“I would be happy to see both of these garments set on fire,” she answered. “Sadly, I have nothing else to wear.” She finished wiping the cut and set thebratupon the bed.
“Haven’t you?” His voice grew deeper, seductive. He rose, standing so close, she felt the hard evidence of his desire.
His expression transformed into a man bent upon conquest. He pulled her into his embrace, until she could feel the heat of his skin against hers.
“Don’t,” she whispered. His mouth was a bare shadow away, and saints, she wanted him to kiss her.
“You should know that your Norman blood is the only thing that keeps me from joining with you. If you were Irish, you would lie naked upon that bed with me inside you.”
His words shocked her. Before her feet could move, his mouth lowered to hers. Like an uncivilized savage, she expected him to bruise her mouth. But instead, he took his time. Slowly, with infinite tenderness, he explored her mouth.
“If you were Irish, I would remove this gown.” His hands moved up to cup her breasts. With his thumb, he teased the nipples until desire made her insides ache. “I’d take you into my mouth and make you forget everything else.”
The taste of him shook her senses. Never had a man kissed her like this. Patrick didn’t conquer, but silently asked her to yield. Teasing, arousing in the way he probed with his tongue, until she allowed him entrance.
Against the softness of her shift, her nipples tightened. Without warning, she found her arms about his waist, clinging for balance. Her sensitive breasts grazed against the heavy wool of theléine.
His tongue moved over her lips in a caress, and she opened to him. At once, the kiss changed into everything she’d feared. Ruthless and demanding, he cupped her bottom, letting her feel the fierceness of his desire against her womanhood.
She ached to feel him, her body growing wet with need. She hungered in a way she couldn’t understand. And she wanted to curse him, for somehow she understood that this was her punishment. To desire him and to be left unfulfilled.
“I’m not Irish,” she managed, pushing him away. Her knees wanted to give way, and she sat down upon the bed.
“Be glad you aren’t,” he said.
Without another word, he left. Isabel heard the door lock, imprisoning her. And she sank down upon the bed, not knowing what he planned to do next. Or how she could convince him to release her from his bedchamber.
Chapter Twelve
Patrickreturnedtohischamber late at night after he knew Isabel would be sleeping. The sight of her, curled up on his bed, made him ache with wanting her. Her soft golden hair was braided, and she still wore the loathsome brownléine. Her body was half-tangled in the coverlet, while a long bare leg lay exposed to him. He wanted to touch her skin, to feel those long legs wrapping around his waist.
Lug, he didn’t need this. He’d thought it would be so easy to keep her confined upon Ennisleigh. She would lead her life and he, his own.
Instead, she had fought for them. He’d ordered her to remain behind, but she had taken up a bow and shot the Ó Phelan chieftain like a female warrior of old. He hadn’t guessed she possessed such skill. But now, as he studied her upper arms, he saw the molded strength from practice. She had clearly aimed to wound the chieftain, not to kill him. And she had enough confidence to shoot in the midst of a fight, knowing she would not hit one of them.
Rarely had anyone surprised him. Not only had she given them the victory, she had spoken Irish. He’d never thought to hear his own language coming from her lips.
He moved to sit upon the bed. Her body heat allured him, making him want to remove his clothes and pull her close. He didn’t dare sleep beside her. Already she was stealing away his logic, making him consider bedding her.
He wouldn’t break the vow. No matter how much he desired her, he couldn’t risk a child.
Patrick sank down upon a chair. His arm stung from the earlier cut, and he’d wrapped fresh linen around it. Moonlight pooled over his wife’s face. In sleep, she appeared pensive, trusting. By God, she was beautiful. He supposed he deserved this penance, to be driven mad with wanting and to be unable to possess her. If Liam had lived, he’d never have set eyes upon Isabel de Godred.
He closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. Even now he could not dwell here without remembering his older brother’s presence. As he unbuckled the sword from his waist, he wondered if he would ever be a true king.
He bowed his head, praying for strength and the wisdom he lacked. Then he lifted his gaze to Isabel, and prayed for the steadfast resolve to leave her untouched.
For one day soon, he’d have to let her go.
Ifanyonediscoveredwhathe’d planned, it would mean his execution. Ruarc rode quickly, urging the mare faster. Wind whipped past his face, whispering warnings. He’d have to be back soon, before anyone discovered both he and the horse were gone.
Raw energy and fear pulsed through him, tightening his nerves. This was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was necessary. No longer could he trust his own king. Patrick had failed to keep the Normans out and because of it, one of them had dishonored his sister.
As he crossed into the boundaries of the Ó Phelan land, he slowed his pace. He’d been raised to view them as an enemy tribe, not to be trusted. Many a time, he’d fought alongside the MacEgans during a raid. He had a few scars to show for it, along with fresh cuts from last night.
But now, he needed their help.
Guilt sank deeply into his heart. Sosanna had tried to take her own life, and he blamed himself. He should have been there for her, should have protected her better. She was his little sister, and he was responsible for her.
