drew his sword, but no one stood at the door. A large rat raced past her, darting around.
When the rodent charged, Isabel grabbed a heavy branch from the pile of firewood and swung it, battering the floor and screeching when the animal neared her skirts.
The rat skittered away from the fire, and Patrick ducked when her club nearly missed his head.
‘What in the name of Lug is going on?’ he demanded. ‘The animal is on the ground.’
‘Get it out of here!’ she wailed. Her horrified expression, coupled with the wild swinging of the branch, forced him to act. Patrick opened the door and kicked the rodent outside.
Isabel stood on a wooden bench, still wielding the branch. She held her hand to her heart, her mouth tight with fear. This was more than the disgust he’d seen on the faces of most women. She’d been terrified.
‘You’ve seen rats before,’ he remarked.
Though Isabel nodded, her fear didn’t diminish. ‘I hate them. And mice. And anything that nibbles.’
He couldn’t resist the urge to tease her. ‘They’re probably living in the thatch.’
A whimper sounded from her lips. ‘Please, God, no.’
He moved closer and disarmed her, tossing the branch onto the hearth. Standing before her, he saw her shudder. Her veil had come loose from the thin gold circlet, and she clutched the crimson kirtle. Though she raised her eyes to his, the fear in them was so great, he felt badly for his teasing.
He studied her, the warm brown eyes and the pale cheeks. She smelled like a mixture of honeysuckle and rose, every inch a lady. Though she tried to keep her courage, her fear of something else was stronger. It was the fear of a woman who had never lain with a man before.
Soaked as she was, the silk outlined every curve. His imagination conjured up wicked thoughts, of sliding the silk from her shoulder and tasting the warm woman’s flesh.
He could not weaken. He’d not touch her, though it had been many moons since he’d known the pleasures of a woman’s body.
Instead he changed the subject. ‘That bench is going to collapse.’ Isabel grimaced, her eyes watching the floor as though she expected an army of rats to invade the cottage.
At her hesitation, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the opposite side of the hut. Her body was cold against his, and he set her down upon a table. Isabel tucked her knees up, shivering. Patrick returned to the hearth and turned the roasting hares over. ‘Why do they bother you so much?’
She covered her face in her knees. ‘My sisters. Patrice and Melisande played a trick on me when I was small. They put mice in my hair while I was sleeping.’ She shuddered again. ‘I’ve never forgotten the feeling of them climbing on my face, getting tangled in my hair.’
‘Are they your younger sisters?’ he asked.
‘Older.’ She raised her gaze to his. ‘I’m not a wealthy heiress, in case you thought to claim land.’
‘I have no need of land. And your father and I came to a different agreement during the betrothal.’
An agreement where Thornwyck intended his grandsons to be future kings of Eíreann. Patrick tossed another limb on to the fire. There would be no children, his own form of revenge. Though Thornwyck could take his tribe prisoner, capturing Laochre and forcing an alliance, at least this was something the Baron could not control.
His wife had stopped shivering at last. She removed her veil and finger-combed her long golden hair to dry. It glowed in the firelight, a vibrant contrast to her crimson silk kirtle.
She rotated to warm another part of her body. When she caught him watching her, she frowned. Patrick turned away and checked on the hares again. After a time, the tantalising aroma of the roasting meat filled the air. The meat dripped with juices, and he cut off a piece with his knife, offering it to her along with a hard loaf of bread. She tore off a piece of bread and handed it back. Nibbling at the hare, she murmured, ‘Thank you.’
‘I was not intending to starve you,’ he said. ‘No thanks is needed.’
‘Not just for the food—’ her face flushed red ‘—also for not bedding me after the ceremony.’ She moved her gaze away, staring at the roasting meat.
Patrick crossed the room and stood before her. She needed to understand her role in this union. Resting his hands upon the table, he trapped her in place. His hands dug into the wood and he hid none of the frustrated anger, nor the vehemence he felt.
‘You needn’t worry that I will bed you now. Or at all, for that matter.’
She blanched, but he held his ground. The marriage was part of a surrender agreement, not a true alliance. She would never be a queen, nor would she bear sons of his blood.
It was best she got used to it now.
Isabel groaned, as rays of sunlight speared her eyes. She tried to uncurl her body from where she’d slept upon the table. Her husband had not protested her choice, and she’d covered her hair with her veil. Even so, she’d had trouble falling asleep for fear of rats.
Such a strange wedding night. She didn’t know what to think of Patrick MacEgan, nor their future together. Her husband stood at the doorway, his back to her. Isabel stifled her surprise. His tunic hung near the dying fire and he was bare from the waist up. His bronzed skin glowed in the sun while rippled muscles revealed his strength.
She held her breath as he stretched. Toothless and ageing he wasn’t. But he’d laid her apprehensions to rest last night. He’d already said he had no intention of bedding her. She should be overwhelmed with relief.
Instead, it made her suspicious. And uneasy about their arrangement. Why would he keep her a virgin? And for how long would he leave her alone? Her father had threatened them both if she was not carrying an heir by the time he arrived in Erin. Edwin de Godred would not hesitate to humiliate her.
Isabel swung down from the table, eyeing the floor for any sign of rodents. Her limbs felt stiff and aching. And, sweet saints, there was more riding this day. Her backside chafed from the journey yesterday.
Patrick turned around. ‘Good. You’re awake. Break your fast and we’ll go.’ He picked up his tunic and donned it, heading back outside.
Isabel spied the fallen length of cloth on the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. A brat, he’d called it. At least it kept her warm in the morning chill. She ate the piece of bread he’d left for her, then ventured outside.
The rising sun glimmered through the forest, while the wet grass shone. ‘Aren’t queens supposed to travel in a litter?’ she grumbled.
‘You aren’t a queen.’
‘But I thought—’
‘You are a bride, but not a queen. You will not rule over my tribe.’
There was anger in his voice, a dark threat that made her tremble. What did he expect from her? As his wife and lady, she had responsibilities to fulfil. She frowned as he lifted her atop his stallion. ‘Then why bother taking me to Erin?’
