Taming Her Irish Warrior Read online

  She tried to curtsy, but he stopped her, shaking his head. ‘I’ve seen the way Ewan watches you. And all of us want only his happiness.’ Like an over-protective brother, he made his feelings clear.

  ‘I would never do anything to hurt him.’

  The King studied her, as though reaching inside to determine her worth. ‘Then we understand each other.’

  The morning of Midsummer’s Eve cast a mystical veil over the MacEgan tribe. Flowers hung everywhere, and not a single hearth burned. All had been extinguished in preparation for the fires that night.

  When Ewan reached Laochre, the air was buzzing with excitement. He saw his brother Bevan arriving with his wife, Genevieve. She leaned heavily upon her husband, her stomach rounded with pregnancy.

  ‘You’re looking well, Genevieve,’ Ewan remarked, giving her a kiss of welcome.

  ‘I feel like you should be herding me along with the other cows,’ she teased. Ewan embraced her warmly, and her gaze turned shrewd. He didn’t know what Bevan had told her, but Genevieve was studying him as though she didn’t like what she’d heard. ‘I didn’t realise you chose Honora over her sister. My father told me many stories about her. Where is she?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her since yesterday,’ he admitted.

  Genevieve cast a look towards her husband, and Ewan quickly changed the subject. ‘Will Trahern be here?’

  His older brother was curiously absent. Renowned for his storytelling, Trahern rarely missed a festival.

  Bevan shook his head. ‘Not this time.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’ Ewan couldn’t imagine anything that would keep Trahern away.

  ‘Something to do with a woman.’

  The pointed look Bevan sent him was undeniable. Ewan did not shirk from the discerning gaze. But instead of reacting to his brother’s unspoken question, he commented, ‘Trahern will be missed. I hope he changes his mind.’

  Bevan gave a nod. ‘So do I.’ He kissed his wife on the cheek and added, ‘Go and rest, Genevieve. You’re looking pale. I’ll join you later.’

  Ewan excused himself and walked towards the crowd gathering. He bypassed the children’s games and the horse racing, until he reached the games of skill. He watched the men wrestling, mentally noting which of the fighters had the greatest abilities.

  The sound of metal striking metal rang out in the field, and after a time he went to join the sword contests. A large crowd had gathered around, and he could hardly see the fighters. All around him, men cast wagers upon the match.

  Ewan reached for a silver coin of his own. He didn’t often wager on a match, but this one had caught the eye of his kinsmen.

  Ruarc MacEgan, his cousin, was cheering along with the others. Ewan moved in, straining to see the fighters.

  ‘Is it Connor?’ he asked Ruarc.

  Either his brother or Patrick must be one of the swordsmen, for such a large group to encircle the area. Men and women alike were calling out for their own champion.

  ‘It’s one of the Ó Phelan bastards.’ Ruarc grinned. ‘And a woman is skinning his arse.’

  Ewan’s good humour evaporated. No. She wouldn’t dare.

  But then again, Honora St Leger was as unpredictable as the rain. No other woman was as skilled as she, nor as bold. Without another word to his cousin, he forced his way through the crowd.

  Honora stood, facing off against one of the Ó Phelan tribesmen. She wasn’t wearing a léine or overdress, but instead wore a pair of man’s trews, held up by a rope. The trews were tight against her form, and he doubted if he was the only man who’d noticed the curve of her hips. Around her torso, she wore a tunic and ionar jacket. Her hair was tied in a short braid against the back of her neck.

  Arrogant and cocky, Ó Phelan let out a roar and charged towards Honora. His sword slashed down, and Ewan reached for his own sword, ready to move into the fight.

  But Honora parried the blow, nimbly leaping out of the way. Ó Phelan circled her, rage glittering upon his face. ‘Are the lot of you such cowards that you send a woman to fight?’

  ‘Even our women are stronger than the best of the Ó Phelans!’ Ruarc shouted back, to the approval of the crowd.

  But Ewan didn’t share their laughter. All he could see was his woman, facing a dangerous enemy with nothing but a blade. She’d insulted the man’s pride, and Ó Phelan would not grant her mercy. He might not kill her, but he would not hesitate to break a bone or draw blood.

