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

thirst within him. All the years of wanting, of hurting, seemed to melt away as she kissed him back, meeting his tongue with her own. He silenced the guilt of old memories, telling himself he was only human.

Their breaths mingled while he fought to control his urges for more. Then he tasted the salt of her tears. At that moment he despised himself. He had hurt her without meaning to.

‘Go,’ he commanded her. ‘Now.’

When she did not move, he opened the door. Another tear slid down her cheek, but she obeyed. When she was gone, he drove his fist against the heavy oaken door. He had no willpower where Genevieve was concerned.

In the corridor, Genevieve leaned her forehead against the wall. She had no one to blame for her humiliation but herself. Her body pulsed with a fiery storm of feelings. She had never known it could be this way, and a part of her had wanted him to continue.

With him, she had felt cherished. She could not help the falling tears. And then he’d pushed her away. Why had she thought he might want her? Her cheeks suffused with colour.

Now that she knew what it was like to be desired by a warrior such as Bevan, her body yearned for more. Her mind spinning with thoughts of him, she stumbled back to her chamber. On the morn he would travel to Tara, to battle for the rights to her land.

But more than that she feared the siege he had already begun upon her heart.

Chapter Nine

T he soldier departed Laochre a few hours before dawn. Sir Hugh’s commander had ordered him to report his findings within a single day, to avoid suspicion. The Norman encampment lay a few miles beyond the fortress. As he neared the enemy, his heart grew heavy. He’d caught a glimpse of his son, and the sight of Declan had torn him apart. He’d wanted to go to his child, but he could not reveal himself to Bevan or to Lady Genevieve. Instead, he had sent a message to his wife’s sister, asking her to come for his son.

Already he sensed his cause was doomed to failure. His friends had seen him, and would wonder why he had not taken Declan home. They would want to know how he had escaped—an answer he could not give them. He had avoided them, pretending his duties required his presence elsewhere. But their suspicions were rising.

When he arrived at the camp, the Normans escorted him to their captain.

‘What information do you have for me?’ Robert Staunton asked.

‘There is a section of the outer wall where the wood is decaying. I can arrange for it to be left unguarded,’he offered. ‘Even now they have only a few men positioned there. Many are accompanying Bevan MacEgan to Tara.’He tried to keep his gaze steady, careful not to let Staunton suspect his lies.

He gave the captain half-truths about the MacEgans—information designed to lead the Normans into a trap.

‘What of Lady Genevieve?’

‘I will bring her to Rionallís myself,’ he said. ‘And I want my wife in return.’

‘Good.’ Staunton mounted his horse and turned to leave. He smiled. ‘I pray your words are the truth. For your woman’s sake.’ Then he tossed a small bag to the soldier. ‘A token for your assistance.’

The bag was far too light to contain pieces of silver. The soldier waited until Staunton had returned to his tent before opening it.

Inside he found long tresses of hair belonging to his wife Kiara. Her lovely hair, sheared by the enemy.

His hands shook. The bleakness of failure sharpened his fury at those who had taken Kiara. And with it emerged a sudden anger at Bevan MacEgan. Bevan had abandoned his own men for a Norman woman. Kiara had tried to save them after the MacEgans had deserted them in their time of need.

Were it not for Bevan’s ill-fated attack his wife would be safe at home, spinning thread. His time was drawing short if he intended to save Kiara’s life.

After Bevan left for Tara he would seize his opportunity. The only way to save his wife was to deliver the Lady Genevieve into the enemy’s hands.

Genevieve tickled the young boy’s stomach, laughing at his deep giggles. His temperament had shifted to one of delightful play, and he had spent the morning toddling around.

Last night she had tried to ready her belongings, to go with the men to Tara, but Bevan had refused to let her join them. Were it not for the threat of Sir Hugh’s men, Genevieve would have travelled without Bevan’s permission. She resented having to stay at Laochre when she preferred to speak to her father in person.

A soft knock interrupted her. When she called out for the person to enter, she saw a petite young woman with light brown hair and a plump figure. At the sight of the boy, the woman’s face lit up with joy, and she held out her arms.

‘Sheela!’ he cried out, and raced into her arms, clinging tightly, while the woman murmured softly in Irish, caressing his hair.

A sinking feeling spiralled in Genevieve’s stomach. ‘Are you his mother?’

The woman shook her head. ‘His aunt. My name is Sheela. And you are Lady Genevieve, I understand?’

Genevieve nodded. Sheela had used her title as a courtesy, though it was unnecessary here in Erin.

‘My sister went after her husband and left Declan with one of the tenants,’ Sheela said. ‘He wandered off that morn, and though they searched for him they could not find him.’ She drew Declan into her arms, stroking his hair. ‘When I received a message that he was here, I came at once.’ The boy squirmed, wanting to be let free.

Releasing her nephew, she said, ‘I must thank you for saving him. Isabel told me of how you rescued him from the pond.’

‘I am only glad I found him in time,’ Genevieve replied.

Declan picked up a wooden toy sword and began striking it against the floor, singing a nonsense