Forbidden Night with the Prince Read online

  But then the young girl pointed directly at him and whispered to the woman. The woman studied him, her smile fading. Then she shushed the girl and took her hand, leading the child away.

  A grim ache tightened within him. Though he knew it was only a child’s curiosity, it felt like an accusation—as if he were a monster come to life. A cold chill slid over his spine as he thought of the children who had fought at Clonagh, trying to save their fathers.

  And the one whose death was his fault.

  You were not meant to be their prince, the dark voice of his conscience whispered. Ardan was destined to be the king, not you.

  His gut tightened, and he forced away the shadowed guilt. There was nothing he could do now except try to mend the mistakes he’d made. He was here for only one purpose—to seek help for Clonagh. The last thing he needed was the distraction of a woman.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, Sir Anselm approached to greet him. The Norman knight had been a loyal vassal for several years now, and he had visited Clonagh on several occasions on behalf of the MacEgans.

  ‘My lord, this is a surprise.’ The knight raised his knee as a gesture of respect.

  But although Ronan was a flaith and a king’s son, the traditional greeting only reminded him that he was Lord of Nothing right now. He had been unable to stop the attack on Clonagh, and many would blame him for it.

  Ronan followed the knight inside the donjon, his mood darkening. It was difficult to remain patient, for he recognised their urgent situation. He needed soldiers to help him retake the fortress, well-trained men who could seize power from his stepbrother without harming his people.

  Sir Anselm led him inside, and Ronan strode through the Great Chamber. Dozens of men and women were gathered at one end of the donjon where the king’s brother, Trahern MacEgan, was telling stories. King Patrick and Queen Isabel were seated at the dais along with their young son and two other men—Normans from the look of their armour.

  Sir Anselm led him towards the steps, and the king’s attention centred upon him. Ronan realised that he should not have entered their keep in such a state, covered in enemy blood. The queen’s expression faltered with sympathy, and she summoned a servant to her side, leaning in to whisper a command.

  ‘I was not expecting your visit, Ronan,’ King Patrick said solemnly. ‘Come and dine with us.’ He motioned for him to sit at the end of their table. A servant brought food, and it took Ronan a great effort not to devour the bread and stew. He’d eaten next to nothing over the past few days, and he finished the food within minutes. The servant brought him more, and he managed to eat more slowly during the second helping.

  King Patrick introduced the two men as Rhys and Warrick de Laurent, and he switched into the Norman tongue so the men would understand. Ronan was glad that his father had forced him to learn many languages, though he’d resented the education at the time of his fostering. Even now, he wasn’t certain why the king was drawing these men into the conversation, but they appeared to be warriors. Ronan welcomed help from any source, whether Norman or Irish.

  The king began by saying, ‘I did hear that Clonagh was attacked a few nights ago, and that your father, King Brodur, is a hostage. Our neighbouring tribe at Gall Tír informed us of this.’

  Ronan nodded and continued speaking in the Norman language. ‘A few nights ago, my stepbrother Odhran gathered his forces and took my father prisoner.’ He began relating the story, keeping all emotion from his voice when he spoke of those who had died. A part of him still felt that he should have stayed, despite the danger. But he knew that the MacEgan allies were their best hope.

  Once again, his attention shifted when he saw the woman in white entering the Great Chamber. She balanced the little girl on her hip, lowering her to sit among the other children who were listening to the bard. The child squirmed and then got up to wander around the gathering space. The woman trailed the young girl, keeping a close watch over her.

  For some reason, the two Normans tensed when they saw his distraction, and Ronan forced his gaze back to them. ‘I have come to ask for soldiers,’ he finished. ‘I cannot let my people suffer beneath Odhran’s rule. But they were too afraid to fight back against their own kinsmen. And I need to restore my father to his throne.’

  The king exchanged a glance with the other two Normans. It seemed as if he was asking their opinion, and Warrick de Laurent spoke at last. ‘How many men do you need?’

  ‘Two dozen,’ Ronan answered. ‘Three would be better, but if they are strong fighters, it will be enough.’

