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

be shut out again. It had taken all of her courage to seek him out, while she struggled to block out the terrible memories of her past.

The taunting voice of Hugh rose up in her mind. You are a poor excuse for a woman. You should be grateful that I grant you my attentions at all.

And here, too, she had failed. In the darkness, she huddled in the bed alone. What would it take for Bevan to see her as a wife and not a burden?

She lifted her gaze to watch him. In the firelight, his skin was molten bronze. Scarred from battle, his thigh muscles flexed as he put on his trews. His chest was bare, the sculpted torso covered with a fine mat of dark hair.

‘Bevan?’ she whispered.

‘Tá?’

‘Don’t leave me. Not tonight,’ she pleaded.

He met her ashamed gaze. ‘I would not humiliate you in such a way, a chroí. Those below will think that this marriage is consummated, do not fear.’

‘What about the sheets?’ she asked, eyeing the clean linen. Her face turned crimson. ‘The blood—’ She broke off, too embarrassed to continue. At home, the sheets of a new bride were proudly displayed to show her loss of virginity.

A hint of amusement lined his face. ‘It is not a custom of ours. My men will believe me when I tell them you are no longer a maiden.’

But her parents would expect to see the sheets, she realised. Custom or not, they would ask.

‘May I borrow your knife?’ she asked.

‘Why?’

‘To satisfy my father. He will expect to see my blood spilled.’

Bevan rose and unsheathed his knife. Never taking his eyes from her, he slashed a shallow cut in his hand, letting drops of his blood spill upon the sheets. ‘It need not be your blood.’

Genevieve winced, but he behaved as though the gesture were of little consequence. Afterwards, he made his bed before the fire, lying on the hard wooden floor.

Genevieve thought of asking him to sleep beside her, for the sake of comfort. But she could not bring herself to speak the words. Her body aching with frustration and embarrassment, she buried her face in the mattress. Within Bevan’s bedchamber dwelled the ghosts of his past. She had tricked herself into thinking she wanted a separate life away from him.

When he’d kissed her tonight, she had dreamed of a time when she could relinquish all fears and welcome him into her arms.

In the flickering of the firelight, she saw him stretch out to sleep. His back held silvery scars from former battles. His was a body that had witnessed death and vanquished its foes. But beneath the surface lay other scars. A father who had lost his only daughter. A husband who hadn’t been able to protect his wife from the enemy. And a man forced to wed a woman he didn’t want.

‘Bevan?’ she whispered, unable to stop the question tormenting her. ‘Why did you wed me?’

He had been so adamant before he’d left for Tara that he could not wed her. He would have done anything to avoid it.

For a time he didn’t answer, and she wondered if he’d heard her. Then at last he said, ‘To keep you away from Hugh. You would have been forced to marry him. No woman deserves such a life.’

Her eyes swam with tears at his admission. ‘But my father ended the betrothal,’ she whispered. ‘Hugh couldn’t have harmed me any more.’

Bevan turned to face her. ‘I offered myself in Hugh’s place. Hugh is one of the King’s favourites, do not forget. But an Irish alliance is better for King Henry than an English one.’

‘I suppose you are right.’

‘And I don’t trust Hugh. I don’t believe he will give you up so easily. If anything happened to your father, he would come for you. And for Rionallís.’ He softened his voice, as if to allay her fears. ‘You’re safe from him now.’

When he turned away from her she clenched her fists into the sheets. It would have been easier to dismiss his change of heart had she cared nothing for him. She could have closed off her heart to the stoic warrior who held her at a distance.

But not to the man who had wed her to keep her safe. And not to the man who had kissed her, awakening her body to a man’s touch.

She prayed that one day he could release the memories that haunted him. Until that day there was no hope for their marriage to become anything more than an arrangement.

When Bevan awoke, Genevieve was gone. He rose from the floor, wincing at his sore shoulder, aching from the long night. He hadn’t slept at all, thinking of her. Though he had considered joining her upon the bed, he did not trust himself not to touch her. She had a way of disarming his willpower and shattering it into dust.

He donned his tunic, and as he entered the Great Chamber delicious smells of pastry and warm fruit tantalised him. Ewan sat at a long table, stuffing his mouth with food.

At the sight of his brother, Bevan asked, ‘Where is Genevieve?’

‘I have not seen her this morn. But you should break your fast,’ Ewan suggested. ‘Try the apple cakes.’ He used his forearm to swipe a dribble of honey away from his mouth.

The table was piled high with bowls of steaming oat pottage and cakes dripping with honey and dried apples. Bevan reached out to sample one of the pastries. The sweet crust practically melted on his tongue, and he reached for another.

‘Did she make these?’

‘No, but she ordered them for us. I’ve not had such food before in all my life,’ Ewan commented. ‘I may never leave.’

‘Soon,’ Bevan said firmly, ‘you must return to Laochre.’ His brother’s response was to shovel in another mouthful of pottage.

Though he knew there was no reason for concern, he wondered about Genevieve’s motives. He had never bothered much with food in the morning, and the sudden change gave him cause