“I have.” Sosanna’s voice was rough from lack of use. She swiped at her tears, and Patrick wondered what had driven her to speak at last. “They took her. Connor followed them.”
His skin grew cold, his thoughts half-numb. The Ó Phelan chieftain would not show Isabel mercy, not after she’d shot him with her bow. “We need to gather men together to bring her back.”
The commander nodded. “I’ll speak with the men.”
Patrick stopped a moment to address his cousin Sosanna. “I am glad you are speaking again.”
Sosanna stared back to the fallen body of the Ó Phelan man. “He is dead, thanks be.”
“No man will harm you,” Anselm promised. "Not while I'm standing." Sosanna returned to his embrace, and Patrick understood suddenly that it was not a Norman who had dishonored his cousin, but an enemy tribesmen.
Even Ruarc did not protest the match. He inclined his head, accepting his sister’s choice. To Anselm, he said, “Keep her safe. Or I’ll cut you apart.” The commander only smiled.
Patrick strode toward the stables, intending to go after Isabel when a bell resounded from the round tower. With low deep tones, the warning signal was only used in times of great need.
Patrick rushed to the gate house and climbed up to survey the landscape. He grimaced at the sight before him. Hundreds of archers poured onto the sands followed by even more soldiers. It looked like a thousand Norman invaders.
He crossed himself, offering a silent prayer for his people and for their safety. Strongbow, the Earl of Pembroke, had arrived on their shores. And Heaven only knew how much blood would be shed.
Patrick stared at the landscape, feeling as though imaginary chains held him in place. His wife Isabel was in the hands of his enemy while it was only a matter of time before his fortress was destroyed.
He had no right to go after Isabel. His place was here among his people, to live or die. Even so, his fists clenched with frustration. It was as if the enemy had taken his spirit and torn it in half.
The heaviness of guilt bled through his mind, as he imagined what Donal Ó Phelan would do to Isabel. And he knew Isabel would not remain mild and obedient. She would fight back, and the chieftain would kill her.
Dimly he saw his brothers calling out orders to stand at the ready for the impending attack. Patrick gripped the wooden limbs supporting the gatehouse. Even as he took his own position as their leader, he could not help but stare at the horizon and think of her.
He’d already lost Liam, but the loss of his brother could not compare to this. Visions tangled in his mind, of Isabel swimming across the channel, soaked to the skin. Of her wielding her bow, joining him in a fight against the enemy.
And the way she looked at him when he made love to her.
The thought of letting her go, quite simply, ripped him asunder. He was grimly aware that it might be too late, even now.
Chapter Twenty-One
Whenshesawherfather’s colors, Isabel wanted to cry out, but Donal Ó Phelan kept his hand tightly over her mouth.
“Scream and I’ll break your jaw,” he warned.
Isabel had no doubt he would. She struggled to calm herself while hordes of invaders moved toward Laochre. Her heart pounded in her chest, for if her father learned of her disappearance, he would kill Patrick and all the Irish.
After the army had passed them by, Donal gripped her waist and forced her on horseback. He held her captive while riding away from Laochre, further inland. The summer air was warm, but nonetheless Isabel felt frigid inside.
It almost didn’t matter where Donal was taking her. Patrick would not come after her, nor would anyone else. With the Norman invasion upon their threshold, they could not abandon the fight for her.
She struggled to think of a way to escape, but for now, her mind dwelled upon her husband. She had barely caught sight of him during the battle. Like an ancient god, Patrick had charged at the Ó Phelans, slashing his sword out of vengeance.
Once, he’d stared at her. The look in his eyes was that of an enraged man. He had not welcomed her interference, though it had helped their tribe.
Their tribe. She closed her eyes in frustration. The people did not consider her one of them and never would. And as for Patrick, even if he did care for her, he wouldn’t seek her out.
The solitude seemed to close in her, suffocating in its thickness. Her lungs tightened, and she blinked hard to keep herself from succumbing to self-pity.
She lifted her chin and regarded Donal. “What do you want from me? I’m of no use to you.”
“Your life can be ransomed.”
“Not to Patrick.”
