“I’ll allow it,” he said at last. “But only because there are so few of them.”
Trahern entered the dwelling at that moment, greeting each of the islanders with a warm smile. He winked at Isabel, and Patrick took her hand, leading her up to the small dais. The eyes of the people watched her, and a few whispered at the sight of the silver torque around her throat. Though all of them knew she was Patrick’s wife, it was the first time he had publicly acknowledged her as such.
“My brother Trahern has come this night to bring stories,” Patrick began. “He talks too often, as we all know. But perhaps with good wine and food, we can listen to his tales.”
The crowd smiled their approval, and Isabel stepped back a little. Patrick took her wrist, forbidding her to shrink away. “I understand the Lady Isabel arranged for this celebration. Will you not honor her for her hospitality?”
Silence met his question. Behind the islanders, Annle raised her wooden cup in salute. Yet the others did not follow her gesture. Isabel’s skin colored with embarrassment. She wished he hadn’t drawn attention to her.
Patrick’s gaze transformed into anger. “When you dishonor Isabel MacEgan, you show dishonor to your king.” At that, a few tribesmen muttered words of thanks for the hospitality. Isabel wanted to sink into the floor and hide beneath the rushes. Her face burned with mortification.
Patrick gestured for Trahern to begin the stories. One of the men took up a round drum with a goat skin stretched across the frame, using it to accentuate the tale.
Isabel nodded politely, then moved behind the crowd of her guests. With any luck, she could flee and escape anyone’s notice.
But Patrick caught her first. “You cannot leave,” he said softly in her ear. “It is your duty to stay.”
“Ihavedonemyduty,” she whispered. “Did it please you to see them spurn me?”
“No,” he answered honestly. He saw the stricken expression on her face. Irish or Norman, she was a woman who had tried her best to offer them a night of feasting. She deserved thanks for her efforts. “But your efforts did not go unnoticed. And it pleases me to hear you speaking Irish. I cannot believe you learned it so quickly.”
“I had no choice. I’d be talking to grass, otherwise.”
She drained her cup, and he refilled it. “I am sorry.”
As she drank, he studied her features. Her golden hair shone in the flicker of the torch, the silver gleaming around her throat. Deep copper eyes seemed to have lost their hope. He didn’t like the way they had treated her, though he had predicted it.
And as for himself, he’d tried to keep her out of his thoughts. But each day he found himself watching the island, wondering about her. He had expected her to live upon Ennisleigh, spinning and weaving. Instead, she’d learned to speak their language and rebuilt his grandfather’s home.
His hand moved to the dip in her spine, and her breath caught. She met his gaze, her lips parting. She was looking at him with a woman’s desire, as though she felt the same for him. He moved his hand across her lower back, needing to touch her. And though it was wrong, he’d missed her.
“Would you like some wine?” she offered.
He took her cup and sipped from it. Isabel’s mouth twisted. “I didn’t mean from my own cup.”
“I like yours.”
She sent him a warning look, but her wariness sounded like a challenge. They listened to Trahern’s tale, and Patrick saw her face soften with humor. He reached to take a sip from her cup again, and she held fast to it.
“Do you wish to fight me for it?” she threatened, in a teasing tone.
“I might.” Right now he wanted to drag her outside in the rain and kiss her until no barrier lay between them. Instead, he released the cup and went to find his own. Once he was apart from her, he studied his wife. She held herself back from the folk, feigning a smile. Though she pretended to enjoy herself, he noticed that she had a closer fellowship with the wall than with the people.
It bothered him more than it should, for it made her seem more distant. The green overdress and blue leíne accentuated her womanly curves, the fabric skimming her figure.
Patrick took a long sip of wine, forcing his attention away. The stories continued, and when Trahern stopped to enjoy food and wine, several islanders took up musical instruments. The mingled sound of harp and rounded drum joined in with the conversations of the folk.
And at last, the Normans arrived. Only six men had come, and thankfully they wore no armor. At first, the Irish didn’t notice them, for the Normans slipped into the background. Isabel held out her hands in greeting to Sir Anselm.
Patrick tensed, unsure of what his people would say. He doubted that the Irish were drunk enough to welcome the Normans. He hadn’t wanted them to come and would have outright refused his wife’s request, but for two reasons. Sir Anselm had begun training his Irishmen, transforming them from farmers into soldiers. He’d seen the results. They would be ready to face a Norman army soon enough.
And second, the presence of the Normans had kept the Earl of Pembroke’s men away. Dozens of chieftains had lost their lives after a Norman lord Raymond Le Gros had ordered their legs broken and their bodies tossed over the cliffs.
Patrick had been one of the few kings to escape, and he knew it was because of the enemy housed within their gates. The shadow of death had passed over them, though his people knew it not.
And so, he’d agreed to offer the men a brief moment of celebration. The reward of good wine and a night of entertainment seemed appropriate, particularly when it was only a few men.
For many of the soldiers, it was their first visit to the island. They looked uneasy, and Patrick wondered if Sir Anselm had forced them to come. Isabel excused herself to bring the men goblets of wine, and it was then that the folk finally noticed the Normans.