  Damn her. Why had she done this? There was no need for it. He tried to move into the circle, but a strong arm held him back. It was Patrick, his brother.

  ‘No. Let her finish this.’ There was a glint of approval in Patrick’s eyes. ‘You never told me she could fight.’

  ‘I trained her.’

  ‘Well done of you.’ Patrick nodded thoughtfully. ‘It isn’t a bad idea. There are several of our own women who might do as well. It would double our forces.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  His brother shrugged. ‘Against a trained Norman army, one does what one must. And few would expect a woman to be so skilled.’

  Honora braced herself with the shield, then stepped neatly away, sending her opponent sprawling.

  The Ó Phelan let out a foul curse, but found himself facing the point of Honora’s sword at his throat.

  ‘I win,’ she said quietly. Although few understood her Norman language, the victory was clear.

  The combined noise of the crowd was nearly deafening. Ewan was struck by the coins changing hands and the large bag of silver that Honora received. Against the odds, she’d defeated her enemy.

  Ewan moved forward, but he was nearly trampled by the men and women trying to reach her.

  Honora tried to keep her smile, but as the people swarmed around her, she grew less confident.

  Ewan pulled Honora free, and didn’t hesitate to let his tribesmen see his displeasure. They backed away, eventually leaving them in peace.

  ‘Now what in the name of Belenus was that about?’ he demanded of her. ‘You just humiliated one of the Ó Phelans. Our peace with that tribe was fragile enough before you destroyed it.’

  She held out the bag of silver, her eyes cool. ‘Here. For the land you want so badly.’

  The weight of the coins was heavy triple what he’d received from the sale of his cattle. Ewan shoved the coins back. ‘I don’t want them. I want to know what possessed you to fight where anyone could see you.’

  Her eyes flashed, and before he realised it, she’d drawn her blade upon him. With a sword pressed against his throat, she snarled, ‘Because I won’t hide any more. This is who I am. It’s who I’ve always been. And I am tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.’

  Her flushed cheeks and the rigid anger made her face deeply alluring. In spite of the sword pressed against his skin, he wanted to drag her against him and kiss her. He wanted to mark her for his own, to make her understand that she was his.

  ‘And who are you, Honora?’

  ‘I am a warrior.’

  Honora left Ewan standing there, the bag of coins at his feet. A sense of liberation filled her up inside. She should have done this long ago.

  Ewan didn’t like it, not at all. She’d seen the way he’d watched her fight, his hand resting on his own sword hilt as though he were ready to rescue her. He lacked faith that she would win.

  Her spirits fell, and she knew that Ewan, unlike his tribesmen, was not pleased by what she’d done. She removed herself from the festivities, walking back towards Laochre Castle.

  He would not want to stay with her now; she was certain of it. And while the thought should have been reassuring, it cast a darkness over her heart.

  She walked up the winding stone staircase to the solar, where she found Genevieve MacEgan seated next to a towheaded young boy, who was pushing a wooden cart across the floor. She was spinning, the thread easing through her fingers with practised ease.

  ‘I brought your sword back,’ Honora said, setting the weapon beside
Genevieve.

  The dark-haired woman smiled. Of Norman heritage, like herself, she had offered Honora the blade after speaking to her husband, Bevan.

  ‘My father told me of your skills,’ Genevieve admitted. ‘He was quite proud of you.’

  Honora let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. ‘The Earl of Longford was a kind man. I suppose I wasn’t meant to enjoy my exile.’ A chagrined smile met her lips. ‘I didn’t realise he knew about my secret.’

  ‘He never minded. And he would be glad to see you marry Ewan, if that is your desire.’

  Honora avoided answering the unspoken question. She sat down beside the young child and pushed the cart across the floor. The boy beamed and raced off to chase it.

  ‘That is Connor’s son Finn,’ Genevieve said. ‘He is being fostered with Bevan and myself, along with his twin brother, Dylan.’ She put her spinning aside, resting her hands upon her swelling stomach. ‘I hope this new baby is another son. I love boys.’

  ‘I wish you well with the birth.’ Honora ventured a smile, though the idea of bearing her own child sent a panic through her.

