered. Ridged muscles lined his abdomen, down to …
Oh, dear God above. He was naked.
With that, every coherent thought left her. She gaped at him, unable to stop herself from stealing a long look. Her husband had never looked like this. Like a savage Celt, Ewan had a wildness about him that made her uneasy.
He eased her down the wall, still holding her wrists trapped. She had stopped struggling, too disconcerted at being near him. He released one wrist and ripped her hood free.
‘You’re a woman.’
She couldn’t gather up her thoughts to answer.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
Her tongue caught in her throat. Didn’t he remember her? After all the years she’d humiliated herself, tagging along and trying to defeat him in swordplay? But then, the darkness hid her features from him. He couldn’t see her clearly.
‘Katherine?’ he asked gently.
Anger