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‘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.

About the Author

MICHELLE WILLINGHAM grew 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.

Chapter One

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.

Bevan rested his arm upon the horse and regarded him. ‘Let us help you. Take the land Patrick offered.’

‘I won’t take what I haven’t earned. I’ll get the land myself, or not at all.’ He would not be a leech, feeding off the family’s wealth.

‘Too proud, are you?’ The scar upon Bevan’s cheek tightened. ‘It won’t do you any good here. The girl’s family possesses wealth beyond your imaginings. She’ll marry a nobleman of the highest rank. You haven’t a chance.’

Ewan refused to believe it. ‘I have to try.’ He stiffened, keeping his gaze fixed upon the horizon. Urging his mount forwards, he tried to behave as if he didn’t see the pity on his brother’s face.

‘There are others who might be more suitable,’ Bevan continued, softening his tone. ‘Someone from Éireann. You don’t need to live here, among enemies. Wed an Irish cailín.’

Give up this Herculean task, was what his brother meant. Don’t reach for what you cannot possibly achieve.

It was what his brothers had counselled him, long ago when he’d expressed his desire to be a warrior. He had not possessed the natural talents of Patrick or Bevan. And though he’d poured himself into the training, his skills came from brute strength rather than finesse. Despite all the failures he’d suffered, he had overcome his weaknesses to become the man he was now.

Could he not do the same with winning a bride? Persistence counted for something, didn’t it?

He turned to Bevan. ‘She is the one I want.’

His brother expelled a sigh, drawing his horse to a stop. Although they were less than five miles from the donjon, Bevan turned his gaze westwards. ‘Be sure of it, Ewan.’

They travelled alongside one another for the remainder of the journey, not speaking. The landscape was familiar to him, verdant fields that rolled into hills. In five years, none of it had changed.

It struck him suddenly that he’d been content here. Though most of his kinsmen viewed Normans as the enemy foreigners, Ewan had never seen them as such. He’d spent three years among them, after Bevan’s wife, Genevieve, had arranged it. He’d finished his fostering with her father, Thomas de Renalt, the Earl of Longford. There, he had finally learned to fight.

A sense of unease passed over him, and he glanced at the scars upon his palms. Although the wounds had healed long ago, his hands were stiff. Grasping a sword took his full concentration, and he’d had to compensate for his awkwardness in other ways.

But he deserved the scars, for what he’d done to Bevan. He risked a glance at his older brother, wishing to God he hadn’t betrayed him. And though Bevan had forgiven him, he felt unworthy of it.

Ahead, he spied the castle that belonged to the Baron of Ardennes. The fortification was a blend of stone and wood. The outer bailey wall stretched high, perhaps the height of two men. The inner donjon held stone battlements and wooden outbuildings. Though he had not dwelled within the fortress, he had visited a time or two, along with his foster-father.

He tensed as they drew close to the barbican gate, wondering if Katherine would remember him.

Or Honora.

His grip tightened on the reins. During his fostering, Honora had nearly killed him on three different occasions. Accidents, she’d claimed. Though it was forbidden for women to train, that did nothing to stop her. She’d wanted to learn swordplay, like him, and he’d reluctantly offered instruction.

She was married now, he’d heard. Perhaps to a husband who could tame her wildness. He’d never met a woman so eager to wield a blade. And though he’d tried to avoid her, Honora had followed him everywhere.

Would that her sister had worshipped him so.

Despite the number of men vying for her hand, he intended to win Katherine first—no matter what it entailed. Anticipation rose up inside him, for soon he would conquer her heart.

The thief was among the suitors who had come for her sister; Honora was certain of it. With so many strangers, it would be simple enough to avoid notice.

She’d waited many hours until darkness shrouded the castle once more. In the ebony cloak of night, she moved soundlessly. Past the guards, keeping to the shadows while they conversed and played games of dice.

Find the chest, find the thief. It was as simple as that. Already, she had searched the Hall, but there was no trace of it among the low-born knights and retainers. All that remained were the private chambers reserved for guests of noble birth.

Not a sound did she make when she entered the first chamber. After searching the men’s belongings, she found nothing. She slid against the wall, moving towards the next chamber. Ahead, she spied the guard standing by the staircase.

Honora held her breath, praying he wouldn’t see her. Her father would murder her if he knew what she was doing.

When she reached the next chamber, she opened the door. Inside, silence permeated the space. She moved closer to a pile of belongings, staring at the shadows for a glimpse of the chest.