  ‘And once you take back Clonagh, what means do you have to keep it?’

  He paused. ‘Once I restore my father to his throne and drive out Odhran, we should be able to maintain order with the remaining men.’

  A flicker of doubt crossed King Patrick’s face. ‘What happened to Queen Eilis during the attack?’

  The mention of his father’s wife renewed his anger. For Eilis had betrayed him as surely as her son. ‘She supported her son’s rebellion and did nothing to aid my father.’

  At that, King Patrick sobered. ‘I know what it is to face treachery from within your own castle walls. But you cannot exile your father’s wife. That is Brodur’s decision to make.’

  He had not considered those implications. His father might not set his queen aside, and if so, Ronan would be unable to displace the woman, even if he did take back Clonagh. ‘What do you suggest?’

  The king exchanged a look with the de Laurent warriors. ‘You should claim the throne for yourself and take a wife. One with an army of her own who can defend Clonagh from any further threats. Keep the men there for at least a year, and then you will know who is truly loyal.’

  Ronan tensed at that, for he had no desire to wed anyone, especially after all the mistakes he’d made. ‘I will not hide behind a woman’s skirts. Or in this case, her soldiers.’ His negligence had cost others their lives, and it was better if he remained unmarried.

  ‘Rhys and Warrick came to Ireland for their sister’s betrothal,’ the king began, ‘but her intended husband died. You may want to consider a Norman alliance with them. They hold lands at Killalough, and they are looking for a new marriage for their sister.’ Patrick reached towards his wife’s hand, and the queen smiled warmly at him. Then he ruffled the hair of his son. ‘Meet her and decide for yourself.’

  No. He would never bind a woman to him for the sake of her soldiers. Better to hire mercenaries who would leave once he had no further need of them. He had forsworn all women since his brother’s death. And that would not change.

  Before he could refuse the offer, Rhys de Laurent interrupted. ‘Although I am willing to consider a new betrothal for our sister, I should warn you that Joan is...somewhat opposed to marriage.’

  Good. It was far easier to refuse a marriage with a reluctant bride. The man’s warning eased Ronan’s tension, for he didn’t intend to consider it either. ‘Forgive me, but I am more concerned about the safety of my people. It has been two days, and I need to bring men to overthrow the usurper as soon as possible. Any discussion of marriage must wait until I have freed them.’

  The two Normans exchanged a look. Then the younger brother shrugged. ‘We may be able to help you. But I will leave that decision to our sister. If you can convince her to grant you the soldiers, then you may have the men.’

  It was clear that her brothers had a greater interest in arranging a betrothal for their sister than in offering help to a stranger. Ronan was beginning to feel like a pawn, commanded by invisible hands.

  He hid his annoyance and met Warrick’s gaze squarely. ‘Is she here?’ He had to be careful not to anger these men by outwardly refusing her. Instead, it might be better to convince the Norman lady that they were not suited.

  ‘Joan is sitting with my daughter,’ Rhys answered. ‘Just there, in the white gown.’

  A strange sens
e of premonition filled him, for the woman in white had intrigued him from the moment he’d seen her at Laochre. Her dark hair framed an innocent face with clear blue eyes. She was beautiful, but there was a sadness surrounding her.

  ‘I will meet with her later, if I could have a moment to wash?’ He directed his question towards the queen. ‘I might make a better impression when I’m not covered in blood.’ Though he had no intention of courtship, the delay would give him time to decide how to handle the situation.

  ‘I will send you a bath and someone to tend you,’ Isabel answered. A serene smile slid over her face, and if he didn’t know better, he’d imagine she was plotting something.

  As he followed the servants away from the Great Chamber, he had the sense that his life was being rearranged.

  * * *

  ‘You’ve gone mad.’ Joan stared at her brothers, making no effort to hide her anger. ‘Do you honestly believe I will agree to another betrothal after what just happened? I won’t do it.’

