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

Hugh’s temper snapped. ‘I will not tolerate excuses. You were her guardian, responsible for her care.’

The knight’s expression grew insolent. ‘You are not my overlord. I have admitted my mistake to the Earl. He knows his daughter was taken by the Irish.’ With a shrug, he added, ‘And you were her betrothed, sworn to protect her. You may answer to the Earl’s displeasure. We are leaving.’

With a disdainful bow, the knight closed the door. Hugh fought to control his rage. He barked an order to a passing servant to send in the commander of his troops.

Within minutes Robert Staunton, the leader of his men, entered. He bowed. ‘My lord.’

The formal address soothed his anger somewhat. At least Staunton knew his place.

‘Why have our men not brought her back?’ Hugh demanded. ‘Why have they failed in their duty?’

Staunton’s expression grew strained. ‘We have thirty men at our disposal,’ he said. ‘And the MacEgans have over three hundred. We will gladly give up our lives for your honour, my lord. But I would rather make the sacrifice knowing we have been successful at our task.’

Hugh detected a faint trace of sardonic humour from the commander. ‘I’ll not let my future wife perish at the hands of the Irish,’ he reminded Staunton.

‘I have a prisoner who might interest you,’ Staunton replied. ‘If you wish to accompany me below, I could show you my proposition.’

Hugh concealed his distaste at the thought of the filth, and accompanied Staunton below. When he saw the MacEgan soldiers, still chained, it returned his good spirits. At least he had managed to capture them, even if he could not reach Genevieve.

Staunton led him to the last prisoner—a woman.

‘Where did you get this one?’ Hugh asked. The woman was thin, her face streaked with dirt. He noticed that one of the soldiers stiffened, and the pair exchanged glances.

‘We found her among the servants here. She was trying to help the men escape. I would have executed her, but I thought she might be useful to us.’

Hugh could not see how, but he allowed Staunton to continue.

Staunton withdrew a dagger and the woman blanched. When the commander brought the blade to her throat, he added, ‘I could kill her now, of course.’

‘Don’t,’ came a voice. When Hugh turned to see the source of the sound, he saw one of the MacEgan soldiers. Short of stature, with hair the colour of fire, and square shoulders, the man seemed hardly fit to be a fighter.

‘Your name?’ Hugh demanded.

The soldier struggled against his chains and spat at Hugh’s feet. ‘Leave her alone.’ Rage outlined the soldier’s face, along with a hint of desperation.

The woman meant something to the man. It pleased Hugh to hold such power over another. He approached the woman, taking the dagger from Staunton. He fingered a lock of her fair hair. With a swift slice, he cut it off.

‘Answer my question.’

The soldier stared at him, and Hugh saw hesitation. The woman was his weakness, and he pressed his advantage.

‘The next thing I cut off will be one of her fingers.’

Hugh gripped the woman’s hand, separating the fingers while she fought him. Again, he revelled in the feeling of overpowering her. She could do nothing against his strength.

‘Do you know Bevan MacEgan?’ Hugh asked the soldier.

The man gave a nod. ‘Tá. I know him.’ Struggling against his chains, he begged, ‘Let her go.’

Staunton stepped forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘We will use him to get to MacEgan. Let him bring back information to us, so that we may better plan our attack.’

‘A traitor,’ Hugh said softly.

‘Aye.’

The idea took shape and metamorphosed. If this man wanted his woman to live, he would obey every dictate they asked of him.

Hugh smiled—a thin smile of gloating. And dreamed of vengeance.

Chapter Five

I t took less than an hour to reach the fortress of Laochre upon the mainland. Though Genevieve felt foolish, glancing behind her every few moments on such a short journey, she did not breathe easily until the square towers of the gatehouse were within view. Ewan rode ahead of them, instructed to keep his eyes open for potential attackers.

Genevieve suspected Bevan wanted his younger brother out of the way, for Ewan had chattered without ceasing ever since they had left the island.

Her heart caught in her throat at the majesty of the donjon. Gleaming white in colour, a thick wall protected a fortress nearly three times the size of Rionallís. It stood atop a hillside, and she could see soldiers patrolling the upper battlements.

‘I didn’t realise it was made of stone,’ Genevieve remarked. Many of the Norman castles in England were currently being converted to stone, but few were complete.

‘It isn’t,’ Bevan said. As they drew nearer, Genevieve saw what he meant. The smooth white walls were plaster, covering a timber frame. ‘But our enemies believe it is, and that is all that matters. Patrick is replacing it with stone.’

She marvelled at the ingenuity of the architecture. The guards let them pass inside the gates, and Genevieve was struck by the vast bustle of activity.

The heavy clang of a blacksmith’s hammer mingled with the din of people working. Servants carried stacks of peat for burning, while one merchant brought a wagonload of goods to be inspected for purchase. Horses were led to the stables and children ran freely, laughing at a game.

The people greeted Bevan with smiles and hearty claps on the back. A tall fair-haired man greeted Bevan with a bear hug—another MacEgan brother named Connor. A smile softened Bevan’s face from the rugged fierceness she had grown accustomed to.

When he wasn’t glowering, he was actually rather handsome, she admitted. His deep green eyes, the colour of rough-hewn malachite, along with the black hair, were a striking combination. The scars along the planes of his face added an element of danger.

‘I must meet with my brother Patrick,’ Bevan said at last. To Ewan, he instructed, ‘See that she has a place to sleep.’

Genevieve started to follow Ewan,