that he wanted them to follow.
There was a sombre mood as they entered the largest dwelling, and Joan took a step back in shock when she saw the body laid out upon a table. Her fingers dug into Warrick’s arm, and she closed her eyes, feeling a wild surge of hysteria.
Her intended husband was dead, just as she’d feared. But instead of being relieved at her new freedom, Joan wanted to weep. For it felt as if she were to blame somehow.
Three betrothals. Three deaths.
She could only believe that the curse was real, and she could never marry anyone. A crushing weight seemed to close over her chest, numbing her to all else.
A younger woman approached, her eyes red from crying. She spoke only Irish, but Warrick’s translator conveyed what had happened. Her father, Murdoch Ó Connor, had died only this morning. There would be no betrothal, though the woman did offer her hospitality if Joan and her brothers wanted to stay with them this night.
‘We thank you,’ Rhys said gently, ‘but we will return to my brother’s house.’ He offered his condolences with the help of the translator and guided them back outside.
Joan gripped her brother’s hand, trying to keep back her own tears. Warrick drew her away, rubbing the small of her back. She struggled to keep her feelings shielded, but it felt as if God were laughing at her.
She would never have the husband and family she wanted. She would never bear a child of her own. Raw frustration coursed through her, and she let go of her brother’s hand. It wasn’t fair. Why should she be different from other women? Why could she not find a man to love?
Her brothers brought her back inside the cart, and only a few miles later did Rhys speak. ‘I am sorry, Joan. But perhaps it’s for the best. I don’t care what our father intended—Murdoch was far too old for you.’
‘I should have known better,’ she blurted out. ‘Every man I am betrothed to dies.’ Warrick reached out for her hand again, but she jerked it away. ‘You know it’s true.’
‘You have been unlucky when it comes to a betrothal, I know, but—’
‘Unlucky?’ She glared at him. Her voice grew higher in pitch. ‘Those men are dead, Warrick. It’s far worse than ill luck. It’s a curse.’
‘I don’t believe in curses,’ Rhys argued.
I have no choice but to believe in it, Joan thought. In the past seven years, she’d had three failed betrothals and every man had perished. There was no other possible explanation.
‘We will return to Killalough and decide what we should do now,’ Warrick said. ‘Do you want to go home to England?’
‘I don’t know,’ Joan whispered. She stared out at the rolling green hills of Ireland, feeling so lost and uncertain. If her brothers brought her home again, she would have to explain to her father that yet another man had died. And, though it was through no fault of her own, she did not want to face Edward’s annoyance.
‘You could stay with Rosamund for a time,’ Warrick suggested. His wife was a close friend of Joan’s, and for a moment she considered it. If nothing else, Rosamund might help her find a way to fill up her days.
‘Or we may wish to consult with the king of the MacEgan tribe at Laochre. He may be able to arrange a new betrothal, if you wish,’ Rhys suggested.
That was the last thing she wanted. Joan was weary of being a pawn, offered up to strangers in the hopes of making a strong marriage alliance.
It was time to put aside dreams that would never be. Better to live her life as she chose and to make her own decisions.
* * *
Ronan Ó Callaghan was a prince exiled from his kingdom. In a matter of hours, his birthright had been stripped away. His stepbrother Odhran had overthrown the king and slaughtered innocents, seizing the throne for himself.
And you did nothing but run, his conscience taunted. Coward.
Never would he forget the resigned look upon his father’s face when they had taken him hostage. Brodur had met Ronan’s gaze with the sadness of one who had expected failure. And that look had cut deeper than any sword.
Guilt suffocated him, though he knew Odhran would have killed him if he’d stayed. Someone had to seek out help and bring back their allies to retake the fortress. What good would it do his people if he was dead? They needed outside forces to help.
And yet...he had to face the reality that this was a betrayal that had come from within. Although Odhran and his mother Eilis had lived at Clonagh for only the past five years, they had slipped behind his father’s defences. Brodur had trusted them, only to be betrayed by his wife and stepson.
Some of his kinsmen had chosen Odhran’s side and turned their backs on their king. There was no way to know who had remained loyal and who was a traitor.
Fury burned within Ronan, along with the need for vengeance. He had escaped with the clothes on his back, a sword, and a single horse. And now, after riding for two days, he had reached the Laochre stronghold of the MacEgan king.
King Patrick ruled over the southern province, and the MacEgan tribe was numbered among their allies. Ronan intended to humble himself and ask the king for aid in taking back his lands at Clonagh—no matter the cost.
The square towers of Laochre were a blend of wood and stone, for King Patrick had rebuilt the castle in the Norman style. The MacEgan lands stretched for miles, from the hilltop of Amadán, all the way to the coast. Even the island of Ennisleigh fell under their dominion. If anyone could help him, it was this tribe.
Ronan rode towards the gates, ignoring his own exhaustion. He hadn’t slept in days and had only stopped for the horse’s sake, not his own. No doubt he appeared like little more than a beggar, for his armour was stained with blood. But he would meet with the king and appeal for help.
The soldiers allowed him to enter, and Ronan gave his horse into the care of a stable lad. His vision blurred, and he fought back the weariness that struck hard. He hadn’t eaten in so long, the smell of food hit him like a physical blow. It was only the years of training and discipline that made it possible to hide the exhaustion and hunger.
He started to walk up the stairs when he glimpsed a woman on the other side of the inner bailey. She stood out from the others like a beam of sunlight. There was no doubt she was of noble birth from the snowy-white gown she wore in the Norman style. She was veiled, and a lock of dark hair rested upon one shoulder. Though she had a subdued beauty, her smile caught his attention and held it.
Who was she? Possibly a relative to Queen Isabel, but he could not be certain.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan saw a young girl, possibly three years of age, running towards the woman in white. That was the reason for her smile. The girl hurled herself into the woman’s arms, and the woman laughed as she picked her up, kissing her cheek. He guessed it was her mother.
But then the young girl pointed directly at him and whispered to the woman. The woman studied him, her smile fading. Then she shushed the girl and took her hand, leading the child away.
A grim ache tightened within him. Though he knew it was only a child’s curiosity,
