Patrick didn’t know what she meant by that reply, but he would not relent. “As I said, you have your freedom here. Live as you choose.”
“But stay away from you and your tribe, is that it?” Her brown eyes blazed with fury.
He released her. “Yes.” There would never be a time when she could be one of them.
A stubborn glint lit her eyes. He didn’t know what she planned, but he didn’t like it. The sooner she understood that, the better for both of them. For a moment, he tore his gaze from her and stared out at the azure sea.
“Does my father know of my exile?” she asked.
The question was a subtle threat. “You are no longer his concern.”
“I will be when he arrives at Lughnasa,” Isabel warned. “If this marriage allowed you to save the lives of your people as you claim, then I should at least be allowed to live among the tribe.”
“I never said you would be living with us.” Her assertion did not concern him in the least. By Lughnasa, his forces would be strong enough to drive out all of the Normans.
“Aren’t you afraid of what my father might do?”
“No.” Though he’d conceded defeat in battle and wedded Isabel, he refused to be commanded by a Norman. “Edwin de Godred holds no power here.”
And the baron would hold no power within the privacy of their marriage, either. If Isabel ever bore a child, it would not be of his blood. After they’d defeated Edwin’s men, he intended to sever the union. It would have to wait until after the harvest, but that would give him enough time to gather the funds needed to coerce the archbishop.
Isabel strode past him, her mood furious. When they reached the crest of the hill, she stopped short. A moment later, her lips parted in surprise.
She saw its beauty, as he did. One side of the island near the channel was fierce and rugged, while glittering sand embraced the side closest to the sea.
Isabel held herself motionless. Her eyes held a muted awe as she surveyed the landscape.
A moment later, her softness disappeared. Rebellion brewed in her eyes, along with something else . . . like sorrow. “I don’t belong here.”
“No,” he said softly. “You don’t. But it’s the only place for you.” He closed himself off to her feelings. His duty was to his tribe. There was no place for guilt. And yet, he found himself fascinated by the soft lips that argued with the ferocity of a warrior.
“I’ll find a way to leave.”
His hand captured her nape, her hair tangling in his grasp. With mock seriousness he added, “Then I’ll have to chain you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I’ll dare anything.” He met her challenge, even as her hands struggled against him. Fury flashed in her eyes, and he caught himself staring at her mouth. Her lips were full, with an intriguing lower curve.
Immediately he released her, angry with himself for even considering touching her. “I will return to you this night, after I have tended to my own fortress. You’ll need supplies.”
“Why bother? I’m sure your tribe would prefer that you starved me to death and mounted my head upon the gate.”
He didn’t comment. For some, she wasn’t far off from the truth.
Tall grasses swelled in the breeze, brushing against their knees as they walked. Up ahead, stone beehive-shaped cottages stood against the perimeter of the palisade wall. He inspected them, searching for signs of damage. He was satisfied to see none. Only his family’s dwelling had suffered, and it could be rebuilt.
Smoke curled from the outdoor cooking fires, wisping tendrils of burning peat. His stomach growled as the scent of hot pottage mingled in the air. Just in front of the fortress, a large stretch of land bloomed green with seedlings.
He heard the soft sounds of conversation, but none of the islanders emerged from their huts. Good. They had obeyed his brothers’ warning. Even still, he was certain that all eyes watched them from behind the hide doors.
He led Isabel toward the ruined fortress built by his grandsire. It stood on the highest point of the island, its proud walls humbled by fire.
This was the place where he’d often run away from home. Patrick laid a hand against a charred beam, remembering the broad laugh of his grandsire Kieran MacEgan. “This dwelling is mine.”
“How did it burn?” Isabel asked. “Was it the invaders?”
Patrick shook his head. “The islanders set it on fire, so the Normans would believe they were already under attack.”
