Her Warrior King. Michelle Willingham

reached them, he bowed before her. Isabel suddenly grew aware that she looked more ragged than the worst sort of wretch. Her hair hung down, matted beneath a rumpled veil. She wore the dung-coloured Irish gown Patrick had given her. But she held herself steady and inclined her head. ‘You are Sir Anselm?’

      ‘Aye, my lady.’

      She thought she might have seen him before, among her father’s men. But since Edwin had never allowed her to speak with the soldiers, she could not be certain. His shield bore her father’s standard, and his chain mail armour was the same as the men who had guarded their castle. Though he was not an old man, his eyes appeared weary of battle. And in them, she saw his concern for her.

      ‘I am Isabel de Godred, daughter of Edwin, Baron of Thornwyck.’

      Patrick’s hand tightened upon hers. ‘Your name is Isabel MacEgan. Wife to me.’

      His possessive voice curled around her, invading her thoughts. A rapid pulse trembled beneath her skin. She was not accustomed to the new name, and it made her feel as though she’d lost a part of herself.

      Turning to Sir Anselm, Patrick said, ‘You’ve seen what you wished to see. Now go.’

      The knight did not move. ‘Have you been well treated, my lady?’ At Patrick’s glare, he amended, ‘Your father wished me to ensure your contentment.’

      Isabel wanted to laugh. She’d been given barely any food, no roof above her head, and the most awful gown she had worn in her entire life. What was she to say?

      ‘She is quite content,’ Patrick interrupted, his hand firm upon her wrist. Isabel wanted to jerk away. There was no need to treat her like a child. But when she glared up at him, she saw an unexpected warning to be silent. The dark cast to his face made her hesitate.

      Isabel suspected it would be best not to draw her husband’s anger upon her. ‘I have only arrived this day,’ she said. ‘I am certain when my husband brings me to the mainland fortress, my accommodations will improve.’

      There. Surely MacEgan would have to bring her to his home now. But instead his steel eyes met hers with unyielding force. He would not be swayed by words. ‘In time.’

      ‘On the morrow,’ she argued.

      ‘When I have deemed it safe,’ he growled. Isabel bit back her frustration. He wasn’t going to relent, especially not in front of her father’s man. Well, then, she wasn’t going to give up either. She wasn’t about to let him exile her alone upon Ennisleigh.

      To Sir Anselm, Patrick commanded, ‘Take the boat back to the mainland. At dawn we will discuss enlarging the rath to accommodate your men.’

      Her heart sank. She’d thought he would go back with Sir Anselm. The idea of spending this night with him rattled her nerves even more. She had expected a night of discomfort in the broken-down fortress. But at least it would have given her a chance to plan her next move.

      Sir Anselm studied Isabel, and she held his gaze. He was silently asking about her welfare. She hesitated, then braved, ‘Will I see you again soon, Sir Anselm?’

      He inclined his head. ‘If my lady wishes it so—’

      ‘You will have other duties to concern you.’ Patrick cut him off, sending her a warning look.

      The Norman knight retreated to the boat, and Isabel expelled a sigh of regret when he was beyond their shores. ‘I suppose there isn’t any hope of you leaving also?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      ‘A war could break out,’ she offered, panic rising inside her. ‘You might be needed.’

      She wanted him far away from her. Though he claimed he had no intentions of taking her virginity, something about this man unravelled her sanity. There was a wildness to him, a man who would let no woman tame him.

      Patrick took her hand in his, gripping her palm as if to prevent an escape. Though his grasp was meant to guide her towards the fortress, goose bumps rose up on her arms.

      What did he want from her? Was he trying to keep up appearances, behaving like a husband? She didn’t understand him. Then, too, a small part of her wondered if he did not find her appealing. Some of her suitors had accused her of being haughty. And she didn’t know what she’d done wrong.

      Isabel cast one last look at Sir Anselm’s disappearing boat and the torches flickering upon the opposite shore. A chill crept across her at the finality of her fate. ‘I am cold.’

      Patrick paused a moment and took the ends of her woolen brat. He lifted the shawl to her shoulders and wrapped it around her. Though his hands only brushed against her skin, his light touch felt intimate. ‘I’ll take you some place where you can get warmer.’

      Her cheeks flushed, and she closed her eyes, wishing she’d never spoken. ‘It isn’t necessary for you to stay with me. You could always go back to the mainland.’

      ‘I will, yes. But later.’

      Later? What were his intentions in the meantime? She quelled her apprehensions and blurted out, ‘Bring me back with you. I promise I won’t be in your way.’ At least then, he would be more occupied with the people than with her.

      He regarded her, his resolve steady. ‘I would not bring a woman in the midst of a war. And that is what it is, a chara.’

      Isabel huddled inside the brat, wondering what more she could do. She didn’t like remaining behind, but convincing her husband would take time.