“You look like a king this night,” she offered.
He shrugged. “It’s expected of me.”
Isabel set her wine goblet aside and studied him a moment. She reached out and straightened the circlet on his temple. “This looks better.”
“I know of no one else who would dare to do such a thing.”
“A king should not wear a crooked crown.”
“It is called aminn óir.“ He took her hands from his temples and held them at his side. The touch of his rough palms took her by surprise.
She closed her eyes, afraid to look at him. Something cold and heavy fastened around her throat, and she opened her eyes. “What is this?”
“A gift.”
She reached out and touched a silver torque set with amethyst. “This is too fine. Why would you give me this?”
His look grew distant. “I hadn’t intended to give it to you at all. But it is your right, as my bride.”
She shook her head. “I’ve no need for jewels.”
He shrugged. “Your dowry arrived this morn at Laochre. It will greatly help our people. This is my token of thanks.”
“You could sell the torque and gain more supplies.”
“It belonged to my mother,” was all he said, and then she understood why he would not part with it.
The weight of the silver was uncomfortable, for she did not feel worthy to wear it. “I am not their queen, Patrick.”
“No,” he admitted, “But this is my repayment to you. On the morrow, I will send the remainder of your dowry and household possessions for you to use here.”
She would rather have brought them to Laochre, her husband’s home. It seemed strange using the goods in a home that wasn’t truly her own. After spending all spring here in Erin, she still felt like an outsider.
Patrick gestured toward the islanders. “Annle tells me this celebration was your idea.”
“Ewan said Trahern was coming to tell stories.” She touched the torque, fingering the beautiful amethysts. “I did not want the people to feel unwelcome.”
“You’ve done a great deal with therath. It looks almost as it did long ago.”
Isabel tried to smile, but she couldn’t seem to muster it. When he reached out to touch her hair, she flinched. “What are you doing?”
“This belongs to you, as part of your bride price.” He removed her veil and placed a silver circlet around her head, winding her hair around it to hold it in place. “Take my hand, and we’ll go.”
Isabel didn’t move. She felt exposed without the veil. Almost like a little girl playing with her sister’s jewels, pretending to be grown up. It seemed a mockery, for the circlet was far too similar to a crown. Only a queen could wear it. “I can’t wear this.”
He shrugged as if dismissing the matter. “The islanders will expect it of you.”
He didn’t understand. To him, it was a piece of silver. To her, it was a reminder of what she could never be—the lady of this tribe. She reached up and pulled it free of her hair, handing it to him. “Take it. I won’t pretend to be something I’m not.”
Consternation spread over his face, but he accepted the silver circlet. “If that is your wish. But it still belongs to you.” He set it aside, placing it within a fold of his cloak. Then he stretched out his hand to her. “We must greet our guests.”
Isabel forced herself to take Patrick’s hand. His fingers closed over her palm and he added, “You invited Sir Anselm and a few of his men here tonight.” There was an edge of warning beneath his voice. “Ewan told me of your request.”
Of course the boy would. Asking Ewan to keep a secret would be like asking the sun not to shine.
“Yes, I asked them to join us.” The Normans needed a night where they could see the Irish as friends instead of enemies. “I thought they would enjoy a night of feasting and celebration.” She narrowed her gaze. “Will you deny them that chance?”
He held back his answer, studying the islanders who were devouring the feast. His fingers imbued warmth into her hands, and Isabel tried to mask her reaction to his touch. Her feelings hadn’t diminished at all since the last time he’d touched her. If anything, she was even more drawn to him.
