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

Her lavender scent surrounded them, and he closed his eyes, trying to block it out.

Hours passed, and he could not stop thinking of his journey. Would Fiona want to see him again? Would she divulge his identity to the Baron? His stomach gnawed with a tension that ate at him. He admitted to himself that he didn’t want to go. He wished he had never learned the truth.

He looked over to Genevieve. Her shoulders rose and fell in sleep, her dark hair spilling across the pillow.

He believed in the sanctity of marriage, believed in his vows. And it was for those vows that he would sacrifice his own happiness and return to Fiona. He had loved her once; he would learn to love her again.

His chest grew rigid at the thought of leaving Genevieve. He could not take her with him, couldn’t bear to watch her sadness if he had to bring Fiona home. He knew of an abbey near Dun Laoghaire. They would say farewell there, and he would have her parents come for her.

In the darkness, she rolled over and planted her icy cold feet upon his thigh.

‘ Belenus,’ he breathed at the contact. At first he nearly pushed her away. Then he realised that this was their last night together. He would not ever be able to touch her again.

Reaching down, he cupped her cold feet in his hands, rubbing the skin to warm them. First one, then the other. She did not stir, but as her feet warmed he pulled her close.

Wrapping his arms around her, he finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Ewan bent low upon the saddle. The sun had nearly reached its zenith in the wintry sky, and his stomach rumbled. Bevan had departed at mid-morn, ordering Ewan to return home alone.

He spurred his horse onward, enjoying the speed even as he resented his brother’s orders. When would his brother ever have faith in him? Ewan spent hours every day trying to become a strong fighter. He was improving, he knew. But it was never enough for Bevan.

Behind him, he heard the noise of horses approaching. Ewan scanned the horizon, but not a tree stood in sight to provide cover. Out in the open, he was a target.

He willed himself to stay calm and collected. Glancing behind him, he saw a small group of cavalry—Normans by the look of them. He recognised the armour, and when they drew nearer, it became more difficult to keep his emotions in check.

They were Sir Hugh’s men. Marstowe himself rode a chestnut destrier, trimmed in elaborate armour. Ewan hoped they would ride past, but soon it became apparent that they intended to surround him.

Ewan inhaled a deep breath. He mentally recited a Latin prayer, letting the words distract him from the desire to flee. The soldiers cut in front of him and forced him to stop. Ewan lowered his head.

‘The youngest MacEgan, aren’t you?’ Marstowe asked. He drew his horse alongside Ewan’s. ‘And they have sent you home.’

Ewan did not answer, but pretended Marstowe wasn’t there. He tried to remember how to count in Latin, but the sword that slid to his throat made it impossible.

‘Where are they going?’

Ewan remained motionless, panic clawing its way inside his throat. These men would torture him if he didn’t talk. But how could he betray his own brother and Genevieve? He had failed Bevan once already, causing them both to be captured from his cowardice.

He could not allow it to happen a second time.

The sword broke through his skin and he felt the warm wetness of his blood. A rushing noise filled his ears, and his vision swam. ‘I won’t tell you anything,’ he said.

He prayed for courage to endure whatever Marstowe planned.

‘They are travelling alone,’ Marstowe remarked. ‘How curious. Why would they not bring an escort? Unless they did not wish to be noticed.’ The man’s voice was smooth, oily in tone.

Ewan tried to reach for the sword at his side, but Marstowe twisted his arm. The knight unsheathed a dagger and ran the blade over Ewan’s palm. ‘Where are they going, boy?’

The MacEgans are the greatest warriors in Éireann. They never surrender. Their courage is legendary.

But as Marstowe’s dagger carved through his skin, he could only manage, ‘Somerton,’ before darkness claimed him.

‘I am not leaving you,’ Genevieve said, as they reached Dun Laoghaire. ‘If you believe I will stay behind in an abbey while you go after Fiona you are sorely mistaken.’

‘I am not taking you with me,’ he said, bringing their horses to a halt. ‘And that is final.’

‘If you do not, I’ll follow you again.’ She sat up straight in the saddle. Stubborn man. Genevieve knew that there was a strong chance Fiona was alive. But there was a slim chance of hope, too. And she intended to hold out, praying that somehow they could save their fragile marriage.

Genevieve turned her horse in the direction of the coast.

Bevan caught up to her, anger and worry lined in his face. ‘Genevieve, heed my command.’

He wasn’t going to let her go. She could tell. With a sigh, she stopped and faced his anger.

‘Bevan, hear me.’ She lowered her tone, softening it. ‘Put yourself in my place for a moment. If Hugh were still here, would you let me go alone to face him?’

‘It isn’t the same thing.’

‘Aye, it is. You would be afraid for me because you know what he is like. Just as I fear for your safety. What makes you believe Somerton will let her go? If he catches you, he’ll put you to death. At least if I am with you I can try to get help. To go alone is madness.’

She could see him beginning to consider it, so she pressed further. ‘If she is alive, I’ll—I’ll stay only long enough to see you both safe. Then I’ll leave. I promise.’

Tentacles of jealousy wrapped around her heart, for she knew Bevan would forget her as soon as he saw his wife once more. Any