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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 to walk upon solid ground. Though he sailed when necessary, he disliked being at the whim of the seas.
In the distance, the green hills of his homeland emerged, fragments of the shoreline ridged with sandy earth and limestone. Patrick’s chest constricted with emotion at the sight of it. As a lad, he’d once run along the strand, playing with boyhood friends. Now, he held a different memory of these shores. The Norman invaders had landed here, spilling the blood of his people. And that of his eldest brother Liam.
His hand moved to his sword hilt, feeling the unfamiliar warmth of ivory and wood. The weapon was one he’d inherited by right, but he had not grown accustomed to it. A ruby, worn smooth by generations of MacEgan kings, rested in the hilt. Once, they had commanded an imposing presence upon the land. But his father’s men were used to tribal raids, not organised warfare. Most could wield a sword, but they had no formal training in how to withstand the enemy in large numbers.
He meant to change that now. The only way to protect themselves from the Normans was to learn their weaknesses. He would bring the soldiers among them, watch their training, and force his men to learn. Then he could use the Normans’ own strategies against them in battle.
Mists encircled the island of Ennisleigh while storm clouds gathered along the horizon. The craggy rocks protected a small ringfort atop the hill, enclosing seven stone huts. Only a score of ageing survivors remained. Proud and set in their ways, the folk had refused to join the remainder of his tribesmen on the mainland.
His gaze moved towards his wife. Isabel’s golden hair tangled in a web about her shoulders, shadows lining her eyes. She studied the land without any emotion in her face.
‘That is where you will live,’ he told her, pointing towards the island.
Her posture stiffened. She looked as though she was considering throwing herself into the dark waters. He wouldn’t put it past her.
‘You will have your freedom there,’ he said softly. ‘And in this way I can grant you my protection.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Protection? We both know it is my prison.’ She turned her face away from the island, her veil whipping in the breeze.
‘There is nowhere else for you to go.’ Why could she not accept the truth? Her father’s men had murdered his. His tribe would never bid her welcome upon the mainland. But Ennisleigh had emerged virtually unscathed from the battle. It was an island sanctuary amidst the fighting at his own fortress.
The harsh scent of salt permeated the air while gulls screeched around them. A low fog skirted the ghostly island. With his brothers’ help, he drew in the sail, eager to get off the ship.
As they neared the dock, his brothers slowed the oars. Bevan held the craft steady while Patrick stepped on to the wooden pier. He reached down and helped Isabel off the ship. She took a few unsteady steps, and then walked across the planks towards the beach.
‘Let the horses off for some food and water,’ Patrick directed Bevan. ‘Then we’ll take them back to Laochre.’
‘I’ll get food for us,’ Trahern offered. ‘I’m wanting a taste of something fresh.’
Before his brother could leave, Patrick warned, ‘Keep the islanders away. Tell them to remain in their huts for this day and not to bother Lady Isabel.’ The islanders loved nothing more than gossip, and he knew his Norman bride would provide fodder for many nights’ conversation.
‘Should we reveal she is your wife?’ Trahern asked.
Patrick gave a curt nod. Trahern took the pathway up to the ringfort entrance while Bevan led the horses along the strand. Sunlight illuminated the ruined rath of Ennisleigh. Patrick waited a few moments before extending a hand to help Isabel up the steep walkway.
She did not accept his assistance, but set her face with determination. He kept his pace slow while she steadied her footing upon the path.
‘Why are you leaving me here?’ Before he could answer, she added, ‘And if you tell me one more time it’s for my own protection, I might seize your dagger and cut out your tongue.’
He didn’t believe she’d do it. ‘You won’t. After all, you’re afraid of mice.’
‘I’m not afraid of you.’
He stopped and leveled a glare at her. ‘Perhaps you should be, a chara.’ Before she could dive towards the blade at his side, he trapped her wrists.
She struggled to break free of him, muttering, ‘I should have stolen a horse when I had the chance.’
Patrick didn’t know what she meant by that reply, but he would not relent. ‘As I said, you have your freedom here. Live as you choose.’
‘But stay away from you and your tribe.’
He released her. ‘Yes.’ There would never be a time when she could be one of them. The sooner she understood that, the better for both of them. For a moment, he tore his gaze from her and stared out at the azure sea.
A stubborn glint lit her eyes. He didn’t know what she planned, but he didn’t like it.
‘Does my father know of my exile?’ she asked.
The question was a subtle threat. ‘You are no longer his concern.’
‘I will be when he arrives at Lughnasa,’ Isabel warned. ‘If this marriage allowed you to save the lives of your people as you claim, then I should at least be allowed to live among the tribe.’
‘I never said you would be living with us.’ Her assertion did not concern him in the least. By Lughnasa, his forces would be strong enough to drive out all of the Normans.
