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

weapon and swung it, letting the heavy spiked ball smash into a wooden table. He imagined it was MacEgan’s face.

Soon, my sweet Genevieve, he thought. I’ll come for you soon.

‘I am leaving for Laochre tonight,’ Bevan said. Days had passed since Genevieve had first tended his wound. Though the skin remained raw, no longer did it seep poisoned blood. In a few more weeks she believed he would have full use of his shoulder.

She refused to look at him, focusing her concentration on his wound while cutting away the old bandage. Bevan had removed the tunic so she could better reach the injury. The sight of his bare skin made her uncomfortable.

‘You will stay here,’ he added. ‘It will be safe until I can arrange for your escort.’

‘If you say so.’ Not for a moment did she believe Hugh had given up. The longer she stayed, the greater the chance he would find her.

‘There are over sixty men here,’ Bevan pointed out. ‘And no one has tracked you here thus far.’

Genevieve tied fresh linen around his shoulder. ‘For now, that is true. But Hugh will come after me.’

A grim expression settled over his face. ‘You are safer upon Ennisleigh than out there alone.’

She tied the bandage and folded her hands in her lap. ‘That may be so. But I’ve no wish to be caught in the middle of your war against my people.’

‘This battle was begun long before you came to Éireann,’ he said. ‘Rionallís belongs to me, and I’ll not let it fall into Norman hands.’

‘I am a Norman,’ she said, a hardened edge rising in her voice. He was beginning to distance himself, placing her along with the enemies he despised. She didn’t like it.

‘I know.’ His gaze locked with hers, with no intent of retreat. She understood suddenly that whatever peace lay between them would vanish once she returned home. Bevan would regard her as an enemy.

In her heart she knew the property rightfully belonged to Bevan. But her father had conquered the land and would defend it. She could not allow Bevan to endanger her family.

Genevieve chose her next words carefully. ‘The land is part of my dowry, meant to be given over to my husband when I wed.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Would you shed my blood to get it back?’

Bevan stood, his shadow looming over her. Taut muscles, scarred from battle, flexed as he leaned in close. Genevieve tried to retreat, but he caught her nape and held her fast. ‘My men will take you to England. And I would suggest that you stay there.’

Her pulse quickened, even as she tried not to be afraid of him. ‘Your escort cannot protect me,’ she said. ‘Hugh will kill your men and take me captive once more. The only person whom I trust to take me home is my father,’ she said. ‘Send word to him and you need not inconvenience yourself.’

‘And bring the Norman enemy upon us? No.’ His tone was sharp, menacing. He sat, donning his tunic and hooded mantle.

‘He will come for me,’ she said softly. She believed it in her heart, even though Thomas de Renalt had not answered a single one of her missives. More than anything she had come to believe Hugh had intercepted them. ‘I know he will.’

‘I’ll ask nothing of a Norman.’ Bevan stood and turned to leave. He had seen the hurt in her eyes, the wounded spirit. He hadn’t meant to speak so harshly, but he could not let himself befriend an enemy.

Genevieve moved towards him suddenly, taking his hand in hers. Before he could react, she laid something against his palm. ‘You would not want to leave this behind,’ she said.

He recognised the token and curled his fingers around it. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘You brought it with you.’ She had not moved her hand away from his, and the soft innocence of her palm sent a flare of desire through him.

No woman had touched him since Fiona. No one had dared to. Outside, the bitter winter wind sliced through his garments, but he could still feel the heat of Genevieve’s impulsive gesture.

It meant nothing. He would not dwell upon it. He pushed the uncertainties from his mind, tucked the scrap of fabric away and gathered his cloak around him.

Bevan muttered a farewell to her, not waiting to hear a response. He climbed down to the shoreline and boarded one of the boats. As he crossed the waters, Bevan turned his gaze to the horizon. Two years ago enemy torches had cast their reddish glow upon the sea. Norman swords had dripped the blood of his kinsmen upon the earth.

He fingered the familiar piece of fabric Genevieve had given him. The tiny bit of linen was a reminder of his purpose—revenge against the Norman invaders who had taken Rionallís.

In the evening twilight a gull circled the sea, sweeping lower towards its prey. The sun drenched the horizon in a bronze glow, a benediction of light. He watched from the shoreline until the rosy hues dimmed into a rich purple.

It reminded him of the evenings he and Fiona had spent together, waiting until the stars emerged. He had shared with her his hopes for the future, his dreams yet to be fulfilled. His hand had rested upon the swelling at her waist, his greatest hope of all.

He pushed the despair aside and forced his mind upon the present. He would find another mercenary battle to fight, using mindless bloodlust as a means to forget.

And he would leave Genevieve behind, try not to think of the feelings she had stirred within him.

Chapter Four

W hen he first laid eyes upon his sister-in-law Isabel, Bevan felt as though a hand had choked off the air in his lungs. She held her newborn son in her arms, her face as serene as the Madonna. At a closer glimpse he saw the wrinkled infant face, the grey-blue eyes, and the tiny mouth working in search of a