Forbidden Night with the Prince
Author
Michelle Willingham
Reads
18.7K
Chapters
13
Chapter One
1175
Joan de Laurent was cursed.
Most folk believed she was foolish in such thoughts, but in her heart, she knew it was true. She had already been betrothed twice, and both men had died before they had wedded her. One had perished in battle while the second had fallen ill with the pox.
For some reason, God did not want her to be married. She was convinced of this, and moreover, any man who dared to seek her as his bride would draw his last breath before the wedding Mass was over. The people of Montbrooke believed it, too. Men crossed themselves whenever she walked by. The women avoided her, particularly those who were pregnant. Some of the children ran away from her, and had she not been the daughter of an earl, they might have accused her of witchcraft.
Joan had done everything in her power to prove them wrong. Every gown she owned was white, a symbol of her innocence. She wore an iron cross around her neck to keep away the fairies. Her dark hair remained veiled at all times, and she went to Mass every day.
But she could feel their stares burning into the back of her head. She heard the whispers and knew that their hearts had turned against her out of fear. No men wanted her, despite her father’s attempts to arrange a third betrothal. Why would they, when it meant a death sentence?
Joan had resigned herself to a life of prayer, one where she would never marry or conceive a child of her own. And that was the problem. She loved babies with all her heart. After her brother’s wife, Lianna, had given birth to a daughter, Joan had been overwhelmed by love for this beautiful girl. It was her secret that she desperately wanted to be a mother. The need burned within her in a fervent desire. She had been lonely for so long, shunned by everyone. She longed to fill the emptiness by cradling a beloved child against her breast, to rest her lips upon a soft head and feel that soul-deep love.
You are too old, her mind chided. Four-and-twenty was an age when most women had several children, whereas Joan was still a virgin. There was little hope of her ever marrying or bearing a child.
But her father had no intention of letting her serve the Church. Instead, he’d sought a betrothal with an older nobleman from Ireland. Her intended husband already had heirs, and Murdoch did not need children from her.
It should have been the perfect arrangement—and yet, she was afraid of this marriage. She didn’t want to see another man die, though the sensible side of her brain knew her fears were foolish. But no matter how many times she told herself it was only a coincidence that her previous bridegrooms had died, she couldn’t quite dispel the belief.
After weeks of travelling, they arrived in Ireland. Her father, Edward de Laurent, had sent her brothers, Warrick and Rhys, to accompany her and to witness the vows. Warrick had lands in Killalough, and he’d brought dozens of soldiers with him to protect his wife and children at his estate. Rhys had brought half a dozen of his own men to guard them on this journey.
It was raining, and Joan held a woollen cloak over her head as the cart rolled through the mud. She did not see a castle anywhere—only thatched huts upon a hillside. Deep inside, panic gripped her lungs. Her hands were ice cold, and she fought to calm the rush of nerves.
Everything will be all right, her head tried to reason.
I don’t want to marry an old man, her heart wailed.
He may be kind. His children could become yours.
But deep inside, she believed Murdoch Ó Connor would die if he married her. It felt as if she were bringing a curse upon an innocent man, one he didn’t deserve. How could she even think that this marriage would come to pass?
Her brother, Warrick, reached out and took her hand. He said nothing but squeezed her fingers. Yet, his silent reassurance did nothing to ease her terror.
Joan stiffened her spine and let the hood fall back to her shoulders, regardless of the rain. She hardly cared about how it would soak through her veil and braided hair. The frigid weather matched her uncertain mood.
Rhys glanced back at them and said to Warrick, ‘I don’t know if this will be a good alliance for Joan. Murdoch may be a chieftain, but...’ He shook his head, eyeing the decaying homes.
Joan didn’t know what to think of this place. It appeared as if nothing had been done to maintain the ringfort. The thatch was rotting on the rooftops, along with the wooden timbers. Why, then, had the chieftain allowed it to fall into disrepair?
A few bystanders stared at them, but none smiled in welcome. Instead, it seemed as if the people were confused by their arrival. Several murmured in whispers, staring at them.
‘Do you think they knew about this betrothal?’ Joan murmured.
Rhys only shook his head. ‘I cannot say. But I want you to remain with Warrick while I find out.’
