Читать книгу Forbidden Night With The Prince - Michelle Willingham - Страница 11
ОглавлениеRonan could not deny that Joan de Laurent had caught his attention. He had been unprepared for the rush of arousal that struck hard when she’d caressed his skin. His shaft had grown erect beneath the water, and her gentle touch had made him imagine her hands elsewhere.
He gritted his teeth, forcing back the image. He had not touched a woman in months now, and he refused to loosen the tight hold upon his desires. The last time he had seduced a woman, it had ended in tragedy. He could not allow himself to weaken again, though his body was rigid with need.
Joan wasn’t the usual sort of woman he normally desired. She carried herself like a holy woman, wearing white and an iron cross upon a chain. If anything, her earlier remark about becoming a bride of the Church seemed likely. She was a virgin and not the sort of woman he normally pursued.
And yet, she had washed him like a woman who desired a man—as if she, too, had her own hidden needs. He hadn’t missed the furious blush in her cheeks, as if she would die before telling him of her desires. There was something she wanted, but her refusal to admit the truth only intrigued him more.
There was no doubt that her brothers had intended to offer Joan’s hand in marriage, hoping she would ascend to an Irish throne. To them, it was an alliance that would elevate Joan’s rank and bring honour to her.
But they knew nothing of the sins Ronan had committed. He never wanted to be King of Clonagh, especially after his brother’s death. If he could have given his life for Ardan’s, he would have done so a thousand times over. For the burden of guilt never left him. Not a day went by that he did not blame himself.
Joan de Laurent wanted to be left alone, and that was the wisest course for both of them.
This morn, he dressed himself in the clothing Queen Isabel had left for him and departed his chamber. It was later than he’d realised, and most of the castle had already broken their fast. Though his body had needed the rest after not sleeping for days, he couldn’t quite suppress the feeling of guilt at lying abed for so long.
Ronan didn’t bother with a full meal but took bread and cheese from a servant as he passed through the Great Chamber. The night of sleep had cleared his head, and now he had to make plans for his attack.
He strode through Laochre, feeling the tug of envy. The castle was massive in size, with Norman soldiers and Irishmen training side by side. There was a sense of order, with each person having a place to fill. It was exactly what he’d hoped for Clonagh. His father and brother would have wanted the same.
The darkness of grief shadowed him, bringing with it a rise of anger. His brother had been kind, responsible, and beloved by all their people. Whereas Ronan had cared naught about what anyone thought and lived his life as he chose. He deserved to lose everything—but his brother hadn’t.
It wasn’t right or fair. He should have died, not Ardan or his young son, Declan. But his failure had caused both their deaths, and Ronan would never forgive himself for it.
He watched the men training, and soon, Warrick and Rhys de Laurent joined him, one on each side. For a time, Ronan said nothing at all, though he knew their silent question. But Joan de Laurent was an innocent—a good woman who didn’t deserve a sinner like him.
Warrick studied him for a moment, his gaze piercing. At last he said, ‘She told you no, didn’t she?’
I didn’t ask her, Ronan thought. But he raised an eyebrow and avoided a direct answer. ‘Why should she agree to wed a man she doesn’t know?’
‘For the same reason she agreed to wed three other men she’d never seen,’ Rhys added. ‘Because our father arranged an alliance.’
Ronan eyed the man. ‘Among my people, we don’t marry a woman without knowing her first. I only met Joan last night, and we’ve spoken for less than an hour.’
‘Our sister won’t let you know her. She has already decided never to marry.’ Rhys stared back at the soldiers. ‘But that isn’t what’s right for her. She needs a husband and a family of her own.’
‘And you’ve already decided this, have you?’ Though he didn’t understand Joan’s reluctance to wed, he was not about to force the issue.
‘Our father would be pleased with the idea of Joan wedding an Irish prince.’
Ronan had no doubt of that. But neither he nor Joan had any interest in marriage. And yet, he wondered if she could convince her brothers to come to an arrangement. He stalled an answer, asking, ‘If she did agree to wed, how many men can you offer me?’
‘Two dozen Normans and fifty Irishmen,’ Warrick answered. ‘My wife inherited property at Killalough, and we can add our forces. Add the MacEgan soldiers, and it will be enough to retake Clonagh with minimal bloodshed.’
