Though her hand fell away, she sensed another fight within him. And a rush of unexpected feeling pressed through her skin.
“Good night.” The door closed behind him, and Isabel released a tremulous breath.
Patrick MacEgan was far more dangerous than she’d expected.
For the first time in her life, she could not plan the future. The idea of remaining prisoner upon Ennisleigh frustrated her. She needed to know what was happening, and she hated being idle.
A heaviness gathered in her chest, and she closed her eyes, trying not to despair. The first step was to get off the island.
RuarcMacEganitchedfora fight. He wanted to unsheathe his dagger and bathe it in the blood of the Normans. Belenus, what had his cousin Patrick been thinking, opening the gates to them? Did the king not realize the enemy intended to weaken them and take over therath? Even a simpleton could see that.
He watched them, waiting for one of the soldiers to make a move. They had finished eating and their faces were flushed from drink. Good. Let the mead dull their senses, make their reflexes slower.
He moved alongside the benches, searching for a target. When he reached the last Norman, he bumped against the man, sending him sprawling to the floor.
As he’d hoped, the soldier jerked to his feet and drew his knife. Ruarc dodged the slash of the blade, while around him he heard the cheers of his kinsmen. He let the Norman move in closer, biding his time. The ivory hilt of his own knife warmed within his palm while his blood coursed with anticipation.
A fist moved toward him, and he bent backwards to dodge it. With no armor to weigh him down, he moved swiftly. His opponent wore chainmail, and Ruarc swung a kick at the man’s legs, hoping to trip him.
Instead, the Norman blocked the kick. A vicious pain sliced through his arm, when he missed a step. Ruarc waited for an opening to bury his blade in the Norman’s chest. He circled the enemy . . . waiting . . .
“What in the name of Lug do you think you’re doing?” his cousin Trahern bellowed. Ruarc fought to stay on his feet, but the giant shoved him backwards, slamming a fist into his jaw.
“Fighting,” he remarked dryly.
“Not any more.”
The Norman soldier offered a cocky grin, swiping blood from his lip.
Bastard. Ruarc knew he’d have won the fight if Trahern hadn’t interfered. But he kept his temper and stared hard at the enemy. He would have his chance for vengeance and soon, if he had his way about it.
Ruarc wiped the stinging cut on his arm and strode outside. Muffled sounds of conversation and the faint cry of a child sounded from the circle of huts.
He shoved the door open to his own hut. There were no sounds of welcome within, only a gasp of fear. He raised the oil lamp and saw the face of his sister Sosanna. Pale and frightened, she breathed an audible sigh of relief when she saw it was only him. Her matted fair hair hung uncombed about her shoulders. She had not changed her gown either, he noted.
A hard ball gathered in his stomach. She hadn’t been like this before.
With a tentative smile, Sosanna rolled over and returned to sleep. She didn’t speak…just as she hadn’t spoken a word in all these months. No one knew what had happened to her during the attack, but Ruarc blamed the Normans. Their father had died in battle, along with his youngest sister Ethna. Ethna had tried to flee from the battle grounds, only to be trampled to death beneath the horses.
He’d found her broken body and had wept for her. And for Sosanna, he held fast to his bitterness. One day, he would learn what they’d done to her. And if the gods had mercy upon her, they would heal the invisible wounds.
The others had suffered losses. But instead of fighting back, instead of seeking vengeance, Patrick had taken a Norman bride. A traitor, he was. One who deserved to lose his power.
He could not bring himself to call the MacEgan his king. Though Patrick had won the people’s support, already Ruarc could envision his cousin’s throne crumbling.
He intended to see to it personally.
Chapter Six
“SirAnselmwishestospeak with you,” Bevan informed him.
Patrick stepped outside the chapel, the air clinging with incense. He’d prayed for guidance at the dawn Mass to both the Christian God and to the gods of his ancestors. But the Latin rites had brought no comfort. Though he had maintained the peace thus far, it was only a matter of time before more fighting broke out. He could feel the hatred brewing among his people. They’d been asked to open the gates to soldiers who had slaughtered their family. And the price of that peace was too high for many to pay.
Outside, Patrick surveyed the remains of the rath. The palisade wall needed repairs from the fire damage. Though they had made some progress, it was not enough to keep the tribe safe. Below the gate house, several vulnerable areas showed signs of crumbling.
Weariness etched heavy lines upon his men’s faces. They looked as though they hadn’t slept, like himself. He had returned to Laochre that night, the fortress silent, yet watchful. Though he’d slept in his own bed, he had found himself studying the space beside him. He still did not feel married, much less to a Norman bride. It should have relieved him to be gone from her side, yet he found himself wondering about Isabel. He didn’t remember sleeping, only staring at the walls and praying that the fragile truce would hold.
As he crossed the courtyard, knots of tension tightened every muscle. A few tribesmen had fresh cuts with swollen eyes and knuckles. Though he hadn’t seen any disagreements, it was clear that all had not been peaceful while he’d visited Ennisleigh last night.