  Genevieve’s serenity calmed her. ‘It will go well enough. I have faith.’

  Finn sent his wooden cart racing across the floor until it bumped against Honora’s knee. He pursued it and plopped down in her lap as he picked up the cart. The familiarity of the child startled her, and she couldn’t resist offering him a hug.

  ‘Do you want children of your own?’ Genevieve asked.

  Honora shook her head. She couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying. ‘I would not be a good mother. I was never taught how to care for a child.’

  A laugh escaped Genevieve. ‘No amount of training is ever enough to be a mother. But your instincts guide you. That, and your babe won’t stop crying until you discover what it is they want.’

  Turning the subject to another, she added, ‘I understand you fought well today.’

  ‘I defeated the Ó Phelan tribesman,’ Honora admitted. ‘But Ewan was not pleased with me.’

  ‘He probably wishes he had been given the opportunity first.’ Genevieve smiled. ‘If I know Ewan, he’s likely jealous.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ Honora confessed. ‘He’d be happy if I never touched a weapon again. He’d prefer it if I stayed home and tended the hearth.’

  Genevieve tilted her head to the side. ‘Don’t be too sure of that. You aren’t the first woman he trained.’

  Honora’s gaze narrowed. The sword she’d borrowed was thinner and lighter, easier to wield. ‘This was yours?’

  ‘I used to practise swordplay with Ewan when I first came to Laochre,’ Genevieve admitted. ‘My father wasn’t pleased at first, but after I married Bevan, he relented. Then, of course, he told my mother that it was entirely his idea.’ She continued spinning, her fingers moving across the wool. ‘I haven’t used a sword in many years, though. And I was never as skilled as you, from what Ewan tells me.’

  She reached out for the sword hilt and offered it back to Honora. ‘Take this. It was a gift from Ewan, long ago. I should like you to have it. He won’t mind.’

  The lightweight sword was perfect, its blade well-balanced and the hilt polished. But Honora declined the gift, saying, ‘I really shouldn’t.’

  ‘Keep it,’ Genevieve insisted. ‘And if you don’t mind my interfering, I think you should return to Ewan.’ With a wicked smile, she continued, ‘Greet him naked in his home, and let him beg your forgiveness.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  That night, the tribesmen and women lit the fires upon the hillsides. The priest, Father Brían, offered a blessing of his own for the forthcoming summer. Every man, woman and child circled the fires three times in a clockwise direction, stopping to drop handfuls of pebbles upon the flames.

  Then young men took turns, leaping across the flames. A newly wedded couple joined hands and jumped across the fire, laughing and sharing in a passionate kiss afterwards.

  Ewan stood back, unwilling to watch them. It made him think of Honora and the power she held over him. He’d tried to stay away from her, but it was like trying to give up food and drink. He’d missed holding her, stroking her smooth skin and tasting the hint of apples when he kissed her.

  When he’d seen the Ó Phelan’s sword swinging towards her earlier, he’d wanted to drag her away from the match. She could have been killed in a heartbeat, and he’d have been too late to stop it.

  Then she’d cast the bag of silver at his feet, and his anger had deepened. Her win had bothered him, not only because of the unnecessary danger, but because she’d cast up his desire for wealth in his face. He couldn’t accept them.

  He’d asked Patrick to hold the silver for safekeeping, and Honora could use it to buy her army. He sobered at the thought. It was a fool’s errand, wanting to overthrow John of Ceredys. But it meant everything to her. Honora would never belong to him until she had laid the past to rest.

  And he would do what was necessary to relieve that burden.

  From behind him, he scented Honora’s light floral fragrance. ‘You’re angry with me,’ came her voice.

  ‘I was.’ He hadn’t wanted her to risk her own safety against an enemy tribe.

  Honora stepped into view and he saw that she had discarded the men’s trews. An emerald overdress and white léine accentuated the lines of her figure, while around her shoulders she wore a long crimson brat. The shawl offered warmth against the evening chill, the flash of colour bright against her skin. At her waist, she wore a sword he had once given to Genevieve. As if embarrassed by it, her hand covered the hilt.