He believed Warrick. That would make nearly seventy-five highly trained men and possibly two dozen more from Laochre.
‘If our sister agrees to wed you,’ Rhys continued, ‘I will send my two dozen Norman soldiers to remain at Clonagh until you’ve driven out the traitors. If Joan is pleased with the marriage, I will send more.’
Ronan said nothing, but his instincts warned him that Joan’s brothers would accept nothing less than a union between them. He decided not to reveal his reluctance, stalling for more time.
‘You have three days to convince her,’ Warrick said. ‘If she has agreed to wed you by the end of those three days, then we will send the men.’ He paused a moment. ‘But if you hurt our sister at all, in thought or in deed, I will burn you alive.’
Which was exactly what a brother was supposed to say. Ronan didn’t react at all, and then Rhys added, ‘Or burning might be too fast. Flaying could be better.’ There was a knowing smile on his face, and he cracked his knuckles.
‘Before you decide to kill me, you should wait until there’s a reason for it,’ Ronan answered.
‘True.’ Warrick clapped him on the back. ‘I must return to my wife at Killalough, and Rhys is coming with me. We will assemble our men and leave Joan in the care of Queen Isabel.’ He regarded Ronan with a steady gaze. ‘Three days.’
* * *
Joan sat against the inner bailey wall with Sorcha, watching over the child as she made flower chains out of dandelions. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine that this was her little girl and not her brother’s. The young child sat down in Joan’s lap, and a surge of yearning filled her. This was what she wanted—to have a child of her own. It was a physical hole inside her, and she knew her time was running out. She should have been married five years ago, and now, she might be too old to bear a child.
The thought of returning to her father’s house to live among people who were afraid of her was disheartening. And yet, what else could she do? She didn’t dare wed again.
Her brothers wanted her to marry whether she wished it or not. Unbidden came the thought of Ronan Ó Callaghan. Joan could not deny that she was intrigued by this man. There was a strength about him, not only physical, but he seemed like one who was strong-willed and stubborn. If anyone could stand up to her brothers’ overprotective ways, it was Ronan. All he wanted in return was men to help him protect his people.
And suddenly, as if in answer to her thoughts, she saw him watching over them in the distance. Sorcha stood and hurried towards him.
‘Sorcha, wait.’ Joan tried to bring the child back, but it was too late. The girl was reaching her hand up to Ronan, while the daisy chain tipped from her dark hair. Joan wanted to groan, for heaven only knew what Sorcha was telling the Irish prince.
Ronan appeared wary of the child, as if he knew not what to do with her. Sorcha put her hand in his. ‘You come,’ she said. Without waiting for him to agree, she led him towards Joan.
When the pair of them were a short distance away, Ronan looked as if he were searching for a way to extricate himself. ‘I should go,’ he started to say, but Sorcha tightened her grip on his hand.
‘No. You have to see Lady Joan. She’s waiting.’
Waiting for what? Joan wondered. She couldn’t quite imagine what the little girl wanted, but the determination on Sorcha’s face rivalled the strongest warriors. Ronan had no choice at all, except to obey the child’s wishes. She tried to hold back her amusement at his discomfort but could not quite manage it.
‘And who have you brought, Sorcha?’ Joan asked. ‘Do you think he needs a flower chain?’ She could not resist teasing him, for the prince appeared uneasy being led about by a three-year-old.
The child shook her head. ‘No. The flowers are mine. You hold his hand.’ She brought the prince closer and then reached for Joan’s hand, joining them together. ‘There.’
She was startled by the warmth of his callused palm and the way his fingers covered hers. Joan was about to pull away, but Ronan closed his grip. He wore a dark leather tunic and leather arm bracers. His trews covered his powerful thighs, and a sword hung at his waist. Though he was a prince, he was also undeniably a warrior.
Sorcha began walking away, as if her task was now complete. Joan asked, ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m hungry, and Father is waiting for me.’ She pulled the drooping flower chain back on to her hair and then hurried up the stairs to her father. Rhys scooped her into his arms and held her against his hip.
Joan wasn’t certain what to say except, ‘My niece is not subtle, is she?’
‘She is very bold for one so young.’ He released her hand and then asked, ‘Why did your brother bring her to Ireland?’
