‘I know you did not wish to wed me,’ Isabel began, not really knowing what to say.
The awkward silence stretched further when Patrick picked up the oars and began rowing towards the shoreline.
‘It is a great sacrifice,’ she said dryly, ‘having to spend time with me.’
‘More than you know,’ he muttered.
Isabel dipped her hand in the sea and flicked a palm full of water at his face.
Patrick’s face darkened. Droplets of salt water slid down his bristled cheeks. Before she could move, he trapped her hands in his and pulled her arms around his neck. She clung to him for balance, her heartbeat pounding against her chest.
He wasn’t going to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes. He was fighting against it.
But he didn’t let go of her. His hands caressed her back, holding her, and a secret part of her ached to welcome him. She needed more than this, and yet he held himself back. Embraced in his arms, she pressed her breasts close to him, her body trembling. Her mouth parted, wishing for what he would not give.
Then she lifted her face and kissed him.
Michelle Willingham grew up living in places all over the world, including Germany, England and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antiques shows in manor houses and castles, Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance.
She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame, with a degree in English, and received her master’s degree in Education from George Mason University. Currently she teaches American History and English, and is working on more medieval books set in Ireland. She lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesn’t have her broadsword.
Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com, or e-mail her at [email protected]
Previous novels by this author:
HER IRISH WARRIOR*
THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH*
*The MacEgan Brothers
HER WARRIOR KING
Michelle Willingham
To my husband Chuck,
who has always supported my dream.
You’re my own Irish hero.
Author Note
I have always loved stories of royalty, and during my research I found fascinating tales about the many kings of medieval Ireland. The High King was chosen to lead the country, but there were provincial kings and petty kings as well, who would reign over their territories. Kings were not born, but instead were selected by the people. They could also be deposed, if the people were not satisfied with their leader. Approximately 80-100 kings reigned over the tribes of Ireland for hundreds of years.
HER WARRIOR KING is the story of a man struggling with the burden of kingship and a forbidden love of the enemy. I hope you enjoy Patrick MacEgan’s tale and, as always, I love to hear from readers. Visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com for extra features in The MacEgan Brothers series!
Chapter One
England, 1170
Every woman considered stealing a horse and running away on her wedding day, didn’t she?
Isabel de Godred fought the restlessness building within her. It was her duty to obey her father. She understood it, even as she clenched the crimson silk of her kirtle and eyed the stables.
In her heart, she knew an escape was futile. Even if she did manage to leave the grounds, her father would send an army after her. Edwin de Godred was not known for his tolerance. Everything was done according to his orders, and woe to anyone who disobeyed.
The marriage might not be so bad, part of her reasoned. Her betrothed could be an amiable, attractive man who would allow her the freedom to run his estates.
She closed her eyes. No, highly unlikely. Otherwise her father would have paraded the suitor before her, boasting about the match. She knew little about him, save his Irish heritage and rank.
‘Are you ready, my lady?’ her maidservant Clair asked. With a conspiratorial smile, she added, ‘Do you suppose he’s handsome?’
‘No. He won’t be.’ Toothless and ageing. That’s how the man would look. Panic boiled inside her stomach, and Isabel’s steps felt leaden. Her rash escape plan was looking more and more appealing.
‘But surely—’
Isabel shook her head. ‘Clair, Father wouldn’t even let me meet the man at our betrothal. He’s probably half-demon.’
Her maid crossed herself and frowned. ‘I heard he’s one of the Irish kings. He must be wealthy beyond our imaginings.’
‘He isn’t the High King.’ And thank the saints for that. Though she might rule over the tribe, at least she did not have the burden of ruling a country. As they walked down the wooden staircase outside the castle donjon, she wondered how her father had arranged a betrothal in such a short time. He’d gone to aid the Earl of Pembroke’s campaign only last summer.
‘If I could, I’d take your place,’ Clair mused with a dreamy smile.
‘And if I could, I’d give him to you.’ Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible.
Isabel’s imagination conjured up a monster. The man must be unbearable to require such secrecy. Though she knew it was unfair to pass a judgement before she’d met her intended, she couldn’t help but imagine the worst.
‘You’ll be mistress of your own kingdom.’ Clair sighed. ‘Imagine it. You’re to become a queen.’
‘I suppose.’ And that added even more fear to the forthcoming marriage. What did she know about being a queen? She knew how to run an estate and make it profitable, but that was all.
Her father Edwin de Godred, Baron of Thornwyck, awaited her outside the chapel among a small crowd of guests and servants. Tall and thin, his greying beard and moustache were neatly groomed. He examined her with a glance, and Isabel felt like a mare about to be traded. She resisted the urge to show her teeth for inspection.
No, it did not bother her to leave this place. But what should she expect from the Irish king? Was he kind? Cruel? Her nerves wound tighter.
‘Is he here?’ she asked her father, staring at the men waiting near the church.
Edwin gripped her cold fingers, keeping them in a tight grasp as he escorted her to the church. ‘You will meet him soon enough. My men sighted his travelling party a few hours ago.’
‘I would rather have met him at our betrothal,’ she muttered. Her father only grunted a response.
Isabel shivered. Until she saw this man with her own eyes, she’d not surrender her escape plans. With each step, she felt more alone. Her sisters were not here to lend their support. Edwin had not permitted it, and it had hurt more than she’d thought it would.
When they arrived in the courtyard, a well-dressed man was speaking to the priest. He had little hair, save a snowy fringe around his pate.
‘Is that him?’ she asked. Her father didn’t answer. He seemed preoccupied, his gaze focused into the distance.
The older man swallowed hard and wiped his palms upon the hem of his tunic. He glanced around as if searching for someone.
Isabel sent up a silent prayer, her cheeks flaming.