Abruptly, someone grabbed her. His hand clamped over her mouth, the other arm gripping her waist as he spun her around. Honora fought, kicking at his legs, but he lifted her up, pressing her back against the wall. A blade of moonlight slipped from behind the clouds, casting a beam upon his face.

She froze at the sight of Ewan MacEgan. By the Rood, she’d never thought to see him again. What was he doing here?

His sculpted bare chest gleamed silver, his pectoral muscles rising and falling as he breathed. Her heartbeat pounded, her skin prickling with gooseflesh, despite the warm summer heat.

‘Looking for something?’ he accused. His muscles did not appear taxed in the least by her body weight.

The last time she’d seen Ewan, he’d been a gangly boy of sixteen. Tall and thin, she remembered him as an awkward fighter, driven to succeed. He’d trained night and day, struggling to gain expertise.

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 jaw line. 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. She gaped at him, unable to stop herself from stealing a long look. Her husband had never looked like this. Like a savage Celt, Ewan had a wildness about him that made her uneasy.

He eased her down the wall, still holding her wrists trapped. She had stopped struggling, too disconcerted at being near him. He released one wrist and ripped her hood free.

‘You’re a woman.’

She couldn’t gather up her thoughts to answer.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

Her tongue caught in her throat. Didn’t he remember her? After all the years she’d humiliated herself, tagging along and trying to defeat him in swordplay? But then, the darkness hid her features from him. He couldn’t see her clearly.

‘Katherine?’ he asked gently.

Anger surged through her. No, she wasn’t her beautiful, saintly sister. He ought to have figured that out, from her unexpected entrance into his chamber. Her sister wouldn’t dream of entering a man’s bedchamber, much less hunt a thief.

Before she could deny it, his mouth came down upon hers. A shocking sensation rushed through her skin, as though every part of her had caught fire. She forgot what she was seeking, forgot what was happening. The world around her crumbled, with nothing else, save his kiss.

She didn’t know how to respond, and her lips remained frozen. Gentle and coaxing, Ewan slid his hands through her hair. His powerful thighs pressed up to her body, the hot length of him suddenly reminding her why it was unwise to awaken a sleeping man.

His hands caressed the hollow of her back, slipping beneath the man’s tunic she wore. A light shiver rose up on her skin while his hands roamed her body, caressing her as though she were made of silk. The touch of his rough palms aroused her, and an aching warmth bloomed between her thighs.

The unfamiliar sensation caught her without warning. His rough palms stroked her spine, and she longed for his hands to move upwards. To fill up with her breasts, easing the heaviness and the shocking need.

Never had a man touched her in this way. Especially not her husband.

The memory slashed through her, shattering the moment. She pushed him away, her lips swollen and her body restless. ‘I’m not Katherine.’

‘Honora.’

She nodded, not trusting her voice. She reached for her dagger, but discovered it wasn’t there.

Ewan raised the blade, the steel reflecting in the moonlight. ‘Looking for this?’

‘I didn’t come here to harm you.’

‘No. Only to rob me.’

‘I didn’t even know you were here,’ she protested. ‘I came looking for—’ She almost said a thief, but silenced herself. For all she knew, Ewan was the thief. Doubtful, but she could not rule it out.

‘Looking for your husband?’ he queried. Accusations filled up his voice, as though she were a little girl caught stealing sweets.

‘My husband is dead.’ She pulled his hand off her other wrist and held out her palm. ‘Give me back my dagger.’

‘No.’ Ewan held it out of reach, and Honora lunged for it. With her full weight bearing down on him, she took him down. Before she could grab the blade from his grasp, he rolled over, his body crushing hers.

Trapped, she felt every line of his body. And the dangerous glint in his eye made her aware that she had made a very bad decision.

‘I’m not the boy I was, Honora.’ He kept her pinioned, and tossed the knife away. ‘You won’t defeat me in a fight. Not any more.’

Her face flushed. Apparently, he hadn’t forgotten how she’d bested him. More than once she’d disarmed him, her fighting skills equal to his. But that was long ago.

‘Let me get up.’ She tried to sit, and Ewan rolled off her. He sat beside her on the floor, seemingly at ease.

She tried to straighten her clothing, regaining her composure. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I’m going to wed your sister.’

She bit back the argument that he was but one man among many. Her father hadn’t settled the betrothal yet, nor would he, until he had taken each man’s measure.

‘I’m sorry I kissed you,’ he said. ‘I mistook you for Katherine.’