Joan walked alongside him as they passed by the soldiers. ‘Rhys and Warrick came to witness my wedding, and Sorcha was rather demanding about wanting to attend. Truthfully, I think Rhys brought her along because Sorcha can be challenging. His wife, Lianna, just gave birth to another baby, and he thought it would give her time to rest with their son.’
Joan wished she could have stayed in Scotland to cradle the newborn, for there was nothing more wonderful than the feeling of an infant nestled against her heart.
‘Do you have many nieces or nephews?’
‘Two nieces and two nephews,’ she answered. ‘Sorcha is the eldest. Mary and Stephen are twin babies, born to Warrick and his wife, Rosamund. Edward is Sorcha’s little brother, who was only born a month ago.’
Ronan eyed her and ventured, ‘You want children of your own, do you not?’
Joan nodded without thinking. Then she stopped herself and said, ‘I do, but I suppose it is not meant to be.’ She could not imagine a fourth man dying before their marriage. The idea made her shudder.
‘Why do you say that?’
She didn’t know how to answer him, for he would never understand her reluctance. Instead, she kept her answer simple. ‘After three failed betrothals, I do not believe I will ever marry.’
He waited for her to elaborate, and when she did not, he stopped walking. ‘Why not?’
Because they all die. Her face reddened, and she shrugged. ‘You will say I am foolish if I tell you the reason.’
‘You are foolish,’ he repeated with a faint smile. ‘Now tell me the reason.’
An unexpected laugh broke free before she could stop herself. Perhaps she should tell him the truth, and then he might leave her alone.
Joan thought a moment and said, ‘If you were betrothed to a woman, and she died before you could wed, it would be a misfortune. If it happened a second time, you would feel uneasy. But after it happened a third time?’ She shook her head. ‘I am cursed never to marry. If I am betrothed a fourth time, that man will surely perish.’ She raised her chin to face him, waiting to hear his protests.
Yet he didn’t smile or scoff at her fears. Instead, he seemed to consider her confession, and he asked, ‘Was that why you refused to marry any man?’
She nodded. ‘I do not want to bring death, simply because I am cursed.’ Again, Joan waited for him to mock her beliefs, but he only remained pensive for a time.
At last he said, ‘Many of my men have their own beliefs regarding life and death, especially in battle. One wears a red ribbon around his left ankle, and he claims that it saved his life. Another has not cleaned his armour in over a year.’ He wrinkled his face. ‘God above, but it reeks.’ Then he relaxed and added, ‘You are not alone in your way of thinking.’
‘My brothers don’t believe me. They think it’s only a coincidence. And though they may be right, I cannot help but feel responsible for the deaths of each one.’
Ronan began walking alongside her once again. ‘Would you have married any of those men, if they had not died?’
A tightness caught within her chest. When she was seventeen, she had been thrilled about her first betrothal. Her girlish dreams had blossomed as she had imagined a husband and a family of her own. But then those dreams had been shattered, time and again.
At last, she nodded. ‘The first two were good men, from what I could tell. The last one was...older, but I could have managed.’ Though the idea of bedding Murdoch Ó Connor was not particularly a welcome one. Joan couldn’t quite visualise lying with such a man.
Although she could easily indulge in the unholy thoughts she’d had about Ronan. His muscled body, sleek from water, had tempted her in ways she didn’t even understand. She had felt an echo of sensation when she had run her fingers over his bare skin.
He caught her stare and she blinked, wishing her blush had not betrayed her interest. Better to gain control over her senses and put an end to these unspoken desires.
Ronan stopped walking near the barbican gate. In the distance, the coast was visible, and the sun shone upon the water. ‘Do you want to walk a little further?’
She thought about it for a time, wondering if she dared to be alone with him. He seemed like a man of honour, and she doubted if he would harm her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say the same for his own well-being, given what had happened to the men in her past.
With a shrug, she said lightly, ‘If you think it’s safe to be in my presence. You still might die.’
Ronan’s mouth curved in a smile. ‘I’ll take my chances.’
* * *
As they continued through the gate and into the open meadow, Ronan studied Joan’s appearance. She was indeed an attractive woman, though the white gown made her face appear too pale. She veiled her dark hair, but he had seen for himself how the wild locks tangled around her shoulders with a hint of curl. Any man would be pleased with her beauty.
