Your language, she'd said.Not our language.It seemed that Isabel had shed her ties to their homeland.
"I am most grateful to your husband Connor. He saved our lives," Honora said to the woman, and the queen translated. Then Honora added, "Will you ask her to examine Ewan's feet? He injured them a few days ago, and I know he'll not ask for help, though he needs it."
After Isabel made the request, Aileen nodded and reached out to squeeze her hand. She spoke rapidly to Isabel, and the queen translated, "Aileen says she is glad to help. And she welcomes you, as Ewan's bride."
The acknowledgement was a slice to her heart, for Honora saw the protective glint in Isabel's gaze. "I am not his bride," she admitted. "But I will always be his friend." She met Isabel's disapproving gaze with her own firm vow. Ewan had never once spoken of marriage, nor would he. She had always known it.
And . . . the truth was, she didn't know if she could be any man's wife. Marriage had stripped away her freedom, chaining her to her husband's will. She didn't deceive herself into thinking Ewan would be any different.
All men wanted a woman who relied upon her husband to defend her—not one capable of defending herself. Like her father and her husband, Ewan would never welcome her fighting skills or accept her for who she was.
It hurt to think of it, for with every passing moment, she was growing closer to him. Too close. The nights she'd spent in his arms had gone beyond her imaginings. Even now, her skin warmed to think of how he'd touched her. And tonight, she would go to him once again.
She followed Queen Isabel and Aileen downstairs to the Great Chamber. Amid the large crowd of Irish men and women, she found Ewan immediately. Though he was speaking to a kinsmen, his attention turned to her, his eyes heated with the reminder of what they would share in each other's arms. She couldn't move, held captive by his gaze.
He broke off his conversation, heading straight toward her. A tremor built up in her knees, the undeniable desire spreading straight to her core.
When Ewan reached her side, he took her hand without speaking a single word. Honora could hardly keep up with his long strides, but his tight grip made arguing impossible.
"Where are we going?" she asked. "Your family—"
"—can wait," he finished. "The feasting won't begin for an hour. And I've a need to spend time with you."
He pulled her up a spiral staircase, covering her mouth with his. He feasted upon her lips, her tongue, as though he couldn't get enough.
Honora couldn't catch her breath, her heart racing within her chest. She wound her arms around his neck, surrendering to the hunger of his kiss.
"You're mine, Honora," he said against her throat. She gripped his hair, letting him seize her mouth in another heated exchange. Her heart was crumbling, at war with her mind. These stolen moments were all they had together. And though she knew they wouldn't last, she clung to him.
When his hand started to move against her skirts, she realized that he wasn't thinking clearly. She could not let him take her upon a stone staircase, in front of anyone who happened by.
"Ewan, wait—"
"Shh—" he murmured at her ear, nibbling at the lobe. He pulled at her hips, drawing her flush against his body.
And Honora realized that words were not going to break through to him. Only actions would make him see reason.
Wrenching her mouth away, she unsheathed his dagger and stepped from his embrace. "MacEgan, keep your trews on, and gain control of yourself. You can have me later."
"Well said," came a voice from behind her. Mortified, Honora turned and saw a richly-dressed man descending the stairs. From the gold circlet he wore upon his head, there could be no doubt he was King Patrick of Laochre.
"My brother," the king smiled. "I think you've finally met your match."
Chapter Seventeen
Ewanheldouthishand, and Honora returned the blade to him, grip first. He introduced her to his brother, and Honora looked as though she wanted to disappear into the wall.
"Welcome home." Patrick clapped him on the back, then turned his attention to Honora. His eyes glinted with amusement. "You remind me of Isabel. A time or two, she's drawn a knife on me as well."
"It's a bad habit of mine," Honora confessed, her cheeks flushing. Then she turned back to him. "I'm sorry, Ewan. I shouldn't have done that."
He gripped her hand, squeezing it tightly. She'd taken his weapon as though she feared he'd ravish her on the stairs. Beneath his breath, he warned, "Don't do it again."
Honora had simply taken his breath away when he'd seen her. Dressed like one of his kinswomen, the rich cornflower blue overdress and creamy léine made Honora's skin the color of moonlight. The gown hung in soft folds, accentuating her slender waist.
Before she could respond, his brother intervened. "Ewan take Honora and introduce her to the rest of the MacEgans while I find Isabel. We will talk of your trouble at the Welsh coast later."
Ewan took Honora's hand and led her into the Great Chamber. All of his kinsmen and family were gathered around, sitting at the long trestle tables while Queen Isabel waited at the dais for her husband the king. There were places for each of his brothers and their wives, but he noticed that his brother Trahern's place was empty.
