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

fears and insisting he could make her want him. It was the only reason he had not breached her, though he had come close.

‘Are you well?’ a young maid asked her.

‘Take the bed out of here. I don’t want to see it again,’ Genevieve said. ‘Burn it, if you like.’

The girl nodded. ‘I will see it done.’

‘Leave me,’ Genevieve ordered. The maids complied, and she stripped the bed of its coverings. One by one she fed them into the fire, watching them erupt in flames before fading into ashes.

In another few days she had to face her own marriage bed. Though she knew Bevan did not want her, he had to consummate the marriage to make it binding. Her nerves were so tight she closed her eyes to will the fear away. Once, she reminded herself. It need be only once. And she did not believe Bevan would harm her.

She needed a distraction. Rising to her feet, she left the chamber. Isabel had sent Ewan to keep her company, along with a dozen escorts. Genevieve found him at last in the weaponry room. He held his arm out, as if clutching an imaginary sword. His gaze remained intent upon the ground, his feet moving in intricate patterns while he muttered to himself.

‘Forgive me,’ Genevieve interrupted, ‘but what on earth are you doing?’

Ewan’s gaze darted towards her. ‘Close the door, and I’ll show you.’

He picked up a sword from the wall and moved to attack an unseen adversary. His feet moved in the same patterns, while his sword arm slashed and parried imaginary blows.

Genevieve leaned against the wall, watching. ‘Does it work?’

Ewan shrugged. ‘I practise every night. Some day I shall use my skills on the battlefield.’

‘It seems terribly complicated.’

‘It is. It takes years of practise.’ Ewan repeated the footwork sequence, his concentration focused on his feet.

‘Shouldn’t you look at your opponent?’

‘What?’ He lowered his sword. ‘Oh. Well, as soon as I’ve mastered this new pattern I shall.’

Genevieve let him continue and remarked, ‘I used to watch my brothers practise swordplay when I was younger. They would never let me try.’

Ewan sent her a doubtful look. ‘The swords are heavy.’

‘Aye, they are. But I never saw my brothers watching their feet. They swore that, no matter what, I must always keep my eyes upon my attacker.’

‘Bevan says that. I’ve never seen anyone move faster than him. He’s undefeated in battle.’ Ewan gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’ve never won a battle.’

‘Neither have I.’ Genevieve smiled at him. ‘But I’d imagine that would come in time.’

His eyes glittered. ‘I want to be the greatest warrior in all Éireann. I want to be a legend.’

‘I think you will be one day,’ Genevieve encouraged. ‘But if it were me, I might look more at my opponent than my feet.’

Ewan pondered her words. ‘Whenever I fight, my feet tangle up. I thought if I practised my footwork it wouldn’t happen.’

He adjusted his stance and practised some more. ‘You’re very different from Fiona, you know.’

‘How do you mean?’

Ewan slashed at the air and stumbled before regaining his footing. ‘She never laughed. Bevan was always trying to make her smile. She didn’t smile often.’

‘Don’t you think she was happy here?’

He shook his head. ‘She would take long walks alone when Bevan wasn’t around. Sometimes she wouldn’t return for hours.’ He lowered his sword and paused for a moment. ‘One night when Bevan was away she didn’t return until the next morn. That was a few weeks before she died.’

‘Surely someone went after her?’ Genevieve suggested. ‘Your brother would never have allowed her to be harmed.’

‘They didn’t know she was gone. I only knew because I followed her.’

Genevieve itched to ask where Fiona had gone, but from the masked expression on Ewan’s face she doubted if he would tell her.

‘I am glad you are to marry Bevan,’ Ewan said.

Genevieve was taken aback by his comment. ‘Why do you say this?’

‘The way you look at him. You like him more than Fiona ever did.’ He scowled, and Genevieve wondered again what had made him dislike his sister-in-law so much.

‘He doesn’t want to marry me,’ she said. ‘He cannot see past my Norman blood.’

‘Oh, ’tisn’t that.’ Ewan jabbed the air and stumbled when his footwork caught him off balance. ‘Bevan takes his vows to heart. When Fiona died he swore he’d never wed again. Thinks he’s being faithful to her, he does.’

She knew Bevan had cared for his first wife, but now she wondered how deep his feelings ran. Was he comparing her to Fiona?

Genevieve picked up one of the heavy swords from the wall. The unfamiliar weight caused her to tighten her muscles, but she held it. ‘So what would soften your brother towards me?’

Ewan’s mouth twitched, and he shrugged. ‘You could try pastries or tarts. Especially those with dried cherries or apples. I thought I saw some.’

Genevieve suspected he spoke more of his own adolescent wishes than his brother’s. She gave him a warm smile. ‘Mayhap you are right.’

She raised her sword and touched his. ‘You might visit England one day. You could train with some of my father’s knights, should you wish it.’

He shook his head. ‘My place is here. And now so is yours.’

Genevieve did not answer. Each day was a battle to drown out the terrible memories. She was grateful for Ewan’s presence. His enthusiasm helped keep her mind off of Hugh.

She held the sword out towards Ewan. ‘Will you teach me what you know?’

He gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘Tá. But that won’t take very long.’

Bevan rode among his men, his muscles paining him at the old injury on his shoulder. One night the wound had reopened, but thankfully the bleeding had stopped within minutes of rebinding it. He knew many men who had died from wounds as bad as his. He was grateful that Genevieve had tended it so well.

At the thought of her, Bevan stiffened. He had been ordered to wed her immediately upon returning to Rionallís. And it seemed necessary for the haste,