She would have been a perfect second wife for his brother, Ardan. Ronan could easily imagine the pair of them—his quiet, kind-hearted brother and this woman. Joan was virtuous and gentle, someone who deserved a good man for a husband—not a hardened warrior like himself. The shadowed thread of regret wound around his conscience before he forced it back.
‘When will you return to Clonagh to take back your lands?’ she asked quietly.
‘Within a few days. I need to scout out their defences.’ His mood darkened at the thought of his people living under the threat of Odhran. His stepbrother’s rebellion had struck hard with a ruthless strength, and it gnawed at Ronan’s conscience. Odhran had used hired mercenaries to slaughter their guards and take hostages. King Brodur had been seized, and Ronan had cut down four men, trying to save his father from captivity.
But when his enemies had attempted to surround him, he’d had no choice but to run.
Shame darkened his mood, though he knew patience was necessary for the success of this conquest. He needed men to accompany him and information about his enemy’s weaknesses before he could invade.
Joan remained silent during their walk, staring out at the water. They continued through the grasses, passing by grazing sheep. He walked alongside her, and he could smell the faint scent of flowers emanating from her skin.
With each moment he spent at her side, he felt the silent chiding of Fate. He’d been a man who had lived in the moment and sought pleasure wherever he could find it. Now, he wasn’t suited to being anyone’s husband, and he had nothing to offer. She was right to turn down the betrothal.
‘I think you should put aside your reluctance and wed the King of Tornall’s daughter,’ Joan suggested. ‘You could ally yourself with her father’s men and defend your people. She is Irish, like you, and it would unite your kingdoms.’
It was a sensible suggestion, and one he had considered. But there was a greater threat to his clan if he accepted help from that tribe. ‘If I do that, then King Tierney might try to claim Clonagh for his own. He will exert his own political power because I would owe him a debt.’
Joan gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. ‘Perhaps.’ She walked to the edge of the clearing, and looked out over the sea. A short distance away was the island of Ennisleigh, a fortress the men used to scout invaders attacking by sea. There was a ruined keep that stood there, one they had not bothered to rebuild. It gave the appearance of no threat at all, but Joan knew that there were many soldiers guarding the outpost day and night. It was a deliberate means of protecting Laochre from seaborne invaders.
‘The island is beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘I do love the sea. Is Clonagh far away from here?’
‘It is. The fortress lies two days north,’ he admitted. ‘We have forests but no coast.’
They stood for a while, watching over the waves. Strands of her dark hair escaped from her veil, and Joan tried to force them back. The winds grew stronger, and at last, she laughed, removing the veil entirely. The dark curls framed her face, and her cheeks were rosy from the chill. Only a few months ago, he would have stolen a kiss and tried to tempt her. She made him want to push back the boundaries between them and find out whether there was a woman of passion beneath her innocent exterior.
When she saw him staring, her smile faded. ‘Is something wrong?’
Only an urge that he shouldn’t have. He brushed back the strands of hair from her face, cupping her face. He studied those deep blue eyes that mirrored the sea, and admired the curve of her cheek. Unlike a young maiden who would shy away or giggle, she met his gaze openly.
She was untouched, a woman of innocence. Her white gown reminded him of that, and he knew she would never consent to a marriage. But Joan de Laurent intrigued him. He wanted to taste those full lips, to see what sort of secrets she was keeping from the world. And more than that, he wanted to understand why this woman had captured his attention.
Her hand moved to cover his, as if she wanted to pull away. And yet, she didn’t. The touch of her fingers upon his was spellbinding, and he locked his gaze with hers.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
He let his hand drift downward to her shoulder before he held her waist in both hands. For a moment, he kept her captive, simply watching. For a woman who did not want to marry, she made no effort to escape him. Instead, she waited for him to answer her question.
‘Even if there were no curse, we could not wed. We are not suited.’ He knew it down to his bones. Joan de Laurent was a good woman, the sort who deserved a decent man. Not one who had caused a tragedy for his family.
‘I agree that we are very different,’ she said quietly. ‘You are an Irish prince, and I am the daughter of a Norman earl. We have nothing at all in common.’
