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

gown, laying aside the finery and the jewelled necklace. She slipped beneath the bedcovers, the linen soft against her bare skin.

With her eyes closed, she tried to curb her fears. He was not Hugh. Never would he strike her or humiliate her.

After an hour of waiting, she realised he did not intend to claim his bride, either.

Had she made a mistake? Was she not supposed to await him within her chamber? Her cheeks coloured as she donned a shift. Their customs were different here. Mayhap she should have gone to his room instead?

Though the idea of invading his private room made her insides go numb, she steadied herself. It need only be this one time. It was expected of her, and she’d not shirk her duty.

Closing her eyes, her last thought was that a bride should not have to go and claim her husband upon their wedding night.

Chapter Twelve

B evan had not missed the question in Genevieve’s eyes. He endured the ribald jests of his men before realizing that he could not stay below stairs for much longer without embarrassing his new wife. He took his leave from the guests, and Patrick prevented several drunken men from accompanying him.

Bevan entered his chamber alone, bolting the door behind him. Thankfully, it was not a chamber he had shared with Fiona when they had lived here. He had left that one to Genevieve. His brothers had used this room upon occasion, and it held no memories for him.

But the fortress held many memories. This time, coming home had been far different. He had recognised former servants, neighbouring tenants, and old friends at the feast. They’d seemed wary of the wedding but happy to see him once more. Bevan realised that they had been here when Genevieve had come with Hugh. He wondered if there was any animosity between them, since she was Norman. It did not seem so, but he could not be certain.

Bevan saw the wooden tub by the fire. It had been brought up before the ceremony, but he had not taken the time to bathe then. Now, the cold water offered a distraction from Genevieve. He did not doubt that she would invite him into her bed, were he to visit her. Still, he sensed fear within her. Whatever she might say, he did not think she had forgotten Hugh’s beatings.

He was not even certain if she was a virgin. From the magnitude of her intimidation, he suspected other nightmares might haunt her.

Bevan stripped and sat down, sluicing water over his face and chest. As he’d hoped, the frigid bath quelled any desire he’d felt. He rose from the tub and took a drying cloth. After towelling off the water, he wrapped the cloth around his hips and sat beside the fire.

It was then that he noticed a shadow away from the bed. He reached for his dagger, but saw Genevieve step from behind one of the bed curtains. Her dark hair spilled over the thin shift she wore. She walked towards him in silence.

‘Genevieve—’ he began.

He could see the fear and uncertainty in her eyes. He remained motionless, not wanting to frighten her with the lust growing within him.

‘I did not know if I should come,’ she whispered. ‘Your customs are not the same, and I thought—’ She broke off, her shoulders hunched forward.

He said nothing at first, and in time she straightened. Through the thin outline of her shift her womanly curves beckoned to him. At the sight of her slender frame, he understood the courage it had taken for her to come to him. Though he should force her to go, he knew that if he uttered the words it would devastate her.

Bevan craved the feel of her in his arms, wishing that he could be the bridegroom she deserved. He took her hands in his, exerting a gentle pressure until she stood before him. He brought his palm to her cheek, his thumb coaxing her lips to open. When she allowed him to kiss her, he was lost.

She tasted of the warm summer sun, of honeyed mead and the promise of loving. In spite of his intent not to touch her, his arms slid around her waist. The feel of her soft skin made him harden, and he sat upon a stool, drawing her down to straddle his lap.

At the intimacy of their position, she tried to pull away. Her cheeks flamed, but he held her fast, until she surrendered. Though he did not intend to claim her as his bride, he wanted to ease her fears. Gently he drew his palms up her back, stroking her. Through the thin shift he saw her breasts tighten.

The drying cloth fell away until he felt her damp womanhood pressing against his shaft. He grew rigid, inhaling sharply as she tried to stand up. The motion caused her to ride against his length, and he eased her back down again.

His mouth possessed hers, the kiss intoxicating him with heat and lust. The voice of reason cried out for him to stop, but he could not find the strength to deny her.

Genevieve broke away from the kiss first, trying to catch her breath. This time he released her. She looked ready to flee from the chamber.

‘Forgive me,’ she breathed. ‘I thought I could let you—’

‘Not this eventide, Genevieve,’ he breathed in a husky whisper.

Her face paled, shadowed with dismay. ‘I am sorry for displeasing you.’ She turned from him, but he stopped her.

‘Genevieve, I cannot be a husband to you. Not in the way you want.’ His body burned, but he willed himself under control. Leaning down, he picked up the fallen drying cloth and wrapped it around his hips.

‘If you would grant me time, I will do what I must,’ she insisted.

He led her over to the bed and turned down the covers. ‘Sleep, now.’

Genevieve wanted to curse with frustration. She had managed to break through his wall of indifference for the briefest moment, only to