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

Somerton hunched down in front of Brianna. Bevan tensed, keeping his blade ready.

‘Go with your da, little poppet. Be happy,’ Somerton said, his voice heavy.

Brianna’s thumb tucked into her mouth and she nodded. As Somerton gave orders for an escort, Bevan’s gaze searched the grounds for some sign of Genevieve.

Worry curled in his gut when he saw that she was gone.

Ewan’s hands were raw, and his body was beaten and bruised, as he rode towards Lord Somerton’s donjon. The gait of the horse jarred his sore muscles, and he fought to keep himself upright.

He had failed Bevan again. And Genevieve. He had told Sir Hugh everything he knew, but they had not stopped torturing him. They had carved the skin from his palms until he doubted he would ever handle a sword again. Blood seeped through the bandages on both hands, and he used his wrists to hold the reins.

At the gate, the guards would not allow him entrance. He was fortunate, for Bevan had come into the inner bailey.

‘Ewan!’he called out. ‘What has happened?’ Bevan’s face shadowed with worry.

‘Marstowe,’ Ewan managed. ‘He’s taken Genevieve.’ He nodded towards the hills. ‘Across the river.’

Rage blackened Bevan’s face. ‘Why?’

‘Rionallís,’ Ewan managed, before he slipped into unconsciousness.

Bevan caught his brother’s body, his mind infused with guilt. He blamed himself for Ewan’s wounds. At the sight of his brother’s hands, he wanted to inflict the same wounds tenfold upon their enemy.

A sick dread filled him at the thought of Genevieve’s fate. Bevan knew Hugh wanted him dead, and this was a means of luring him. Marstowe would take Genevieve for himself, for only through her could he gain Rionallís.

Bevan thought of asking Lord Somerton for soldiers, but he doubted if the man would help him. He held no liking for Bevan, not to mention that an entourage might inspire Marstowe to harm Genevieve.

No, he would have to go alone. If he could infiltrate Marstowe’s men and get her out alive, it would be his only hope. His mind devised a strategy while he gave orders for Ewan to be looked after.

The Baron approached the pair and, seeing Ewan’s wounds, sent for the healer.

‘Will you keep my daughter safe for me?’ Bevan asked.

Lord Somerton nodded. ‘I will.’

With Brianna in the Baron’s care, Bevan mounted and rode in the direction of the camp. He berated himself for letting Ewan leave by himself. He knew the boy had pride—pride that Bevan had broken many times with his words. Bevan had believed that allowing Ewan the chance to travel alone would show his faith in his youngest brother. He should have listened to his instincts. Now, because of his eagerness to find Fiona, he had endangered two of his loved ones.

A fierce need for vengeance rooted in his heart. He would find Genevieve and rescue her from Marstowe.

He could only pray that it wasn’t too late.

Chapter Twenty

E wan opened his eyes to a searing pain in his hands. He fought against crying out, and the healer pressed him back down onto the pallet. ‘Hush, lad. I must clean your wounds.’

The woman gave him a bitter-tasting drink that made him feel dizzy. As she worked to tend his hands, he tried not to succumb to sleep.

‘I have to help him,’ he said, struggling to sit up.

‘Lie down,’ she urged. ‘You must rest.’

No. He could not lie abed. Not while Bevan was riding to save Genevieve. Marstowe’s soldiers would kill both of them, and it would be his fault.

A surge of fury welled up within him—anger at himself for his failure. Ewan used what remained of his strength to push the woman back. ‘My brother’s life depends upon it.’

The heaviness of sleep descended upon him from the herbal drink. Ewan went to a corner and forced himself to retch up the tea, knowing he needed his wits for survival.

Lord Somerton entered the chamber. ‘What is it?’

‘Marstowe’s men will kill my brother when he arrives. I need you to send reinforcements to help him. He’s out there alone.’

Somerton started to shake his head. ‘I do not think I should get involved in this battle.’

‘He’ll die if you don’t!’ Ewan insisted. ‘Or is that what you wanted all along?’ His voice shook with anger and helplessness. He had failed his brother once before, and Bevan had rescued him. If it hadn’t been for his weakness, Marstowe would never have found them.

‘No. Such was not my intention.’

‘Then send men,’ Ewan pleaded. ‘After what you allowed to happen, you must help him.’

The Baron paused, deliberating. ‘Where are they?’

Ewan described the whereabouts of the campsite, and after a long moment the Baron relented. ‘I owe him this for what I did.’ He departed to give orders.

Ewan reached out to open the door, his hands bleeding once more. He blocked out the pain, keeping his mind steady.

This time he would not fail.

Bevan dismounted from his horse when the camp came into view. He lowered himself to the ground, and the frost-laced grasses dampened his tunic. Inching over the top of the hillside on his stomach, he gazed down upon the enemy.

Not a tree or stone offered a hiding place. The soldiers awaited him in full view. In the centre of their camp was a single tent, heavily guarded. He didn’t even know if Genevieve was inside.

A secret attack was not possible under the circumstances. But before he made a move he had to ensure that Genevieve was alive.

He remounted his horse, leading the destrier over the crest of the ridge. Pulling an arrow from his quiver, he nocked it to the bowstring.

‘Marstowe!’ he called out.

A soldier rode towards him, his spear aimed. Bevan released his arrow, and the shaft struck its mark. The man’s body fell to the ground, and Bevan readied another arrow.

‘I want to see Genevieve. If she is alive, I will come down to you.’

He could not see Sir Hugh, but the guards parted the tent folds. Moments later they dragged Genevieve out. Her hands were bound behind