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

‘Tá,’ he said as he dressed. ‘But I must see to my men. It is late already.’

She let the sheet slide from her body and rose from the bed. Hoping to entice him out of his ill mood, she wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘Are you hungry?’

A flicker of interest dawned in his eyes, but he shook his head. ‘Not now, no.’He pulled her hands away from him and planted a distracted kiss upon her forehead. ‘I will see you later.’

Genevieve forced her disappointment away. Uneasy, she pulled her shift on and donned her léine and overdress. The earlier contentment between them had faded. A sombre thought occurred to her—he might hold regrets about last night.

She tried to pretend as though nothing were wrong. ‘I’ve promised Mairi that I will help her with dyeing some new wool.’

‘Good.’ But he did not say farewell as he left the chamber. When the door closed, her gaze travelled back to the bed. He had well and truly banished the memories of Hugh. For that she would ever be grateful.

As she straightened the room, tucking the bedcovers where they belonged, she took a deep breath.

It might be that she could never take the place of Fiona. But she felt whole again, empowered to seize the future she wanted. And though the path ahead curved in a direction she could not see, she wanted to believe that there was hope for them.

Like water that gently eroded the jagged edges of a rock, she intended to fight for her warrior’s heart.

She found Mairi in one of the buildings used for dyeing wool. The malodorous scent of wet wool burned her nostrils. Bags of fleece waiting to be washed were stacked against one wall, by the heavy cauldron containing lye, which was used to soak the wool and thereby remove its natural oils. She was surprised to see Siorcha, laying out lengths of wool for more dyeing.

‘’Tis good to see you once more,’ she remarked, recognising the older woman who had cared for young Declan at Laochre.

Siorcha’s lined face managed a smile, though the woman appeared tired. Her grey hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her eyes were a dull, clouded blue.

‘Rionallís has always been my home,’ Siorcha said. ‘Though I left when that Norman took it. I refused to work for such a monster. I am thankful to be back.’

Genevieve inwardly agreed with Siorcha’s assessment of Hugh. She helped the older woman lift another pile of wool into the pot of lye to soak. She remembered how well Siorcha had cared for young Declan, treating him like a lost grandchild. ‘We are glad to have you back with us.’

Siorcha stirred the pot, not replying. Genevieve greeted Mairi, who was busy preparing madder root for another pot of boiling wool. ‘Can I help you with that?’

Mairi nodded in return. ‘Tá, ye can.’ With a quick glance at her face, she added, ‘I see he’s bedded ye at last.’

Genevieve flushed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Ye have a satisfied look about you. Only a MacEgan could make a woman look like that, as cold as it is today.’ With a smirk, Mairi immersed the madder root in boiling water.

Genevieve started to protest, but decided it was not worth the effort. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘He is a fine man.’

Mairi snorted, but a moment later Genevieve released a laugh. It felt good to release the tension. As she helped Siorcha add a fixative to the dye her mind travelled ahead to the coming night, when she would share Bevan’s bed again. Her body warmed at the thought, though she did not know if he would welcome her or push her away.

The pair worked long hours, assisted by Siorcha, until they had dyed the wool a deep red with the madder roots. Another sack of wool had been dyed a rich fawn colour, with dandelion leaves and roots, while a third had become a bright orange hue from onion skins.

The Irish nobility wore every colour imaginable—some in combinations that dazzled the eye. It seemed that they believed the more colours, the better.

Later that afternoon, Genevieve stopped by the training field. Despite the freezing temperature, the men sparred against one another, practising swordplay and perfecting their aim. Bevan moved among them, challenging his men to improve their technique.

Against the far wall, Ewan observed the men. She could see him mentally performing the same exercises, watching for any flaw. The longing in his eyes to be one of them made her ache with sympathy. She knew he would go to the weaponry room long after everyone was abed, to practise alone. Genevieve prayed that one day he would learn the skills that did not come naturally to him.

Bevan seemed different today, somehow. There was an energy about him, a swiftness in the way he moved. He fought off one soldier, only to spin and catch another’s sword. He moved with the grace of an experienced fighter.

He seemed to sense her stare, and lowered his weapon, stepping out of the match and nodding towards his men to continue. She could read his thoughts as he fixed his attention upon her. His hair was bound with a cord, and he wore leather armour that accentuated his muscular frame. She envisaged him plunging deep within her, his hands cupping her bottom as his mouth ravaged her throat.

Without her realising it, he had crossed the bailey and now stood before her. ‘What is it?’

Genevieve blushed at the wanton thoughts clouding her mind. ‘It is naught. I should go and oversee the food preparations.’

‘I’ll come with you. I’ve finished for today.’He walked beside her, but when she reached out her hand for his, his pace increased to avoid her touch.

Startled by his rejection, she held back.

A servant brought basins, towels, and fragrant oil for foot baths. Bevan sat at a bench and removed his foot coverings. He dipped his feet into the water, but Genevieve interrupted