His apology only heated up her temper. Honora knew she wasn’t as comely as her sister, but she didn’t need to be reminded of it. ‘Katherine would never enter a stranger’s bedchambers.’

‘Unlike you.’ There was a hint of humour beneath his tone, but she didn’t acknowledge the teasing. It made her feel insulted, and she regretted her impulsive behaviour.

The door opened, and Honora jerked to her feet. Oh, heaven. Another angry MacEgan brother was staring at her.

‘Am I interrupting something?’ He glanced at Ewan, who didn’t seem at all embarrassed to be naked with a woman beside him.

‘Honora was just leaving.’ Ewan gestured towards the door, and she took the invitation gratefully. She didn’t even bother about the dagger, so thankful was she to flee their presence.

Bevan closed the door behind Honora, setting a torch within an iron sconce. Ewan didn’t miss the questioning look upon his brother’s face. ‘Wrong chamber,’ was his only offer of explanation.

Bevan didn’t believe a word of it, and waited for him to elaborate. Frankly, Ewan didn’t feel like it. He’d been awakened by the sound of Honora’s intrusion, and hadn’t at all expected to find a woman in his chamber.

His uneasiness escalated, for he’d acted on impulse, kissing her. At first, he’d tricked himself into thinking Katherine had come to see him. Fool. Katherine was shy and demure, not nearly as brazen as her sister.

Honora. He rested his fingertips against his mouth, thinking of the kiss he’d stolen. The taste of her lingered, soft and sweet. Completely unlike the stubborn girl who had plagued him so many years ago.

‘Her father won’t be pleased,’ Bevan said. ‘I drank nearly half a barrel of ale with him this night, pleading your case.’ He grimaced at the late hour, running a hand through his hair. ‘You’d best ensure that he doesn’t find out about this. I doubt if he’ll let you wed his youngest daughter if you were dallying with her sister.’

‘Honora intruded upon my sleep.’ Ewan returned to his pallet, flipping the woollen coverlet over himself. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

‘What was she doing?’

‘Looking for someone.’ He shrugged, as though it were of no importance. Though now that he considered it, he wondered precisely whom she had sought. ‘What else did her father say?’

‘He will consider your suit. Thomas de Renalt also spoke with him and offered his approval of the match.’

Ewan’s tension eased a bit at the mention of his foster-father. ‘Good.’

Sinking back onto his pallet, he stared at the ceiling while Bevan retreated to his own sleeping place. The torch flickered shadows on to the walls, while all around, he heard the noise of other guests. In the distance, a dog barked, its cries mingling with the sounds of night.

Honora’s hair had been short, barely touching her shoulders. Ragged and silky, he hadn’t expected that. He was accustomed to seeing her with a veil. The intimacy of her bare head reminded him of how he’d kissed her, winding his fingers through the softness.

Her hair was the colour of a midnight sky, her skin milky pale. Large, full lips had kissed him back, and she’d tasted like apples, succulent with a hint of sweetness. Her arms were not the soft skin of most women, but they held a lean strength. So often she’d tried to best him when they were fostered together. She’d won, more times than he wanted to remember.

Not any more.

He shifted upon the bed coverings, trying to force his thoughts back to Katherine as he drifted off to sleep. Even so, he couldn’t forget Honora’s kiss.

Chapter Two

‘You were seen leaving the MacEgan bedchamber last night.’ Nicholas de Montford, the Baron of Ardennes, set his goblet firmly upon the table in his private chamber. He folded his hands, the morning sunlight reflecting on his gold rings.

Honora’s cheeks burned, and she fumbled for an excuse. ‘It was a mistake. I was merely trying to find—’

‘Your rooms are on the opposite side of the donjon. Don’t offer lies.’

Caught. Her father was many things, but he was not a fool. His harsh expression regarded her as if weighing a decision. Honora folded her hands and waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, her agitation heightened. Was he going to punish her? What did he want?

‘Nothing happened,’ she offered. ‘I left immediately.’

‘That does not matter. You are a widow and must comport yourself with virtue.’

He made it sound as though she’d invaded MacEgan’s bedchamber with the intent of deflowering him. Her cheeks burned brighter at the memory of his strong, naked body. Ewan had never looked like that as an adolescent. But now … Her body tightened at the memory of his kiss. Her fingernails dug into her wrists as she fought to subdue the thought.

‘Is it your intention to remarry?’ her father was asking.

‘No!’ she blurted out. Hadn’t she endured marriage once before? Her husband, Ranulf, hadn’t lived for more than a year, praise be. And, God willing, she would never have another husband.