  ‘Go and speak with him,’ Rhys suggested. ‘I am giving you the opportunity to choose your next betrothal. He may be...different from the other men you meant to marry, but he is an Irish prince.’

  ‘Think of what you are saying,’ she insisted. ‘Every man I’ve been promised to has died. Do you think I want to bring a death sentence upon someone else?’

  ‘You are letting your fears command your life,’ her brother said quietly. ‘I will send him to you, and you can make that decision for yourself. His name is Ronan Ó Callaghan.’

  Joan knew exactly which man her brother was referring to. The moment the prince had ridden into the inner bailey wearing bloodstained armour, he had caught her notice. There was an untamed savage quality to him, as if he cared naught about anything or anyone. And yet, when she’d noticed him staring, her skin had prickled with sensation. His green eyes burned with a fierce intensity that stole her breath. His blond hair was cut short, and there was a rough bristle upon his cheeks.

  She had been playing with her young niece, Sorcha, and the little girl had also noticed the man. Joan had been about to bring her inside when Sorcha had pointed at him and said, ‘He’s the man you’re going to marry.’

  Joan had shushed her niece, knowing that it was only the fancy of a small child. At times, Sorcha seemed to have traces of the Sight, where she predicted things before they happened. But not this time. Joan believed it was best if she never accepted another betrothal—not until she learned how to break the curse.

  Her brother, Warrick, drew closer. He was quiet and not as overbearing as Rhys. He studied her a moment and then said, ‘Ronan Ó Callaghan needs our help, Joan. His stepbrother attacked their tribe and took the king as a hostage before he stole the throne for himself. He asked if we would send men to aid his cause.’

  ‘You may help the prince if you wish, but that doesn’t mean I’ll marry him.’ She saw no harm in them strengthening ties with Irish nobility, but it didn’t mean she would stand back and allow her brothers to manipulate her life.

  ‘No one is forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do,’ Warrick reassured her. He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘I’m only suggesting that you give it a chance. Meet with him and see what you think.’

  And what good would that do? She simply couldn’t imagine trying a fourth time for a husband. No matter what she might desire, Fate had forced her to be alone. It had become her life, this gnawing loneliness that stretched out before her. Furthermore, she couldn’t imagine that this man would even cast a second look at her. She was four-and-twenty, far too old for a husband.

  ‘If you want to help him, then do so. I am not stopping you,’ she answered quietly. ‘But I will not be betrothed again.’ For a time, her brothers fell silent, no longer arguing. This was her life, was it not? And despite her desire for a child, she would suppress those dreams if it meant avoiding the curse.

  A moment later, Queen Isabel joined them within the solar, and she held the hand of her young son Liam. She wore a gown the colour of rubies with a silver torque at her throat and another thin band around her forehead. ‘Will you come with me, Lady Joan?’

  The urge to refuse came to her lips. But they were guests here, and she could not disregard the rules of hospitality. Warrick was trying to forge a strong alliance with the MacEgans for the sake of his holdings in Killalough. It would not do to offend the queen.

  ‘Of course,’ she murmured, following Queen Isabel into the hallway. Joan knew full well that the queen might try to talk her into a marriage with Ronan. But she had no intention of becoming the victim of matchmaking. Instead, she feigned ignorance and changed the subject. ‘Your son is such a dear boy. He looks about the same age as Sorcha.’

  Isabel’s face brightened. ‘Liam is a good lad, though he does get into mischief.’ She lifted him to her hip and dropped a kiss upon his head.

  The boy squirmed in her arms and demanded, ‘I want to walk.’

  The queen let him down and motioned for a servant to come forward. ‘Take Liam to his nurse. It’s late and time for bed.’ She leaned down to kiss his cheek. ‘I’ll come and say goodnight soon.’

  He kissed his mother and hugged her before following the servant down the hall. The familiar longing filled Joan’s heart, though she braved a smile. ‘You must be very proud of him.’

  ‘I am. I hope to have many children, God willing.’ But there was a slight sadness in her voice that suggested she might have lost a child before.

