Her Warrior King

He has wed her, but will not bed her!Blackmail forced Patrick MacEgan into marriage-- although he could not be forced to bed his Norman bride. But Isabel de Godred was as fair as she was determined to be a proper wife....She wished to help her proud warrior king with the burden of his responsibilities. As queen, she could aid an alliance between their people. As wife, she longed to comfort him, for when alone, they could put aside war and be but man and woman....

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England, 1170Every woman considered stealing a horse and running away on her wedding day, didn't she?Isabel de Godred fought the restlessness building within her. It was her duty to obey her father. She understood it, even as she clenched the crimson silk of her kirtle and eyed the stables.In her heart, she knew an escape was futile. Even if she did manage to leave the grounds, her father would send an army after her. Edwin de Godred was not known for his tolerance. Everything was done according to his orders, and woe to anyone who disobeyed.The marriage might not be so bad, part of her reasoned. Her betrothed could be an amiable, attractive man who would allow her the freedom to run his estates.She closed her eyes. No, highly unlikely. Otherwise her father would have paraded the suitor before her, boasting about the match. She knew little about him, save his Irish heritage and rank. 'Are you ready, my lady?' her maidservant Clair asked. With a conspiratorial smile, she added, 'Do you suppose he's handsome?''No. He won't be.' Toothless and ageing. That's how the man would look. Panic boiled inside her stomach, and Isabel's steps felt leaden. Her rash escape plan was looking more and more appealing.'But surely--'Isabel shook her head. 'Clair, Father wouldn't even let me meet the man at our betrothal. He's probably half-demon.'Her maid crossed herself and frowned. 'I heard he's one of the Irish kings. He must be wealthy beyond our imaginings.''He isn't the High King.' And thank the saints for that. Though she might rule over the tribe, at least she did not have the burden of ruling a country. As they walked down the wooden staircase outside the castle donjon, she wondered how her father had arranged a betrothal in such a short time. He'd gone to aid the Earl of Pembroke's campaign only last summer.'If I could, I'd take your place,' Clair mused with a dreamy smile.'And if I could, I'd give him to you.' Unfortunately, that wasn't possible.Isabel's imagination conjured up a monster. The man must be unbearable to require such secrecy. Though she knew it was unfair to pass a judgement before she'd met her intended, she couldn't help but imagine the worst.'You'll be mistress of your own kingdom.' Clair sighed. 'Imagine it. You're to become a queen.''I suppose.'And that added even more fear to the forthcoming marriage.What did she know about being a queen? She knew how to run an estate and make it profitable, but that was all.Her father Edwin de Godred, Baron of Thornwyck, awaited her outside the chapel among a small crowd of guests and servants. Tall and thin, his greying beard and moustache were neatly groomed. He examined her with a glance, and Isabel felt like a mare about to be traded. She resisted the urge to show her teeth for inspection.No, it did not bother her to leave this place. But what should she expect from the Irish king? Was he kind? Cruel? Her nerves wound tighter.'Is he here?'she asked her father, staring at the men waiting near the church.Edwin gripped her cold fingers, keeping them in a tight grasp as he escorted her to the church. 'You will meet him soon enough. My men sighted his travelling party a few hours ago.''I would rather have met him at our betrothal,' she muttered. Her father only grunted a response.Isabel shivered. Until she saw this man with her own eyes, she'd not surrender her escape plans. With each step, she felt more alone. Her sisters were not here to lend their support. Edwin had not permitted it, and it had hurt more than she'd thought it would.When they arrived in the courtyard, a well-dressed man was speaking to the priest. He had little hair, save a snowy fringe around his pate.'Is that him?' she asked. Her father didn't answer. He seemed preoccupied, his gaze focused into the distance.The older man swallowed hard and wiped his palms upon the hem of his tunic. He glanced around as if searchin