Her Warrior King. Michelle Willingham

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