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

‘Why wouldn’t she let anyone else near?’ he demanded, his voice filled with grief. ‘They might have saved her.’

‘I don’t know.’ Sensing that he no longer wished to say anything else, she offered the solace of her embrace. Leaning in, she kissed him. His response was restrained at first, but within moments it became urgent.

Shifting their position, he lifted her up, with her back against one of the stones. His hand raised her skirts while he unlaced his trews and cupped her bottom. Within moments his body joined with hers, thrusting against her moist heat.

His eyes, shadowed with sensual promise, burned into her. He lifted her atop him as though she weighed nothing, plunging within her until she grew wet with need. Even as he brought her to exquisite pleasure, his hot mouth covering hers, never did he speak of his feelings. She wondered if he would ever think of her the way he had his first wife.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, she urged him to move faster, until the ache inside her grew to fever-pitch. She trembled, hovering on the edge of madness. With all her strength she tightened against him, arching in a way that she knew brought him incredible pleasure.

Bevan groaned, and she saw the moment of his release when he spilled himself within her. He protected her, he sheltered her. But she was afraid she would never have that which she wanted most—his heart.

Chapter Seventeen

T hat night, in the sanctity of the fortress, after their bodies lay joined, Bevan cuddled her against his side. With her head beneath his chin, Genevieve moved her icy feet beneath his, to warm them. Though he winced at the contact, he let her keep them there.

Her soft raven hair smelled of lavender, a fragrance he now knew she used in her bath. Though they had been wed only a few months now, their lives had blended together. She had been careful not to make more changes to Rionallís, respecting his wishes. And yet with each passing day his guilt grew stronger.

He had broken his vow of fidelity to his first wife. He had sworn never to forget Fiona, but there were times when he had trouble remembering her face. Genevieve’s presence was everywhere, filling the voids in his broken memories.

She yearned to be a mother, he knew. But, though he hated himself for the thought, he was secretly glad it had not yet happened. He remembered the fragile squalling infant who had scarcely been larger than his hands cupped together. It frightened him, the thought of becoming a father again. Though losing a child to death was common, and to be expected, he hadn’t known the pain it would bring. He didn’t want to lose another.

Bevan had seen the change in Genevieve recently. Though she never neglected her duties, her gaze would sometimes fall upon someone else’s child. On those days she became the seductress, luring him with her body until he could no longer hold a rational thought in his mind.

It disturbed him to realise she had so much control over him. He had to put a stop to it—to the feelings she evoked within him. He had arranged a distraction for her tomorrow, one that would allow him to ease back from Genevieve, and would occupy her thoughts.

The next morn, visitors approached the gates. He watched from the inner bailey, Genevieve’s hand clasped in his. When she saw who it was, her grip tightened and a smile broke over her face. She turned to Bevan, and in her eyes he saw joy.

‘You brought him here for me,’ she whispered, leaning up to press a kiss upon his cheek. He nodded, feeling a strange exhilaration that he had caused her such happiness.

Running towards them, Genevieve welcomed Sheela and young Declan. The woman handed Declan over to Genevieve, and she embraced the boy, hugging him tightly. He struggled to get down, and Genevieve took him by the hand, leading him to the fortress.

Sheela walked beside her, and the two women conversed together. Before she went inside, Genevieve turned back and sent Bevan a smile of thankfulness.

As the day progressed, he had difficulty keeping his attention on his responsibilities. He listened to disputes in the Brehon courts, offering his opinion when necessary. He inspected the construction efforts on the fortress, and spoke with several tenants about the year’s harvest. But in the midst of it all he kept thinking of her smile.

‘You’re in love with her,’ his brother Ewan declared.

Bevan sent his brother an exasperated look. ‘No. I was thinking of whether to expand the fortress and outbuildings.’

‘You were thinking of Genevieve.’ Ewan smirked. When Bevan tried to cuff him, his brother ducked. He was not in love with Genevieve. He cared for her, but that was all.

‘I am thinking that you may be in need of another lesson in swordplay,’ Bevan commented. What his brother really needed was a lesson in humility.

Ewan drew his own sword and the two brothers faced off. Bevan moved forward, striking towards Ewan’s left side. To his surprise, Ewan met his blade with a steady hand. Bevan changed direction, lunging forward, but again Ewan parried the blow.

‘You’ve been practising,’ he commented, trying not to let his brother see his satisfaction. It was the first time Ewan had shown any sign of improvement.

Ewan’s face flushed, but he held his focus. Bevan kept up the speed, forcing Ewan to exert more effort. It was only towards the end, when he saw Ewan breathing heavily, that he ended the session. Though he could easily have defeated him, by striking when his brother had revealed his exhaustion, today he had no desire to bring down Ewan’s spirits.

Lowering his weapon, he clapped his brother across the shoulders. ‘Well done.’

Ewan ventured a tired grin, sheathing his weapon. He nodded. ‘Genevieve has ordered the cook to prepare some of the apple pastries you like.’

‘Perhaps you should go and try a