  Another maid followed them down the hall towards one of the chambers. The queen turned the corner and then stopped in front of the door. ‘I know your brothers told you of Ronan Ó Callaghan’s troubles. He is an ally of ours and a friend.’

  And here it was—the queen’s attempt at matchmaking. Joan steeled herself and forced a smile. ‘Warrick did tell me, yes. But he also spoke of trying to arrange another marriage for me.’ She took a slight step back. ‘If you are asking me to speak with the prince for that reason, I must refuse. I do not wish to be married.’

  The queen laughed softly. ‘Your brother’s ambitions for your marriage stretch high, if that is what he believes. No, Lady Joan. You are Norman, like I am, and you know our customs well. I have given Ronan our hospitality, and we will grant him men to aid in his cause.’

  Her reassurance eased Joan’s tensions somewhat. But she asked, ‘Then why have you brought me to his chamber?’

  ‘After the battle, Ronan asked for a hot bath. I would have asked one of my ladies to serve him, but I thought you might wish to do so. You could meet the prince and decide if your brothers should fight with him.’

  It was the custom of noblewomen to help bathe their guests, and Joan understood that the queen was granting her the opportunity to learn more about Ronan Ó Callaghan for her brothers’ sake. ‘So long as you are not trying to set up a betrothal.’

  The queen shook her head. ‘His family was trying to arrange a marriage to another king’s daughter from Tornall, from what I have heard.’

  It felt as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders, and Joan could breathe again. ‘I am very glad to hear this.’

  Queen Isabel smiled at her. ‘Go now, and see what you can learn for your brothers’ sake. You need not fear that we are arranging a marriage.’

  Joan inclined her head and entered the chamber. Ronan was not inside, but the queen assured her that he would arrive shortly. The servants had already filled the tub with hot water, and Joan busied herself by arranging the soap and all that she would need.

  Knowing that this man was merely a guest and nothing more eased all the tension from her mood. She had tended many visitors in her father’s castle over the years, and this man would be no different.

  After a time, the door opened and Ronan stood at the threshold. He was a tall man, and she guessed that the top of her head came to his chin. His chainmail armour was covered in blood and wou
ld need to be cleaned. Beneath the shadows of his green eyes, she saw weariness and strain. His blond hair was matted, and she wondered what it would feel like to touch his unshaved cheeks. She could not deny that he was attractive, and she forced a calm smile on her face.

  From the wry expression, it seemed that he, too, believed others were trying to make a match between them. He spoke in Irish at first, and she shook her head, for she did not understand his words. Then he drew closer and spoke in the Norman language, ‘Did your brothers arrange this?’

  She shook her head. ‘The queen did.’ With a light shrug, she said, ‘But I am here to tend your bath, nothing more.’

  He stared at her for a moment, as if he wasn’t certain whether to believe her. She met his gaze frankly, for what did she have to hide?

  At last, he asked, ‘Will you help me with my armour?’

  ‘Of course.’ She aided him in removing his outer tunic, followed by the heavy hauberk. The weight of the chainmail was staggering, but she laid it carefully on the floor, along with the tunic. ‘I can arrange for a servant to clean it for you tonight, if you like.’ The sight of the dried blood was sobering, for she realised the extent of the fighting he had endured.

  ‘Thank you. I am Ronan Ó Callaghan,’ he said.

  ‘I am Joan de Laurent. You met my meddling brothers, Rhys and Warrick, not long ago.’ She smiled at the prince, not wanting him to be ill at ease around her—especially when she had no intention of following her brothers’ wishes. ‘Pay them no heed.’

  He nodded and stripped off his remaining armour until he stood only in his trews. Joan kept her gaze upon the floor and took the rest of the heavy chainmail, averting her gaze as he stepped into the tub of water. When she was certain he was covered, she turned around.

  A strange flush suffused her cheeks at the sight of him. His broad shoulders were exposed in the narrow tub, and he was heavily muscled. Water droplets slid over his bare skin, and she felt a strange ache within her body. So very odd.