Her father steepled his hands. ‘I thought Ranulf would be a good husband for you, that he would provide you with a comfortable home. None of us expected him to die so soon.’

Honora didn’t admit she was glad Ranulf was dead. But why would Nicholas think she’d want another husband? There was no need.

She crossed herself, in a half-hearted gesture of forgiveness. ‘I don’t want to wed again.’

Nicholas regarded her with a serious expression. ‘You cannot remain here forever, Honora. It’s been half a year since you left Ceredys.’

And yet, it didn’t seem long enough. Her shoulders lowered, the guilt bearing down on her.

‘One third of Ranulf’s estate belongs to you by law,’ Nicholas continued, narrowing his gaze at her. ‘A pity you didn’t have any sons of your own. You’d have gotten more.’

And thank Heaven for that. She wanted no son of Ceredys blood, no permanent reminder of Ranulf St Leger. Her husband had left most of the land to his son John, who was born of a former marriage.

Like a serpent John was, sleek and deceptive. She shivered at the memory. He could have her third of the estate and her dowry land, if it meant getting rid of him.

She blamed herself for what had happened at Ceredys. Even with the influence of John’s grandmother Marie St Leger, she’d been unable to stop him from stripping away every last penny of rents from the villagers.

What kind of a warrior could she call herself, if she let her people endure such a fate? Time had slipped away from her, and she still had not managed to conceive of a suitable plan.

‘How much longer do you intend to hide behind my walls?’ her father asked softly.

‘I’m not hiding.’

He cast a look that said he didn’t believe her.

‘I will go back,’ she said quietly. ‘Soon enough.’ If John were removed from power, she could try to repair the damage he’d done. But she couldn’t overthrow him without help. ‘I would ask you again, to lend me soldiers.’

‘No. It isn’t my place, nor yours, to meddle with John’s … difficulties at Ceredys.’

‘He’s robbed them of their food,’ she protested. ‘You cannot stand by and do nothing. There are innocent folk suffering from what he’s done.’

His expression hardened. ‘Then perhaps you should marry a man with an army.’

Honora expelled a sigh of frustration, shaking her head. She would find a way to help them without relying upon another man.

Nicholas continued on, oblivious to her refusal. ‘It would be the sensible thing to do. You’re young enough to bear many sons.’

Honora reached to her side, but she’d forgotten her dagger wasn’t there. Squeezing the grip usually brought her comfort, but she doubted if anything could calm the temper rising this time.

‘Father, please.’ She closed her eyes, wishing there was some way to make him understand. ‘I need time.’

She would not marry again. Never could she forget the ten months of hell she’d suffered, nor the months afterwards of avoiding John.

‘You’re not getting any younger. And if you want any children at all, you’ve no choice.’

Honora swallowed, not facing her father. The idea of bearing a child terrified her. She hadn’t made a good wife—why would she expect to be a good mother?

Her father didn’t seem to notice her silence. ‘No, I believe it is God’s will, Honora. I chose poorly for your first husband. For the second, I’ll allow you to choose. You may select first from among the suitors here.’

‘But those men are here for Katherine!’ she protested. Did he expect them to simply change their minds? It would never happen. She knew what she was. A woman who was far too impulsive, too impatient to be a wife. She didn’t care about the household accounts or about mending clothing. Her interests lay in the castle defences and whether or not the men were well trained.

Her hands reached around her waist, as though holding back herself. Asking her to wed again meant facing that humiliation once more, of being an unworthy wife.

‘I won’t do it,’ she said softly.

Nicholas sighed, refilling his tankard with ale. ‘All you need is a real man in your bed and a babe swelling beneath your skirts. Then you’ll be happy.’

A real man in her bed? She ground her teeth, longing to tell him just how she felt about that. What did her father know about choosing the right man for her?

Nothing at all. He’d married her off to the first man who’d asked. Her stomach soured at the memory of the disastrous marriage.

‘You cannot force me to marry.’

‘No, but I can force you to return to Ceredys.’ Nicholas drained his cup, confident in his decision. ‘You are of little use to me here. You’ve an estate of your own to manage.’

She didn’t argue that she’d never been allowed to manage any part of Ceredys. She’d been more of a prisoner than a wife.

‘But I am not without a heart, Honora,’ her father went on. ‘If you have your eye upon someone, I can arrange your marriage sooner than Katherine’s. Ewan MacEgan, perhaps?’ A smug look crossed Nicholas’s face.

