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

of people to ensure no one noticed her. Then she moved with another group outside the gates, until she was free. It took only moments to return to where their horses were tethered.

Spurring her horse into a gallop, she rode past the village and into the open fields, willing herself to close off the grief of losing him.

Genevieve did not know how long she rode, and in her state of numbness she did not hear the riders approaching behind her. Her mare reared as a hood was thrown over her head.

She struggled, but the men grabbed her arms, pulling her off the horse. She landed hard on the ground, and when she fought to stand, a fist struck her down. Blood trickled from her lip, and she ceased her movement. They tightened leather thongs around her wrists so she could not escape.

‘Take her to the camp,’ one of the men said.

‘What about MacEgan?’ another asked.

‘He’ll come when he learns we have her. Send the boy.’

Someone pulled her atop a horse. She almost wanted to laugh. Bevan would not come for her. Not any more.

If she intended to escape, the only person she could rely on was herself.

Bevan picked up a bundle of wood, following a servant into the donjon. With his head kept low, no one spoke to him.

The warmth of the donjon was a sharp contrast to the frigid air outside. Bevan deposited his wood near the hearth and hung back in the shadows. Deliberately, he kept his gaze down. If Fiona were here she would be seated upon the dais with the Baron, awaiting the noon meal.

He contemplated the rushes on the floor, suddenly wishing he had not come. He had been happy with Genevieve. She had filled up the empty pieces inside him, making him whole.

His life with her came rushing back in fleeting memories. He remembered rescuing her from Marstowe, watching her bruises fade along with her fears.

He remembered her body lying beneath his when he’d joined with her, her eyes shining with trust and something more. Even the way she would warm her freezing feet upon him in the middle of the night was something he didn’t want to forget.

He felt certain she loved him, though she hadn’t said it. And he wondered why he would give it up—why give her up for a woman who had left him?

Hurt and anger suffused him at the thought. He didn’t want Fiona. He didn’t want to see emptiness in her eyes when he could see fulfilment in another woman’s eyes. He wanted to wake beside Genevieve, to give her the children she craved. He wanted her smile, her laughter. He’d dry her tears of sorrow.

He closed his eyes, turning his back upon the dais. Just walk away. Pretend you never came here. Let the past go.

Bevan took a step away, convinced that this was the right thing to do. He had fallen in love with Genevieve, and she belonged with him.

Then he turned and saw her.

Chapter Nineteen

H is child. His beloved daughter. Alive.

All logic and words failed him. He did not understand why or how, but it mattered not. Kneeling before her, he saw the flicker of recognition on her face.

‘Do you remember me, a iníon?’ She had grown from a baby into a young child. Her dark hair was neatly braided, and she wore a blue kirtle trimmed with gold.

‘Da?’ she whispered. Bevan opened his arms to her, and her small arms tightened about his neck. He could not stop the tears of thankfulness that came from his eyes.

‘Brianna.’He gripped her so hard he knew he was squeezing the breath from her. But he had never expected to find her again. ‘I’ve missed you. What happened? Why are you here?’

‘Mama brought me here,’ she said, hugging him tightly. He pressed a kiss against her cheek, unable to believe he was holding her once more.

Fiona had lied again. Her betrayal cut him so deeply he was almost afraid to see her. She had stolen away his own daughter. For two long years he had not seen her. His anger towards Fiona intensified.

‘Where is your mother?’

Brianna shook her head. ‘Mama died last autumn.’

Last autumn. It meant he was still married to Genevieve. A surge of happiness broke through him, and he envisioned Genevieve waiting for him beyond the gates. There had been no sin between them, only the sanctity of marriage. Bevan rejoiced inwardly at the thought.

Then at once he remembered that his daughter, just five years of age, grieved still for her mother. She knew nothing of Fiona’s actions.

Brianna turned accusing eyes upon her father. ‘I waited and waited for you, Da. Why didn’t you come for me?’

‘I knew not where you were. Who looks after you now?’

She pointed at the donjon. ‘He does. He says he is my new father now. But you are my da, not him.’

The mixture of emotions made it hard for him to grasp what she was saying. Fiona had indeed run from him, taking her daughter with her, to this place.

‘Move away from her,’ a voice said.

Bevan looked up and saw an infuriated Norman lord. His grip only tightened upon his daughter.

‘Fear not, a iníon. No one will take you from me again.’

Her captors had imprisoned Genevieve in a makeshift tent. There was no fire, and she shivered inside her cloak. Her hands were bound behind her back, and her wrists throbbed with stinging pain from the leather thongs.

Hugh Marstowe had planned a trap, intending to use her to lure Bevan. She had tried to argue that Bevan would not come, that he didn’t care about her. Then she’d learned of Ewan’s fate. She prayed that he lived still. Bevan would come after Hugh for vengeance, but when he did they would kill him.

She worked at her bonds, trying to free herself. They had taken her eating knife from her, after searching her for weapons she did not have. The tent flap moved and Marstowe entered. He sat on