Dark Irish Knight
Nothing can stand in the way of his vengeance, not even love.
A hush fell over the gathering. Ronan had entered the Hall. In this foreign place, among people who were not his own, his bearing bespoke nobility. They didn’t see the eye patch, the slight limp, the borrowed raiment. They applauded him. He inclined his head in acknowledgment.
Conall and Rhonwen walked beside him, smiling at his steady progress.
Rhoni saw a giant, a warrior who had stood at the gates of Hell and spat in the Devil’s face. He was a man whose well-muscled body she itched to touch, whose full lips she wanted to savor. In her mind’s eye she raked her fingers through his long dark hair. She wanted to tear off the eye patch and lavish kisses on the hurt of his loss. She longed to love him. She did love him.
It was a sobering truth. There had been many handsome Norman noblemen who had expressed an interest. None of them filled her with the yearning she felt now. Her parents would think she’d lost her wits, or that it was a passing fancy.