‘Never.’ The denial ripped from her mouth without a second’s hesitation. Ewan was here for Katherine. He didn’t even like her, not after all she’d done to him while they were fostered together. ‘As I told you, I didn’t mean to be in his room. It was an accident.’

‘Hmm.’ Her father did not appear convinced. ‘Well, there are seven other men, all of them from noble families.’

He truly wasn’t listening to her, was he? She tried another tack. ‘Even if I did agree to remarry, my inheritance complicates matters. A new husband would have to dwell alongside John, else he’d have to surrender the land entirely.’

And she’d rather die than live with John St Leger again.

‘True enough. But that’s the way of marriage, isn’t it? I married your mother for her estates here and in Normandy.’

‘I married once for duty. I won’t do it again.’ Honora set her mouth in a firm line.

Her father’s face darkened, and he puffed up with his own obstinacy. ‘Aye, you will. For I’ll not let Katherine wed until you do.’

Had he struck her in the throat, she could not have been more stunned. Why would he do this? What could he hope to gain from it?

‘That isn’t fair.’ She spoke quietly, feigning the gentle quality he preferred. But inwardly, she was raging.

‘I am hosting a feast on the morrow,’ her father commented. ‘I expect you to be there. There will be a tournament, and the suitors will compete for your entertainment.’

Oh, Jesu. Not that. She had no desire to look like a fool while the suitors fawned over her sister. Was she supposed to sit beside Katherine on a dais, hoping that a man would ask for her favour? Perhaps one man would show pity.

She had her pride. No, it mattered not what her father wanted. She’d not suffer through such a humiliation.

But Nicholas read her thoughts. ‘If you do not come, I will have you dragged out of your chamber and brought forth.’

He meant it, too. She gripped her skirts, wanting to rend the fabric out of frustration. ‘Yes, Father.’

She was about to leave, when he added one more warning. ‘Behave yourself, Honora.’

She had no appetite for breaking her fast, no matter that the rest of the guests were partaking of the delicious array of foods. Honora strode through the Hall, trying to ignore the men enjoying their meal.

Her father’s vow made it impossible not to notice them. Most were younger, and all wealthy.

Well, all, save one. Her gaze flickered upon Ewan MacEgan. His blond hair was slightly tousled, as though he’d raked his hand through it. From the way his sleeve tightened against his upper arm … Holy Virgin, there was no denying his strength.

Ewan reached for an apple, adding it to the food he’d already selected to break his fast. Honeyed cakes, bread, braised lamb and fresh salmon were piled high before him.

It was a wonder there was any food left, Honora thought to herself. Ewan had always been one to enjoy a meal, but from the look of him, there was not a trace of fat—only raw muscle.

‘Did you find the man you were looking for?’ he asked, when she was forced to walk past him.

Honora pretended as though he hadn’t spoken. Blood rushed to her face at the memory of last night. It was easier to remember Ewan as the boy, not the man. When she walked past the trestle table, he reached out and caught her wrist.

‘Let me pass.’

‘Not yet. Where is your sister? I’ve not seen her this morn.’

Honora took his palm, trying to force her way out of his grasp. ‘I imagine she is surrounded by her other suitors, listening to them describe the pearl of her skin or the silk of her hair. Now if you’ll excuse me—’

Ewan stood, still holding her wrist. If she twisted away, the skin would bruise. But standing this close to him, she could smell the clean scent of him, like summer rain. He wore a forest-green tunic and brown trews, rather like a huntsman. His fair hair was cut short, resting against his neck. Vivid green eyes warmed as they looked upon her.

‘Your father spoke of a tournament. To prove my strength and ability to protect his daughter, so he said.’

No, it was more like parading the men in front of them. Like animals for the choosing, Honora thought sourly.

‘Let go of me, Ewan.’

He turned over her palm, studying the rough calluses from years of wielding a sword. ‘Are you still as good as you used to be?’ There was a hint of challenge beneath his words.

She knew what he meant. And though she had kept it hidden from her father, she trained among the men at least once every sennight. ‘Better.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’ His shrewd expression revealed that he hadn’t forgotten any of the sword matches they’d fought against one another. And though she had won often, Ewan had never once complained about being bested by a woman. Many a time he could have revealed her secret. Instead, he’d held his silence and trained even harder.

Now, she wasn’t so certain she could win against him. His body was larger, his muscles firm. When he’d lifted her up, it was as if it took no effort at all.

