âI know you did not wish to wed me,â Isabel began, not really knowing what to say.
The awkward silence stretched further when Patrick picked up the oars and began rowing towards the shoreline.
âIt is a great sacrifice,â she said dryly, âhaving to spend time with me.â
âMore than you know,â he muttered.
Isabel dipped her hand in the sea and flicked a palm full of water at his face.
Patrickâs face darkened. Droplets of salt water slid down his bristled cheeks. Before she could move, he trapped her hands in his and pulled her arms around his neck. She clung to him for balance, her heartbeat pounding against her chest.
He wasnât going to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes. He was fighting against it.
But he didnât let go of her. His hands caressed her back, holding her, and a secret part of her ached to welcome him. She needed more than this, and yet he held himself back. Embraced in his arms, she pressed her breasts close to him, her body trembling. Her mouth parted, wishing for what he would not give.
Then she lifted her face and kissed him.
Michelle Willingham grew up living in places all over the world, including Germany, England and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antiques shows in manor houses and castles, Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance.
She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame, with a degree in English, and received her masterâs degree in Education from George Mason University. Currently she teaches American History and English, and is working on more medieval books set in Ireland. She lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesnât have her broadsword.
Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com, or e-mail her at [email protected]
Previous novels by this author:
HER IRISH WARRIOR*
THE WARRIORâS TOUCH*
*The MacEgan Brothers
To my husband Chuck,
who has always supported my dream. Youâre my own Irish hero.
Author Note
I have always loved stories of royalty, and during my research I found fascinating tales about the many kings of medieval Ireland. The High King was chosen to lead the country, but there were provincial kings and petty kings as well, who would reign over their territories. Kings were not born, but instead were selected by the people. They could also be deposed, if the people were not satisfied with their leader. Approximately 80-100 kings reigned over the tribes of Ireland for hundreds of years.
HER WARRIOR KING is the story of a man struggling with the burden of kingship and a forbidden love of the enemy. I hope you enjoy Patrick MacEganâs tale and, as always, I love to hear from readers. Visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com for extra features in The MacEgan Brothers series!
Chapter One
England, 1170
Every woman considered stealing a horse and running away on her wedding day, didnât she?
Isabel de Godred fought the restlessness building within her. It was her duty to obey her father. She understood it, even as she clenched the crimson silk of her kirtle and eyed the stables.
In her heart, she knew an escape was futile. Even if she did manage to leave the grounds, her father would send an army after her. Edwin de Godred was not known for his tolerance. Everything was done according to his orders, and woe to anyone who disobeyed.
The marriage might not be so bad, part of her reasoned. Her betrothed could be an amiable, attractive man who would allow her the freedom to run his estates.
She closed her eyes. No, highly unlikely. Otherwise her father would have paraded the suitor before her, boasting about the match. She knew little about him, save his Irish heritage and rank.
âAre you ready, my lady?â her maidservant Clair asked. With a conspiratorial smile, she added, âDo you suppose heâs handsome?â
âNo. He wonât be.â Toothless and ageing. Thatâs how the man would look. Panic boiled inside her stomach, and Isabelâs steps felt leaden. Her rash escape plan was looking more and more appealing.
âBut surelyââ
Isabel shook her head. âClair, Father wouldnât even let me meet the man at our betrothal. Heâs probably half-demon.â
Her maid crossed herself and frowned. âI heard heâs one of the Irish kings. He must be wealthy beyond our imaginings.â
âHe isnât the High King.â And thank the saints for that. Though she might rule over the tribe, at least she did not have the burden of ruling a country. As they walked down the wooden staircase outside the castle donjon, she wondered how her father had arranged a betrothal in such a short time. Heâd gone to aid the Earl of Pembrokeâs campaign only last summer.
âIf I could, Iâd take your place,â Clair mused with a dreamy smile.
âAnd if I could, Iâd give him to you.â Unfortunately, that wasnât possible.
Isabelâs imagination conjured up a monster. The man must be unbearable to require such secrecy. Though she knew it was unfair to pass a judgement before sheâd met her intended, she couldnât help but imagine the worst.