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. God, please save me from this marriage, she thought, even as her father’s hand closed over her wrist.
A moment later, she heard the sound of a horse approaching. Startled, she glanced up at the heavens. ‘That was quick.’
‘What is it?’ Edwin demanded.
‘Nothing.’ Isabel forced a neutral expression onto her face, but the rumbling sound intensified. Her father offered a strange smile, and he motioned for the priest to wait. Moments later, the elderly man stepped among the other guests. So he was not her bridegroom.
The noise grew louder, and her father’s hand moved to his sword hilt. A few guests looked to Edwin, the women glancing around with uncertainty. The priest turned to Isabel, a questioning look on his face.
Isabel froze. There, riding towards the guests, a man emerged. His clothes were little better than rags, dried mud coating the hem of his cloak. And yet he rode a sleek black horse, a stallion worthy of a knight.
His sword was drawn, as if to cut down any man who dared oppose him. Guests scrambled to get away from the horse, several women shrieking.
Isabel’s heart leaped into her throat, but she held herself straight, refusing to scream. Instead she darted behind one of her father’s men, a soldier armed with a bow and arrows.
What was wrong with them? The men hadn’t moved, nor released any arrows. As a single rider, the intruder was an easy target. Would no one stop him?
‘Do something!’ she shouted, but the soldiers ignored her.
The man drew his horse to a halt, sheathing his sword. Isabel’s breath caught in her lungs, a strange sense of foreboding sliding over her. No. This could not be him.
Black hair flowed down his shoulders, his granite eyes burning into hers. He reminded her of a savage barbarian, bold and fearless. He wore a strange garment, a long tunic of blue that draped to his knees, and dun-coloured leggings. A crimson, ragged cloak hung across his shoulders, pinned with a narrow iron brooch the length of her forearm. Gold bands encircled his upper arms, denoting a noble rank.
Her father’s calm acceptance of the interruption could mean only one thing. The barbarian was her betrothed husband. Isabel bit her lip, fighting back the fear and the desire to flee.
Edwin confirmed it with his words. ‘Isabel, this is Patrick MacEgan, king of Laochre.’
She didn’t want to believe him. While the barbarian’s horse and sword suggested a high rank, the man looked as though he’d come from a battlefield rather than a throne. And where were his escorts, his servants? Kings did not travel alone. Her suspicions darkened.
The king dismounted, and Isabel kept a clear eye on his horse. Now, more than ever, she longed to escape. Perhaps she could seek sanctuary in the abbey. There was a slim chance she might make it.
‘You are Lady Isabel de Godred?’ he asked. The lilting accent in his voice sounded foreign in the Norman tongue.
‘I am.’ She stared at the man. ‘Is this the way you usually arrive at a wedding? By trying to kill the guests?’
‘Isabel,’ her father warned. She stilled her voice, fighting back the fear that pounded inside her. His steel eyes studied her dispassionately, and her gaze shifted to his hands. He could tear her apart with them, no doubt.
The barbarian king blinked a second. The fierce expression returned to his face. ‘Let us get the deed done.’
Not if she could help it. He wasn’t at all half-demon. Full-blooded demon, more like. If she ever intended to make an escape, now was her only opportunity.
Isabel dashed towards MacEgan’s horse. She gripped the saddle, trying to haul herself atop the creature before strong arms surrounded her like a shield. Sinewy muscles possessed her in a prison of strength.
Though she fought him, the king lifted her down as though she weighed no more than a fly. He kept her pinioned against his chest. His body heat warmed her cool skin, and the top of her head reached just below his shoulders. In his stance, she could feel the caged fury.
‘I cannot wed you,’ she insisted. This was not the sort of amiable husband who would sit upon a throne and let her handle the household. He was the sort of man who would lock her in chains and feed her body to the crows.
No one listened to her protests. Father Thomas began murmuring the words to the marriage rite. The king took her hand in his, and blood roared in Isabel’s ears.
This could not be happening. This man would steal her away from her homeland, to the island of Erin where she had no family. She’d never see her sisters again. Pain twisted within her skin, and she held back tears.
His hand squeezed hers tighter, and she caught the warning look. Anger rose up within her, permeating and harsh. What had she done to be punished with a husband such as this?
The priest was waiting for her vow. Isabel shook her head and her throat closed up. ‘I will not wed you.’
‘You’ve no more choice than I, a chara.’
Isabel tried to break free of him, but the Irish king overpowered her. ‘You wish to have your freedom, do you not?’
She made no reply. What did he mean?
‘Agree to this marriage, and it shall be yours.’
She