‘Aren’t you afraid of what my father might do?’
‘No.’ Though he’d conceded defeat in battle and wedded Isabel, he refused to be commanded by a Norman. ‘Edwin de Godred holds no power here.’
And the Baron would hold no power within the privacy of their marriage, either. If Isabel ever bore a child, it would not be of his blood. After they’d defeated Edwin’s men, he intended to sever the union. It would have to wait until after the harvest, but that would give him enough time to gather the funds needed to coerce the Archbishop.
Isabel strode past him, her mood furious. When they reached the crest of the hill, she stopped short. A moment later, her lips parted in surprise.
She saw its beauty, as he did. One side of the island near the channel was fierce and rugged, while glittering sand embraced the side closest to the sea.
Isabel held herself motionless. Her eyes held a muted awe as she surveyed the landscape.
A moment later, her softness disappeared. Rebellion brewed in her eyes, along with something else…like sorrow. ‘I don’t belong here.’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘You don’t. But it’s the only place for you.’ He closed himself off to her feelings. His duty was to his tribe. There was no place for guilt. And yet, he found himself fascinated by the soft lips that argued with the ferocity of a warrior.
‘I’ll find a way to leave.’
His hand captured her nape, her hair tangling in his grasp. With mock seriousness he added, ‘Then I’ll have to chain you.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘I’ll dare anything.’ He met her challenge, even as her hands struggled against him. Fury flashed in her eyes, and he caught himself staring at her mouth. Full, with an intriguing lower lip.
Immediately he released her, angry with himself for even considering touching her. ‘I will return to you this night, after I have tended to my own fortress. You’ll need supplies.’
‘Why bother? I’m sure your tribe would prefer that you starved me to death and mounted my head upon the gate.’
He didn’t comment. For some, she wasn’t too far off from the truth.
Tall grasses swelled in the breeze, brushing against their knees as they walked. Up ahead, stone beehive-shaped cottages stood against the perimeter of the palisade wall. He inspected them, searching for signs of damage. He was satisfied to see none. Only his family’s dwelling had suffered, and it could be rebuilt.
Smoke curled from the outdoor cooking fires, wisping tendrils of burning peat. His stomach growled as the scent of hot pottage mingled in the air. Just in front of the fortress, a large stretch of land bloomed green with seedlings.
He heard the soft sounds of conversation, but none of the islanders emerged from their huts. Good. They had obeyed his brothers’ warning. Even still, he was certain that all eyes watched them from behind the hide doors.
He led Isabel towards the ruined fortress built by his grandsire. It stood on the highest point of the island, its proud walls humbled by fire.
This was the place where he’d often run away from home. Patrick laid a hand against a charred beam, remembering the broad laugh of his grandsire Kieran MacEgan. ‘This dwelling is mine.’
‘How did it burn?’ Isabel asked. ‘Was it the invaders?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘The islanders set it on fire, so the Normans would believe they were already under attack.’
He didn’t blame the islanders for burning it. His grandsire would have wanted it that way. Better to burn it than to let it fall into Norman hands. ‘And they saved themselves,’ he added.
The main building was mostly intact, save the burned walls. It would not be a comfortable place to live, but it provided a dry roof. In most places, Patrick amended, recalling holes in the ceiling.
At that moment Bevan and Trahern returned with two sacks of supplies. Trahern held a steaming meat pie in one hand, while he bit deeply into another. Patrick caught a sack tossed by Trahern. He hadn’t missed the way Isabel’s eyes devoured the mutton pie with unrestrained longing.
He offered one to her, and Isabel half-moaned when she bit into it. Her eyes remained closed, her lips tasting the food as if she’d never been more satisfied.
Patrick jerked his attention away. The look on her face might be unintentional, but his body could not help responding to her. This marriage would be far easier to endure if his wife had a nose missing or hideous scars. Instead, she had the face of the goddess Danu.
Patrick nodded for Trahern and Bevan to accompany him outside the dwelling. ‘What news have you heard from the islanders?’
‘The Ó Phelan clan is gathering its forces,’ Bevan told him. A grim edge of finality lined his brother’s voice. ‘They’re planning to attack while we are vulnerable.’
And here he’d thought matters could not get worse. First the Normans, now another clan. The Ó Phelans had easily survived the invasion. He suspected they had turned traitor, bribing the Normans or making other arrangements.
‘Prepare the men,’ Patrick commanded. ‘They need to be ready for an attack.’
Bevan shrugged. ‘I could, but it will be for naught.’
‘You think me incapable of defending our tribe?’ Patrick asked, his voice cold and hard.
‘I do,’ Bevan replied. ‘Especially since you must open your gates to the foreigners. Norman bastards.’ He spat upon the ground, hatred brewing in his eyes. Shaking his head in disgust, he added, ‘You should never have wed her.’
