Her Warrior King (The MacEgan Brothers Book 2) by Michelle Willingham

Author:Michelle Willingham
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781426811395
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2008-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Battle cries cut through the sounds of horses and terrified cattle. Patrick ran alongside Ruarc, enraged at the sight of the signal smoke rising from the top of the round tower. The Ó Phelan chieftain and a dozen men had gathered outside the ringfort.

Early morning sunlight crept across the land, illuminating the shadows and revealing the position of the men. Patrick quickened his pace, furious that they would dare a raid during the daylight hours. His men had done their share of raiding amongst the other tribes, but always in the dark of night. This was a greater insult, implying that there was no means of stopping their attack.

As they closed the distance, the last grove of trees stood between them and the enemy. He paused near the edge, motioning for Ruarc to keep silent. For a moment they could set aside their differences. This was a confrontation both of them needed to win.

He raised his hand, asking Ruarc to wait. Ahead, he saw Trahern and Bevan fighting, along with a small handful of his tribesmen. Where were the Normans? He saw no sign of Sir Anselm or any of the others.

A sense of foreboding nettled his stomach. As a combined force, there was no question that victory was within their grasp. But the Normans were nowhere to be seen. He’d thought Sir Anselm would stand by them and help fight off the Ó Phelans. Now he knew it was not so. A resigned bitterness settled in his gut. The enemy lines hadn’t blurred at all. Any understanding he’d felt towards the soldiers disappeared.

Ruarc signalled his intent to flank the Ó Phelans around the right. Patrick moved left. A roar emerged from his throat, as he drew his sword and met the blade of one of the Ó Phelan men. The impact reverberated through his arm, and he released his rage, fighting on behalf of his people.

Their chieftain charged him, and Patrick blocked the blow. Donal Ó Phelan was a tall, thin man with hair that hung down his back and a black beard reaching to his chest. Golden earrings adorned his lobes along with a torque about his throat.

‘Hiding behind the skirts of your men, are you, King Patrick?’

The deliberate use of his rank sounded like a taunt. ‘You don’t want this fight,’ Patrick warned. ‘The Normans are within the walls.’

‘They are fighting for you, are they?’ Donal looked around in mock surprise. ‘Well, where are they, then?’

Patrick swung his sword, releasing the brunt of his anger. By God, it felt good to wield a blade against an enemy. He thrust his weapon forward, not missing a step even when the Ó Phelan blade skimmed his arm. Blood trickled down to the leather bracers, and Patrick struck hard. The force sent Ó Phelan stumbling backward. The chieftain grunted, but Patrick held steady, waiting for the man to strike again.

A moment later, an arrow pierced Donal’s shoulder. The chieftain roared with pain, echoed by one of his men who caught an arrow tip in his hand.

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