Michelle Willingham - Forbidden Night With The Prince

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.