Her Warrior King. Michelle Willingham

      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.’

      ‘I had no choice and well you know it. Stop dwelling on what cannot be changed. The men must be ready. Thornwyck has orders to destroy Laochre, do we fail to meet the terms of surrender,’ he reminded Bevan.

      ‘At least we’d die without bringing traitors among us.’

      ‘Not everyone wishes to die.’ Their gazes locked in an unspoken battle of wills. Patrick knew his brother would lay down his life in a moment, especially after the Normans had murdered his wife in the last battle. ‘Open the gates to the Norman soldiers. I will speak to them when night falls.’

      ‘How can you betray us like this?’ Bevan’s fists were clenched, his eyes burning with fury. ‘If you let them in, I’ll not stay.’

      ‘Then go back to Rionallís,’ Trahern urged. ‘You haven’t been to your own fortress since Fiona died.’

      An icy cast of pain flickered across Bevan’s countenance. ‘I’ve no further need of Rionallís.’

      ‘Your people need you there,’ Patrick reminded him gently. The past year had not been kind to Bevan, with the loss of his wife and child.

      ‘I have pledged my sword to those who fight against the Normans. If my own brother will not join me, then I will go elsewhere.’

      Patrick watched Bevan tread towards the shoreline, but he made no move to stop his brother.

      ‘Ruarc is gathering others against you,’ Trahern warned. ‘We need Bevan at our side, else you could lose your position as king.’

      At the mention of his cousin, the tension inside of him wound tighter. ‘Ruarc is more interested in power than the needs of this tribe.’

      ‘Then do not lose the people’s faith.’ Trahern pressed a hand to Patrick’s shoulder. ‘They prefer you as their king, but I cannot say what will happen when you bring the Normans among us. Ruarc has not forgotten his defeat at your hands.’

      Though his cousin posed a threat, Patrick could not allow one man’s dissent to sway him from his duty to the tribe. He steeled himself, his gazed fixed upon the empty horizon. The sun touched the water’s edge, spilling gold and crimson across the waves.

      ‘This night, we open the gates to the Norman soldiers,’ Patrick commanded. ‘Those who attempt harm towards our people will not live to see the dawn.’

      The island held a mystical beauty, almost pagan in its contrast of stone and grass. Isabel’s throat grew dry, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

      She walked the perimeter of the dwelling, studying the blackened walls. At one time, the wooden structure must have stretched skyward, with stairs leading up to the bedchambers. She kicked one of the support posts, noting that it was indeed solid.

      A chill in the air brought goose bumps on her arms. Even now, the ground seemed to sway after being on the boat for so long. Her body ached with the need for sleep, but she could not succumb to it. How could she close her eyes, when she was surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar land? As small as it was, she needed to study the island and become acquainted with the people.

      A hollowed feeling invaded her stomach. Would they try to kill her because of her Norman blood? Patrick had said she would never reign as queen here. A part of her was grateful for it. What did she know about ruling anyone? She preferred to remain unseen, running the household without all eyes upon her.

      After her sisters had married, she’d taken care of Thornwyck Castle. Nearly two dozen servants had worked under her command, and she’d taken pride in mastering the inner workings of the dwelling.

      Not that Edwin de Godred had ever noticed, or uttered a word of praise.

      Isabel shivered and walked back to the entrance of the donjon. In the distance, she saw Patrick speaking with his brothers. Trahern and Bevan disappeared down the slope of the hill, moving towards the boat. Her husband strode towards her, with all the fierceness of an invader.

      His black hair fell against his shoulders, eyes of steel boring into hers. The folds of his cloak draped across his strong shoulders, while leather bracers encased his forearms. ‘I have arranged a hut for us, this night.’

      ‘I am sleeping here in the donjon.’ Where you cannot touch me, she thought. She didn’t trust him for a moment. He might claim he had no intention of bedding her, but eventually he would want sons.

      Patrick seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Sleep wherever you wish. It matters not to me. But the nights are cold.’

      Her skin prickled, but she did not look away. ‘You’re not staying here on the island, are you?’

      He took another step closer until his body almost touched hers. His gaze assessed her, and in his eyes she saw fury.