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

With her father’s strong arms around her, she took comfort. ‘Thank you, Papa.’

‘Now, off with you.’ Her father gave a wave of dismissal. ‘I intend to sample this fine poteen before your mother finds out.’ He took a sip of the strong liquor, coughing while raising a toast to her.

‘I’ll send a barrel home with you,’ Genevieve promised.

‘You are my most beloved daughter,’ he sighed, downing another sip.

Bevan did not sleep in their chamber that night, and Genevieve slept poorly. She tossed upon the straw mattress while imagining him in his own chamber, thankful to be away from her.

The following morn she said farewell to her parents, and her mother promised to visit again in the spring. Lord Thomas had teased about grandchildren, and Genevieve had struggled to maintain her smile. There would be no children in her future. Not with Bevan.

After they had gone, she busied herself with tasks around the fortress. Her arms strained as she struggled to lift a heavy sack of grain. She had long since dried her tears, and vowed she would not pity herself. She had married Bevan knowing he did not want a wife. The hard labour kept her mind from the sorrow coiling around her heart.

‘Put that down, Lady Genevieve!’A barrel-shaped woman with speckled raven hair swatted at Genevieve with a rag. ‘We’ve men for lifting heavy things.’

‘I can manage,’ Genevieve said. She dragged the sack of grain into a corner, her arms burning with the effort.

‘’Tis not your place to do such work,’ the woman argued. ‘Ye could injure a babe, if ye’ve one started.’

‘There will be no babe,’ she said dully.

She thought of young Declan, his baby softness nestled against her cheek, and the raw ache threatened to consume her. Why had she ever thought she could gain Bevan’s affections? He had been honest with her from the first moment. She would never win his heart, and it was useless to try.

‘Oh, there’ll be a babe, sure enough. Those MacEgan men…’ The woman gave an appreciative sigh. ‘There’s not a woman I know of who can resist them. It’s lucky ye are, being wed to Bevan. He’s a good master, and a fair man. Much better than that Norman ye were betrothed to.’ The woman spat on the ground in memory.

Genevieve braved a smile. ‘Aye, you are right. What is your name?’

‘I am Mairi.’

Genevieve clasped Mairi’s hands in greeting. ‘I am glad to meet you.’

Mairi led Genevieve by the hand. ‘The women and I wondered about ye. We saw what Marstowe did, and I hope his soul burns for it. But there was naught any of us could do.’ She crossed herself. ‘He’d only have killed another innocent.’

‘Another?’

‘Tá. He had poor Maureen killed when she told him where Bevan had taken you. The bastard.’ Mairi led Genevieve outside, handing her a brat. She accepted the long length of wool, wrapping it around her shoulders. ‘Ye must cover up, for ’tis quite cold.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To visit the tenants. They’re eager to meet ye, as I was. We never had the chance when ye were betrothed to that demon.’ With a nudge, Mairi added, ‘They want to know what sort of woman would wed our Bevan.’

‘A foolish one,’ Genevieve said. ‘I am a MacEgan now, but his name is all I have.’

‘Feeling sorry for ourselves, are we?’ Mairi said, pulling Genevieve into the inner bailey. The icy air sliced against her face, and she pulled her brat tighter around her shoulders. ‘If ye want a good marriage, heed my advice. Be a strong woman and know your own mind. When ye have your own happiness, a happy marriage ye’ll make. There’s no quicker way to lose a man than to chase after him. Make him come after ye. That’s what I say.’

‘Are you married?’ Genevieve asked.

Mairi laughed. ‘Five times, counting this last one. I’ve buried four of them, God rest their souls. But those that died, died happy. A good romp in the bedchamber keeps a man faithful.’

Genevieve blushed at the bawdy reference. When they reached the stables, Mairi told the groom to bring out a horse for Genevieve. ‘What about you?’ Genevieve asked.

‘I’ve no need for a horse. I’ll walk. But, as the lady of Rionallís, you should ride.’

Genevieve shook her head, dismissing the groom. ‘I’ll walk alongside you.’ She thought she detected a glimmer of approval in Mairi’s eyes.

As they journeyed towards the tenant farms, Mairi pointed out the names of the people, adding gossip whenever she could.

Genevieve saw an expanse of farmland, neatly divided into smaller plots with thatched cottages. Herds of cattle and pigs huddled around grain that had been set out for them in wooden troughs amidst the snow. One tenant broke a layer of ice over the water in another trough. He smiled and waved at Mairi as they passed.

Genevieve wanted to meet them and grow better acquainted. An idea occurred to her, and she stopped walking. ‘We’ve not decorated Rionallís,’ she said. ‘Alban Arthuan is past, but we’ve not had any feasting or celebrations here for Christmas. With all that’s happened, I did not think of it.’

Mairi brightened. ‘You are right, my lady. I’ll bring some girls up to help. A celebration is exactly what ye need to take your mind off of the troubles ye have.’

‘Call me Genevieve,’ she said. A part of her warmed at the idea of decorating the Great Chamber for the Christmas celebration. ‘Is there anyone here who could play music this eve?’

She remembered the harp she had played at Laochre, and longing rose up at the memory. Bevan had not seemed to mind, but she grew nervous at the thought of playing before the Irish people. Perhaps they would not like her songs.

No, it was best to let others play. She would enjoy their songs and learn them when she could.

‘Every man here thinks himself a musician,’ Mairi said, rolling her eyes. ‘But I’ll see if Eoin can bring