Her Irish Warrior by Michelle Willingham (best novels of all time .txt) 📕

aching burned in his shoulder, but he refused to dwell on it, giving his full attention to his wife. He pulled her closer and captured her lips with his own.

Dark and sweet, just as he’d remembered. He heard her give a muted cry, and he stroked the softness of her nape, tasting her mouth as though it were the first time.

‘A chroí,’ he whispered, for she was his heart, his soul. At the edge of his memory he sensed something was wrong, but he forgot it when his lips met hers again. ‘Don’t leave,’ he whispered.

He pulled her into his arms and heard the sound of her weeping. He reached out a thumb to brush her tears away.

‘Bevan—stop,’ she whispered. Her hands pushed at him, pushing him away. Why? He tasted her lips again.

‘Let me love you, Fiona. Let me give you another child.’

‘No!’ She was fighting harder this time, struggling to move away from him. ‘Let me go.’

His hands stilled, and in the dim fog of his dream he saw his wife leaving him. She didn’t love him. She didn’t want his touch. He rolled away, releasing her while a tightness filled his throat.

‘You were dreaming. Hush, now.’ A cool cloth touched his forehead and he closed his eyes. ‘Sleep.’

Genevieve pulled her chair near the fire, her body shaking with fear. She had known Bevan was dreaming—known he was thinking of a woman.

But when his hand had stroked her breast feelings had come alive within her. They had been terrifying feelings, unlike the pain Hugh had caused. Bevan’s touch had made her relive those moments, and yet she had felt pleasure, too. She had been about to push him away when he’d kissed her.

Dear God, she had not known what to do. He had murmured endearments, words of love, making her feel desire such as she’d never known. Hugh had never kissed her with love or compassion. There had been only degradation in his embrace.

But this…

Bevan had used his tongue, worshipping her mouth. Her hand moved to her breast, where the tip was still hard and pebbled. The enormity of her desire had made it the hardest thing in the world to push him away.

But he wasn’t dreaming of her. He wasn’t touching her or calling her name. It was someone else. The fever had caused him to lose sight of where he was.

And yet she wished she could have known such a love. There had been a time when Hugh had brought her ribbons and flowers. Her heart had leapt whenever he’d smiled at her. She had thought it was love.

What did she know of love anyway? Her own parents’ marriage was a rarity. She should not use their match as a comparison for her own.

She began to straighten up the room—anything to occupy her hands—and spied something small and white on the floor, near Bevan’s discarded tunic. The tiny scrap of linen was hardly as large as her palm. She wondered where it had come from. At the bottom, a tiny row of embroidered flowers covered its hem.

It was too small to be a lady’s handkerchief. She frowned. It must belong to Bevan. For all she knew it had no value whatsoever.

Then, on a whim, she placed it upon the table, folding it. She sensed that it meant something to him and should be guarded carefully. What kind of man kept a token such as this?

He slept, his breathing harsh with pain. But she believed he would heal. When he did, she would try to convince him to let the matter of Rionallís rest.

As the sun rose along the waters, turning the sea from darkness into a silvery reflection of the sky, Genevieve prayed that more blood would not be shed on her behalf.

Hugh Marstowe rubbed at his neck. Red lines marred his skin where the prisoner had dared to strangle him.

Genevieve had helped the man—helped both of the prisoners escape. And now the bastard had his betrothed. Hugh’s skin itched at the thought of any man touching her. Even now Genevieve might be sharing his bed, the whore. Hadn’t he shown restraint? Holding back his lust when she pushed him away? He was a patient man.

But now she had run from him, keeping company with an Irishman. His hand tightened upon the metal links of the chain.

He’d learned more of the prisoner—Bevan MacEgan—from a wench in the village. It had taken hardly any convincing at all for the girl to tell him where the MacEgan family holdings were.

He remembered the look of fear in the maid’s eyes when he’d strangled her, leaving her body in the woods. He had used the same chain that had been used on himself. He’d kept the heavy iron chain, for he meant to tighten it around the Irishman’s neck, watching until the life faded from his enemy’s eyes.

But not yet. No. He needed to learn more about MacEgan. If Genevieve’s father learned what had happened, Hugh risked losing her and the dowry. He would not let anything threaten this opportunity to own Rionallís and to become lord of his own demesne. The land was his foothold—a stepping stone for becoming a powerful lord. He had no doubt King Henry would bestow a title upon him one day. Rionallís would be one property among many.

But first he had to regain his bride. There was no question Genevieve was in the company of MacEgan. Hugh had sent men to follow them, and they had tracked the prisoners to the coast. Now was not the time to rush into battle, but rather to plan carefully.

The MacEgan holdings were among the strongest fortresses in Erin. He did not have enough men to launch an attack—not without alerting Genevieve’s father. Hugh selected a sword from the armoury, testing its sharpness with his thumb until a thin line of blood appeared.

He refused to admit weakness of any kind. He would bring Genevieve back without the Earl ever learning the truth.

He chose a mace as a second