‘I could send one of my men to speak with them,’ Warrick offered. He had brought an Irishman from Killalough to act as an interpreter.
‘It does not matter,’ Joan whispered. The burden of this betrothal weighed heavily upon her, and she was certain it would not end well.
She tried to calm the storm of her nerves when the cart drew to a stop at the gates. Rhys called out to the guards, announcing their presence, but the two men appeared uneasy for some reason. There was a strange quiet throughout the ringfort, an air of ill fortune that bothered her. The Ó Connor guards allowed them inside, but Joan turned to Warrick. ‘Something is wrong.’
He nodded, keeping his hand tight upon hers. ‘I agree.’
Her brother helped her down from the cart, and one of the Irishmen came to greet them. The man could not speak the Norman language, but from his gesturing, Joan guessed 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, it felt like an accusation—as if he were a monster come to life. A cold chill slid over his spine as he thought of the children who had fought at Clonagh, trying to save their fathers.
And the one whose death was his fault.
You were not meant to be their prince, the dark voice of his conscience whispered. Ardan was destined to be the king, not you.
His gut tightened, and he forced away the shadowed guilt. There was nothing he could do now except try to mend the mistakes he’d made. He was here for only one purpose—to seek help for Clonagh. The last thing he needed was the distraction of a woman.
When he reached the top of the stairs, Sir Anselm approached to greet him. The Norman knight had been a loyal vassal for several years now, and he had visited Clonagh on several occasions on behalf of the MacEgans.
‘My lord, this is a surprise.’ The knight raised his knee as a gesture of respect.
But although Ronan was a flaith and a king’s son, the traditional greeting only reminded him that he was Lord of Nothing right now. He had been unable to stop the attack on Clonagh, and many would blame him for it.
Ronan followed the knight inside the donjon, his mood darkening. It was difficult to remain patient, for he recognised their urgent situation. He needed soldiers to help him retake the fortress, well-trained men who could seize power from his stepbrother without harming his people.
Sir Anselm led him inside, and Ronan strode through the Great Chamber. Dozens of men and women were gathered at one end of the donjon where the king’s brother, Trahern MacEgan, was telling stories. King Patrick and Queen Isabel were seated at the dais along with their young son and two other men—Normans from the look of their armour.
Sir Anselm led him towards the steps, and the king’s attention centred upon him. Ronan realised that he should not have entered their keep in such a state, covered in enemy blood. The queen’s expression faltered with sympathy, and she summoned a servant to her side, leaning in to whisper a command.
‘I was not expecting your visit, Ronan,’ King Patrick said solemnly. ‘Come and dine with us.’ He motioned for him to sit at the end of their table. A servant brought food, and it took Ronan a great effort not to devour the bread and stew. He’d eaten next to nothing over the past few days, and he finished the food within minutes. The servant brought him more, and he managed to eat more slowly during the second helping.
King Patrick introduced the two men as Rhys and Warrick de Laurent, and he switched into the Norman tongue so the men would understand. Ronan was glad that his father had forced him to learn many languages, though he’d resented the education at the time of his fostering. Even now, he wasn’t certain why the king was drawing these men into the conversation, but they appeared to be warriors. Ronan welcomed help from any source, whether Norman or Irish.
The king began by saying, ‘I did hear that Clonagh was attacked a few nights ago, and that your father, King Brodur, is a hostage. Our neighbouring tribe at Gall Tír informed us of this.’
Ronan nodded and continued speaking in the Norman language. ‘A few nights ago, my stepbrother Odhran gathered his forces and took my father prisoner.’ He began relating the story, keeping all emotion from his voice when he spoke of those who had died. A part of him still felt that he should have stayed, despite the danger. But he knew that the MacEgan allies were their best hope.
Once again, his attention shifted when he saw the woman in white entering the Great Chamber. She balanced the little girl on her hip, lowering her to sit among the other children who were listening to the bard. The child squirmed and then got up to wander around the gathering space. The woman trailed the young girl, keeping a close watch over her.
For some reason, the two Normans tensed when they saw his distraction, and Ronan forced his gaze back to them. ‘I have come to ask for soldiers,’ he finished. ‘I cannot let my people suffer beneath Odhran’s rule. But they were too afraid to fight back against their own kinsmen. And I need to restore my father to his throne.’
