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

‘If you fall on top of him, ’twill knock the breath out of his lungs,’ Bevan instructed. ‘And then you have the knife against his throat.’

She opened her eyes, but could not mask her terror.

‘What is it?’ Bevan sat beside her on the ground, lifting her to a seated position. ‘Did I harm you?’

She shook her head, trying to push away the sharp burst of fear that kept clouding her mind. He was not Hugh.

But Hugh would come for her. He would not stop hunting her. Not until he had her cowering beneath him again.

‘He still frightens me,’ she whispered.

‘Every man is afraid in battle. The only man who isn’t afraid is the man who is already dead.’

‘You weren’t afraid that night. I saw Hugh stab you. He would have killed you.’

‘No. His intention was to harm me, not to kill me.’

‘How? How could you know something like that?’ She held her arms tightly, furious at herself for being unable to control the terror. ‘He tried to make you fear him. But you faced him. As for me…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I can’t take away my fear.’

‘Do not try to. Practise what I taught you until you no longer have to imagine any of the moves. You’ve no time to think when an enemy attacks. Why do you suppose our men train every day? So they never have to think. Their training causes them to act.’

He sounded so sure of himself. She wanted to believe it.

‘But you’re wrong,’ he added. ‘I did fear that night.’

‘For your brother?’ she said, thinking of Ewan and his lack of experience.

Bevan paused, and his gaze locked with hers. Genevieve waited for him to agree, but he held his silence a moment longer. With his knuckle, he touched the edge of her bruise, his expression unreadable.

He revealed nothing of his emotions, but she became more aware of him. The battle scars, the quiet, untamed power of this Irish warrior, both frightened her and drew her in. His dark hair and sea-green eyes watched her in a way that made her shiver.

‘Tá,’ he said. ‘I feared that night.’

Bevan stood and held out a hand to help her up. Genevieve rose, but he did not release her hand. ‘So long as you are with me, I swear I will not let him harm you. He’ll not touch you.’

He squeezed her palm as if to seal the vow. Genevieve wanted so much to believe him, but whispers of doubt eroded her confidence.

‘May it be so,’ she managed to reply.

As the afternoon faded into evening, Bevan showed her other tactics, ways of fighting an enemy. Genevieve practised, determined to learn. Alone in her chamber, she committed every move to memory, fighting against an invisible foe.

From her window she spied Bevan, sparring with the soldiers in the bailey below. He moved with the ease of experience, blocking one blow while slashing hard with his sword arm. If she had not seen it for herself she would never have known he was injured, so swiftly did he move. Watching him, she couldn’t help but admire his skills.

At the evening meal, she asked, ‘Where did you learn to fight?’

‘My father taught my brothers and myself.’

‘You are skilled.’ She took a sip of mead. ‘Does your shoulder hurt?’

‘Tá,’ he admitted. ‘But in time it will heal.’ Bevan rose to his feet. ‘Ready your belongings. At first light I will take you to Dun Laoghaire.’

‘Why not take a ship from here?’ she asked. ‘If we do not travel by land, Hugh’s men cannot touch us.’

‘Strongbow’s Norman armies are patrolling along the coast. We have no choice but to make our crossing north of here.’

His reasoning was sound. She had heard the stories of Richard FitzGilbert de Clare, nicknamed Strongbow. Strongbow had come to Ireland two years ago, to help the deposed Irish King Diarmuid MacMurrough regain his kingdom. His soldiers had slaughtered hundreds of men, but they had succeeded in their quest.

In return, Strongbow had wed MacMurrough’s daughter, planning to claim the kingdom for his own. King Henry had grown suspicious of Strongbow’s territorial gains. He had ordered Genevieve’s father to Ireland, along with other Norman lords, to keep a closer eye upon Strongbow.

Genevieve wholeheartedly agreed with Bevan’s desire to avoid the southern coast. ‘How many men will accompany us?’

‘There are enough men.’

His answer did not please her. ‘How many?’ she repeated.

Bevan’s face showed his displeasure at her question. ‘Our soldiers are among the strongest fighters in Éireann. You need not fear Sir Hugh.’

‘Strength matters not,’ she argued. ‘You did not have enough men to retake Rionallís. Did the other soldiers ever arrive?’

He remained silent.

‘I thought not.’ She shook her head. ‘If you cannot spare enough men for an escort, I prefer to remain here and let my father’s men come for me.’

‘I can defend you against Sir Hugh,’ Bevan said.

‘I have no doubt that you are a skilled fighter. But you’ve been injured.’

Bevan rose from the table, his hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. ‘You do not think I can protect you?’

She hesitated. ‘You helped me escape, and for that I am grateful.’ She did not mention that the only man she trusted to see her safely home was her father. Sir Hugh held no power over Thomas de Renalt.

His expression turned as hard as the ice covering the earth outside. She straightened her shoulders, refusing to back down. There was something else in his expression, behind the wounded pride. A haunted look—one that dissipated in moments.

‘Do not worry about protecting me,’ she said. ‘At least here we can see our enemy. I would be safe until my father’s arrival.’

‘I have already said that I’ll not bring more Normans here.’

‘My father would not harm your men. He would reward you for your aid.’

‘How? By returning Rionallís to me?’ he mocked gently.

Genevieve shook her head. ‘It is not possible.’

‘You would bring my vengeance upon your family?’ he asked, his voice like a thread of steel.