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

Her nerves strained at the thought of sharing his bed even a single time. Though it was necessary, in order to bind the marriage, she hated the thought of being naught more than a duty. She did not know if she had the courage to yield to him in such an intimate way.

Isabel MacEgan interrupted her. Patrick’s wife, the Queen of Laochre, had journeyed for the wedding, and she offered a joyful smile to Genevieve. ‘Genevieve, will you come with me? I would help you dress for the wedding.’

Though her feet felt leaden, Genevieve followed Isabel to another chamber. Upon the bed, Isabel had laid out a léine of saffron silk with an emerald overdress. A bathing tub filled with water awaited her.

Helen de Renalt selected jewels for Genevieve to wear, muttering her disapproval of the marriage beneath her breath. Genevieve sank into the tub of warmed water, allowing Isabel to wash her hair with scented soap.

Her mother helped her comb her hair, drying it before the fire. Afterwards she wound Genevieve’s hair into elaborate plaits, pinned atop her head.

‘You look beautiful,’ Isabel proclaimed, adding a cream-coloured veil trimmed with pearls.

‘He is unworthy of her,’ Helen said. ‘I like it not.’

Genevieve sent a sharp look towards her mother. ‘I’ll not hear words against the man who is to be my husband.’ Helen shrugged and placed a golden necklace encrusted with jewels around her daughter’s throat. Deep emeralds accentuated the colour of the gown.

Isabel hugged Genevieve. ‘All will be well. You’ll see.’ Touching Genevieve’s cheek, she added, ‘The bruise is gone.’

Genevieve lifted her fingers to the spot. Though her wounds had healed, her spirit remained fragile. She gathered her courage and mustered a smile. ‘Let us go.’

The ceremony began at twilight, after Genevieve and Bevan had bathed the feet of their guests in welcome. The young ladies had fought over the silver coin left in the basin, for it was said that she who won it would be the next to marry.

When the vows had been spoken, Bevan took her hand and the priest blessed their union. The warmth of his touch emanated through her skin, but his eyes stared forward, focused upon the priest and not her. She saw sadness in his gaze, and it hurt deeply.

Was he remembering his first wedding to Fiona, the woman he loved? Genevieve tortured herself, wondering what he was thinking.

Bevan’s lips brushed against hers in a kiss of peace, so swiftly she might not have known they were there. Afterwards, the wedding guests cheered.

Tankards of mead were passed around, and the feasting began. Genevieve and Bevan were ushered to a table where the most sumptuous meats and pastries were piled.

Her parents watched them, and Genevieve tried to put on a face of happiness for their sakes. It was like seeing herself through a pool of water, silent beneath the surface, drowning amid a sea of guests. Her husband smiled when others smiled at him, answered questions, and pretended to be having a good time.

Genevieve knew better. He wore a mask of joviality, even kissing her when others teased them. His act suddenly upset her.

Was she unworthy of a husband’s affections? Was she not deserving of a good marriage with a man who genuinely wanted her?

She had thought it would not be so bad, wedded to a man who would never harm her. She believed that in time they could be content with one another. But as she watched him, it hurt to know that Bevan did not view their union as a reason to celebrate.

She set down her goblet, narrowing her thoughts to that which troubled her most. Though she was not his chosen bride, not the woman he wanted, somehow she must find a way past the enmity in his heart. He desired her; that much she knew from their stolen kisses.

An icy chill grasped her spine, and she took another sip of wine to fortify herself. He would expect her to surrender her virginity, but the thought of baring herself before him was daunting.

With each passing minute her anxiety heightened. At home, the bedding ceremony embarrassed many brides. Genevieve remembered laughing women who would strip the bride of her shift, tucking her into bed naked to await her husband’s embrace. She glanced around, but only friendly smiles greeted her.

When she could wait no longer, she rose from the table. If there was not a bedding custom here, then she preferred to prepare herself. She might be able to calm the terrified beating of her heart.

‘Where are you going?’ Bevan asked.

‘To our chamber.’ She offered him a weak smile. ‘I am weary.’

The lie flowed from her mouth. She didn’t know if she would sleep at all tonight. For that matter, she knew not if he would consummate their marriage. She had offered him the choice of not sharing her bed.

She walked away, not waiting for him to reply. She moved above stairs, turning once to look back. He met her gaze from below, and for a moment she stood transfixed by him. His tunic was an unusual shade of blue, a colour that made his strong features arresting. His hands cupped a goblet, but he did not drink.

The crowds of people seemed to disappear, and he looked upon her as though seeing her for the first time. There was a hint of reassurance upon his face.

Genevieve took a deep breath and forced herself to take another step. When at last she closed the door to their bedchamber, she sat upon a wooden stool to await him. She noticed that the servants had indeed disposed of the massive bed. In its place was a smaller bed, with new coverings. She had completely redecorated the chamber, removing all traces of its former design. Even the tapestries were gone. It was bare now, but she would make new ones.

Her fingers tapped nervously against the silk of her gown. Minutes passed, and still Bevan did not come. Genevieve removed her