call you? Your Majesty? My sovereign lord?’
‘Patrick will do.’ Though he had earned the rank of petty king, reigning over his tribe, it had been hardly a year. He had not yet grown accustomed to being their leader. He didn’t know how his father and eldest brother had shouldered the responsibility so easily. Every decision he made, he questioned. Especially the agreement with the Baron of Thornwyck.
‘You promised me my freedom. Do you intend to give it to me now?’
He shook his head. ‘When we reach Eíreann. I give you my word.’
‘And is your vow worth anything?’
He folded his arms. It was becoming apparent why Thornwyck had offered his daughter as part of the arrangement. ‘Are you always this difficult?’
‘Always.’
Her bluntness almost made him smile. ‘Good. I’ve no need for a spineless woman.’ He lifted her atop the stallion once more. A flash of irritation crossed her face, but she made no complaint.
She had courage; he’d grant her that. Even still, he could never forget what her people had done to his. Worse, the marriage was only part of the surrender terms. The rest of the treaty made slavery seem inviting. The price he’d paid for the lives of his people was far too high.
As he urged his horse onwards, he could only pray that his tribe could endure what lay ahead.
Isabel clung to the hope that somehow the improper marriage was not binding. She knew better than to try an escape. Without a horse of her own and supplies, she wouldn’t survive. Not unless she could find someone to help her.
But who? Edwin de Godred had made it clear that he wanted this alliance. He didn’t seem to care that his youngest daughter was now bound to a foreigner, and an uncivilised one at that.
Why had she ever agreed to this? She should have listened to her instincts instead of believing Patrick’s tale about captive women and children.
They rode through a forest, the road curving in the midst of fallen leaves. Stately oaks and rowans crowned the path, their branches weaving a canopy high above them. The landscape of her homeland faded into a sea of green and rich earth.
Near the Welsh border, slate-grey mountains wore a halo of afternoon sunlight. They rose above the landscape, beautiful and stark. Flocks of sheep dotted the hills, flecks of white against the sea of green. The spring air cooled her skin, a reminder of the coming night.
Perhaps it would be the last time she saw England. She tried to quell the panic. You must not be afraid, she told herself. Keep your wits about you. Erin cannot be so bad.
But her stray thoughts kept returning to the wedding night. She glanced down at MacEgan’s hands, roughened with labour. They were not at all smooth like a nobleman’s. His forearms controlled the horse’s reins, revealing a subdued strength.
‘Night approaches,’ she ventured. ‘Do you plan to ride in the darkness?’
There was no reply. She tried again, raising her voice.
‘Perhaps when it has grown too dark to see our path, a tree will knock you senseless. Then I could run away.’
Again, silence. The man might as well have been a statue from his stoic demeanour.
‘Or if I am fortunate, wolves might devour us.’ She pondered the thought, imagining other ideas that could make this day any worse.
‘You talk overmuch, a chara. In a few hours, we camp for the night.’
Isabel clamped her mouth shut. The thought of stopping for the night, alone with this man, unsettled her. Even now, riding against the heat of his body, kindled her nervousness. He sheltered her, confining her in arms chiselled with a warrior’s strength.
Would it be that unbearable to feel his body joining with hers? Her maidservant had sighed over the pleasure of lying in a man’s arms, but Isabel remained unconvinced. Her warrior husband had not a trace of gentleness. She dreaded the thought of sharing a bed with him.
After a time, Patrick drew the horse to a stop. The lavender sky swelled with shadowy clouds. She could feel moisture gathering in the air. Ahead, she saw no inn, only more trees.
Her husband moved with a fluid grace, pulling her down from the horse. ‘Do not try to run.’
She almost laughed. ‘And where would I go?’
‘Wherever you planned to travel when you tried to steal my horse.’ He took her hands and led her into the woods. From his pack of supplies, he brought out a pile of heavy cloth, which unfolded into a small tent. It was hardly large enough for a single person, let alone both of them. He finished setting up the tent and gestured towards it. ‘Wait here. I’ll hunt for food.’
Isabel glanced at the swelling clouds, hoping he meant for her to sleep within the tent alone. She started towards the shelter when Patrick stopped her. His gaze held hers, a predatory man who would show no mercy. ‘You should rest until I return. We’ve more riding to do before we stop for the night.’
Isabel gathered her composure. ‘Don’t you have any supplies here? There’s no need to hunt.’ She glanced up at the twilight horizon, more than a little fearful. What if he abandoned her in this place?
Patrick’s face was close enough to feel his warm breath upon her cheek. ‘I’ll come back for you soon.’
Her body betrayed her with the warmth that flooded through her. She forced herself to look away.
He deposited her inside the tent and tossed a length of wool at her. ‘Cover yourself with the brat to stay warm.’
As he started towards the horse, her fear doubled. What if a thief or a murderer came after her? She would be alone, defenceless. ‘I would like a weapon,’ she added hastily. ‘Please.’
He turned and shot her a look of disbelief. ‘For what purpose?’
‘In case someone attacks. Or an animal.’ Isabel crawled outside the tent and pointed to his quiver. ‘I know how to use a bow and arrows.’
‘No weapons. I do not intend to go far, and I’d rather you didn’t shoot me when I return.’ He drew up his hood and mounted the stallion, disappearing into the woods.
At that, the rain began. It was a hard, pounding rain that soaked through the silk of her kirtle. A thickness rose in the back of her throat as Isabel huddled inside the tent. Rivulets of cold rain spattered against the heavy cloth, and she cursed Patrick for bringing her here. She cursed her father for arranging this marriage. She cursed herself for not throwing herself off the horse when Patrick had stolen her.
Mud caked her lower limbs as the rain pounded harder. Her veil clung to her neck in an icy grasp. In the distance, she heard an eerie howling noise. Hastily she sent up another silent prayer.
The last thing she needed was for her new husband to truly be eaten by wolves.
Chapter Two
Patrick’s stallion raced across the Welsh plains, the rain soaking through him. The brittle weather helped clear his
