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

make him look good. And the only way to do that was to fight better herself. She swung her sword at him with all her strength, and by instinct he met her blow with a parry. The effects of the mead caused her to stumble, but she caught her balance in time to dodge his next thrust.

The crowd had grown silent as the swordfight continued. Ewan’s feet moved in the intricate patterns, twisting this way and that. She saw an opening to strike at him, because his eyes were on his footwork again. She let the opportunity go by, not wanting to make him look like a failure. When she saw his gaze flicker back, she struck again, only to be dealt a jarring blow that made her teeth rattle.

He had relaxed finally, focusing his attention on the mock battle. His sword moved more rapidly, and Genevieve’s arm ached with the effort of defending herself. She knew she wouldn’t last much longer. Ewan seemed to sense this, for he met her glance. A shared bargain was made between them, and with the next lunge they both raised their swords and ended the competition.

‘I would not draw the blood of my brother’s wife,’ Ewan declared with a cocky grin.

Trahern gave a hearty laugh and clasped their arms, raising them in victory. ‘I say they both deserve the winner’s prize. Ewan, go and choose your lass.’

Ewan’s face turned scarlet, but he took the hand of the young girl with auburn braids. She giggled as he kissed her, blushing at the same time.

‘And you, Genevieve—whom shall you kiss?’ Trahern puckered up his lips. The crowd laughed. Genevieve patted Trahern’s cheek, but shook her head, stepping past the bystanders. Her concentration focused on Bevan.

‘He is my choice,’ she said, taking her husband’s hand. The people roared their approval as Genevieve leaned towards Bevan’s scarred face.

Tension lined his face, but she knew he would not shame her by refusing the kiss. He would feign interest, even kiss her back. But it would not be real.

His mask of indifference had returned. She should just kiss him and finish it. But, oh, it hurt to think that he did not want her. The pretence had ruined it all.

She brushed a soft kiss across his lips, and fled before he could react. Behind her, she heard Eoin playing the pipes. The crowd had begun their dancing. No one would pursue her. She escaped up the stairs to a narrow passageway that led to their chamber.

Bevan felt the way he had the first time he’d hunted with his father. He remembered the fear in the eyes of the doe before he’d shot her down with an arrow.

Genevieve had looked at him that way just now, fearful, and yet hoping for a second chance. He hadn’t given it. He had planned to give her the kiss she wanted, making it look as if all were well between them—a hearty kiss between husband and wife. But she had left him standing alone, after granting a kiss that a child might give to a parent. He found himself going after her, not really knowing why.

He saw her standing at the door to her chamber, her face pressed against the wall, her shoulders trembling. He had made her cry.

Regret pulled at him, and he knew there was only one way to mend the torn feelings.

‘Genevieve,’ he whispered softly. ‘Come here.’

She turned, and he saw the despair in her eyes. Bevan closed the distance between them, cupping her face in his hands. He couldn’t say why, but he felt the need to kiss her truly.

He tasted the salt of her tears, but soon the warmth of her mouth distracted him. She drew in her breath and he deepened the kiss, coaxing her mouth to open. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her thumbs softly stroking his nape.

The kiss was gentle, a humble offering of healing. Tongues mingled, and this time he didn’t fight the rush of desire coursing through him. His hands moved down to her hips as he lost himself in her.

‘Bevan, you don’t have to—’

‘Shh.’ He covered her mouth with his again, ignoring the voices of protest in his mind. He knew this was wrong, knew he should never have started it. But in the name of Lug, he wanted her. He wanted to feel her softness in his arms.

He opened the door to their bedchamber and bolted it behind them. Then he took her back into his arms, pressing her against the wall. His hands fumbled with the laces of her gown, and he felt her warm skin. He cupped her breasts, stroking the tips while he plundered her mouth.

Desire roared through him with the force of a tempest. Her knees buckled and he caught her, lifting her against him. His mind was blessedly empty of everything but her.

He balanced her weight against the wall, his heart thundering while he sought her bare skin. Linen tore and laces fell away as his mouth covered her nipple.

It was then that he noticed she had stopped responding to him. Tears streamed down her face and she clutched his arms. She hadn’t fought him, but the terrible fear in her eyes made him aware of what he’d done. He’d torn her clothing in an effort to be close to her, not thinking of her former suffering.

Genevieve was not ready to share his bed, no matter what she might say. The realization was like a bucket of cold water upon his lust.

‘I am sorry.’ He released her, and she slid in a boneless heap to the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just—’

He raked his hand through his hair, not knowing what to say. ‘I would never hurt you, Genevieve. I swear it.’

She said nothing, nor would she look at him.

‘I’ll leave, if that’s what you want,’ he said.

‘No.’ She kept her head down, but whispered, ‘Don’t leave.’

He sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder. ‘You made me