Her Warrior King. Michelle Willingham

      ‘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 in the hearth. ‘I was frightened,’ she admitted.

      ‘Wolves?’

      Her lips pursed and she shook her head. ‘Thieves. Someone might have come, and I couldn’t have defended myself.’

      There was a grain of truth in it. She was right. He had been negligent in protecting her, but he made no apology.

      ‘Are you hungry?’

      At her nod, he continued, ‘I’ll start cooking the meat. In the meantime, there’s a flask of mead tied to the saddle. Go and fetch it.’

      Isabel stepped outside, and Patrick tended the fire until he had a strong flame burning. He didn’t worry she would try to escape. They were miles from anywhere, and the darkness would prevent her from fleeing.

      With his knife, he finished skinning the hares and spitted them. He set the hares above the fire and Isabel returned with the mead. Suddenly she shrieked and dropped the flask. It struck the earth, but did not shatter. Patrick drew his sword, but no one stood at the door. A large rat raced past her, darting around.

      When the rodent charged, Isabel grabbed a heavy branch from the pile of firewood and swung it, battering the floor and screeching when the animal neared her skirts.

      The rat skittered away from the fire, and Patrick ducked when her club nearly missed his head.

      ‘What in the name of Lug is going on?’ he demanded. ‘The animal is on the ground.’

      ‘Get it out of here!’ she wailed. Her horrified expression, coupled with the wild swinging of the branch, forced him to act. Patrick opened the door and kicked the rodent outside.

      Isabel stood on a wooden bench, still wielding the branch. She held her hand to her heart, her mouth tight with fear. This was more than the disgust he’d seen on the faces of most women. She’d been terrified.

      ‘You’ve seen rats before,’ he remarked.

      Though Isabel nodded, her fear didn’t diminish. ‘I hate them. And mice. And anything that nibbles.’

      He couldn’t resist the urge to tease her. ‘They’re probably living in the thatch.’

      A whimper sounded from her lips. ‘Please, God, no.’

      He moved closer and disarmed her, tossing the branch onto the hearth. Standing before her, he saw her shudder. Her veil had come loose from the thin gold circlet, and she clutched the crimson kirtle. Though she raised her eyes to his, the fear in them was so great, he felt badly for his teasing.

      He studied her, the warm brown eyes and the pale cheeks. She smelled like a mixture of honeysuckle and rose, every inch a lady. Though she tried to keep her courage, her fear of something else was stronger. It was the fear of a woman who had never lain with a man before.

      Soaked as she was, the silk outlined every curve. His imagination conjured up wicked thoughts, of sliding the silk from her shoulder and tasting the warm woman’s flesh.

      He could not weaken. He’d not touch her, though it had been many moons since he’d known the pleasures of a woman’s body.

      Instead he changed the subject. ‘That bench is going to collapse.’ Isabel grimaced, her eyes watching the floor as though she expected an army of rats to invade the cottage.

      At her hesitation, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the opposite side of the hut. Her body was cold against his, and he set her down upon a table. Isabel tucked her knees up, shivering. Patrick returned to the hearth and turned the roasting hares over. ‘Why do they bother you so much?’

      She covered her face in her knees. ‘My sisters. Patrice and Melisande played a trick on me when I was small. They put mice in my hair while I was sleeping.’ She shuddered again. ‘I’ve never forgotten the feeling of them climbing on my face, getting tangled in my hair.’

      ‘Are they your younger sisters?’ he asked.

      ‘Older.’ She raised her gaze to his. ‘I’m not a wealthy heiress, in case you thought to claim land.’

      ‘I have no need of land. And your father and I came to a different agreement during the betrothal.’

      An agreement where Thornwyck intended his grandsons to be future kings of Eíreann. Patrick tossed another limb on to the fire. There would be no children, his own form of revenge. Though Thornwyck could take his tribe prisoner, capturing Laochre and forcing an alliance, at least this was something the Baron could not control.

      His wife had stopped shivering at last. She removed her veil and finger-combed her long golden hair to dry. It glowed in the firelight, a vibrant contrast to her crimson silk kirtle.

      She rotated to warm another part of her body. When she caught him watching her, she frowned. Patrick turned away and checked on the hares again. After a time, the tantalising aroma of the roasting meat filled the air. The meat dripped with juices, and he cut off a piece with his knife, offering it to her along with a hard loaf of bread. She tore off a piece of bread and handed it back. Nibbling at the hare, she murmured, ‘Thank you.’