He turned away, lying down upon his own pallet while she slept at the opposite side of the hut. He ached to feel her body against his.
And for the remaining hours until dawn, he chided himself for ever agreeing to this game.
Inthefaintlightof dawn, Patrick watched Isabel pour water into a basin, sponging off her face and neck. Her fair hair hung unbound around her shoulders, and she wore only a shift. Droplets of water slid over her neck, and his body responded immediately. He wanted to lift her hair aside and kiss her, dragging her onto the pallet with him.
In the end, he’d dragged himself outside, dousing his own face with water to clear away the unwanted desire. The cold morning air chilled him, and he blessed it for cooling his ardor. He was about to leave Ennisleigh when he heard the dull clanging of the tower bell. His eyes narrowed upon the dark swath of smoke rose up from the mainland, a visible signal from Laochre. He expelled a curse and began to run.
“What is it?” Isabel called out from behind him.
“An attack on our fortress. Likely the damned Ó Phelans, raiding our cattle.”
“What should we do to help?”
“Stay here. Ruarc and I will take care of Laochre.” He saw his cousin already running toward him to the boat awaiting them on the strand. Within moments, they shoved the boat into the water, boarding the vessel as it cleared the shore.
Isabel stood behind while a few of the islanders grabbed spears and other weapons, moving down to the rocky side of the island. Moments later, they emerged with boats from within a small cavern of rock. She hadn’t noticed it before, since she’d been searching closer to the sandy shore. But at least she now knew where they kept their boats and could travel to Laochre without swimming.
As Patrick rowed toward the opposite shore, she caught his gaze. For the first time, she was afraid for him.
Foolish, she was, to let herself worry. It was a cattle raid, nothing more. Skirmishes such as these never took a man’s life. He wanted her to remain behind and do nothing. But her nerves prickled at the thought of Patrick becoming injured.
Last night, she had almost broken through to him. She didn’t know what else to do, but he had wanted her. No longer did she doubt it. What she couldn’t understand was why he continued to keep her away from him. It frustrated her beyond all else. She was his wife, and by the saints, she’d had her fill of this. The only way to convince him to accept her as a MacEgan was to fight for her place.
She whirled around and strode back to the ringfort, her mind working rapidly. Without a moment’s hesitation, she opened the door to the storage hut containing weapons. Battle axes, maces, bows, spears, and knives lined the wall.
Isabel studied the supplies and chose a bow hanging from a wooden peg. The familiar curve of the wood and the taut bowstring kindled a wave of unexpected homesickness. She hadn’t touched a bow since she’d left England, and none of the islanders knew she could use it. She suspected Patrick would not let her near a weapon for fear of her loyalty.
Annle entered the hut. “No.” She voiced a fierce argument in Irish, but Isabel couldn’t understand much beyond the command to stay.
“I can use a bow,” Isabel said, gesturing toward the weapon, “and I’m not going to stay here while they attack my husband’s fortress. I have to help them.”
She swung a quiver of arrows over her shoulder. The light weight evoked such strong memories, of the times when she’d gone hunting alone in the forest. Her common sense warned that she’d only killed deer and small game, never a man.
Isabel’s fingers tightened upon the bow. She could easily strike her mark, ending a life. The question was, did she want to? Entering this battle was more than simply helping them against an enemy. It meant facing danger herself.
By now, the men would have reached the opposite shore. She knew Patrick was a strong fighter, from the deeply carved muscles and the confidence with which he moved.
Even now, he wouldn’t want her to come, wouldn’t want her to join in the fight. It was the greatest of risks, to demand her place among them.
But there was no other choice.
Battlecriescutthroughthe sounds of horses and terrified cattle. Patrick ran alongside Ruarc, enraged at the sight of the signal smoke rising from the top of the round tower. The Ó Phelan chieftain and a dozen men had gathered outside the ringfort.
Early morning sunlight crept across the land, illuminating the shadows and revealing the position of the men. Patrick quickened his pace, furious that they would dare a raid during the daylight hours. His own men had done their share of raiding amongst the other tribes but always in the dark of night. This was a greater insult, implying that there was no means of stopping their attack.
As they closed the distance, the last grove of trees stood between them and the enemy. He paused near the edge, motioning for Ruarc to keep silent. For a moment they could set aside their differences. This was a confrontation both of them needed to win.
He raised his hand, asking Ruarc to wait. Ahead, he saw Trahern and Bevan fighting, along with a small handful of his tribesmen. Where were the Normans? He saw no sign of Sir Anselm or any of the others.
A sense of foreboding nettled his stomach. As a combined force, there was no question that victory was within their grasp. But the Normans were nowhere to be seen. A resigned bitterness settled in his gut. He’d thought Sir Anselm would stand by them and help fight off the Ó Phelans. Now he knew it was not so. The enemy lines hadn’t blurred at all. Any sympathy he’d felt toward the soldiers disappeared.
Ruarc signaled his intent to flank the Ó Phelans around the right. Patrick moved left. A roar emerged from his throat, as he drew his sword and met the blade of one of the Ó Phelan men. The impact reverberated through his arm, and he released his rage, fighting on behalf of his people.
Their chieftain charged him, and Patrick blocked the blow. Donal Ó Phelan was a tall, thin man with hair that hung down his back and a black beard reaching to his chest. Golden earrings adorned his lobes along with a torque about his throat.
“Hiding behind the skirts of your men are you, King Patrick?”
The deliberate use of his rank sounded like a taunt. “You don’t want this fight,” Patrick warned. “The Normans are within the walls.”