The king exchanged a glance with the other two Normans. It seemed as if he was asking their opinion, and Warrick de Laurent spoke at last. ‘How many men do you need?’
‘Two dozen,’ Ronan answered. ‘Three would be better, but if they are strong fighters, it will be enough.’
‘And once you take back Clonagh, what means do you have to keep it?’
He paused. ‘Once I restore my father to his throne and drive out Odhran, we should be able to maintain order with the remaining men.’
A flicker of doubt crossed King Patrick’s face. ‘What happened to Queen Eilis during the attack?’
The mention of his father’s wife renewed his anger. For Eilis had betrayed him as surely as her son. ‘She supported her son’s rebellion and did nothing to aid my father.’
At that, King Patrick sobered. ‘I know what it is to face treachery from within your own castle walls. But you cannot exile your father’s wife. That is Brodur’s decision to make.’
He had not considered those implications. His father might not set his queen aside, and if so, Ronan would be unable to displace the woman, even if he did take back Clonagh. ‘What do you suggest?’
The king exchanged a look with the de Laurent warriors. ‘You should claim the throne for yourself and take a wife. One with an army of her own who can defend Clonagh from any further threats. Keep the men there for at least a year, and then you will know who is truly loyal.’
Ronan tensed at that, for he had no desire to wed anyone, especially after all the mistakes he’d made. ‘I will not hide behind a woman’s skirts. Or in this case, her soldiers.’ His negligence had cost others their lives, and it was better if he remained unmarried.
‘Rhys and Warrick came to Ireland for their sister’s betrothal,’ the king began, ‘but her intended husband died. You may want to consider a Norman alliance with them. They hold lands at Killalough, and they are looking for a new marriage for their sister.’ Patrick reached towards his wife’s hand, and the queen smiled warmly at him. Then he ruffled the hair of his son. ‘Meet her and decide for yourself.’
No. He would never bind a woman to him for the sake of her soldiers. Better to hire mercenaries who would leave once he had no further need of them. He had forsworn all women since his brother’s death. And that would not change.
Before he could refuse the offer, 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 asking me to speak with the prince for that reason, I must refuse. I do not wish to be married.’
The queen laughed softly. ‘Your brother’s ambitions for your marriage stretch high, if that is what he believes. No, Lady Joan. You are Norman, like I am, and you know our customs well. I have given Ronan our hospitality, and we will grant him men to aid in his cause.’
Her reassurance eased Joan’s tensions somewhat. But she asked, ‘Then why have you brought me to his chamber?’
‘After the battle, Ronan asked for a hot bath. I would have asked one of my ladies to serve him, but I thought you might wish to do so. You could meet the prince and decide if your brothers should fight with him.’
It was the custom of noblewomen to help bathe their guests, and Joan understood that the queen was granting her the opportunity to learn more about Ronan Ó Callaghan for her brothers’ sake. ‘So long as you are not trying to set up a betrothal.’
The queen shook her head. ‘His family was trying to arrange a marriage to another king’s daughter from Tornall, from what I have heard.’
It felt as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders, and Joan could breathe again. ‘I am very glad to hear this.’
Queen Isabel smiled at her. ‘Go now, and see what you can learn for your brothers’ sake. You need not fear that we are arranging a marriage.’
Joan inclined her head and entered the chamber. Ronan was not inside, but the queen assured her that he would arrive shortly. The servants had already filled the tub with hot water, and Joan busied herself by arranging the soap and all that she would need.
Knowing that this man was merely a guest and nothing more eased all the tension from her mood. She had tended many visitors in her father’s castle over the years, and this man would be no different.
After a time, the door opened and Ronan stood at the threshold. He was a tall man, and she guessed that the top of her head came to his chin. His chainmail armour was covered in blood and would need to be cleaned. Beneath the shadows of his green eyes, she saw weariness and strain. His blond hair was matted, and she wondered what it would feel like to touch his unshaved cheeks. She could not deny that he was attractive, and she forced a calm smile on her face.
From the wry expression, it seemed that he, too, believed others were trying to make a match between them. He spoke in Irish at first, and she shook her head, for she did not understand his words. Then he drew closer and spoke in the Norman language, ‘Did your brothers arrange this?’
