Rhys de Laurent interrupted. ‘Although I am willing to consider a new betrothal for our sister, I should warn you that Joan is...somewhat opposed to marriage.’
Good. It was far easier to refuse a marriage with a reluctant bride. The man’s warning eased Ronan’s tension, for he didn’t intend to consider it either. ‘Forgive me, but I am more concerned about the safety of my people. It has been two days, and I need to bring men to overthrow the usurper as soon as possible. Any discussion of marriage must wait until I have freed them.’
The two Normans exchanged a look. Then the younger brother shrugged. ‘We may be able to help you. But I will leave that decision to our sister. If you can convince her to grant you the soldiers, then you may have the men.’
It was clear that her brothers had a greater interest in arranging a betrothal for their sister than in offering help to a stranger. Ronan was beginning to feel like a pawn, commanded by invisible hands.
He hid his annoyance and met Warrick’s gaze squarely. ‘Is she here?’ He had to be careful not to anger these men by outwardly refusing her. Instead, it might be better to convince the Norman lady that they were not suited.
‘Joan is sitting with my daughter,’ Rhys answered. ‘Just there, in the white gown.’
A strange sense of premonition filled him, for the woman in white had intrigued him from the moment he’d seen her at Laochre. Her dark hair framed an innocent face with clear blue eyes. She was beautiful, but there was a sadness surrounding her.
‘I will meet with her later, if I could have a moment to wash?’ He directed his question towards the queen. ‘I might make a better impression when I’m not covered in blood.’ Though he had no intention of courtship, the delay would give him time to decide how to handle the situation.
‘I will send you a bath and someone to tend you,’ Isabel answered. A serene smile slid over her face, and if he didn’t know better, he’d imagine she was plotting something.
As he followed the servants away from the Great Chamber, he had the sense that his life was being rearranged.
* * *
‘You’ve gone mad.’ Joan stared at her brothers, making no effort to hide her anger. ‘Do you honestly believe I will agree to another betrothal after what just happened? I won’t do it.’
‘Go and speak with him,’ Rhys suggested. ‘I am giving you the opportunity to choose your next betrothal. He may be...different from the other men you meant to marry, but he is an Irish prince.’
‘Think of what you are saying,’ she insisted. ‘Every man I’ve been promised to has died. Do you think I want to bring a death sentence upon someone else?’
‘You are letting your fears command your life,’ her brother said quietly. ‘I will send him to you, and you can make that decision for yourself. His name is Ronan Ó Callaghan.’
Joan knew exactly which man her brother was referring to. The moment the prince had ridden into the inner bailey wearing bloodstained armour, he had caught her notice. There was an untamed savage quality to him, as if he cared naught about anything or anyone. And yet, when she’d noticed him staring, her skin had prickled with sensation. His green eyes burned with a fierce intensity that stole her breath. His blond hair was cut short, and there was a rough bristle upon his cheeks.
She had been playing with her young niece, Sorcha, and the little girl had also noticed the man. Joan had been about to bring her inside when Sorcha had pointed at him and said, ‘He’s the man you’re going to marry.’
Joan had shushed her niece, knowing that it was only the fancy of a small child. At times, Sorcha seemed to have traces of the Sight, where she predicted things before they happened. But not this time. Joan believed it was best if she never accepted another betrothal—not until she learned how to break the curse.
Her brother, Warrick, drew closer. He was quiet and not as overbearing as Rhys. He studied her a moment and then said, ‘Ronan Ó Callaghan needs our help, Joan. His stepbrother attacked their tribe and took the king as a hostage before he stole the throne for himself. He asked if we would send men to aid his cause.’
‘You may help the prince if you wish, but that doesn’t mean I’ll marry him.’ She saw no harm in them strengthening ties with Irish nobility, but it didn’t mean she would stand back and allow her brothers to manipulate her life.
‘No one is forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do,’ Warrick reassured her. He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘I’m only suggesting that you give it a chance. Meet with him and see what you think.’
And what good would that do? She simply couldn’t imagine trying a fourth time for a husband. No matter what she might desire, Fate had forced her to be alone. It had become her life, this gnawing loneliness that stretched out before her. Furthermore, she couldn’t imagine that this man would even cast a second look at her. She was four-and-twenty, far too old for a husband.
‘If you want to help him, then do so. I am not stopping you,’ she answered quietly. ‘But I will not be betrothed again.’ For a time, her brothers fell silent, no longer arguing. This was her life, was it not? And despite her desire for a child, she would suppress those dreams if it meant avoiding the curse.
A moment later, Queen Isabel joined them within the solar, and she held the hand of her young son Liam. She wore a gown the colour of rubies with a silver torque at her throat and another thin band around her forehead. ‘Will you come with me, Lady Joan?’
The urge to refuse came to her lips. But they were guests here, and she could not disregard the rules of hospitality. Warrick was trying to forge a strong alliance with the MacEgans for the sake of his holdings in Killalough. It would not do to offend the queen.
‘Of course,’ she murmured, following Queen Isabel into the hallway. Joan knew full well that the queen might try to talk her into a marriage with Ronan. But she had no intention of becoming the victim of matchmaking. Instead, she feigned ignorance and changed the subject. ‘Your son is such a dear boy. He looks about the same age as Sorcha.’
Isabel’s face brightened. ‘Liam is a good lad, though he does get into mischief.’ She lifted him to her hip and dropped a kiss upon his head.
The boy squirmed in her arms and demanded, ‘I want to walk.’
The queen let him down and motioned for a servant to come forward. ‘Take Liam to his nurse. It’s late and time for bed.’ She leaned down to kiss his cheek. ‘I’ll come and say goodnight soon.’
He kissed his mother and hugged her before following the servant down the hall. The familiar longing filled Joan’s heart, though she braved a smile. ‘You must be very proud of him.’
‘I am. I hope to have many children, God willing.’ But there was a slight sadness in her voice that suggested she might have lost a child before.
Another maid followed them down the hall towards one of the chambers. The queen turned the corner and then stopped in front of the door. ‘I know your brothers told you of Ronan Ó Callaghan’s troubles. He is an ally of ours and a friend.’
And here it was—the queen’s attempt at matchmaking. Joan steeled herself and forced a smile. ‘Warrick did tell me, yes. But he also spoke of trying to arrange another marriage for me.’ She took a slight step back. ‘If you are
