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

‘Things are different in England,’ she said. ‘A woman must be subservient to a man’s wishes.’

‘It should not be thus. A woman holds equal value to a man in Éireann.’ He did not understand why the English would treat their women so poorly. ‘You do not deserve to suffer at Marstowe’s hands.’

‘No. But sooner or later I will wed. And I shall have no choice in that arrangement. I can only trust that my father will choose someone better than Hugh.’

The idea of her marrying another man discomfited Bevan. He didn’t want any man to touch Genevieve. ‘You could enter an abbey.’

‘I am not suited to being a bride of Christ,’ she admitted. Though she did not say it, he saw the wistfulness in her eyes. A woman such as Genevieve ought to bear children.

Her words confirmed his decision not to wed her. He could not be a father again. The thought of holding another child of his own was like a sword to his gut.

If Genevieve belonged to him, he was afraid he would not be able to resist touching her. Even now he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her. She looked so vulnerable, and he feared what might happen were he to act upon his body’s wishes.

Clearing his throat, he changed the subject. ‘How is the boy?’

‘Better. Siorcha spoiled him today, feeding him sweetmeats. He’s been crying for his mother, though.’

Her face dimmed, and Bevan said, ‘All children want their mothers. Brianna sometimes would not let me hold her, wanting only Fiona.’

‘It hurts,’ she admitted. ‘I am afraid of what Hugh has done to the boy’s mother.’

‘You should not grow attached to him. He belongs with his father.’

‘I know.’A tear escaped her, though she summoned up a half-hearted smile. ‘Sometimes you cannot help the feelings inside you.’

He brushed away the tear, grazing the side of her cheek. She’d covered the bruise again, but the colour had started to smear. Even still, she was beautiful to him.

Bevan tried to suppress the intense need rising within him. He longed to forget Fiona and the bitter taste of loss.

‘You’re right.’ His voice caught in his throat as he drew nearer. ‘Sometimes you can’t help what you feel for someone.’ His palm rested against the wall, his other arm drawing around her waist. He waited, letting her pull away if she would.

She didn’t move. Slowly, he moved the dark strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. The world seemed to hold still in that instant when her sapphire eyes met his. His skin grew warm as he moved his fingers up her spine.

She leaned back against the wall, letting it support her as he slid a soft kiss against her neck. He could feel her yielding to him, her warm breath against his cheek.

His mind ordered him to stop. The voice of reason demanded that he release her. She was not his, would never become his. This was wrong.

Her hands tentatively touched his chest, her palms light against his pectoral muscles before she lifted her arms around his neck. Tentative and unsure, she looked terrified and yet determined.

Lug, but he could not remember the last time a woman had held him. There was goodness here, a rush of fire. His body grew impatient, and at last he surrendered to the need. He captured her lips, tasting the sweet warmth of her mouth.

She trembled in his arms but did not turn him away. A ragged breath escaped her. ‘We should not do this,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t—’

His hands trailed down her back to cup her hips, pulling her closer. ‘I know.’ But even as he spoke the words he knew he could not stop wanting her.

He kissed her again, moving his hips against her in a sensual dance. The music from the celebration was ending, and he took her hand, leading her down the corridor. He stopped before his chamber, waiting. Her lips were a deep red, moist from the kiss. More than anything he wanted to take her inside and join with her. But honour demanded that he stop this madness before it consumed them both.

With great reluctance, he released her. ‘Leave me, Genevieve. You don’t want this.’

She took a step back, then another. For a moment she looked as though she were about to run. But she stopped, uncertainty lining her face.

‘Do you care for me, Bevan?’ she asked. ‘Am I still nothing but a Norman to you?’

He saw her eyes filling with tears and the weakness of his body betrayed him. He cupped her face in his hands, letting her see the full force of desire in his gaze.

‘Just a kiss,’ he swore. He would not take more than that.

He traced the outline of her jaw, skimming his fingers across the bruise. With his lips, he kissed the injury. Her eyes remained transfixed upon him as he kept his touch light, gentle.

Her lips parted, and she closed her eyes. He bent to taste her, no more than the barest brush of his lips across hers. She trembled, arching her head back. He pulled her hips closer until they moved against his, cradling his length. This time she embraced him tighter, until he could feel the softness of her breasts against his chest.

His hands moved beneath the fabric of her gown, inside the voluminous sleeves, until he felt the softness of her shift. His thumbs were poised at the curve of her breasts, waiting to see if she would allow him to go further. She froze, terrified, but he saw the awakening desire in her eyes.

The intense need to touch her overcame any hesitancy he might have had. Slowly, gently, he moved his thumbs across the sensitive nipples. Genevieve’s breath shattered, and he moved her up against the wall, stroking her breasts until she moaned with pleasure.

Her mouth met his in a heated frenzy. She was the rain that brought him to life, quenching the