âYouâre unbearable,â she said in disbelief.
Kieran tossed the wood aside. It clattered against the side of the hut, startling her with the sudden movement. Unbearable, was he? She had no idea.
He captured her wrist, drawing her forward until she stood before him. âThatâs right, a mhuirnÃn. And youâd do well to stay away from me.â
He gave in to his desires, tilting her head back to face him. And learned that her hair truly was as soft as heâd thought it would be.
Iseult stared at him with shock, her mouth drawing his full attention. A few inches further and heâd have a taste of her forbidden fruit.
He held her there, waiting for her to strike out at him. Cry out for help to the guard sheâd brought. But she didnât say a word, just stood there watching him. Only the faint trembling in her hands revealed what she truly felt.
He released her, and Iseult stumbled away from him, shoving her way past the door.
Only after sheâd gone did he realise he was also trembling.
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 *
HER WARRIOR KING *
HER WARRIOR SLAVE is a prequel to The MacEgan Brothers trilogy
Also available in eBook format in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone
THE VIKINGâS FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE
* The MacEgan Brothers
When I was growing up, my father used to spend hour upon hour in his wood shop. The smell of wood shavings and sawdust is familiar, and always evokes special memories. Upon a recent trip to Ireland I saw a replica of a medieval lathe and a carved dower chest. I imagined a wood carver creating pieces of furniture and, at night, perhaps carving bits of oak. It was then that the character of Kieran was born. I imagined him as a fierce loner, falling in love with a woman he could never have, the bride of another man. I hope you enjoy Kieran and Iseultâs story and their bittersweet journey towards happiness. For those of you who have read books in my The MacEgan Brothers series, look for a special connection between Kieran and these characters.
Please feel free to visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com to view âbehind-the-scenesâ photographs from the books. You can also sign up for my newsletter to be notified of future releases. I love to hear from readers, and you may contact me by writing to me at PO Box 2242, Poquoson, Virginia, USA, or via e-mail at [email protected]
Thank you so much to Dr Aidan OâSullivan, Senior Archaeologist Lecturer at the University College of Dublin, for his help answering my questions on medieval woodworking. I appreciate your suggestions and feedback regarding tools and the care of wood carvings.
Also with thanks to my father Frank Willingham, for inspiring me.
IrelandâAD 1102
âHeâs going to die, isnât he?â Iseult MacFergus stared down at the bruised body of the slave. Lash marks creased the manâs back, raw and unhealed. His skin was pale with hard ridges of bone protruding, as though he had not eaten well in several moons. Her mind rebelled at the thought of the torment he must have suffered.
Davin à Falvey handed her a basin of cool water. âI donât know. Likely I wasted a good deal of silver.â
Iseult sponged at the blood, lowering her eyes. âWe donât need a slave for our household, Davin. You shouldnât have purchased him.â It was becoming less common among the tribes to own slaves. Her own family had never been able to afford them, and it made her uncomfortable, remembering her lower status.
âSomeone else would have, if I hadnât.â He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. âHe was suffering, a stór. At the slave auction, they beat him until he could no longer stand.â
She covered Davinâs hands with her own. Her betrothed was never one to let a man endure pain, not when he could intervene. It was one of the reasons he was her dearest friend and the man she had agreed to marry.
A hollow feeling settled in her stomach. Davin deserved a better woman than herself. She had done what she could to salvage her torn reputation, but the gossip had not died down, not in three years. She didnât know why heâd offered for her, but her family had seized the opportunity for the alliance. It wasnât every day that a blacksmithâs daughter could marry a chieftainâs son.