His hands moved up her spine, and he felt like a bastard, wanting to push back the boundaries between them. But she was a forbidden craving he wanted to taste.
‘It’s more than that, Joan. Trust me when I say you would never want a man like me.’ He drew his hands down again in a soft caress, resting them upon her hips.
She closed her eyes as if his touch had burned through her. From the colour in her cheeks, he knew the effect he was having on her, but he wasn’t ready to let her go—not yet.
‘W-why would you say such a thing?’ she stammered. ‘Have you done something terrible?’
He had. Something so terrible, he dared tell no one at all. And if he didn’t gather his self-control, he was about to trespass upon this innocent woman’s virtue.
‘It doesn’t matter, does it? Since we will never wed.’ He released her from his grasp, expecting her to pull away from him. But she kept her hands upon his chest, above his beating heart. He wore no armour, but the simple heat of her palms burned through the leather tunic, arousing him deeply. He remembered how it had felt when her slick hands had soaped his wet skin, and desire had taken hold of his senses.
‘I don’t think you’re as bad as you say you are,’ she murmured.
It was almost a challenge, and one he was prepared to face. He reached back to her waist and pulled her closer.
‘You’re right, a stór. I’m far worse.’
And with that, he lowered his mouth to hers and claimed a kiss.
* * *
The heat of his mouth was scalding, a demand—not a request. Joan tasted his longing, and when he held her closer, her hips pressed to his. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal, and to her shock, she responded to him, growing weak with need. Never in her life had she been kissed like this, though her first two betrothed husbands had kissed her. Her breasts tightened, and she could not catch a single breath as Ronan claimed her.
His tongue slid within her mouth in a silent temptation, and she could do nothing except surrender. What startled her the most was her own racing heart. She wanted this man, yearned for his touch. He attracted her in all the wrong ways until she hardly cared at all. His hands threaded through her hair, tangling the strands as he kissed her hard. She opened to him, yielding to the onslaught until she could scarcely catch her breath.
You cannot have him, her mind warned. He was forbidden to her, and she should not give in to these longings. Else he would die.
But she was kissing him back, meeting him with the answer of her own veiled desires. For so many years, she had been promised to strangers with her father’s seal upon the betrothal—just before those men had lost their lives. The sweet stolen kisses had stopped when she’d lost each one. And she’d never realised how much she needed a man’s touch until now. It was as if someone had ripped apart her inhibitions, exposing her deepest desires. She faltered at the thought of Ronan claiming her body, giving her a child.
But the thought of seeing his sightless eyes staring back at her brought a tremor of heartache.
No, she could not take the risk of his death. Not even for one forbidden night.
Joan pulled back from him with reluctance, knowing that she could not surrender to her desires. At least, not unless the curse could be broken—if that was even possible.
‘I won’t apologise,’ he said gruffly. ‘I wanted to kiss you.’
‘I don’t need an apology,’ she murmured. Her heart was racing, her skin tightening with unspoken need. Between her legs, she ached, and it was a struggle to calm herself. ‘But we both know it was a mistake.’ They would never marry, and she could not risk falling into temptation.
His eyes locked upon hers as if he didn’t believe her. ‘You kissed me back.’ There was a pointed question in his statement, but she had no idea how to answer it.
Instead, she blurted out, ‘It would have been bad manners not to.’
At that, he threw back his head and laughed. His green eyes warmed with humour, and he rested his hand on the small of her back. ‘So it would.’ And though she knew it had been unwise, she did not regret kissing him.
Ronan guided her back towards the castle, and for a time, she held her silence. She knew better than to imagine that this man wanted her for anything other than her brothers’ soldiers. He wanted to take back his fortress, nothing more.
The prince slowed his pace and studied her. ‘You surprised me, Lady Joan. And it makes me consider another possibility. Would you consider a betrothal with me, even if we did not marry? Your brothers would grant me the men I need, and I would grant you whatever you desire.’
‘I—I don’t know.’ She had never considered the possibility, but the very thought of wedding a man like Ronan made her blush. One kiss had turned her knees to water, and her heartbeat was still racing.
‘Surely there is a way we could help each other.’
She steeled herself and stopped walking. Did she dare to tell him the truth of what she wanted most? Likely not, for she hardly knew this man. It shamed her to admit that she wanted a child so badly, she was willing to consider bearing one out of wedlock.