She shook her head. ‘The queen did.’ With a light shrug, she said, ‘But I am here to tend your bath, nothing more.’
He stared at her for a moment, as if he wasn’t certain whether to believe her. She met his gaze frankly, for what did she have to hide?
At last, he asked, ‘Will you help me with my armour?’
‘Of course.’ She aided him in removing his outer tunic, followed by the heavy hauberk. The weight of the chainmail was staggering, but she laid it carefully on the floor, along with the tunic. ‘I can arrange for a servant to clean it for you tonight, if you like.’ The sight of the dried blood was sobering, for she realised the extent of the fighting he had endured.
‘Thank you. I am Ronan Ó Callaghan,’ he said.
‘I am Joan de Laurent. You met my meddling brothers, Rhys and Warrick, not long ago.’ She smiled at the prince, not wanting him to be ill at ease around her—especially when she had no intention of following her brothers’ wishes. ‘Pay them no heed.’
He nodded and stripped off his remaining armour until he stood only in his trews. Joan kept her gaze upon the floor and took the rest of the heavy chainmail, averting her gaze as he stepped into the tub of water. When she was certain he was covered, she turned around.
A strange flush suffused her cheeks at the sight of him. His broad shoulders were exposed in the narrow tub, and he was heavily muscled. Water droplets slid over his bare skin, and she felt a strange ache within her body. So very odd.
‘Is the water warm enough?’ she asked.
‘It is.’ He reached for a cake of soap, but she took it first and dipped her hands in the water, lathering it. The Irish prince was silent while she moved behind him and washed his back. He flinched slightly when she scrubbed away the dirt with a linen rag. It was a task she had done for many of her family’s guests, a common courtesy.
Yet, somehow, with this man, it seemed different. She was conscious of his bare skin and the touch of her hands over the firm male flesh. With her hands, she scooped water over the soap and rinsed it away, following the path with her hands.
‘Were you wounded in the battle?’ She didn’t want to inadvertently hurt him by touching a sensitive place.
But he only shook his head. ‘Nothing serious. Only a few bruises.’
Joan tried to behave as if he were an ordinary visitor, but the truth was, she did find him attractive. He was nothing like other visitors she had tended in the past. Not only was he handsome, but his body appeared hewn from stone with its hardened muscle.
Her cheeks burned with the flush of interest. If he had been her first betrothal, she would have been quite pleased about him claiming her innocence. She liked what she saw, and the very thought of a man like this touching her made her feel breathless. Suddenly, she was beginning to understand the teasing remarks she had overheard by other women in the past. Washing this man made her own skin tighten with anticipation, and she became more aware of him.
‘You must be weary after this journey,’ she said. ‘It looks as if you rode here straight from the battlefield.’
‘I did,’ he admitted. ‘It took two days to reach Laochre.’
Her heart softened at the realisation that Ronan had sacrificed everything to reach the MacEgans quickly. It was evident that he’d gone without sleep and food until now, hoping to help his people. He was a man of honour, and she admired his inner strength.
Ronan was so quiet, it seemed that his thoughts were troubling him. She helped him lean back, and she filled a pitcher with warmed water, pouring it over his hair. It was a strangely intimate task, and the air grew heated as she lathered soap into his hair. He closed his eyes and relaxed against the tub. Joan found herself staring at his muscled arms and the way the water slid over the hardened planes.
She could almost imagine herself kissing this man, feeling his arms around her. A sudden aching caught her between her legs, stirrings of an unfamiliar desire. She didn’t understand these feelings, but her breasts tightened beneath her gown.
To distract herself, she rinsed the soap from his hair. Ronan opened his eyes and caught her gaze.
‘You have a soothing touch, my lady.’
All words fled her brain, and she managed only a nod. His green eyes stared into hers, and she found herself fascinated by his mouth. She forced her attention back to the soap in her hands. ‘I—I was sorry to hear that your father is now a captive.’
Ronan’s expression turned grim. ‘He is. But not for long, I hope.’
She knew he needed an army to help him fight, and she understood that this was not a king’s son who remained behind stone walls while his men fought to defend the Kingdom. This man would venture into battle with no fear, only aggression. His bloodstained armour proved it beyond all doubt.
