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

the needles of snow falling against her skin, she fought her way towards the sound.

A small pond crusted with ice and snow lay just at the base of a hill. Spindly cattails danced in the wind, revealing a deep crevice in the centre of the pond with floating chunks of ice. She spied a small head bobbing beneath the surface. Her heart pounding, she prayed that she would not be too late.

When she reached the pond, she couldn’t tell if the surface of the ice would support her weight. She spread herself out on her stomach, inching towards the child, who struggled to free himself from the water’s death grasp.

‘Hold on, love,’ she called out in Irish. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’

The ice splintered beneath her weight, but she kept on at a steady crawl. The boy’s sobbing heightened her determination to get him out. When her fingers touched his hand, she pulled with all her strength.

The ice shattered, and Genevieve fell into the freezing water. She gasped, half-choking as she came up for air, her arms gripping the child. She would not let him go.

The water was not deep, but she struggled to free herself from the ice. Her skirts dragged her down with the weight of the wool.

The child lay still in her arms. He breathed, yet his body was cold—terribly so.

‘Help!’ she called out to the guards, hoping they could hear her.

Within moments, one of them came down the hillside. He ordered another guard to come and assist him, and soon Genevieve was supported by the two men as she struggled back up the incline. Her skin had never felt so freezing. The numbness in her legs made it difficult to move, but the soldiers kept her from collapsing.

Her teeth chattered as she continued up the path, holding the body of the young boy. He could not be more than three years of age. His face was a bluish colour, which frightened her. If he was to live, she would have to get him inside soon.

She reached the outer bailey, and it was not long before a group of people surrounded her, all talking at once. Genevieve cuddled the boy closer, but did not answer the flurry of questions.

At long last she reached the Great Chamber. Isabel gave orders for hot water and dry clothing. She had started to bring Genevieve above stairs when Bevan appeared.

‘What were you doing?’ he demanded, grabbing her arm.

Genevieve could barely speak, but she managed to answer. ‘The child fell through the ice. I could not let him drown.’

‘You should never have left the fortress in weather like this. Not for anything.’

‘He would have died,’ Genevieve insisted. ‘Look. He lives yet.’

‘And you could have died. I’ve seen men drown in less water.’

Genevieve started to argue again, but realised there was concern behind his words. ‘I am all right, Bevan. But I cannot say what will happen to this child. He’s hardly more than a babe.’

Bevan took the child from her, his face grave. ‘Go with Isabel and dry yourself off. I will care for the boy.’

‘No. I’m not leaving him.’

‘I know how to care for a child.’ Bevan’s expression was furious. ‘And you need to warm yourself. Do it now. Unless you want me to drag you up there.’

She stepped back, but only because she saw the way he cradled the child, as though the boy were his own. ‘All right. But I will come and help you with him.’

Isabel led Genevieve back to her chamber, where a fire blazed upon the hearth. She helped her strip off her clothes, wrapping her in a warm blanket and drying her briskly.

‘You can bathe later,’ Isabel promised. ‘You need to get some feeling back into the skin before that.’

Genevieve succumbed to Isabel’s ministrations, accepting a fermented drink that burned a path down her throat.

Her skin burned with a searing ache, and her limbs felt heavy as she dressed in a dry léine, then wrapped a warm brat about her shoulders. She did not dwell upon her own discomfort, thinking only of the child.

‘Do you know the child’s parents?’ Genevieve asked. ‘They should be brought here.’

Isabel bowed her head. ‘His father was one of the soldiers who went to Rionallís with Bevan. He has not returned. I will send word to the tenants to bring his mother to Laochre.’

Genevieve started for the door, but Isabel held her back. ‘Before you go, know this. Bevan lost his daughter to a fever while he was away in battle. She was about the age of this boy when she died.’

Genevieve stilled. She had not known he was a father. No wonder he had been insistent upon tending the child himself.

‘Take me to him.’

The healer had helped Bevan massage warmth back into the child’s limbs, swaddling him tightly in a blanket. Bevan held the sleeping boy in his arms, closing his own eyes. The soft cheek rested against his forearm, the child’s rasping breath the only sound besides his own.

Don’t die, he prayed silently. The fragile band of his control strained. He had pushed away the anguish of losing his wife and child for so long he did not know how much longer he could bear it. Not once had he visited their graves at Rionallís. As long as he kept far away, he could handle the numbing pain that had haunted him for the past two years.

Now, holding this child in his arms, it was as though he held his daughter again. He stared at the flickering fire on the hearth, forcing the grief away.

The door opened, and Genevieve entered. She started to speak, then stopped. Instead, she closed the door and walked over to the bed. Without a word, she sat down beside him, drawing her hand across the child’s dampened hair. Together, they held the boy.

He felt something pressed into his palm. Unfolding it, he saw the frail scrap of linen Genevieve had returned to him at Ennisleigh.

‘Where did you get this?’ he managed.

‘From among