As he bit into a piece of bread, she found herself watching the way his tunic clung to his body, tightening across his chest. She remembered Ewan’s warm skin pressing close to hers, and his ardent kiss, the rush of sweet aching.

The direction of her thoughts was disconcerting, and Honora forced her mind back to the present. At Ewan’s side, she spied a familiar weapon.

‘I want my dagger back.’

He shrugged. ‘And you’ll have it. Once you’ve told me what I wish to know.’

‘I already told you. I don’t know where Katherine is.’

‘That isn’t the price of your dagger.’

‘Then what is?’

‘Tell me more about your sister. What does she covet? What gifts can I bring her that will give me an advantage over the others?’

Honora didn’t answer at first. A sliver of anger balled up inside, wounding her pride. She didn’t want to give him information about Katherine, didn’t want to aid his courtship.

But it wasn’t jealousy, she told herself. No, it was simply that Ewan wasn’t the man for Katherine. He was far too aggressive, too bold for her sister’s gentle ways.

‘What about an animal?’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps a kitten. I haven’t seen many cats around, and it might be useful to her.’

‘A kitten,’ she repeated, while mad thoughts of vengeance flowed through her mind. Her conscience prickled, but she stamped it down. It would serve him right for kissing her, stealing her dagger and demanding information about Katherine.

‘No one has given her a kitten, thus far,’ she admitted.

Jesu. Now she would have to go to confession. Thank goodness Father Louis was nearly deaf. She could confess to murder, and the priest would offer the same absolution as ever.

Ewan released her wrist. ‘Was that so difficult?’ He unsheathed the dagger and handed it to her, pommel first. ‘And you should have the blacksmith adjust this weapon. The balance is off.’

‘It was broken once.’ Her husband, Ranulf, had destroyed the blade in a fit of temper, tossing it into the fire. Honora had never expected to see it again, but she’d found it among her belongings shortly after she’d left Ceredys. Marie St Leger must have ordered it repaired, though Honora didn’t know why. Though she was grateful for the dagger’s return, she disliked the large pommel the blacksmith had added, preferring a simpler design.

Honora rubbed her wrist and tucked the weapon into her girdle without another word. She strode away, trying to push her way past the irrational anger. What was it about Ewan MacEgan that tangled up her sense of reason? As a child, she’d lost her head over him. As a woman, she found him entirely too confident.

Entirely too handsome and strong.

Oh, she needed to bash her head against the stone wall. Perhaps that would knock some sense into her. She didn’t need a man like him, or any man. Despite her father’s wishes, she would never marry again.

But if she didn’t, Nicholas would force her to leave Ardennes and return to Ceredys. The very thought made her skin turn to ice. She wasn’t ready yet. Nicholas wasn’t about to lend her men against John, and she didn’t have soldiers of her own.

She’d tried to hire mercenaries two moons ago, believing that they could remove John from power and allow her to return to Ceredys. But she’d learned the darker side of soldiers, for they’d stolen her money and done nothing in return. Her naïvety had cost her dearly.

No, she needed men of honour. And men of that nature required more coins than she had.

Her father’s suggestion that she wed a man with an army wouldn’t do, either. A new husband would have no interest in going to war against John of Ceredys.

There was no one to help.

A frisson of grief curled over her. Marie St Leger, John’s grandmother, might have known what to do, had she lived. She had been one of the most intelligent ladies Honora had ever known. Strong-willed and furious with her own sons, Marie treated her like a daughter. And it was because of Marie that she’d managed to escape at all.

It broke her heart to think of the woman’s death, only a single moon ago. She’d kept her vow to pray for Marie’s soul each night.

Honora blinked back the wetness rising in her eyes. She needed a moment to herself, a chance to think. Perhaps if she rode out from the castle, she’d find a solution for the people of Ceredys.

She walked to the stables and ordered a groom to prepare her palfrey. When the horse was ready, she urged the animal away from the castle grounds. Two guards joined her as escorts, but she ignored them, pretending for a moment that she was alone.

A light summer rain began to fall, misting her cheeks as she rode. The scent of horse and musty earth made her throat tighten. Why did this have to happen? Was God punishing her for her disobedience as a girl? She’d gone against the natural order of things, wanting to be more like a warrior than a woman.

And it was wrong, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t she content herself with womanly things? Why was there such a need inside, to be as strong as a man?

Unwanted tears mingled with the rain. All she’d ever wanted was to please her father. She had worn the silk bliauds and jewels, pretending to be feminine and everything he’d wanted in a daughter. But he’d hardly noticed her. Only when she argued with him did he pay her any heed.