Ronan sat up, resting his arms on the wooden tub. It was time to wash his chest, but her heartbeat quickened at the thought. She wanted to touch him, to slide her fingers over his bare skin and explore his body. Beneath her palms, she felt the rise of his pectoral muscles and his swift heartbeat. His broad chest filled the tub, and she suddenly imagined him standing up, fully naked.
What was the matter with her? She sloshed water against his skin to rinse it, and hurriedly pulled back to fetch the drying cloth.
‘Do you know why they sent you to attend my bath?’ he asked in a gruff tone.
Joan fumbled for a reason. ‘B-because you are a king’s son and an honoured guest.’ She took the cloth and spun, holding it out and averting her eyes. She heard the splash of water as he stood. He took the cloth from her, drying himself while she turned her back.
When she risked a glance, she saw that he had tied the cloth around his hips. His abdomen was ridged, and a slight line of hair directed her gaze lower. Her breath caught as she imagined the rest of him, but she dragged her attention back to his face.
‘Queen Isabel said you are promised to another,’ she reminded him. ‘The King of Tornall’s daughter, I believe.’
His expression twisted. ‘No, she is mistaken. There is no formal betrothal between us, despite what my father wanted.’
Though she revealed no reaction, inwardly she wondered if the queen had brought them together on purpose. It was indeed likely.
Ronan crossed his arms and stared at her. She couldn’t quite guess his thoughts, but his gaze passed over her slowly as if he were memorising her features.
She fumbled for something to say but could not come up with a single word. He was staring at her as if he found her beautiful. And a piece of her spirit warmed to it.
‘Is something wrong?’ He took a step closer and reached out to touch her nape. The warm wetness of his hand was a distraction she hadn’t anticipated.
‘What are you doing?’
He pulled at her veil, revealing her long dark hair. ‘I want to see you. It seems reasonable enough, given how much you have seen of me.’
She gaped at that. ‘No, that is unnecessary.’ She reached out for her veil, but he continued to stare, holding the length of linen under one arm. Joan let out a sigh and stared back. His green eyes held interest, which she didn’t want at all. ‘Give me my veil, my lord.’
But he held it and ignored her command. ‘You are fair of face. It surprises me that you are not yet married.’
Because they all died, she wanted to answer. It was quite a hindrance.
Still, her vanity warmed to his words. She wished she could stop herself from reacting so strongly to this man. And so, she squared her shoulders and changed the conversation in a new direction. ‘I bid you good fortune in winning back your castle and rescuing your father.’
‘I need your brothers’ help,’ he admitted. ‘But they will not give up soldiers...not unless you can convince them to fight for my people’s sake.’ His voice was deep and husky, and her wayward thoughts turned down the wrong path.
Now what did he mean by that? He was a stranger to her, and she had no reason to intervene on his behalf. But she could not deny that he attracted her.
‘I am not opposed to helping your cause,’ she said slowly, ‘but how do you suppose I should convince my brothers? Do you intend to pay them for their soldiers?’ Warrick and Rhys would never endanger their men on behalf of a stranger—even if he was an Irish prince. ‘They will want something in return.’
‘I can offer them an alliance and protection for Killalough, once my father is king again. But I leave that answer in your hands,’ he said. ‘You will know what your brothers want in return better than me. And if you do manage to convince them on my behalf, I would grant you your own wish.’
Joan nearly choked at the offer. It wasn’t as if she could ask this man for a baby. That was a conversation she could never imagine. Even so, she felt the flustered heat rising once more. Wild thoughts entered her mind, of lying naked upon her bed. Would Ronan enter her chamber and touch her intimately? Would he claim her body night after night, in the hopes that his seed would take root?
She closed her eyes and forced the sensual vision away. Despite the curse, she could not imagine falling into such sin. Not to mention, her brothers would eviscerate him for touching her.
‘N-no, I don’t need anything from you.’ She clenched her hands at her sides, trying to calm the restlessness within. But it was difficult with him wearing only the drying cloth and standing so near.
‘I think you do. But you don’t want to tell me what it is,’ Ronan predicted. His voice was low and deep, almost tempting. She started to turn away, but he caught her hand. ‘Why is that?’
