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Her father moved forward. ‘You cannot depart until the marriage is consummated.’
‘I have met our agreement.’ Patrick’s expression hardened, and his palm moved down to the hollow of her spine. Isabel stiffened at the mark of possession. ‘You need not doubt the rest. But it will be on my terms, not yours.’
Lord Thornwyck deliberated before at last handing over a scroll of sealed parchment. ‘If she is not carrying an heir by the time I return to Laochre, I will require evidence that she is no longer a virgin.’
Isabel’s face burned with mortification. Now it seemed they viewed her as a brood mare. Terror lanced her at the idea of submitting to the Irish king. Though he’d granted her a reprieve from the ceremonial bedding, she had no doubt he would want to share her bed later this night. Her skin prickled beneath the touch of his hand upon her body. The awareness of him only heightened her fears.
‘At Lughnasa, we’ll expect you,’ Patrick replied. He did not await a response, but lifted her on to his horse. He swung up behind her, spurring the stallion into a gallop.
The horse raced onwards while strong arms confined her in an iron grip. Neither her father, nor his men, made any move to stop him. Isabel’s last thought was, God, this was not what I meant when I begged you to save me from this marriage.
Patrick kept the woman in a firm grip as they rode through the fields. He needed to put distance between them and Thornwyck’s fortress. Though the Baron had let him leave freely, he didn’t trust the Normans to keep their word.
Isabel de Godred had startled him. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t a wife who’d accused him of trying to murder the guests. He’d hoped for a plain-faced, biddable maiden who would follow his orders. Instead, fate had granted him a beautiful woman who looked as though she’d never obeyed a command in her life. Even now her body tensed against his, as though she were contemplating escape.
In silent response, he tightened his hold. Without Isabel’s presence, he could not free his people. The orders signed by Thornwyck were not enough. The Norman captain had to see her for himself.
Patrick stared at the horizon, wondering if he would glimpse his brothers. Though he’d ordered them to remain beyond the Welsh border, he suspected they hadn’t. During the wedding Mass, he’d caught a slight motion to his left. But when he’d turned, there was nothing.
Then again, his brothers were well trained. Like shadows, if they didn’t want to be seen, no one would find them. The fear of anything happening to his family added yet another rope of tension to this tangled web.
Brutal memories slashed at his heart, of the children who had died in the fires. His brother’s wife, stolen and killed by the Norman invaders. So much loss. And all because of Thornwyck and the Earl of Pembroke’s forces. He could hardly think about the woman he held in his arms, for she was one of them.
After several hours, he drew his horse Bel to a stop. He chose a spot near a stream, out in the open where Isabel could not run. He lifted her down. ‘Rest for a moment and slake your thirst. Fill this in the stream, and then we’ll go further.’
She accepted the water bag. ‘Why did you wed me?’ Eyes the colour of polished walnut gazed at him steadily. ‘You said the lives of your people depended on this marriage.’
Not a tear fell from her eyes, nor did she scream. Quiet and pensive, she met his attention openly.
‘You were part of the surrender terms when your father conquered our fortress. If I didn’t wed you, he swore to kill all of the survivors.’
She blanched. ‘I don’t believe he would really have done that.’
He didn’t know what kind of sheltered walls had veiled her eyes, but he refused to equivocate Edwin de Godred’s actions. ‘Believe it.’
She took a few steps towards the stream, her steps faltering. He doubted if she was accustomed to riding for long distances. If she were any other woman, he’d likely stop for the night.
But she wasn’t. She was one of them and not to be trusted. As long as he remained upon English soil, he had no way of knowing whether Thornwyck would keep their agreement. Even now, his people might be suffering. Two score of Norman soldiers held them prisoner.
He wasn’t about to waste time with wedding feasts, or with bedding the woman. The sooner they reached Eíreann, the better.
Patrick knelt beside the stream and lifted the cold water to his lips. Isabel sat nearby, her hands folded in her lap.
The wind skimmed against her veil, lifting it to reveal a length of golden hair. With full lips and high cheekbones, her brown eyes illuminated her face. For a moment, he almost pitied her. No woman should have to endure a marriage like this one.
She handed him the water bag. ‘What am I to call you? Your Majesty? My sovereign lord?’
‘Patrick will do.’ Though he had earned the rank of petty king, reigning over his tribe, it had been hardly a year. He had not yet grown accustomed to being their leader. He didn’t know how his father and eldest brother had shouldered the responsibility so easily. Every decision he made, he questioned. Especially the agreement with the Baron of Thornwyck.
‘You promised me my freedom. Do you intend to give it to me now?’
He shook his head. ‘When we reach Eíreann. I give you my word.’
‘And is your vow worth anything?’
He folded his arms. It was becoming apparent why Thornwyck had offered his daughter as part of the arrangement. ‘Are you always this difficult?’
‘Always.’
Her bluntness almost made him smile. ‘Good. I’ve no need for a spineless woman.’ He lifted her atop the stallion once more. A flash of irritation crossed her face, but she made no complaint.
She had courage; he’d grant her that. Even still, he could never forget what her people had done to his. Worse, the marriage was only part of the surrender terms. The rest of the treaty made slavery seem inviting. The price he’d paid for the lives of his people was far too high.
As he urged his horse onwards, he could only pray that his tribe could endure what lay ahead.
Isabel clung to the hope that somehow the improper marriage was not binding. She knew better than to try an escape. Without a horse of her own and supplies, she wouldn’t survive. Not unless she could find someone to help her.
But who? Edwin de Godred had made it clear that he wanted this alliance. He didn’t seem to care that his youngest daughter was now bound to a foreigner, and an uncivilised one at that.
Why had she ever agreed to this? She should have listened to her instincts instead of believing Patrick’s tale about captive women and children.
They rode through a forest, the road curving in the midst of fallen leaves. Stately oaks and rowans crowned the path, their branches weaving a canopy high above them. The landscape of her homeland faded into a sea of green and rich earth.
Near the Welsh border, slate-grey mountains wore a halo of afternoon sunlight. They rose above the landscape, beautiful and stark. Flocks of sheep dotted the hills, flecks of white against the sea of green. The spring air cooled her skin, a reminder of the coming night.
Perhaps it would be the last time she saw England. She tried to quell the panic. You must not be afraid, she told herself. 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 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.
