“I don’t want you to die because of me.” She touched his face in the darkness, as if to memorize every plane, every line of strength.
“I don’t plan to die, if I can avoid it.” He gripped her tightly and as her eyes adjusted, she saw the regret upon his face. “Now go.”
She hesitated upon the ladder, her hand curling around the rung. The idea of leaving him behind struck her as selfish and unforgivable.
“Isabel, do this for me,” he urged. “If you save yourself, there is hope for both of us.”
And though she hated herself for climbing each rung, she forced herself to leave him. He was right; they would not let him go, but she could bring back help. Somehow, she would find a way.
PatrickhadliedtoIsabel. He knew there was no hope for himself. Although Donal had agreed to let Isabel go free in exchange for his sons, there would be no such bargain for himself. He suspected as soon as he was alone in the ringfort, they would take his life. Strangely, he did not fear death. Instead, he could look back on his life and know that he had protected his people. He'd also married a woman who meant more to him than he'd ever imagined. Sacrificing his life for hers was no hardship.
The ladder lowered again. “Climb up,” came the order.
He did, wary of the men. His eyes blinked to adjust to the light, and he saw one of the men holding a length of rope. The man tried to grab his arm, but Patrick anticipated the move. Crouching down, he swung his leg out and tripped his attacker. With a swift shove, he pushed the man down the storage chamber.
The second man was not as quick to strike. Patrick blocked a punch, ducking out of the way. Then the next blow caught him in the throat. He gasped, fighting to move away from his enemy, but more blows came, striking at every part of him with fists and wooden staffs. The last one struck behind his knees, and he hit the ground.
Near the edge of the ringfort, he saw his wife. Isabel stood with two men gripping her arms, fury evident upon her face. At the sight of her, Patrick fought even harder to escape. He’d hoped Ó Phelan would keep his word, but the man had betrayed them both. Even so, Patrick would never let anything happen to Isabel. If it meant keeping her safe, he would do everything in his power, regardless of the risk.
He tasted the dirt, hardly caring about the blows that struck him. All he was aware of was her—the way she carried herself, the way she held her emotions in. He could see the fear in her eyes, but no matter the cost, he wanted her to live.
“Isabel!” he called out. “Do you remember what I told you?” He used her Norman language, so that none of the Ó Phelans would understand.
“Be silent.” Donal Ó Phelan moved forward. “Or I’ll slit your throat.”
Patrick stared at Isabel, then looked toward the hut where he knew the souterrain passage led. It would bring her outside the ringfort and to safety.
“You promised to let her go,” he said grimly. What he wouldn’t give for a weapon right now. Donal had stripped him of his sword and dagger. He’d like to skewer the chieftain for what he’d done. “If she is not brought safely to Laochre, you will not see your sons again.”
Donal shrugged. “She makes a good hostage. And once you are dead, she is free to marry again.”
“The baron would sooner kill you where you stand.”
“Then she will also die.” Donal shrugged. “Our men are strong enough to withstand the Normans.”
Patrick couldn’t believe the man’s arrogance. Donal had never witnessed the Norman forces, never seen their disciplined style of fighting.
The chieftain unsheathed a knife and moved toward him. Patrick glanced over at Isabel. She had precious seconds to run, and gods above, he prayed she would obey him. Time seemed to slow as he watched the blade lower.
At the opportunity he threw himself toward Donal. His motion caught the chieftain off balance, and he wrestled for control. He palmed the weapon, holding the edge to Donal’s throat. “Release my wife.” The guards paused but finally obeyed.
“Now go!” he ordered Isabel. But instead of fleeing toward the hut, she moved to a completely different hut on the opposite side.
“Isabel!” he cried out, but three men were already going after her. Donal rolled over, and the blade nicked Patrick's own skin. He fought against the chieftain, who had unsheathed his knife. The blade slashed before him, but even as he avoided the weapon, he couldn’t reach Isabel in time to save her.
She’d gone inside the wrong hut. He felt sick, knowing she was trapped.
He wrenched himself free of Donal, slicing the knife at anything he could reach. When the chieftain retreated, Patrick started toward the hut where she’d gone. Moments later, one of the men stepped backwards, his hands raised in surrender. Isabel emerged from the hut, armed with a bow and quiver of arrows.
Patrick couldn’t have been more stunned. She’d known where to find their store of weapons. And now she looked ready to kill the chieftain. Her arm held steady upon the bow as she stared at Donal.
“Open the gates. My husband and I are leaving.”
“The moment you turn your backs, our men will kill both of you,” Donal admitted. “You’ve one choice, Lady Isabel. Stay as my hostage, or die with your husband.”
He had no doubt Donal would kill them. If Isabel refused to stay, her life had no use for the chieftain. She kept her arrow trained upon Donal. “I’ve made my choice already. And I want the gates opened.”
Patrick joined her side, stepping inside the hut to retrieve his own sword and shield. The bodies of the first two men lay dead upon the ground.