Because it would be a terrible mistake. Even if she enjoyed his body in the way her brothers’ wives had said she would.
No, she had no choice but to remain untouched for the rest of her life. It did not matter that she wanted a baby of her own. She had to content herself with her nieces and nephews. Why, then, was the thought so bleak?
‘Well?’ he prompted. His thumb stroked the centre of her palm, and her body yearned for more. She imagined him caressing her in other places, and it sent a flare of need between her legs.
Stop this, she warned herself and straightened. ‘I don’t have to tell you what I want. Only that it has nothing to do with you.’
‘You don’t like me.’ From the way he said it, it seemed almost like a challenge. And he was wrong—she liked what she saw very much. He unnerved her in a way no man ever had.
But she kept her tone calm and said, ‘I like you well enough. But that doesn’t mean we need to make a bargain between us. I will speak to my brothers, but the choice is theirs as to whether our men will fight for you.’
He studied her a moment and told her, ‘Your brothers wanted me to barter marriage in exchange for their army.’
She wanted to curse at their meddling. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘That will never happen.’
The prince was silent for a moment, and the only sound in the chamber was the dripping of water. ‘Good. Then we are in agreement.’
His blunt statement should have reassured her, but she had not expected his refusal. Instead, she waited for him to elaborate. ‘I cannot be wedded right now,’ he continued. ‘My first concern must be for my people.’
Joan understood that. He had been forced into a desperate position, one where lives were at stake. And she offered her own sympathy. ‘You are right to fear for them, and I hope you can save them. I will do what I can to convince Warrick and Rhys. But they don’t want to accept that marriage is the last thing I want.’
‘Especially to a man like me.’ There was a mocking note in the midst of his deprecating remark.
Joan softened her voice. ‘If I ever intended to marry, I would consider you—or at least, a man like you. But as I said before, I cannot wed anyone.’
Ronan released her hand, his gaze penetrating. She was acutely aware of him and the heat of his skin. It took an effort not to rest her hands upon his hewn chest, sliding her fingers over the ridge of thick muscle.
‘Your brother told me that your intended husband died,’ he said. ‘I am sorry for it.’
It happens too often, she wanted to say but didn’t. Instead, she answered, ‘I had never seen him before. I didn’t know anything about Murdoch.’
‘What will you do now?’
She shrugged. ‘I may enter a convent. Or perhaps I will return to my father’s house and look after him, now that he is a widower.’ She glanced down at him, still distracted that he wore only a drying cloth. ‘I should go and let you get dressed.’
‘Not yet.’ His demeanour shifted, and he took on a commanding tone. In that moment, he was a prince in every sense of the word. ‘I need an army to help take back my kingdom. The MacEgans will help, and possibly your brothers’ men. But once they leave, my father’s stepson will only drive our supporters out again.’
Her brow furrowed, for she didn’t quite understand what he wanted from her.
Then he continued, ‘I need men who will dwell among us until I know who is loyal.’
‘Why not ask the King of Tornall?’ Joan suggested. ‘Surely he would send men to help you.’
‘As I said before, I have no formal alliance with them—only an understanding. But if I ask him to send soldiers...’
‘He would want you to marry his daughter,’ she finished.
‘Yes. And I have met Siobhan. She is not as reasonable as you are.’
At that, she almost smiled. Reasonable was not a word most men used when describing her. ‘You think I’m reasonable because I don’t want to marry?’
‘Yes.’ He took a step closer. ‘And you may know how I can convince your brothers’ men to stay longer.’
Her gaze shifted towards his bare skin, distracting her again. ‘They would stay for a time if you paid them. But how long do you think they are needed?’
‘Half a year, at least. Perhaps longer.’
She was beginning to understand why her brothers were suggesting a betrothal. Such a length of time would be difficult, not to mention costly.
But Ronan raised his green eyes to hers and asked, ‘Do you think you can help me persuade your brothers?’ His voice was deeply resonant, like an invisible caress. Her wayward imagination conjured up the vision of his hands around her waist, pulling her near. She felt herself yielding, wanting something she could not name.
‘I—I don’t know. I could try.’ And with that, she fled, no longer trusting herself around this man.
