Her Warrior King. Michelle Willingham

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      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 didn’t you bring her here?’

      ‘Because he wants privacy, dolt.’ Trahern elbowed Bevan. ‘A man should enjoy his wedding night.’

      Patrick said nothing, but let his brothers think what they would. He forced back the anger rising inside him. He had no intention of touching his bride, nor making her his wife. He couldn’t imagine siring a child with her.

      The marriage would not be permanent. After Lughnasa, as soon his tribe drove out the Normans, Isabel and he could go their separate ways. He intended to petition the Archbishop to end the union. A pity he couldn’t have wed her in Eíreann. The laws of his own land made it far easier to dissolve an unwanted marriage.

      ‘I should go back,’ he said quietly. ‘I have to hunt a meal for this night.’

      Trahern uncovered a brace of hares. ‘Take these to feed your bride a memorable wedding supper.’

      ‘I was going to eat those,’ Bevan muttered. But he shrugged and added, ‘Safe journey to you.’

      ‘We’ll meet you at the coast in another day.’ Patrick embraced his brothers and bid them farewell. ‘Slán.’

      He slung the hares across his mount and set forth to return to Isabel. He allowed Bel to take the lead, since the last traces of sunlight were slipping behind the mountains.

      As he galloped across the fields, he vowed that Isabel de Godred’s presence would not interrupt his life, nor would she threaten the MacEgan tribe in any way.

      When he arrived back at the tent, Isabel’s shoulders were bent forward, her wet hair plastered against her dress. Deep brown eyes blazed with indignity.

      ‘I’ve brought food,’ Patrick said, holding up the two hares. ‘And if you can endure the journey, there’s an abandoned cottage not far from here.’

      She nodded, shivering inside the tent. ‘Anything with a fire.’

      He helped her pack up the temporary shelter and eased her back on to the horse. She winced, but said nothing about the pain. When he swung up behind her, her body trembled violently.

      Coldness iced his heart. She deserved none of his pity. A means to an end, she was. Nothing more. Despite his resolve, guilty thoughts pricked at him for treating a woman like this.

      She is a Norman, his brain reminded him. He could not lose sight of that.

      Leaning forward, he increased the speed of his mount. Her posture remained rigid, not accepting any of his body’s warmth. He should be thankful that she didn’t weep or cling to him. And yet it was a first for him, to have a woman shrink away.

      As each mile passed, the silence continued. Finally, he reached the outskirts of a forest. Near the edge stood the abandoned hut he’d seen on his journey earlier. The last of the sunlight rimmed the landscape, unfurling the night. He slowed Bel and eased up on the reins, letting the stallion walk towards the shelter.

      When they arrived, he dismounted and helped her down. Isabel stared at the thatched wattle-and-daub hut, frowning. ‘I can see why it was abandoned.’

      The roof needed fresh thatching and one section of the wall sagged, as though the hut might collapse. Patrick let Bel wander over to a small ditch filled with water. Then he opened the door for Isabel.

      ‘Go inside while I tend to my horse,’ he ordered. He removed the saddle and rubbed down the stallion. When he’d finished, he entered the hut and was thankful to find a small pile of dry firewood inside. He used some of the fallen thatch to make a pile of tinder. With flint and steel, he sparked a flame. Isabel hung back, watching him.

      ‘I thought you had left me,’ she murmured.

      ‘Is that not what you wanted?’

      ‘I had no wish to be deserted in the middle of nowhere,’ she said. She shivered again, nearing the small blaze he’d kindled СКАЧАТЬ