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

Genevieve hugged her brat around herself, brimming with excitement. She would not let Bevan’s anger diminish the celebration. But there was one way to ease his ill spirits.

‘Do you know where the women put the tapestries that used to hang in my chamber?’ Genevieve asked. Mairi nodded. ‘Bring them. We’ll hang them in the Great Chamber.’

She could do that much for Bevan, by way of apology. But she refused to have any trace of Fiona or Hugh in their chamber. She would begin weaving tapestries of her own, adorning the chamber with wall hangings that had no memories save the new ones she would make.

Mairi was right. It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself.

Chapter Thirteen

G enevieve supervised the decorating of the Great Chamber, while outside another winter storm raged. She had not seen Bevan since that morn, and she suspected he was avoiding her.

She had arranged for Fiona’s tapestries to be hung on the back wall of the Chamber. She spread garlands of holly and greenery around the room, placing candles in the windows to light the path of the Holy Child. The cook had agreed to roast a suckling pig and to prepare salmon, lamb, and salted eels for the feast. Her father had replenished the stores of food depleted by Hugh and his men as part of her wedding gifts. Bevan had given twenty horses, several barrels of poteen, and gifts of silver as her bride price. The silver would satisfy her mother, Genevieve knew.

A maid had brought forth elderberry wine, mead, and poteen from the cellar, to quench the thirst of the guests. For dessert, Genevieve had the cook prepare cakes dripping with honey and finely chopped hazelnuts.

Mairi had introduced her to some of the tenants’ wives, and Genevieve befriended them as they worked alongside one another, adding festive touches to the Great Chamber. They spoke not of her betrothal to Hugh, and for that she was grateful.

Hugh had never allowed her to leave Rionallís, claiming that as a noblewoman she had no place among the freemen. She had tried to protest that as the lady of the castle it was her duty. The argument had earned her another beating, and so she had held her tongue while the steward performed her duties.

Now, she recognised that it had been yet another way to hold her prisoner. Hugh had trusted none of the Irish, and Genevieve knew his reputation was that of a cold-hearted Gaillabh—a Norman outsider.

Behind her, she heard Ewan chattering to Bevan, boasting of his new skills in swordplay. Genevieve busied herself adjusting a garland, wondering what her husband would say when he saw their decorations. His gaze travelled the length of the room, surveying her handiwork.

When he saw the tapestries, she noticed a change coming over him, a subtle relaxation of his features. His eyes met hers, and Genevieve sensed forgiveness in the nod of greeting.

‘The tenants are going to celebrate Christmas with us this eve,’ she said. ‘Will you come?’ She hoped that he would not deny her the chance to welcome the people.

He seemed agreeable. ‘Tá, I will come.’

‘Good.’

The discomfort stretched on, and finally Genevieve excused herself to finish the decorating. Bevan did not stay to watch, and she felt relieved without his eyes watching every move.

At last, Genevieve dismissed the ladies to prepare for the feast. Ewan hung around, casting glances at an auburn-haired girl with deep brown eyes. The girl ignored him, and Genevieve pitied Ewan’s lovesick expression. He consoled himself by snatching a honey cake from a platter.

‘Those are for the celebration tonight,’ Genevieve reminded him. Ewan started to put it back, but she shook her head. ‘Just the one.’

He nodded his thanks and devoured it, licking his fingertips. A servant interrupted Genevieve moments later, giving her a small folded parchment sealed with wax.

She thanked him and broke the seal. Inside no words were written, but a frayed blue ribbon fell out. She recognised the token immediately. It was a ribbon Hugh had given her once, from when he had courted her affections.

It was a reminder. A chilling one. He had not gone to England, as ordered.

‘Did you see who sent this?’ she asked the servant.

The servant shook his head. ‘One of the tenant’s children gave it to me. It was given to him by a messenger he did not recognise.’

A shadow crossed over her chair, and Genevieve saw Ewan standing before her. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘It is from Hugh,’ she answered, showing him the ribbon.

Ewan straightened and rested his hand upon his sword, as if poised for a fight. ‘Has he threatened you?’

‘No.’ Genevieve did not know what Hugh intended by the ribbon, but she would not allow him to frighten her. She rose to her feet and moved towards the hearth. Tossing the ribbon into the flames, she watched as it curled and caught flame. ‘We will let the matter rest.’

‘Bevan should know of this.’

‘No.’ Genevieve knew the ribbon was meant to cause her fear. She had no desire for Bevan to track down Sir Hugh and risk further injury. Her marriage had ended any threat Hugh might have posed.

‘You are certain you do not wish for me to find out why he sent it?’ Ewan asked.

‘It’s part of the past now.’ As the ribbon darkened into ashes, she resolved not to think of it again. She would host the Christmas celebration, and in time Hugh would understand that she was not going to allow her past to rule the future.

When the roasted pig’s bones lay exposed, the tender meat devoured until only fragments remained, all gathered around to hear the stories of Trahern MacEgan. He had spent the past few months travelling across Éireann, and had only just returned home. Bevan had invited him to share in their Christmas celebration.

Solid as an oak, Trahern had a curling black beard and long locks that fell across his shoulders. His chest was so large, no woman