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

your things,’ Genevieve said. She covered his hand with her own. ‘It belonged to your wife, didn’t it?’

He clenched the tiny bit of fabric and nodded. ‘It belonged to both of them. Fiona carried it on our wedding day. Later, she sewed it into a bonnet for our daughter’s baptism.’

Genevieve saw the pain etched in the lines of his face. She wished that she could somehow ease it, but words would not be enough. Instead, she touched her palm to his cheek. The scar had become a harsh red line, but she sensed there were far worse scars Bevan carried inside.

His pain was almost a tangible thing, and her eyes clouded with tears. Long moments passed between them. Genevieve did not ask questions, but she brought his hand to her lips. ‘May God ease your grief.’

His fingers tightened around hers, and together they kept vigil over the child. Hours later, Bevan lay down beside the boy, his breathing softened into sleep. Genevieve drew a strand of hair out of Bevan’s face, studying him in the firelight.

Tonight she would not leave him, nor the child. She cared not what the rest of the household might think. She would stay beside this man and the child they had saved.

It was dangerous, thinking about him the way she did tonight. The walls of her heart crumbled against the knowledge of what he had suffered. And she feared what he would say when she offered to become his wife.

Bevan sat at one of the trestle tables in the Great Chamber. Outside, the sky remained dark, and much of the household was still abed.

Although the boy had lived through the night, his breathing was laboured. He coughed frequently, his small body shuddering at the effort.

Had his daughter suffered like this? Had Fiona tended their child in this way before Brianna had breathed her last? He could not forgive himself for being away in battle. War had robbed him of the last chance to hold his daughter. They had buried her before he had returned.

This morn, Bevan had awakened to find Genevieve beside him, her arms curled around the boy. He had tried to deny to himself how good it was, waking beside a woman once more.

After a while, he saw Patrick approach. ‘Walk with me a moment, Bevan,’ his brother said.

Bevan accompanied Patrick outside. The weather was crisp and frigid in the dawn. The moon lay hidden behind a mist of clouds, but a thin haze shone through. Snow crunched beneath their boots as they walked along the inner bailey.

‘I have sent word to the High King, Rory Ó Connor,’ Patrick said. ‘He has summoned you to Tara.’

Bevan tensed. ‘For what purpose?’

‘The Norman King is there. Ó Connor informs me that he and King Henry will pass judgement on the matter of Rionallís.’

Bevan glowered at his brother. It should have been a simple matter of prior ownership, but Patrick was allowing politics to dictate the future. He knew what the Brehon judges would say.

‘You still want me to marry her,’ he said flatly.

‘Tá. It is the simplest solution, and both kings will be satisfied.’

‘I cannot.’ The words came out too quickly. But he meant them.

At first it had been his vow never to betray Fiona’s memory. Now it was because of Genevieve. Were it any other woman, he could keep his distance. But not with her. She tempted him, alluring in her innocence.

He imagined a blue-eyed babe, with dark hair and Genevieve’s smile. The crushing reminder of his own daughter’s death stiffened his resolve. He could not marry again and face the prospect of losing another wife, possibly another child.

‘You may not have a choice,’ Patrick said. ‘I have received an invitation to meet with King Henry, along with the other kings.’

‘Will you go?’

‘I’ve not decided. Isabel thinks I should. As a Norman herself, she believes it would be a strong gesture towards peace.’ Patrick turned back to the donjon, nodding to a kinsman as they passed. ‘The Norman King may demand your marriage to Genevieve.’ He added, ‘And I may demand it of you.’

Surprise and resentment filled him at the words. ‘You’ve no right.’

‘I am your king.’ His brother’s voice assumed an air of authority. ‘And you are risking the lives of my people. I have been lenient in allowing her to stay, knowing the abuses she suffered. But if it comes to war—’

Bevan recognised the unspoken promise. But he would not allow anyone to force him into marriage. Not even his brother.

‘I will travel to meet with the High King,’ Bevan said. ‘And when the matter is settled Genevieve will return home to her family.’ He turned his back on Patrick, focusing his mind on the journey preparations.

Genevieve sponged cool water on the boy’s forehead. Despite their efforts the entire day, no one had been able to find his mother. She had tried to get him to drink some broth, but to no avail. His forehead felt hot to the touch, and he still laboured to breathe.

The healer had tried different poultices, but nothing seemed to relieve the boy’s breathing. Genevieve could only hold him in her arms, praying that somehow he would survive. Since they had been unable to find his mother, she felt all the more protective.

Bevan returned to the chamber, his face shadowed with worry. ‘He hasn’t improved?’

Genevieve shook her head. ‘I fear we may have to send for the priest. I do not think he has enough strength left in him to survive another night.’

Bevan reached out and took the boy into his arms. With a nod, he dismissed the healer. The child whimpered, but Bevan lifted him upright. ‘Bring me a basin.’

Genevieve complied, and Bevan instructed her to pour some hot water inside. Supporting the limp body with one arm, he placed a cloth around the child’s head, allowing him to inhale the steam.

‘Will that help, do you think?’

‘It can do no harm. One winter it helped my daughter, when she had trouble breathing.’ His face grew tender