He opened the door and held it for her. “They knew of my request before you came, Isabel. I gave them two sheep for it.”
She didn’t like it, but it relieved her somewhat to know of the payment. After she entered the dwelling, the deep warmth of the interior surrounded them. To her surprise, there was no fire. The heat radiated from large stones set in the center of the hut. Likely they had been warmed inside the outdoor peat fire earlier. A faint light came from oil lamps set about the small space.
Patrick removed his cloak and set it upon one of the pallets. Isabel turned away, holding her hands out in front of the stones to warm them.
“Did Ewan bring you food, as I asked him to?”
“He did. Thank you for sending him.” Her gaze moved over to the low straw-filled pallet. The thought of lying down tempted her, but Patrick’s presence made her nervous. In the dim light, his dark hair shadowed his face. She felt like a captive, awaiting her fate.
Patrick moved to the low table where he found a leather flask. He poured the liquid into two wooden goblets. Raising the glass, he handed one to her. “Slaínte.”
She drank, the fermented beverage warming her stomach. For long moments he said nothing. He seemed distracted and reluctant to be here with her. When the silence became unbearable, she asked, “Did you always want to be a king?”
“No.” He sat down beside the table, his hand resting upon his knee. “It was the last thing I wanted.” The resignation in his voice startled her.
“Most men dream of such an honor,” she ventured.
“I only became king after my brother died. He deserved to rule our tribe.” For a moment, his shield of anger dropped and Isabel caught a glimpse of the man behind the warrior. He grieved for his brother, like anyone would.
“How did he die?” She refilled Patrick’s goblet from the skin and he drank.
“He was struck down in the battle against your father’s men last summer.”
“I am sorry for it.” She was close to her own sisters, despite the tricks they’d played on her. Even so, it hurt to think of anything happening to them.
“So am I.” He set the goblet down, and she handed him a piece of bread from the sack Ewan had brought. Patrick accepted it, grimacing at the hard texture. A problem with the leavening, she guessed. Perhaps bad water or rot. Mentally, she reminded herself to look into the matter.
A thought occurred to her. Patrick had said that his brother had died, but was there still a queen?
“What happened to your brother’s wife?” she asked.
“Liam was planning to marry Neasa Ó Connor, the daughter of another chieftain. He never had the chance to wed her.”
“Did he love her?”
Patrick shrugged. “I doubt it. But the alliance was a way to bring the two tribes together.”
“Rather like our marriage,” Isabel mused, but Patrick made no reply. She sat down across from him, pulling her knees to her chest. The hideous brown skirts draped to the floor.
She studied him, trying to see past the steel exterior he cast around himself. Lines of exhaustion rimmed his gray eyes. “You look tired,” she said. “Why don’t you rest?”
He took a sip from his goblet, pushing it aside. “I cannot. Your father’s men entered Laochre this evening. Tempers are short, and I suspect a fight is brewing.”
From his guarded expression, she could tell that he did not relish the idea of more Normans among them. Isabel kept her stance steady, though he made her nervous. In the dim light of the lamp, his bare arms gleamed. Like a pagan god, she thought. A warrior who would not surrender anything that belonged to him.
“You should leave me your bow and some arrows, this time,” she said. “If the islanders try to murder me while I sleep, I’ll need a way to defend myself since you won’t be here to stop them.” She didn’t like remaining behind, helpless.
“They won’t harm you.”
Though she wanted the weapon, likely he was right. The folk had not bothered to open their doors when she’d needed fire. It hurt to think that they, like her husband, did not want to know her.
“It is late.” He extinguished two of the lamps and stood, donning his cloak. “I must return.”
She wanted to sigh with relief. And yet, she felt guilty for sending the other family away. It wasn’t right for her to use this hut alone, when others had the need. But she didn’t voice her feelings. At dawn she would find a way onto the mainland.
Isabel extended her hand in friendship. “I bid you good night.”
Patrick didn’t move toward her, nor did he take her hand. She could almost feel the heat of his body, though he stood across the room. He took a long moment, his gaze memorizing hers. She found herself drawn to his mouth, to the rigid jaw and the way he held himself back.
