He tensed, as though her words were made of thorns. “You know me not, Isabel. Do not presume to judge me. I seek only to make the best of this arrangement.”
“What is best for you.”
“What is best for all of us.”
She clenched her teeth. So the Irish king believed he could exile her without a fight?
Patrick MacEgan had no idea just how difficult she could be.
Chapter Three
Whitesailsrippledinthe wind, and in back of the vessel, the horses whinnied their displeasure at being trapped in one place. Patrick could sympathize with them. After a full day of nothing but gray skies and an endless sea, he longed to walk upon solid ground. Though he sailed when necessary, he disliked being at the whim of the seas.
In the distance, the green hills of his homeland emerged, fragments of the shoreline ridged with sandy earth and limestone. Patrick’s chest constricted with emotion at the sight of it. As a lad, he’d once run along the strand, playing with boyhood friends. Now, he held a different memory of these shores. The Norman invaders had landed here, spilling the blood of his people. And that of his eldest brother Liam.
His hand moved to his sword, feeling the unfamiliar hilt of ivory and wood. The weapon was one he’d inherited by right, but he had not grown accustomed to it. A ruby, worn smooth by generations of MacEgan kings, rested in the ivory hilt. Once, the MacEgans had commanded an imposing presence upon the land. But his father’s men were used to tribal raids, not organized warfare. Most could wield a sword, but they’d had no formal training in how to withstand the enemy in large numbers.
He meant to change that now. The only way to protect themselves from the Normans was to learn their weaknesses. He would bring the soldiers among them, watch their training, and force his men to learn. Then he could use their own strategies against them in battle.
Mists encircled the island of Ennisleigh while storm clouds gathered along the horizon. The craggy rocks protected a small ringfort atop the hill, enclosing seven stone huts. Only a score of aging survivors remained. Proud and set in their ways, the folk had refused to join the remainder of his tribesmen on the mainland.
His gaze moved toward his wife. Isabel’s golden hair tangled in a web about her shoulders, shadows lining her eyes. She studied the land without any emotion in her face.
“That is where you will live,” he told her, pointing toward the island.
Her posture stiffened. She looked as though she was considering throwing herself into the dark waters. He wouldn’t put it past her.
“You will have your freedom there,” he said softly. “And in this way I can grant you my protection.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Protection? We both know it is my prison.” She turned her face away from the island, her veil whipping in the breeze.
“There is nowhere else for you to go.” Why could she not accept the truth? Her father’s men had murdered his. His tribe would never bid her welcome upon the mainland. But Ennisleigh had emerged virtually unscathed from the battle. It was an island sanctuary amid the fighting at his own fortress.
The harsh scent of salt permeated the air while gulls screeched around them. A low fog skirted the ghostly island. With his brothers’ help, Patrick drew in the sail, eager to get off this ship.
As they neared the dock, his brothers slowed the oars. Bevan held the craft steady while Patrick stepped onto the wooden pier. He reached down and helped Isabel off the ship. She took a few unsteady steps, and then walked across the planks toward the beach.
“Let the horses off for some food and water,” Patrick directed Bevan. “Then we’ll take them back to Laochre.”
“I’ll get food for us,” Trahern offered. “I’m wanting a taste of something fresh.”
Before his brother could leave, Patrick warned, “Keep the islanders away. Tell them to remain in their huts for this day and not to bother Lady Isabel.” The islanders loved nothing more than gossip, and he knew his Norman bride would provide fodder for many nights’ conversation.
“Should we reveal that she is your wife?” Trahern asked.
Patrick gave a curt nod. Trahern took the pathway up to the ringfort entrance while Bevan led the horses along the strand. Sunlight illuminated the ruined rath of Ennisleigh. Patrick waited a few moments before extending a hand to help Isabel up the steep walkway.
She did not accept his assistance but set her face with determination. He kept his pace slow while she steadied her footing upon the path.
“Why are you leaving me here?” Before he could answer, she added, “And if you tell me one more time it’s for my own protection, I might seize your dagger and cut out your tongue.”
He didn’t believe she’d do it. “You won’t. After all, you’re afraid of mice.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
He stopped and leveled a glare at her. “Perhaps you should be,a chara.“ Before she could reach for the blade at his side, he trapped her wrists.
She struggled to break free of him, muttering, “I should have stolen a horse when I had the chance.”
