“What are they doing here?” one man demanded in Irish. His gaze switched to Isabel, filling with accusation. “Ennisleigh belongs to us. They’ve no right to be here.”
Isabel looked to him for a response. Before he could speak, she raised her voice, speaking to the islanders in their own tongue. “They are my guests. This is my home, and all are welcome within it.”
“She says that because she’s one of them,” another remarked.
Isabel turned pale, her hands clenched. “Yes, I am one of them. But I’ve lived upon this island for the past season. And it is my right to invite whomever I please into my home.”
Patrick saw the impact of her proclamation. Though a few of the men and women did not seem to care, others began to leave. As each one passed beyond the threshold, they did not raise their knee to him, nor offer the expected salutations. He was their king, but he’d slipped further in their eyes.
It stung, watching his childhood friends turn their backs on him. And he saw Isabel valiantly trying to hold back tears. It was useless thinking that the men could ever be brought together. They could never be allies, only enemies.
A few of the islanders stayed, though not more than a handful. Annle stood by Isabel’s side, while Sosanna remained in the shadows.
When the rest had gone, Patrick addressed the group of less than a dozen men and women. “I thank you for not paying insult to my wife.” To Trahern he asked, “Can you offer them another story?”
Isabel stepped through the crowd until she reached his side. With hopeful eyes, she asked, “Will you translate for my father’s men? My Irish is not yet strong enough.”
Patrick wanted to say no. He wanted to return to Laochre and abandon this disaster of a night. Why did she keep on trying? Allowing the Normans entrance to Ennisleigh had cost them the support of many islanders. Could she not see the rift?
But then she placed her hand in his. “Please.” She did not beg or cajole, but the simple request made him feel foolish. In her eyes she looked upon him with hope.
He cursed himself for his weakness, knowing that he was going to give in.
“If that is your wish, a stór.”
The warm smile on her face was genuine. She touched her palm to his cheek, and though he did not speak a word, he kissed her palm.
Isabel’s face flooded. “Go and sit with your brother.” She gestured toward Trahern, as if he were not fully aware of his own brother’s location. “I’ll—I’ll get the men some wine.”
It took half a barrel of wine for the Normans to begin enjoying themselves. Patrick translated six stories, Isabel keeping his goblet full. He didn’t know how much wine he’d drunk, but the room swayed.
He wasn’t alone, for more than one islander lay against the wall, snoring from the effects of the drink. After a time, one of the soldiers asked to see the bodhran drum. Annle’s husband picked up the smooth drumstick, the length of a man’s hand. The soldier grinned and tried to beat out a simple rhythm. It was terrible, but one of the islanders showed him how to hold it and eventually both were laughing.
When the wine barrels were empty and the food gone, more of the men and women went to sleep, curling up against one another in the Great Chamber. Isabel yawned, leaning against one of the low tables.
Patrick watched her, wanting draw her into his arms and take her back to her chamber. Sleepy-eyed, she turned to the Norman soldier beside her and smiled in response to something the man said.
A darkness tightened in his gut. Though the man had done nothing more than speak to his wife, it reminded him of his oath to let Isabel choose another husband. His mind imagined another man touching her, giving her children. He didn’t like the thought, not at all.
He was about to snarl at the Norman to get away from his wife when Sosanna stepped toward the harp. Several of the guests moved over to watch while she seated herself with the instrument between her knees. The round hardness of her belly touched the golden brown wood while her hands plucked a mournful tune.
He hadn’t heard her play in over a year. Sosanna had often joined the other musicians during gatherings at Laochre, offering lively tunes that inspired men and women to dance. He’d almost forgotten the joy she’d brought to their celebrations. Ever since the harm that had befallen her, she’d lost her music, as well as her voice.
This song was a lament, enchanting those who were still awake. Others listened, but it was Sir Anselm who caught his attention. The knight watched with the look of a man noticing a woman.
Nothing good would come of it. But Anselm had saved Sosanna’s life, and perhaps that was all there would be between them.
When the song ended, Isabel rose and drew nearer. “Will the king grant me an audience?” she asked, offering Patrick a stumbling curtsy. Her face was flushed, though from the drink or from embarrassment, he could not be sure.
“What is your wish?”
“Come.” She took his hand and led him behind a wooden partition, dividing her bedchamber from the rest of the gathering space. He entered and drew the hide covering over the opening, granting them privacy.
Before he could ask another question, her arms wrapped around his neck. “I want you to kiss me.”
“That isn’t a good idea,a stór.“ He couldn’t deny that he wanted to touch her, to thread his hands through her silken hair and take what she was offering. The open invitation enflamed his senses, making him want to cast everything aside but her.
Isabel leaned in, touching her nose to his. Her woolenbratfall to the ground, as if forgotten. By God, she was beautiful. An enemy with the face of an angel.
