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

battle, the cry tearing from his throat as they struck him down. He hadn’t been able to save her.

If he released Genevieve, her marriage with Sir Hugh would take place. Bevan was certain of it. She would endure suffering, and it would be his own fault.

Guilt and fury assailed him, for Patrick was right. The only way to protect Genevieve from Marstowe was to wed her himself.

As a few flakes of snow scattered across the wind, he lifted his face to the cold. The seeds of Genevieve’s doubt had taken root within him.

How could he call himself a warrior when he could not defend the people he loved? Once he had fought with the confidence of experience, knowing his sword was stronger than his enemy’s.

But the attack on Rionallís had failed. He could not blame Ewan for it. They had underestimated the Normans. And he had brought about the imprisonment of his men, if not their deaths.

The ripple of movement caught his attention, and he saw Genevieve standing, silhouetted against the battlements. Her face was lined with worry as she stared out onto the horizon.

Unbidden came the thought of her warming his feet, her fingers soothing heat within them. She had tended his wounds, stayed up at night to keep watch over him.

Bevan climbed the stairs to the battlements, drawing nearer until he could see her expression. Shadows lined her face, and a dark bruise covered one cheek. She had taken that blow while trying to rescue Ewan and himself.

They didn’t speak, and he didn’t have to ask what she was thinking. The timorous expression on her face revealed all to him.

Unable to stop himself, he reached out and touched the bruise. Her hand cupped his, and the feeling of her warm palm against his sent a jolt through him.

She closed her eyes, and a dark strand of her hair blew free of the veil, against his hand. Though the icy breath of winter reddened her cheeks, her skin felt soft. His thumb moved to caress the bruise, as if to soothe it away.

She leaned into his palm, her lips brushing against his skin. It was not a kiss, only the barest hint of a touch. His loins tightened, and suddenly he found himself wanting to feel her lips upon his. He wanted the softness of a woman, to quench the thirst of two years of being alone.

He lifted her face up to his and stared into her cerulean eyes—eyes that held a fear he could not silence.

He understood suddenly why a marriage could never happen between them. To wed Genevieve would be to face the demons of his past. If he took her as his bride, he could not ignore her and continue on the way he had lived his life.

Abruptly, he turned away. He could not accept Patrick’s suggestion. Nor could he let Genevieve go back to Marstowe.

He vowed to journey to Tara, to seek the help of the High King. If need be, he would appeal to the Norman King as well. For the sake of his pride, he would somehow see to it that Genevieve and his men were safe.

Genevieve rose at dawn, having shared a room with two other women. She donned her kirtle before the others awakened, wincing at its torn condition. With her fingers, she tried to comb her hair, wishing she had a veil to hide it.

She left the chamber, going below stairs. A few servants cast curious looks her way, but Genevieve ignored them. She found her way to the Great Chamber, where people had gathered to break their fast.

A tall woman regarded her with an interested expression. From the way others deferred to her, Genevieve guessed she was the lady of the castle.

The woman wore a deep blue overdress and a white léine, an Irish gown that fell to her ankles in soft drapes. Her golden hair was braided across her forehead while the rest hung down to her waist.

‘You are Genevieve?’ The woman spoke the Norman language so fluently it surprised Genevieve to hear it.

‘I am.’ She extended her hands in greeting, and the woman took them.

‘My name is Isabel MacEgan. My husband is Patrick MacEgan, King of Laochre.’

‘A king?’ Genevieve questioned.

‘Not High King.’ Isabel smiled in response. ‘There are many petty kings in Ireland, just as we once had in England.’ She added, ‘But you needn’t be intimidated by my husband or by me. I merely wanted to meet the woman who saved the lives of Ewan and Bevan. It isn’t often that a lady can rescue one of Ireland’s finest warriors.’

Genevieve reddened. ‘Bevan helped me to escape the man I am betrothed to. Saving their lives was a way to save myself.’

‘You have our gratitude,’ Isabel replied. ‘And I can see why Bevan was so taken with you.’

Genevieve did not respond to the compliment, not knowing what to say. ‘You exaggerate, I fear, Queen Isabel.’

‘You may call me Isabel. And, no, I do not stretch the truth. Bevan has not interacted with a woman since the death of his wife.’

‘Our paths crossed, nothing more,’ Genevieve argued. She sensed that Isabel wanted to play the matchmaker, and she would have no part of it. She had trusted her heart to a man every bit as handsome as Bevan. And Hugh had nearly destroyed her.

‘We are having a celebration feast this eventide, to welcome Bevan home,’ Isabel said, changing the subject. ‘He told me you would be travelling back to England soon, but I thought you could share in our festivities before you go.’

‘I would love that.’ Genevieve stood up. ‘May I help with the arrangements?’

‘So eager are you?’ Isabel appeared amused.

‘I would like to be more useful,’ Genevieve admitted. ‘’Tis difficult to wait, and I do not wish to be idle.’

Isabel gestured towards the Chamber. ‘You may have your choice of activities here. What do you enjoy most?’

Genevieve thought a moment. More than anything she loved music. She had played the psaltery at her father’s house, entertaining the