Her Warrior Slave. Michelle WillinghamЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘You’re unbearable,’ she said in disbelief.
Kieran tossed the wood aside. It clattered against the side of the hut, startling her with the sudden movement. Unbearable, was he? She had no idea.
He captured her wrist, drawing her forward until she stood before him. ‘That’s right, a mhuirnín. And you’d do well to stay away from me.’
He gave in to his desires, tilting her head back to face him. And learned that her hair truly was as soft as he’d thought it would be.
Iseult stared at him with shock, her mouth drawing his full attention. A few inches further and he’d have a taste of her forbidden fruit.
He held her there, waiting for her to strike out at him. Cry out for help to the guard she’d brought. But she didn’t say a word, just stood there watching him. Only the faint trembling in her hands revealed what she truly felt.
He released her, and Iseult stumbled away from him, shoving her way past the door.
Only after she’d gone did he realise he was also trembling.
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, and is working on more medieval books set in Ireland. 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 [email protected]
Previous novels by this author:
HER IRISH WARRIOR *
THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH *
HER WARRIOR KING *
HER WARRIOR SLAVE is a prequel to The MacEgan Brothers trilogy
Also available in eBook format in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone
THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE
* The MacEgan Brothers
HER WARRIOR SLAVE
Michelle Willingham
Author Note
When I was growing up, my father used to spend hour upon hour in his wood shop. The smell of wood shavings and sawdust is familiar, and always evokes special memories. Upon a recent trip to Ireland I saw a replica of a medieval lathe and a carved dower chest. I imagined a wood carver creating pieces of furniture and, at night, perhaps carving bits of oak. It was then that the character of Kieran was born. I imagined him as a fierce loner, falling in love with a woman he could never have, the bride of another man. I hope you enjoy Kieran and Iseult’s story and their bittersweet journey towards happiness. For those of you who have read books in my The MacEgan Brothers series, look for a special connection between Kieran and these characters.
Please feel free to visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com to view ‘behind-the-scenes’ photographs from the books. You can also sign up for my newsletter to be notified of future releases. I love to hear from readers, and you may contact me by writing to me at PO Box 2242, Poquoson, Virginia, USA, or via e-mail at [email protected]
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
Thank you so much to Dr Aidan O’Sullivan, Senior Archaeologist Lecturer at the University College of Dublin, for his help answering my questions on medieval woodworking. I appreciate your suggestions and feedback regarding tools and the care of wood carvings.
Also with thanks to my father Frank Willingham, for inspiring me.
Chapter One
Ireland—AD 1102
‘He’s going to die, isn’t he?’ Iseult MacFergus stared down at the bruised body of the slave. Lash marks creased the man’s back, raw and unhealed. His skin was pale with hard ridges of bone protruding, as though he had not eaten well in several moons. Her mind rebelled at the thought of the torment he must have suffered.
Davin Ó Falvey handed her a basin of cool water. ‘I don’t know. Likely I wasted a good deal of silver.’
Iseult sponged at the blood, lowering her eyes. ‘We don’t need a slave for our household, Davin. You shouldn’t have purchased him.’ It was becoming less common among the tribes to own slaves. Her own family had never been able to afford them, and it made her uncomfortable, remembering her lower status.
‘Someone else would have, if I hadn’t.’ He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘He was suffering, a stór. At the slave auction, they beat him until he could no longer stand.’
She covered Davin’s hands with her own. Her betrothed was never one to let a man endure pain, not when he could intervene. It was one of the reasons he was her dearest friend and the man she had agreed to marry.
A hollow feeling settled in her stomach. Davin deserved a better woman than herself. She had done what she could to salvage her torn reputation, but the gossip had not died down, not in three years. She didn’t know why he’d offered for her, but her family had seized the opportunity for the alliance. It wasn’t every day that a blacksmith’s daughter could marry a chieftain’s son.
‘Let the healer tend him,’ Davin urged, his voice turning heated. She recognised the intent in his words, along with the hidden invitation. ‘Walk with me, Iseult. I haven’t seen you in a sennight, and I’ve missed you.’
She stiffened, but forced a smile. Go with him, her head urged. Though Davin had never once held her to blame for her sins, she felt unworthy of his love.
After summoning the healer, Davin took her hand and led her outside. The moon cast its shadow across his face. With fair hair and piercing blue eyes, Davin was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He drew her hand to his bearded cheek. Apprehension sliced through her, for she knew he was about to kiss her. She accepted his embrace, wishing she could feel the same ardour that he felt for her.
Give it time, she urged. But even when she poured herself into the kiss, it was as if she stood outside her body, an observer instead of a participant.
He held her closely, whispering against her ear. ‘I know you don’t wish to become lovers before Bealtaine. But I’d be a fool if I didn’t try