“To the Normans. I’m certain some of their men would be interested in a lady.”
“My father is among those men. And he won’t allow you to hold me prisoner. You would bring the wrath of his army upon you.”
Donal smiled. “No. I’ve brought the wrath of his army upon your husband. King Patrick failed to protect you, didn’t he?”
Isabel’s hands itched for a bow. As it was, she studied the landscape, trying to gain her bearings. The thunderous noise of the armies behind them had ceased after an hour of riding. She closed her eyes at the thought of what must be happening at the ringfort. Were her father’s men attacking, even now? Would they put Sosanna and her infant son to the sword? Or Annle?
Her throat closed up, and she tightened her fists. Donal had slowed the horse’s pace, leading her to arathalmost the size of Ennisleigh.
The Ó Phelan clan possessed wealth of their own, and they were far enough inland to have avoided the path of Strongbow’s men. Fields swayed in the wind, the stalks of corn rustling. A circle of ten stone cottages with thatched roofs stood within a wooden palisade. As they drew closer, Isabel heard the sounds of people speaking. Dozens of people crowded inside the tiny ringfort. Their voices swarmed together in her mind, and she could hardly think of how to escape the clan. There were so many of them.
When they reached the entrance, Donal lifted her down. Isabel tried to run, but he would not relinquish his grip on her arm. Jerking her backwards, he ordered his men to bind her.
She fought them, tearing at their skin with her nails, kicking at their shins. She wasn’t afraid of them. Instead, she focused the rage burning inside her upon her captors.
Her husband didn’t want her. After all she had tried, he didn’t care for her the same way she loved him. Why had she been so stupid to open her heart?
Though the Ó Phelans overpowered her, lashing her wrists and ankles, she didn’t feel the physical pain. Her cheek pressed against the dirt, while a man’s boot stepped against the back of her neck.
She wished she had never met Patrick MacEgan. Closing her eyes, she shut out the vision of his face and the steel eyes that seemed to strip away her defenses…his hands that tempted her to surrender.
It was just as well that she’d been forced away from them. It would have happened sooner or later. At least this way, she could leave with some of her pride intact.
Memories filled her, of Patrick guarding her on their journey to the coastline. The way he’d kissed her, as though he couldn’t get enough of her. And the way he’d held her at night, as though shielding her body with his own. In those stolen moments, she’d felt beloved.
Isabel fisted her hands, trying to work free of the leather bindings. They wouldn’t budge. Donal Ó Phelan had gone with his men to speak quietly, presumably to decide her fate. The boot moved from her neck, and she took a deep breath, still feigning helplessness. She stared at the nearest hut, and men emerged carrying swords and battle axes. From the open doorway she could see more weapons lining the interior, but it was too far away to reach.
Her ankles were not as tightly bound as her hands. Isabel gritted her teeth and moved her feet again, trying to loosen the ropes. The air grew cooler, the afternoon sky swelling with rain clouds. The heavy scent of earth assailed her, and she turned her gaze toward the gatehouse. She didn’t know whether to linger until nightfall or try to escape sooner.
No one will come for you,an inner voice taunted.
TheseaofNormansswarmed over his lands, their chain mail armor glowing like a pool of silver. Patrick’s mind moved beyond the threat of invasion, to the man who had stolen his wife.
If Donal Ó Phelan had harmed Isabel, he would flay the man’s skin from his body. Patrick surveyed the troops, noting the officers and the noblemen remaining further back from the others. Thornwyck would be among them.
Would they attack once more? Or would the Normans leave them in peace? He felt as though the fate of his tribe rested in another man’s hands. He resented the helplessness, needing to take command of the situation.
“We need to know Strongbow’s intentions,” Patrick said quietly to Trahern. The Normans gathered in the distance, nearing the ringfort.
His brother cast him a sidelong glance. “You know why they are here. To finish what they began a year ago.”
“Possibly.” He suspected as much. And yet, Thornwyck had sworn that the Normans would not touch Laochre, not as long as he remained wedded to Isabel. He stared out at the landscape, worried about her. The invisible ties of tribal loyalty strangled him, for he wanted nothing more than to go after his wife.
He had sworn to protect her from harm. And the longer he stayed here, the more his chances of rescuing her diminished. If Thornwyck discovered his daughter’s disappearance, likely he would invoke his wrath upon the MacEgan tribe.
Scores of men guarded the fortress of Laochre, Normans and Irish alike. An eerie silence pervaded the afternoon, like the calm before a tempest.
A year ago, he had fought like a demon against these Normans, his blade slashing through the enemy’s flesh. And then he’d seen Liam, fighting with every ounce of strength against four men. Though he’d gone to aid his brother, he’d come too late to save him.
Was it already too late for Isabel? His worry increased tenfold. He paced along the perimeter, each stride punctuating his need to leave, to find her.
If he went after his wife, it would likely mean death. Ó Phelan wanted Laochre at any price. Patrick stopped a moment, watching his people. Side by side, they faced the enemy. Even the Norman wives and children exchanged worried looks with his own tribeswomen.
They had come together as one group against a common enemy. Isabel had been right. And now, seeing it with his own eyes, he could scarcely believe it. Even if Strongbow’s forces attempted an attack, his people were ready. They would endure, even if anything happened to him.
He caught a stable boy and gave the order for his horse. Then he neared Trahern and Ruarc who awaited the army. His cousin gripped a spear, his face set with determination.
Without waiting for him to speak, Ruarc glanced outside the gates. “Go after her,” he said. “We will defend Laochre to the death.”