He had suggested a betrothal without an actual marriage. It made her wonder if that was a way around the curse. Ronan seemed to be a kind man, and there was no doubt she felt an attraction to him.
Would it be so wrong to surrender her virtue to this prince and take him into her bed? Or was the risk too great? In the eyes of the church, a formal betrothal was nearly the same as a marriage. She would not be the first woman to lie with her intended husband before the vows were spoken.
Her brothers might kill him, even if the curse did not. But she could not deny that Ronan had awakened sensual longings within her.
Her face felt as if it were on fire, but she decided to tell him the truth. ‘You asked me what I wanted.’
‘Yes. Name it, and if it is in my power to give, this I will do.’ He turned to regard her. His green eyes gazed upon her with interest, and she felt her blush rising again.
‘The truth is, I want a child of my own.’
For a long moment, he stared at her in disbelief. She could not read the emotions on his face, but it seemed as if she had struck a nerve. It made her wish she hadn’t spoken at all. Perhaps he didn’t desire her after all, despite the kiss they had shared. Perhaps he found her lacking, a woman to be pitied. Her stomach twisted with humiliation, but at last he spoke.
‘A child is something I cannot give you. Not ever.’
The finality in his voice startled her, for although she had expected a refusal, she had not anticipated the cold anger in his voice. She didn’t ask him why, for it was clear that he did not want to speak of it.
So be it. There would be no betrothal between them, and they would go their separate ways. It should have been a relief—and yet, she felt a sense of regret. Ronan Ó Callaghan was the first man she had been attracted to in years. His kiss had taken her breath away, leaving her wanting more. But it was not meant to be.
As they returned to the castle, the weight of silence descended over them.
* * *
Joan had originally planned to return to Killalough with her brothers, but Queen Isabel had begged her to stay for the Samhain festivities. She would rather have retreated to their fortress, but Warrick and Rhys had told her to stay, to appease the queen and to keep good relations with the MacEgan tribe. They would send an escort for her within a few days.
She had no doubt that they were trying to arrange a match with Ronan. Although she had already told them it was not a possibility, her brothers were ignoring her.
The autumn air was crisp, and Joan strode through the inner bailey, carrying a basket of turnips. Several of the children followed, begging her to save the largest turnip for them to carve. Tonight, they would place lights within the turnips and carry the lanterns to keep away the evil spirits.
She found that it was entertaining to carve the turnips into faces. After distributing the turnips among the children, she chose one for herself and went to sit upon the stone steps leading to the battlements. With a small dagger, she began cutting into the vegetable, attempting to form eyes within the reddish-white mass.
Footsteps drew nearer, and a shadow crossed over her. When she glanced up, she saw Ronan standing there. He was holding a large turnip of his own. Joan wasn’t quite certain why he had come to speak with her. It seemed that he’d been avoiding her since he’d kissed her. Now, he was behaving as if nothing were amiss.
Without asking, he sat down beside her and compared their turnips. ‘Mine is bigger.’
She almost laughed, for it sounded like exactly something her brothers might say in teasing. There was a hint of wickedness in his eyes, and she realised he was trying to mend the awkwardness between them. Her mood softened, and it did seem that he wanted to become friends once again.
And so, she met his teasing with her own response. ‘Size doesn’t matter, my lord.’
A sinful smile curved over his mouth, making her flush. ‘I’ve heard otherwise.’
‘Most people say it’s what you do with your size that matters,’ she parried. His grin widened at the entendre, and she added, ‘I have two brothers. Your jest is not a new one.’ She carved a notch in the turnip, but her blade slipped and nicked the vegetable.
‘Is that meant to be a face?’ he asked. He took out his own dagger and began notching his turnip. Which was, in fact, bigger than hers.
‘It is.’ She wasn’t particularly artistic, but it did have the necessary parts. ‘Those are the eyes, and that’s the nose.’
‘You cut his nose off.’
‘No, he was wounded in battle. It’s still there.’ To emphasise her point, she cut a line across the surface. ‘That’s a terrible scar. He was trying to save his lady from the enemy and suffered for her sake.’
‘And she was taken away and was lost forever,’ he finished. ‘He died of a broken heart.’
