The woman nodded. Isabel shielded her eyes and saw the figure of her husband entering the ringfort, accompanied by a dark-haired warrior she didn’t recognize. Beside her, Annle murmured, “He is Ruarc.” Though Isabel did not understand the rest of her words, she guessed that Ruarc was related to Sosanna.
Patrick moved with confidence, his gaze moving across each of the people. He wore leather armor over a forest green tunic. His toned arm muscles seemed tight against the leather bracers upon his forearms. Around his upper arms he wore twisted bands of gold. Though they proclaimed his rank, Isabel was beginning to understand the truth. Her husband was both a king and a slave to his tribesmen. Never did he let down his mask, never did he let her see the man behind the king.
Most of the islanders greeted him, but even as Patrick spoke with them, his eyes searched for her. Guilt lined his expression in an unspoken apology.
Isabel turned away and continued her task of rebuilding the wall. It kept her busy without having to face him.
A shadow fell across her work, in spite of her desire to avoid him. “How is Sosanna?” Patrick asked.
“As well as can be expected. Annle thinks her child will be born by harvest time.”
“Lughnasa,” he murmured.
“Yes.” The mention of Lughnasa reminded her of her father. Edwin would return, expecting her to bear a child from this marriage. Isabel’s throat closed up, for she didn’t know what to say to him.
Patrick lifted the stone away from her, setting it atop the pile. “I’ve brought Ruarc to see his sister. He’s a cousin of mine.”
The tone of his voice suggested a low opinion of the man. Ruarc had followed Annle inside the dwelling. “You don’t seem happy to see him.”
“He causes trouble among the men. I should send him away.”
“But you are his family,” she said quietly. She saw the indecision on her husband’s face, and understood that Ruarc’s place was more secure than her own.
His plan to end their marriage stung her pride. She found herself wanting to fight for her place here, for there was so much she could do to help the people. No longer did she want to be a nobleman’s wife, content to supervise the estates and weave tapestries. She wanted to rebuild this place and be a part of it.
“I dispatched a messenger to your father this morn. I’ve asked him to send your dowry.”
She acknowledged his words with a nod. “Thank you.” Her attention was drawn to his hands, and the skin that was darkening as summer drew closer. A flush suffused her, and her body wanted to draw closer to him. His black hair hung freely about his shoulders, his dark gray eyes piercing. He was a warrior king, not an ordinary man.
Patrick ran his hands along the stone wall, and added, “You’ve done well here.”
“It gives me something to do.” She reached to lift another stone. Patrick took it from her and set it atop the wall. The light touch of his hands against hers meant nothing. And yet, she felt the warmth of his touch sinking beneath her flesh and into her heart.
“Go and see Sosanna,” she murmured. He hesitated a moment, capturing her gaze. Isabel forced herself to look at him, her heart beating faster.
After he left her side, Isabel clenched her hands together. Though it was a fruitless endeavor, she wished she could know this man better, to become his wife in truth. But whenever he looked at her, she no longer knew whether he saw an enemy or a woman.
She walked toward the edge of the ringfort. Beyond the stone wall, she stared at the cerulean sea. White clouds skimmed the horizon, and the bright sun should have made her feel better. Resting her chin upon her palm, she saw the stretch of green land up to the massive fortress of Laochre, the kingdom she would never rule.
Patrick was right. The people there did not want her as their queen. The uncomfortable silence and lack of welcome made that clear.
But she didn’t know where to go now.
Ruarcenteredthedarkenedinterior of the hut, the only light from the glowing peat upon the fire. His sister’s back faced him, while her arms wrapped around her stomach.
He tread softly, almost afraid to awaken her. When at last he reached her side, he saw that she was staring at the walls.
“Tá brón orm,“ he said softly. But he was afraid the words of apology were not enough. He’d been so consumed with thoughts of revenge, of destroying the outsiders, he hadn’t looked past his sister’s pain to see the truth. She carried a child created in violence.
He drew up a wooden stump and sat beside her. “It’s my fault. And though you might not wish to live, we will face this.”
Tears filled her eyes, and he took her hand. “Do you want to leave Laochre? I could take you somewhere far from here.”
She shook her head, her hands covering her stomach. The silent tears cut him down. He hated the helplessness of not being able to take away her pain.
“I will help you,” he vowed. “I’ll find the bastard and kill him.”
She lowered her head and squeezed his palm. And he vowed that no matter what, he would avenge his sister’s honor.
