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

‘Let me,’ she said. Kneeling before him, she brought forth a linen cloth and a vial of fragrant oil. She washed his feet, massaging the soles.

At the touch of her hands upon his skin, he tensed. Ever since he had joined with her he had been able to think of little else than bedding her again.

He rebuked himself, trying to separate his mind from the needs his body demanded. He had been foolish once, letting himself love his wife. Love held no place in a marriage, and he’d not let Genevieve weaken him in such a way.

She poured the oil into her palm, using it to anoint his ankles, soles, and toes. When at last she had dried his feet, and replaced his foot coverings, he tilted her chin to look up at him. His hand threaded through her silken hair, and he captured her mouth in a fierce kiss until he needed to feel her bare skin against his.

Without speaking a word, he took her hand and led her up to their chamber. Once inside, he dropped the bolt.

Lug, but he could not contain his desire for her. He couldn’t get enough—not after all this time. He loved having her in his arms, beneath him and atop him. There was none of the emptiness in her eyes when he embraced her in the darkness of their bed. Instead she looked upon him with an aching emotion, even as he closed his heart off to her.

Bevan tried to take her in his arms, but saw her attention fixed upon the hearth behind him.

There, upon the stones, lay a golden torque set with sapphires.

‘What is this?’ Bevan demanded.

Genevieve shook her head, her fingers pressed to her lips. ‘It was a gift Hugh brought to me. I turned it away.’

The mention of the Norman knight ignited Bevan’s temper. The intrusion had alerted every instinct towards potential danger. ‘How did this get in our chamber?’

‘I know not. He sent his first message a sennight ago.’ Genevieve stared at the jewellery as though it were a living reminder of Hugh. ‘It was a ribbon he had once given me. He tried to court me again.’

His hackles rose because she had not confided in him. Did she still believe him incapable of defending her from the Norman bastard?

‘You should have told me of it.’ He directed her from the chamber, for they both knew of the secret souterrain passage that led underground beyond the fortress. Whether or not Hugh himself knew of it, Bevan would not take the chance that he might be nearby.

‘Ewan might know who has been seen near the chamber.’

Bevan dismissed the idea immediately. Although the boy worshipped Genevieve, and would do anything to help, he didn’t want him involved in something this dangerous. ‘No. I will ask some of my men to search for the answers.’

‘Bevan, give him a chance. He wants so much to help. What harm can it do?’ Genevieve put her hand on his shoulder, her eyes pleading. ‘You can put both your men and Ewan to this task. And if he succeeds it will give him a sense of purpose. Do you not see how restless he is? How much he yearns to be one of your men?’

‘Ewan is not, nor will he ever be, a good soldier. In all these years he has never shown any natural abilities.’

‘But he works hard,’ Genevieve argued. ‘He tries.’

‘Trying is not good enough in battle,’ Bevan said sharply.

‘A man must defeat his opponent, or he dies.’ His tone softened. ‘I don’t want him to die, Genevieve. He should choose another path for himself.’

‘This is what he wants. I do not think you can sway him. Better to keep training him until he does succeed.’

‘I’ll not train my brother so he can die at an enemy’s hand. If he does not fight, he’ll not be harmed.’

His youngest brother idolised him, he knew. And Bevan would protect him at all costs. Even if it meant causing his brother to hate him.

‘Until the person who did this is found, I want you to stay here. Do not visit the tenants or leave the donjon. Remain with a guard at all times.’ He started forming a plan in his mind. Which men to question first? After that, the women. He would not rest until he found out how Hugh had broken through their defences.

After being confined to the donjon for nearly three months, Genevieve was ready to scream with frustration. Ewan had discovered that a servant had been bribed to deliver the torque to their bedchamber. Even after the man had been fined for his deed, Bevan had ordered that Genevieve was never to be left alone. She had no privacy, no moments to herself.

Though she knew why he was so over-protective, her resentment at being treated like a prisoner grew stronger with each passing day. She bit her tongue each time she was barred from the gates, but she didn’t know how to convince Bevan that this treatment of her was unnecessary.

Many times she had wanted to snap at him, to demand her freedom. But then, at night, he seemed to be making up for two years of celibacy. He brought her pleasure, each time filled with intensity and passion, and he would hold her as if trying to absorb her flesh into his. In those moments she felt cherished by him.

When the day dawned, however, he turned distant, his attention ever focused on his people.

Her hopes of becoming a mother, of cradling a child in her arms had met with despair. The moon had gone through its phases two more times, and their efforts had not borne fruit.

Genevieve worked at her loom this morn, letting the mindless rhythm of weaving grant peace to her troubled thoughts. The colours blended together, creating a tapestry of lush flowers. She longed for springtime, when the snows would melt and give rise to the verdant hills and meadows.

Today was worse than usual, for a warm spell