Michelle Willingham - Taming Her Irish Warrior

‘Looking for something?’ he accused.

The last time she’d seen Ewan he’d been a gangly boy of sixteen. The boy had become a man. A handsome one, at that. His dark blond hair was cut short, emphasising a lean face and a strong jawline. Broad shoulders revealed a tight strength she hadn’t remembered. Ridged muscles lined his abdomen, down to …

Oh, dear God above. He was naked.

With that, every coherent thought left her. He looked like a savage Celt. Ewan had a wildness about him that made her uneasy.

He released one wrist and ripped her hood free.

‘You’re a woman.’

She couldn’t gather up her thoughts to answer, and before she knew it his mouth came down upon hers.

AUTHOR NOTE

When I first began writing the Irish medieval stories of The MacEgan Brothers, the youngest brother, Ewan MacEgan, always held a special place in my heart. I’ve been eagerly awaiting the day when I could give this awkward, boyish and fiercely loyal hero the heroine of his dreams. Now that the adolescent boy has grown into a strong, passionate man, Ewan is about to meet his match in Honora St Leger.

As a girl, Honora dreamed of wielding a sword and fighting alongside her father’s men. As a widow, she wages her own battle against losing her heart to Ewan, the man she loved many years ago. She can only be with Ewan if he sacrifices everything, and she refuses to let him surrender his future. I hope you enjoy Ewan MacEgan’s tale.

Also in this book is the love story of Honora’s sister Katherine and her handsome knight Sir Ademar. THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN was first available in e-book form from Mills & Boon® Historical Undone.

You can find behind-the-scenes information about my books and the other four MacEgan brothers on my website: www.michellewillingham.com

Trahern MacEgan will be next. Look for SURRENDER TO AN IRISH WARRIOR in May 2011.

I love to hear from readers, and you may e-mail me at michelle@michellewillingham.com, or write to me at: PO Box 2242 Poquoson, VA 23662, USA.

MICHELLE WILLINGHAMgrew 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 master’s degree in Education from George Mason University. Currently she teaches American History and English. She lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesn’t have her broadsword.

Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com, or e-mail her at michelle@michellewillingham.com

TAMING HER IRISH WARRIOR

Michelle Willingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To all the readers who asked me for Ewan’s story. Thank

you so much for all of your support and encouragement.

England—1180

The wood creaked, a faint noise that hardly anyone would notice. But Honora St Leger had trained herself to perceive details such as this, the underlying hints of a man’s presence.

He was here. The thief she’d been waiting to capture.

Her knees ached against the cold stone floor of the chapel, and though she pretended to pray, she inched her way closer to the altar and the sword she’d hidden beneath it.

A sennight ago, the thief had stolen a wooden cross from the chapel. And last night, a chalice had gone missing. Her father’s men had found nothing, not a trace of the thief.

The hairs stood up on the back of her neck, her instincts roaring. Closer now. Her breathing grew steadier as she mentally steeled herself for battle.

She reached beneath the altar cover, finding the cool metal hilt of the sword. The candles extinguished from a sudden gust of air.

Honora leapt to her feet, poised to strike. The soft sound of footsteps betrayed the man’s presence. Darkness shielded both of them, and she used her other senses to her advantage. Although she could not see her opponent, neither could he see her.

The rhythm of footsteps shifted, and fear suddenly arced through her. Oh, Jesu. There were two of them.

The air within the chapel shifted without warning, and instinct made her swing the sword behind her. Her blade struck steel, and the thief parried, the blow numbing her arm.

Where had the cur gotten a sword? A sword meant he was no ordinary thief—he was a trained fighter. Her pulse quickened, her fear rising. Though she had full confidence in her skills, fighting blind made it more challenging.

And there was still someone else in the chapel, someone she couldn’t see. The footsteps quickened, though she could not tell if they were running towards her or running away.

She swung the blade and was rewarded with a hiss of pain. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘What do you want?’

Silence.

When she sliced the sword again, it missed. She halted the blade, listening. Nothing remained but the coolness of air coming from the open door. Not a footstep, not a foreign breath marred the stillness. Both men had vanished.

Why?

Unless one of the men had driven the other off. Like an unseen protector.

She frowned, dropping to her knees again. The sword hilt warmed beneath her palm while her heart pulsed with energy. It had been half a year since she’d fled her husband’s home, Ceredys, and returned to her father’s donjon. She’d thought she was safe here at Ardennes. Now, she wasn’t so certain.

It unnerved her that this thief kept returning, as though he were searching for something. But what?

Honora contemplated returning to her chamber, but her sister Katherine was still abed. She couldn’t endanger her by leading the attackers there.

Instead, she lit the candles once more, trying to calm herself while the familiar scent of beeswax and old incense filled the space.

With her sword in hand, she sat against the stone wall. Though it was freezing and uncomfortable, she tucked her feet beneath her skirts.

It was then that she noticed the missing chest. She had brought it back from Ceredys, a gift given by her mother-in-law, Marie St Leger.

Now stolen.

Furious, she eyed the empty space where it had rested only moments ago. As she murmured a silent prayer for Marie’s soul, she vowed she would bring the thief to justice.

‘She won’t wed you.’

Ewan MacEgan shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun beginning to sink below the horizon. His brother’s prediction came as no surprise to him. He was the youngest son, with not much more than a tiny plot of land. What right did he have, thinking he could win the hand of an heiress? None at all.

But this was Lady Katherine of Ardennes, the woman he’d idolised since he was a lad of sixteen. While others had mocked his clumsiness, she had smiled at him, reassuring, ‘You’ll beat all of them one day.’

Though she was only a girl of fourteen years, Lady Katherine’s quiet faith had sustained him. Now that she had grown up to be a lady worthy of a thousand suitors, he intended to wed her.

‘I’ve known her since we were children,’ Ewan told his brother.

Bevan drew his horse to a stop by the river and let the animal drink. ‘That was five years ago. Her father will want her to wed a wealthy nobleman, not a penniless Irishman.’

‘I’ll gain my own wealth,’ Ewan answered. ‘Enough to build whatever kingdom she desires.’ Though he spoke with confidence, like Bevan, he had his doubts that Lord Ardennes would even consider him as a suitor for Katherine. The only thing in his favour was his royal bloodline, for his eldest brother, Patrick, was king of their province in Éireann.