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

‘I wonder how long it will take for your husband to arrive?’ he mused. He leaned in, and she shrank back. Grasping her throat, he asked, ‘Would you like to watch me kill him?’

Genevieve closed her eyes, fighting the fears that rose up. She prayed that Bevan would not come for her, that he would remain safe.

A fist struck her, and pain radiated through her jaw. ‘Answer me!’

When she did not, he jerked her hair back so she was forced to look at him. It made her feel as though she were reliving her past nightmare. Marstowe’s hand gripped her chin. ‘You gave your body to him, little whore. You let him take what belonged to me. And for touching you he will pay with his life.’

He struck her across the face, shoving her to the ground. She felt the cold earth beneath her cheek, but did not struggle against him. Fighting would only excite his anger more.

In disgust, Hugh left her alone. The icy chill of the hardened ground stung against her face, but she could see a faint light beneath the tent. Easing towards the bottom edge of the tent, she peered outside. Three men guarded her, and other soldiers stood on alert, armed and ready.

Bevan was riding into a trap. Marstowe would kill him, as he’d promised. And she would have to watch him die—unless she did something to stop him.

But what?

She bit her lip against the pain and focused on the knots. Moisture from the snow had caused them to tighten, but she worked at them with her fingertips.

Escape was her only hope of saving Bevan. At the thought of him, her bruised heart hurt again. His handsome face, scarred from battle, rose up in her memory. She thought of his hooded eyes, the way he looked at her, hungry with desire. She remembered the way he had taken away her fears, teaching her the ways of loving.

She didn’t want him to die. No matter that he had chosen Fiona, she loved him. She prayed that a child grew within her womb, that a part of him would always belong to her.

One of the knots slipped, offering a thread of hope.

‘You should not have come, MacEgan.’ The Baron of Somerton glared at Bevan, his sword drawn. Somerton was stocky, dark-haired, and he wore his moustache and beard trimmed close. He stood slightly shorter than Bevan, but there was no doubt the man had seen battle before, from the way he gripped his sword.

‘I’ve come for Brianna.’ Bevan would tear the man limb from limb for daring to keep her from him.

He reached behind him and unsheathed his sword to meet Somerton’s weapon. The Baron had a wooden shield, whereas Bevan had nothing but his weapon. Their blades clashed as they circled one another. ‘Why did you steal my wife and daughter?’ Bevan demanded. ‘Is it because you lacked the courage to face me yourself?’

Somerton lifted his shield to defend Bevan’s strike and held his blade steady. ‘That was Fiona’s doing. I asked her to reveal the truth.’ His features grew harsh. ‘You should have died on the battlefield years ago, MacEgan. Were it not for Fiona’s mercy, I would have gladly taken your life then.’

Bevan had warmed to the fight, and was now beginning to take pleasure in it.

A soldier took Brianna in his arms, to keep her from running towards the men. ‘Da!’ Brianna shrieked.

The sound of her voice only made Bevan fight harder. His sword collided with Somerton’s shield again. The Baron struck his blade, twisting to force Bevan in a new direction. Lord Somerton was skilled—a challenge he hadn’t expected.

The Baron increased the tempo of the fight. It forced Bevan to concentrate on his defence, and he realised they were evenly matched. He circled the Norman, watching for any weakness. It seemed that Somerton favoured his right side.

Bevan feinted right, and when Somerton raised his shield he changed his direction, forcing his enemy backward. Steel met steel, the blades ringing in the winter stillness. Bevan poured all his energies into the fight, releasing two years’ worth of grief and rage. Sweat beaded upon Somerton’s face, and his metal armour became a hindrance instead of a protection.

The Baron breathed heavily, but still he fought. Somerton sliced his sword downwards, and Bevan barely avoided the fatal strike. In response, he increased his speed, slashing until Somerton was trapped against a wall. With a final blow Bevan disarmed the Baron. He held his sword to the Baron’s throat.

‘I should kill you,’ he said. ‘For all that you have done.’

‘Da?’ a girlish voice whispered. ‘I want to go home.’

Somerton’s face softened at Brianna’s plea. ‘I treated her as my own daughter, you know. I wish she had been.’ Lowering his shoulders in defeat, he said, ‘Take her. She belongs with her father.’ With a nod to the soldier, Somerton ordered the release of Brianna.

Tiny arms gripped Bevan’s thigh. His left hand moved down to stroke her forehead.

‘I never wanted this deception, you know,’ Somerton admitted. ‘I wanted Fiona to tell you the truth from the beginning. But she wanted to take Brianna with her. She swore you would never grant her a divorce, and she couldn’t bear to be separated from her daughter.’

Bevan lowered his sword. ‘She was right.’ Even now, he could not believe the lengths she had gone to. How could she have taken his own child from him? Any feelings he had held for Fiona had now disappeared. He’d never truly known her, nor had he realised how desperate she was.

‘How did she die?’

Somerton inclined his head. ‘Her melancholy never left her, I fear. She grieved for the loss of her maid—the one who took her place and died in battle. Then Fiona miscarried a babe.’ The Baron’s face filled with regret. ‘She took her life soon afterwards. I could not save her.’

Bevan lowered his sword. His wife’s infidelity meant little to him any more. ‘I am taking Brianna with me,’