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

should Sir Hugh threaten the marriage in some way. Protecting her was foremost in his mind.

Genevieve’s parents travelled at the back of the entourage, keeping far away from his kinsmen. Bevan had spoken little to them, for the Earl’s wife, Lady Helen, regarded him as the devil incarnate. Longford was more affable, and Bevan detected a note of respect from the man since he had rescued Genevieve.

Connor rode up to greet him, a few miles beyond the gates of Rionallís. ‘You look as though you are going to meet your executioner,’ he remarked. ‘But I suppose you are getting married.’

The teasing annoyed him, but Bevan would not rise to the bait.

‘I would be happy to take your place with such a one as Genevieve.’ Connor gave a sly grin and drew his horse up alongside Bevan’s. ‘Her lips taste like the sweetness of honey.’

His fist shot out towards his brother’s jaw, but Connor blocked the blow, laughing. ‘Fear not, brother. You’ll wed her when we arrive.’

Bevan glared at Connor, jealousy consuming his rational thoughts. Tá, he had all but pushed her into Connor’s arms, but now he didn’t want any man near her.

It reminded him of how friendly Fiona had been towards strangers. She had always been kind whenever visitors had come to Rionallís. But when it had been just the two of them she’d seemed to remove herself to some faraway place. Though he had been able to bring her body to a state of ecstasy, her mind he had never been able to touch.

It seemed that more and more he was remembering his wife’s faults. Why should that matter? She was dead, and they had enjoyed many happy years together.

He thought of his last embrace with Genevieve. Soon he would have a husband’s right to bed her. She would belong to him.

That, he decided, was what bothered him. He had been forced into this match, and he didn’t want to dishonour the memory of his first wife with another woman. If he let himself soften towards Genevieve he would betray the vow he’d made upon Fiona’s death.

Could he touch Genevieve, satisfy his longings, and yet keep himself apart from her? He didn’t know. He desired Genevieve, but she had endured such pain. He did not want her thoughts to linger upon Hugh.

More than that, he felt guilty for the lust he felt. Every time he saw Genevieve he wanted to caress her softness, to bring her body to a flushed state of fulfilment.

He dared not risk letting a woman close to him again. Especially not Genevieve, who occupied his mind at every moment, despite his attempts to shut her out. What kind of man could he call himself were he to abandon his vow?

Straightening his posture, he increased the horse’s gait until Rionallís emerged over the horizon. The snow-encrusted fields would ripen with a golden harvest come the summer. He would add another section to the fortress—one of stone. And as the years passed he would eventually replace all the wood with stone until nothing could destroy it. He envisaged prosperity among the people, close friendships with the tenants upon the land.

He hadn’t realised he’d missed it. It had been easier to stay with his brother and neglect that part of his life, his former home. Bittersweet memories flooded him as he rode towards the gates. He remembered Fiona waiting for him, standing atop the steps.

He ached to think she would never be there again, waiting. But Genevieve would await him. And each time he rode back from battle she would be there, as a part of his life.

He slowed his pace as they drew nearer to the familiar walls. It was as though he could somehow preserve the old memories by not entering the fortress. A few sparse flakes of snow skimmed over the wind, settling upon his gloves before fading into nothingness.

With a silent farewell to all that had been, he rode through the gates towards a new future.

Genevieve raised a sword to block Ewan’s blow. Her grip had grown stronger, but she winced at the arm-numbing contact. Over the past few days she had spent her afternoons with Ewan, letting him teach her the art of swordplay. She knew almost nothing about it, but she enjoyed the exercise. It also gave Ewan a sense of pride to show off his skills, particularly when he was far better than herself.

He had also revealed more about Bevan. From the way he spoke of his elder brother, she knew he both worshipped Bevan and was jealous of him. It seemed that he wanted to be exactly like his brother in every way.

‘Except I would never marry,’ he said now, sheathing his weapon when their sparring match had finished.

‘Why is that?’

‘I’ve no need to marry. I have little of my own, save a few head of cattle.’

As the youngest son, his inheritance would be the smallest of the brothers, Genevieve realised. Here it seemed that cattle and sheep, rather than coins, measured a man’s wealth.

‘Wouldn’t Patrick grant you a portion of land?’ she asked. ‘Or could you not buy your own?’

‘They want me to become a priest,’ he said. ‘But I’ve no wish for that lifestyle.’ His expression grew thoughtful. ‘I’ll fight as a mercenary, like Bevan, and save my earnings. Then it might be that I could afford some land of my own.’

‘And you wouldn’t want sons to inherit the land?’ Genevieve prompted. ‘Surely you would want a wife for that?’

His face reddened, and he withdrew his sword once more, practising lunges. ‘They laugh at me, the girls do. They know I cannot fight.’

The embarrassment on his face made her want to box the ears of such foolish girls. ‘Then you must find a woman who knows your true worth inside.’

Ewan said nothing, but went back to his practising. Genevieve knew he wanted to be alone, and so she withdrew from the weaponry room.

In the Great Chamber below, she tried to occupy herself with her needle. Her fingers