Katherine had never lacked for attention. Their father had given her everything she’d ever desired, lavishing her with gifts and affection. And though Honora never admitted it, she envied her sister.

She slowed the horse, letting it stop by the river to drink. Her veil was damp from the rain, the water clinging to her skin.

It was her penance, she supposed. She’d come to accept that her father would never love her. Though he would never say it, she knew he blamed her for the death of her twin. The daughter had lived, while the coveted son had died.

In a way, it was why she wanted to fight so badly. She wanted to atone for her brother’s death, to become the warrior he would have been. And perhaps then, her father would find something worthy inside her.

In secret, she’d learned to fight, with Ewan’s help. Now, she watched the men train each day. She borrowed swords from the armoury, practising until her arms burned with exhaustion.

Never once had she shown Nicholas her skill. She was afraid of dishonouring her father, of embarrassing him in front of everyone. How could he ever be proud of a daughter who behaved like a man?

No. He’d hate her even more. And so she’d hidden it from him. For now, she could only use her fighting skills to protect the castle from petty thieves. That is, if she could catch the man.

As the rain intensified, Honora reluctantly turned her horse back to the castle. The ride had helped to clear her head, but now she had to decide what to do about her father’s threat.

She could feign acceptance of her father’s wishes, pretending to consider a suitor. Once Katherine was safely wed, she could try to escape the arrangement. The only problem was finding a man willing to go along with her ruse. Honora didn’t like the thought of lying or causing anyone to feel humiliated.

She would have to find the right person. Honesty was best for such an arrangement.

Her hand closed upon the grip of her dagger. And in the meantime, she still had a thief to catch.

There were seven other suitors. Seven, for the love of Críost. Ewan stood watching the men, each bringing Katherine a gift. She’d already bestowed smiles upon those who had given her silks and ribbons.

Gerald Elshire, heir to the barony of Beaulais, had brought her an emerald. From the clouded surface of the gemstone, Ewan wondered if it was coloured glass.

Not that Ewan could afford gems or silks. Instead, he’d bribed one of the serfs to fetch him a kitten from the village. His brother’s wife, Isabel, loved her cats, and no doubt Katherine would feel the same. The mewing animal rested within a basket, lightly covered with a cloth.

Katherine sat within the solar, her white veil hiding the length of sable hair. Pearls adorned her sapphire silk bliaud, and the sleeves were fitted tightly to slender arms, the cuffs draping to the floor. She reminded him of a princess, ethereal and enchanting. Just looking at her made him feel unworthy. She appeared sweet-tempered, beautiful … and completely out of his reach.

The idea of invading a man’s bedchamber would horrify the Lady Katherine. A jolt of remembrance shot into his groin at the memory of Honora. He imagined her body would be lean and sleek. Honora would never lie passively upon his bed. She would meet him, thrust for thrust, crying out with pleasure.

Damn. He blinked, forcing the vision away. He didn’t care anything for Honora. The brief kiss he’d stolen had been a mistake. Nothing of any importance to either of them.

Ewan tried to envision kissing Katherine. Her kiss would be as gentle as her spirit. When she became his bride, he would have to be mindful of her virginal softness, tempting her slowly until she yielded to him. And she would marry him. He would find a way to coax her into accepting his suit.

The group of men gradually shifted until at last Ewan was standing before her. With a deep bow, he greeted her. ‘Lady Katherine, it is good to see you again.’ He set the basket down at her feet.

Katherine managed a smile, but her nose wrinkled, as though she were fighting a sneeze. Offering both hands to him in welcome, she smiled. ‘Ewan MacEgan. It has been many years since I’ve seen you.’

‘I’ve thought of you often, since my fostering ended.’ He sent her a sincere smile, hoping she would look upon him with favour. ‘And I’ve brought you a gift.’ He uncovered the basket, revealing the grey-striped kitten. The animal perched its paws upon the edge of the basket, mewing softly.

Katherine’s smile seemed forced. ‘How … kind of you.’ But she made no move to take the animal.

Ewan picked up the cat, holding it out to her. The feline nipped at his fingertips. Katherine’s smile grew strained, but she reached out and stroked the animal’s head. The kitten purred with delight, rubbing its head against her fingertips.

Her nose wrinkled again, and this time, she did sneeze. ‘Thank you.’ She gestured for a maid to take the cat away, and sneezed again.

