“I am going with you, and you will take me to your brother’s fortress. I’m not staying here.”
Ewan’s hands lowered to his sides. He was staring at something out in the water. Isabel turned to follow his gaze and saw the flare of several torches. The flames cast reflections upon the black sea water.
Amid the harsh glow of the torches, she saw a man with black hair. He wore a dark blue cloak, pinned with an iron brooch. His clothing fairly blended into the night and his boat moved forward with a swift grace. The familiar visage made Isabel grip the sides of Ewan’s boat even tighter.
“Going somewhere, my wife?”
Chapter Five
Herhusbandwasnotalone. A soldier sat behind him in the small water vessel, wearing chain mail armor and a Norman conical helm. One of her father’s men, she realized. Why was he here? Had Edwin de Godred come for her? No, if her father had arrived in Erin, he would be here himself.
“I thought you were occupied with preventing a war,” Isabel replied, stiffening under Patrick’s gaze. She didn’t move from her position, behaving as if there was nothing wrong with sitting in a boat trapped upon the beach. “Shouldn’t you be protecting your people from the terrible Normans?”
In one motion, he lifted her from Ewan’s boat and carried her farther up the shore. She gritted her teeth, annoyed that he still treated her like a sack of grain.
The Norman soldier blinked at the action but said nothing. Ewan retreated back to his own boat, rowing toward the opposite shore. He looked eager to be away, and Isabel cursed herself for not seizing her earlier opportunity. There was still the second boat, however.
Patrick continued walking uphill, carrying her in his arms. The outside temperature had dropped, the moonlight sliding out from behind a cloud. For a moment, she contemplated struggling and fighting against him. She really ought to, but his warmth cut through her chilled skin, easing her discomfort. The taut muscles and warm male skin against her own should have terrified her. Instead, deep within, something stirred. He made her feel protected, somehow.
“Why did you come here?” she asked.
“To ensure your safety.” Effortlessly, he carried her to the top of the hill, ducking beneath the entrance to the rath. Behind them, the Norman soldier followed. The man appeared distinctly uncomfortable.
“Put me down, please.”
Patrick lowered her to stand beside him, but did not relinquish his grip upon her hand. The Norman drew near, his expression frowning.
“Who is he?”
“Sir Anselm Fitzwater. He won’t be staying long.”
Isabel’s suspicions deepened. The knight was one of her father’s men, but why would Patrick bring him here this late? “Why did he come?”
“Your father sent him to ensure that I have not harmed you.”
She didn’t believe him. There was another reason for the knight’s presence. With horror, her imagination conjured up another idea. “He’s not planning to . . . witness anything, is he?” Her face flamed at the thought of another man watching. “You said you weren’t going to . . .” her voice dropped away.
“No.”
Thanks the saints. Isabel hid her relief. Though she didn’t understand why Patrick refused to share her bed, she wasn’t going to question it.
When Sir Anselm reached them, he bowed before her. Isabel suddenly grew aware that she looked more ragged than the worst sort of wretch. Her hair hung down, matted beneath a rumpled veil. She wore the dung-colored Irish gown Patrick had given her. But she held herself steady and inclined her head. “You are Sir Anselm?”
“Aye, my lady.”
She thought she might have seen him before, among her father’s men. But since Edwin had never allowed her to speak with the soldiers, she could not be certain. His shield bore her father’s standard, and his chainmail armor was the same as the men who had guarded their castle. Though he was not an old man, his eyes appeared weary of battle. And in them, she saw his concern for her.
“I am Isabel de Godred, daughter of Edwin, Baron of Thornwyck.”
Patrick’s hand tightened upon hers. “Your name is Isabel MacEgan. Wife to me.”
His possessive voice curled around her, invading her thoughts. A rapid pulse trembled beneath her skin. She was not accustomed to the new name, and it made her feel as though she’d lost a part of herself.
Turning to Sir Anselm, Patrick said, “You’ve seen what you wished to see. Now go.”
The knight did not move. “Have you been well treated, my lady?” At Patrick’s glare, he amended, “Your father wished me to ensure your contentment.”
Isabel wanted to laugh. She’d been given barely any food, no roof above her head, and the most awful gown she had worn in her entire life. What was she to say?