‘That wasn’t the ending I had planned.’ She carved another notch into the turnip, attempting to make the face smile. ‘I was thinking that she would see beneath his scars to the man he truly was. And then he would bring her home with him to love for always.’
‘That isn’t what happens in real life, Lady Joan.’
Joan set down her knife to look at him. With a shrug, she said, ‘It’s my story, and I can end it however I like.’ She wasn’t entirely surprised that he had disregarded the love story. Her brothers would have done the same.
‘Wouldn’t it be more interesting my way?’ he suggested. ‘Unpredictable is better.’ He continued to carve at the vegetable, flicking bits of the turnip to the ground.
‘I prefer a happier ending. One that ends in love.’
‘Love doesn’t always end happily.’
The dark tone of his voice suggested that he had experienced even more loss than she’d imagined. Had he loved a woman who had died during the attack on Clonagh? Or worst of all, had it involved a child? His vehement statement that he would never sire children made her wonder what had happened. A sudden ache caught her, for she had not thought of this. ‘I am sorry if you lost someone you loved. Did it happen during the attack?’
He let out a slow breath. ‘No. It was a few months before.’
She didn’t know what else to say, except to touch his shoulder with sympathy. The sudden flash of interest in his eyes caught her unawares, for she had not expected it. She pulled back her hand as if it had caught on fire, feeling embarrassed.
To distract herself, Joan tilted her head to get a better look at the turnip he was carving. At first, it seemed only like a series of lines. Then he turned it towards her, and she was startled to see the gnarled face of a grandfather etched within the vegetable. It was truly remarkable that he had captured such a powerful image with only a few strokes of the blade.
‘Oh, my,’ she murmured. ‘This is wonderful. You cannot possibly risk burning this carving with a candle.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s only a turnip, Lady Joan.’
Did he truly not grasp the talent he had? Why would he deny his skills? She reached out for the turnip and then asked, ‘Have you ever made other carvings? Out of wood, perhaps?’
‘It’s nothing of importance.’ With that, he stood. ‘Add my turnip in with the others. The children can light them and carry them tonight. I will go and help with the bonfires.’
Joan kept the turnip but had no intention of giving it over to be burned. Instead, she put it with her own, marvelling at the detail he’d captured. Ronan had a depth of talent she would never have guessed. The simplicity of his carving touched her heart.
‘I am keeping it,’ she told him. He eyed her for a moment, and then shrugged as if it were nothing. But it revealed another side to this man, one that intrigued her.
In the distance, many of the MacEgans were gathering wood and loading it into wagons to be brought to the hills for the Samhain fires. Before Ronan left her side, there was a sudden outcry near the gates.
Joan rose to her feet and saw a man and a woman arriving on horseback. The man had blond hair, lighter than Ronan’s, and beside him rode a dark-haired woman of such beauty, Joan felt like an old crone. A young girl rode behind them on a smaller horse. The girl’s brown hair was braided neatly, and the woman kept glancing behind her to ensure that the child was well.
‘Who are they?’ she asked Ronan.
‘Connor MacEgan is the king’s younger brother. It looks as if he’s taken a wife.’
Joan moved closer, with Ronan following behind. Connor helped the woman down from her horse, but when Joan drew closer, she saw that he was favouring one hand over the other. The king came forward with Queen Isabel to greet his brother, and the new bride stood back. Her clothing was simple, but the dark woollen cloak accentuated her clear skin and her grey-green eyes.
Connor lifted the girl down from her horse, and she curtsied before the king and queen. Joan gathered with the rest of them and heard him introduce the woman as his bride, Aileen. The child was his daughter, Rhiannon.
There was a moment of fleeting shock on King Patrick’s face before he masked it and welcomed them both. Isabel smiled at the young girl and held out her hand, bringing her over to meet Liam. Aileen followed, and they walked inside the castle.
A pang caught at Joan’s heart when she saw the young family. There was such love between them, she could not hide her own envy of the life she wanted to have.
‘Go and join them,’ Ronan urged. ‘I know you’re wanting to know more.’
She did, but didn’t feel she ought to indulge her curiosity since they were strangers. Even so, Ronan departed to join the men who were carrying wood up the hill of Amadán. After he left, she could not help but look back at him, wondering what other talents he had hidden from everyone else.
