Michelle Willingham - Forbidden Night With The Prince

‘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.