Her Warrior King. Michelle Willingham
She might be a beautiful woman, but he had no right to look. The vow he’d made, to leave her untouched, strangled anything his traitorous body wanted.
Trahern coughed. Patrick recognised the silent message and moved away from Isabel. His brother opened a pouch, offering a loaf of bread, then passed a horn of ale. Isabel accepted a portion of bread and quenched her thirst. He noticed the exhaustion haunting her face. Her brown eyes were strained, her skin appearing far too pale.
While he satisfied his own hunger, he watched her surreptitiously. She had removed her veil, turning aside from them. Tangled locks of golden hair rested against her neck, and she began rebraiding it. He had never seen a woman perform the task before, since he had no sisters. It seemed almost intimate, watching her weave the strands with slender fingers. She sat beside the cavern wall with her knees drawn up. Almost like a child.
But the silhouette of her woman’s body could not be denied. The rain had moulded the dress to her skin, and puckered nipples stood out, making him wonder what it would be like to touch her.
She was forbidden. It was the only explanation of why she kindled any form of desire. He moved to the entrance of the cave, breathing deeply. The night air smelled of salt, and the last of the sun disappeared beneath the waves.
‘What will become of me when we reach Erin?’ Isabel asked finally.
‘I will grant you your freedom, as I vowed.’ If he kept her exiled upon Ennisleigh, she could move about as she pleased upon the island, doing harm to none. And he would not have to see her each day, nor be tempted by her.
‘I wish to know my responsibilities.’
‘You need not trouble yourself.’
‘Because I will never be a queen, isn’t that right?’ Bleak weariness settled in her eyes, and Isabel turned away from him.
Never had she felt more alone. She had not been allowed to bring a maid with her, nor any of her belongings. Desolation rose within her, an icy cloak of loneliness.
A piece of wood cracked in the fire, sending sparks into the air. Flickering shadows cast darkness across Patrick’s face. His brothers sat against the opposite wall, their heads lowered in muted conversation.
‘What about the estate? I do have experience running a castle household. Or shall I handle the accounts? I am not familiar with your lands, but perhaps—’ She broke off her rush of babbling when Patrick drew nearer.
With a roughened palm, he lifted her chin until she was forced to look at him. In the erratic fire glow, a subtle intimacy cloaked the cave.
‘You are responsible for nothing.’ The smooth baritone of his voice and the nearness of him made Isabel tremble. Beneath the thin fabric of her kirtle, her breasts tightened. She couldn’t breathe, her mind racing with clouded thoughts of escape.
Grey eyes, the colour of freshly hewn stone, stared at her with intensity. Isabel wanted to look away, but she forced herself to meet his scrutiny. Her warrior husband could do anything to her, and there was naught she could do to stop him. It was her duty to submit. Even so, her fingers dug into the damp earth.
Patrick didn’t move. Gossamer shivers erupted across her skin at the dark heat in his gaze.
‘Sleep, a chara.’
At the invitation to escape, Isabel scrambled away from him. She huddled against the cave wall, shivering, yet her skin blazed as though it were on fire. Suddenly she was afraid of the unexpected yearning he evoked. Blood raced within her veins, her skin sensitive.
By the Blessed Mother, she had wanted him to draw closer. Though his demeanour was rough and savage, a primitive part of her yearned to know him.
What was the matter with her? What had happened to her loyalty? Everything about this man bespoke his barbarian nature. From her childhood, she’d heard tales of the ancient Celts who rode into battle naked, their faces painted blue.
She could almost picture Patrick’s face painted a fierce shade of indigo, fighting against the Norman invaders. He had practically stolen her from her own wedding. He hadn’t bothered to celebrate with feasting or participate in the ceremonial bedding. He was unpredictable, and she didn’t trust him to keep his vow. One moment he seemed to desire her; the next he grew distant.
She wanted him to stay away. She didn’t like the unexpected longings that tempted her. He frightened her with his dangerous manner.
Patrick’s brothers disappeared outside, leaving them alone. Isabel buried her face in her knees. Though she shivered partly from cold, her mind clenched with uneasiness.
Moments later, a warm cloth fell across her shoulders. Isabel stood, drawing the shawl across her shoulders. Patrick held out a ragged gown. ‘Put this on. You need to wear the clothing of a tribeswoman now.’
The coarse woollen dress was unlike any she had seen, a long gown that draped to her ankles with voluminous sleeves. She turned her back to him while she put it on. ‘Am I to be a slave, then? It is the colour of horse dung.’
The edges of his mouth tipped. ‘I did not have time to barter for the colours you wanted. You may embroider the léine when we arrive in Eíreann.’
When she turned back to face him, Patrick adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. She stood only inches from an embrace.
In time, he exerted a gentle pressure upon her shoulders, forcing her to lie upon the cloak he’d spread upon the ground. He tucked the edge around her shoulders and spread the mantle across her. ‘Sleep. We’ve a long journey on the morrow.’
Isabel turned away to feign sleep. Ever since the wedding, she had felt frozen in stone.
Shadowed against the darkness of the cave, her husband stood guard. She sensed a wildness within him, a feral hunter who would show no mercy.
Patrick turned and caught her gaze. Steel eyes disarmed her, while the flesh of her body rose with heat. What was wrong with her? Why could she not shut him out?
‘Will we reach your fortress in a day’s journey?’
He shook his head. ‘But I will take you to your new home.’
Isabel faltered, suddenly understanding more than she wanted to. ‘Where is that?’ He wasn’t going to abandon her in Erin, was he?
‘You wanted your freedom,’ he said. ‘I will grant that to you. You will remain upon the island of Ennisleigh.’
Her heart sank, a coldness surrounding her. ‘Alone?’
He inclined his head. ‘It is for your own protection. I cannot say what my tribe would do to you, were you to live among them.’
‘I’ve done nothing to harm anyone.’
‘Norman blood runs within your veins. It is enough.’
Isabel huddled before the fire, her mind surging with anger. Did he think she would agree to this bargain? ‘I won’t be a prisoner there. You’ve no right to treat me as such.’
‘My duty is to keep you safe. It’s the only way.’
‘Your people disobey your commands, then?’
He tensed, as though her words were made of thorns. ‘You know me not, Isabel. Do not presume to judge me. I seek only to make the best of this arrangement.’
‘What is best for you.’
‘What is best for all of us.’
She clenched her teeth. So the Irish king believed he could exile her without a fight?
Patrick MacEgan had no idea just how difficult she could be.
Chapter Three
White sails rippled in the wind, and in back of the vessel, the horses whinnied their displeasure at being trapped in one place. Patrick could sympathise with them. After a full day of nothing but grey skies and an endless sea, he longed