  ‘Genevieve offered this to me. She said it was a gift from you, years ago. Would you rather I returned it to her?’

  ‘No.’ The sword reminded him of his awkward youth, when he’d sparred against Genevieve. He’d had the weapon made as a wedding gift, and the weapon was lighter, intended for a woman’s palm. ‘Keep it. Your dagger isn’t of use to you any more.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She stood beside him, as though she didn’t know what else to say. Her cropped hair was longer now, brushing her shoulders. He wanted to touch it, to draw her close in a warm kiss. But there was a cool distance surrounding Honora, an invisible warning.

  ‘Will you walk with me?’ He reached out to take her hand. ‘I want to show you something.’ He pointed towards the hillside where one of the fires had burned down to glowing embers.

  She looked doubtful, but nodded. ‘All right.’

  He led her up the hillside, trudging through the long grasses. The night air was warm, but it did little to assuage the uneasiness he felt inside. He sensed that there was more Honora hadn’t said.

  As the incline grew steeper, they used both hands and feet to climb higher. One side of the hill levelled out, and from the vantage point they could see across the land, to the sea upon the horizon. Above them, one of the fires blazed. Encircled by earth and stones, the fire had burned upon this sacred hillside for as long as he could remember.

  He sat down upon on outcropping of stone, leaning back against the hill. Honora did the same, and for a time there was nothing, save the popping of the fire and the distant sound of rolling waves. Below, near the festivities, came the sounds of laughter, conversation and music.

  Honora reached down and plucked a handful of grass, twisting it into a bundle. ‘Is it true what Connor said? That if I toss this into the fire, I can make a wish?’

  ‘It is.’

  She grew pensive, as if imagining her heart’s desire. When she tossed the grass on to the embers, it smouldered, the edges flaring briefly before it died into smoke.

  ‘What did you wish for?’ he asked.

  A wistful smile touched her lips. ‘Victory.’ She lay down beside him upon the hill, a short distance away from the fire. Her fingers twined with his, and together they stared up at the stars glowing against the night sky.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, the curve of a smile at her lips. ‘It reminds me of the
night we spent outside when we were younger.’

  ‘The Earl had me whipped for sneaking out.’ He propped his head up on his elbow, watching her. ‘And you thought it was a wonderful adventure.’

  ‘It was. I have no regrets. I’d never slept out of doors, and it felt like I was one of the soldiers, going off to battle.’ She turned to look at him, her body reclining against the grass. With only the firelight and the moon shining upon her, she looked like the goddess Danu, waiting to greet her lover.

  ‘You fought well this afternoon,’ he said at last, leaning upon one elbow to face her. ‘But I don’t understand why you felt the need to compete against the men.’

  ‘Because there were no women to fight me?’ Though she spoke the words with a light teasing note, he didn’t smile.

  ‘Why?’ he repeated.

  She kept her gaze upon the stars. ‘You’ve always been able to fight. At any time, any place. You never had to hide your skills.’

  Her hand lowered to touch the sword hilt at her waist. ‘I’ve hidden behind a suit of chainmail armour so that no one would know I was a woman. And I am weary of it.’

  She continued. ‘My father would have whipped me, had he known. And Ranulf—’ She stopped speaking, her chest rising as if to shut out the words. ‘He forbade me to touch any blade, ever again. Not after that first night.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was rough with me during the bedding,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t think. I just grabbed my dagger.’ Her knuckles tightened. ‘I cut my own husband.’

  ‘Good.’ It was all he could manage to strike back the jealous rage. The bastard had hurt her, taken her innocence. If Ranulf weren’t already dead, he’d have had no difficulty killing the Baron.

  ‘They kept me a prisoner in my own home,’ Honora continued. ‘Only Marie helped me.’ She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. ‘I’d never felt so helpless. I was afraid of Ranulf and John.’

  ‘Anyone would be afraid, after what you endured.’

  ‘I didn’t like the woman I became when I was there.’

  He sat up and moved behind her, pulling her back to his chest. With his arms around her, he tried to grant her comfort. And though she held him in a light embrace, his senses warned that she was slipping away, like water through his fingers.