He studied her a moment and told her, ‘Your brothers wanted me to barter marriage in exchange for their army.’
She wanted to curse at their meddling. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘That will never happen.’
The prince was silent for a moment, and the only sound in the chamber was the dripping of water. ‘Good. Then we are in agreement.’
His blunt statement should have reassured her, but she had not expected his refusal. Instead, she waited for him to elaborate. ‘I cannot be wedded right now,’ he continued. ‘My first concern must be for my people.’
Joan understood that. He had been forced into a desperate position, one where lives were at stake. And she offered her own sympathy. ‘You are right to fear for them, and I hope you can save them. I will do what I can to convince Warrick and Rhys. But they don’t want to accept that marriage is the last thing I want.’
‘Especially to a man like me.’ There was a mocking note in the midst of his deprecating remark.
Joan softened her voice. ‘If I ever intended to marry, I would consider you—or at least, a man like you. But as I said before, I cannot wed anyone.’
Ronan released her hand, his gaze penetrating. She was acutely aware of him and the heat of his skin. It took an effort not to rest her hands upon his hewn chest, sliding her fingers over the ridge of thick muscle.
‘Your brother told me that your intended husband died,’ he said. ‘I am sorry for it.’
It happens too often, she wanted to say but didn’t. Instead, she answered, ‘I had never seen him before. I didn’t know anything about Murdoch.’
‘What will you do now?’
She shrugged. ‘I may enter a convent. Or perhaps I will return to my father’s house and look after him, now that he is a widower.’ She glanced down at him, still distracted that he wore only a drying cloth. ‘I should go and let you get dressed.’
‘Not yet.’ His demeanour shifted, and he took on a commanding tone. In that moment, he was a prince in every sense of the word. ‘I need an army to help take back my kingdom. The MacEgans will help, and possibly your brothers’ men. But once they leave, my father’s stepson will only drive our supporters out again.’
Her brow furrowed, for she didn’t quite understand what he wanted from her.
Then he continued, ‘I need men who will dwell among us until I know who is loyal.’
‘Why not ask the King of Tornall?’ Joan suggested. ‘Surely he would send men to help you.’
‘As I said before, I have no formal alliance with them—only an understanding. But if I ask him to send soldiers...’
‘He would want you to marry his daughter,’ she finished.
‘Yes. And I have met Siobhan. She is not as reasonable as you are.’
At that, she almost smiled. Reasonable was not a word most men used when describing her. ‘You think I’m reasonable because I don’t want to marry?’
‘Yes.’ He took a step closer. ‘And you may know how I can convince your brothers’ men to stay longer.’
Her gaze shifted towards his bare skin, distracting her again. ‘They would stay for a time if you paid them. But how long do you think they are needed?’
‘Half a year, at least. Perhaps longer.’
She was beginning to understand why her brothers were suggesting a betrothal. Such a length of time would be difficult, not to mention costly.
But Ronan raised his green eyes to hers and asked, ‘Do you think you can help me persuade your brothers?’ His voice was deeply resonant, like an invisible caress. Her wayward imagination conjured up the vision of his hands around her waist, pulling her near. She felt herself yielding, wanting something she could not name.
‘I—I don’t know. I could try.’ And with that, she fled, no longer trusting herself around this man.
Ronan could not deny that Joan de Laurent had caught his attention. He had been unprepared for the rush of arousal that struck hard when she’d caressed his skin. His shaft had grown erect beneath the water, and her gentle touch had made him imagine her hands elsewhere.
He gritted his teeth, forcing back the image. He had not touched a woman in months now, and he refused to loosen the tight hold upon his desires. The last time he had seduced a woman, it had ended in tragedy. He could not allow himself to weaken again, though his body was rigid with need.
Joan wasn’t the usual sort of woman he normally desired. She carried herself like a holy woman, wearing white and an iron cross upon a chain. If anything, her earlier remark about becoming a bride of the Church seemed likely. She was a virgin and not the sort of woman he normally pursued.
And yet, she had washed him like a woman who desired a man—as if she, too, had her own hidden needs. He hadn’t missed the furious blush in her cheeks, as if she would die before telling him of her desires. There was something she wanted, but her refusal to admit the truth only intrigued him more.
There was no doubt that her brothers had intended to offer Joan’s hand in marriage, hoping she would ascend to an Irish throne. To them, it was an alliance that would elevate Joan’s rank and bring honour to her.
But they knew nothing of the sins Ronan had committed. He never wanted to be King of Clonagh, especially after his brother’s death. If he could have given his life for Ardan’s, he would have done so a thousand times over. For the burden of guilt never left him. Not a day went by that he did not blame himself.
Joan de Laurent wanted to be left alone, and that was the wisest course for both of them.
This morn, he dressed himself in the clothing Queen Isabel had left for him and departed his chamber. It was later than he’d realised, and most of the castle had already broken their fast. Though his body had needed the rest after not sleeping for days, he couldn’t quite suppress the feeling of guilt at lying abed for so long.
Ronan didn’t bother with a full meal but took bread and cheese from a servant as he passed through the Great Chamber. The night of sleep had cleared his head, and now he had to make plans for his attack.
He strode through Laochre, feeling the tug of envy. The castle was massive in size, with Norman soldiers and Irishmen training side by side. There was a sense of order, with each person having a place to fill. It was exactly what he’d hoped for Clonagh. His father and brother would have wanted the same.
The darkness of grief shadowed him, bringing with it a rise of anger. His brother had been kind, responsible, and beloved by all their people. Whereas Ronan had cared naught about what anyone thought and lived his life as he chose. He deserved to lose everything—but his brother hadn’t.
It wasn’t right or fair. He should have died, not Ardan or his young son, Declan. But his failure had caused both their deaths, and Ronan would never forgive himself for it.
He watched the men training, and soon, Warrick and Rhys de Laurent joined him, one on each side. For a time, Ronan said nothing at all, though he knew their silent question. But Joan de Laurent was an innocent—a good woman who didn’t deserve a sinner like him.
Warrick studied him for a moment, his gaze piercing. At last he said, ‘She told you no, didn’t she?’
I didn’t ask her, Ronan thought. But he raised an eyebrow and avoided a direct answer. ‘Why should she agree to wed a man she doesn’t know?’