“They are fighting for you, are they?” Donal looked around in mock surprise. “Well, where are they, then?”
Patrick swung his sword, releasing the brunt of his anger. By God, it felt good to wield a blade against an enemy. He thrust his weapon forward, not missing a step even when the Ó Phelan blade skimmed his arm. Blood trickled down to the leather bracers, and Patrick struck hard. The force sent the Ó Phelan stumbling backwards. The chieftain grunted, but Patrick held steady, waiting for the man to strike again.
A moment later, an arrow pierced Donal’s shoulder. The chieftain roared with pain, echoed by one of his men who caught an arrow tip in his hand.
Though Patrick didn’t know who had shot the arrows, he seized the advantage. “Leave our lands before the next arrow takes your heart.”
The chieftain’s face blackened. “What coward attacks from the forest?” He turned to the trees and barked, “Show yourself!”
A woman emerged from the grove, mounted upon one of their horses. She held an arrow knocked to the bowstring. Though she kept her face and head covered with abrat, Patrick recognized the hideous brownléine. It could only be Isabel.
He wanted to strangle his wife. How could she even think of joining them, risking her life among an enemy tribe? If she had ventured further, the men wouldn’t have hesitated to cut her down, woman or not.
“Who are you?” Donal Ó Phelan demanded.
She lowered thebrat, revealing braided golden hair and a face that had come to haunt him. “Tá sé Isabel MacEgan.”
The sound of his wife speaking Irish stunned him. He hadn’t known she could understand any of their language. When had she begun to learn?
And then it struck him: she’d called herself a MacEgan. Though it was wrong, a curious sense of satisfaction and pride filled him. She had shown more courage than most women, facing down an enemy tribe as if she were one of them. As if she’d earned the right to be a MacEgan.
He forced his mind away from the significance, snapping his attention back to Donal Ó Phelan.
“She is my wife,” he interrupted. “And unless you want her to release the next arrow, you should go.” He kept his voice even, as though he were fully aware of Isabel’s intentions. In truth, he didn’t know what she planned to do.
Donal Ó Phelan stared at her and grunted. Without taking his eyes from her, he tore the arrow shaft from his shoulder and snapped it. Though the wound bled badly, he mounted his horse and commanded his men to follow. Not until they were gone did Patrick breathe easier.
“Go inside therath, and see if everyone is all right,” Patrick ordered Ruarc. “We’ll follow in a moment.”
Fear and anger snarled knots of tension inside him. He didn’t know whether to punish her or thank her. Instead, he beckoned for her to come forward. He sheathed his sword, his fist curling around the hilt.
Her recklessness might have cost them everything. She could have been hurt or killed, and if she had died, the tribe would suffer for it. His anger swelled up, threatening to spill over.
When she reached him, she lowered the bow. “Was anyone hurt? Did you lose any of the sheep or cattle?”
He reached out and took the weapon. “This does not belong to you.”
She covered his palm, gripping the weapon. “It was on the island. And so it does belong to me.”
“I ordered you not to come. It wasn’t safe.”
“I stayed out of the way,” she argued. The firm set of her mouth and the stubborn glint in her eyes warned him that she saw nothing wrong with what she’d done. His hand slid around her waist, holding her in place.
Chains and manacles definitely had their appeal. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“But I stopped them. They didn’t take any of our livestock.”
“You embarrassed the chieftain of the Ó Phelan tribe. He won’t soon forget what you did.”
“Then he shouldn’t have been out trying to steal cattle, now, should he?”
She grasped his hand to pull away, but he held her fast. “You aren’t going anywhere.” For this night she would stay at Laochre.
At least then, he could keep a closer eye upon her.
Itwasthefirsttime she’d been inside Patrick’s bedchamber. Deep blue curtains hung down from the canopy bed, and a simple wooden table and chair stood by a window. When she neared the table, she noticed elaborate carvings upon the wood. It must have taken years to create such a work of art.
“Did you make that?” she asked, pointing to the chair and table.