A suspicion suddenly took root in his mind. Could Honora have played him false? As Katherine’s eyes grew red, and she continued sneezing, it was apparent that he’d fallen neatly into her sister’s trap.

‘I didn’t realise the animal would offend you,’ he said, taking the basket back from the maid. ‘I’ll bring you a different gift.’

Katherine rubbed her eyes. ‘No, it’s all right. Truly. I like cats, but I seem to have trouble whenever I’m around them.’ She tried to smile, but sneezed again.

No doubt Honora had known this. A slow fury built up inside him, anger that he’d believed her. He’d thought there was no harm in asking for help, never realising she would trick him so.

Honora would have much to answer for when he saw her again. He did not stay in the solar with Katherine for long, for he needed to bring her something else. Since his funds were limited, he could not buy expensive trinkets. Perhaps a ribbon to match her blue eyes.

He frowned, thinking. They were blue, weren’t they?

It didn’t matter. As long as his gift made her smile, that was enough. Ewan grimaced, not wanting to waste time with bargaining and purchasing. He needed to train for the tournament on the morrow, proving his abilities. He had no doubt he could best any man there.

The only men who had ever truly presented a challenge were his brothers. As the youngest MacEgan, they’d tormented him in every manner, never sparing him, even when he’d begged for mercy. Because of it, he’d gained strength beyond that of most men.

There was a bond among them, a knowledge that he could ask his brothers for anything, and they would be there for him.

Bevan would help him prepare for the tournament. And right now, Ewan needed the distraction of a fight to take his mind off his failed gift.

He searched the donjon, but his brother was nowhere to be found. Outside, the rain had increased, spattering against the mud so that training would be nigh impossible.

Ewan cursed, resting his hand upon his own sword hilt. The weapon held no jewels, nor was it as finely made as his brother Patrick’s. Serviceable and simple, the blade was all he’d been able to afford. But it belonged entirely to him.

He noticed a door opening quietly, and a small figure slipped inside the armoury. His instincts went on alert, and he recognised Honora instantly.

His palm curved over his sword hilt, gripping the metal as though it were her neck. He wanted to throttle her for making him look like a fool before Katherine.

And a fool he was, for believing Honora’s words. He had a few choice things to say to her. He threw open the door to the armoury, and found her standing alone, a sword in her palm.

Her veil was wet from the rain, her damp saffron bliaud silhouetting her slender form. She was taller than most women, her chin high enough to reach his shoulder.

‘Nothing’s changed, I see.’ He let the door close behind him. A circle of torches lit the dim space, while above, the rain pounded upon the wooden roof. ‘You’re still borrowing your father’s weapons.’

‘What do you want, Ewan?’

‘An apology, perhaps. Or revenge would be acceptable.’ He unsheathed his sword, circling her.

Honora moved immediately into a defensive stance, never taking her eyes from him. Though the bliaud and white veil were meant to emphasise her womanly shape, there was no mistaking the expert way she handled the sword.

‘I’m amazed you can lift that,’ he commented, keeping his footwork even and smooth. ‘It’s almost as heavy as you are.’

‘Stop flattering me, MacEgan. I’ve been using a sword as long as you have.’

‘Really?’ He lunged, and the steel of his blade met hers. It was a test, to see if she remembered any of her earlier training.

Honora tore off her veil and slashed her sword towards his head. ‘Really.’

Her sleeves moulded to her body, revealing the outline of muscle. Though her skirts should have hindered her movements, she took large strides that kept her from falling.

Her dark hair hung against the back of her neck, and the ends stuck out, as though she’d hacked them off with a knife. The effect made her face softer, his eyes drawn to that mouth again. Right now, her lips were tight as she concentrated on the fight. Her eyes weren’t the same green as his own, but a softer shade, like new spring leaves.

As she struck blows against his blade, he parried each one without effort. Not once did he reveal the stiffness in his palms that made it difficult to grasp the hilt fully. The scarred skin was a permanent weakness that he fought to overcome.

‘You lied to me about your sister.’ He switched hands and struck back, forcing her to retreat. The sound of metal against metal reverberated in the stillness. ‘She doesn’t like cats at all. They make her sneeze.’

At least Honora had the grace to look guilty. But when he lowered his blade, she spun, slicing the sword at his throat.

He dived, tripping her legs with his own as he rolled upon the hard ground. Her weapon flew from her hands, and she struck the dirt. Within moments, he had her lying on her back, her wrists pinned.

‘Admit your defeat, Honora.’