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

anger that shielded her love for him. He would have chosen Fiona had she been there.

And she didn’t like it. Not at all.

‘We must tend to Ewan’s wounds,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘And then I am going home to my parents.’

She saw the injured expression on his face, the surprise. He must have thought she would fall into his arms—that she would go back to Erin with him.

‘I’m in love with you,’ he said quietly. ‘And I don’t want you to go.’

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she held on to her pride. ‘You made your choice, Bevan. Now I am making mine.’

Chapter Twenty-One

I mposing shadows stretched across the fortress belonging to Lord Thomas de Renalt, Earl of Longford. A solitary figure scaled the rampart and moved to the top of the battlement. Another man waited below, until a rope was lowered. He grumbled in Latin beneath his breath as he was hauled to the top.

‘This is foolishness, Bevan,’ Father Ó Brian remarked. ‘I much prefer stairs.’

‘Shh. Come.’ Bevan gestured for the man to follow him across the battlement and into the donjon. ‘Wait here.’ The priest remained outside while Bevan searched for the right chamber.

Fortune smiled upon him, for he heard the lilting sound of Genevieve’s music, alluring and haunting in its sadness. He followed the sound until he stood outside her door.

Nearly a month had passed since he’d seen her last. It had taken longer than he had anticipated to gain her father’s favour, and to pay the necessary fines for the death of Sir Hugh.

He knew Genevieve was angry, but he would not accept her refusal to come home. And he didn’t mind breaking a few rules. Longford had agreed to let him through the gates, but he would not grant Bevan any aid in winning Genevieve over. Which was why Bevan had resorted to bringing his own priest, and ropes to scale the walls.

He entered her chamber with stealth, motioning for the priest to await him. She sat upon a stool, the Celtic harp balanced between her knees. He’d sent her the gift, hoping to gain her forgiveness.

The top of the harp stood just above her head when she was seated. She ran her fingers across its strings, the tones rising and falling beneath her hands. Her hair remained hidden behind a veil, while her slender form was clad in a dark red kirtle.

He had practised what he intended to say, repeating the words over and again in his mind. And yet as soon as he saw her, all traces of speech fled.

At last, he interrupted her song. ‘Did my gift please you?’

Her hands struck a false note, and Genevieve jerked in surprise. ‘What are you doing here? If my father finds you—’

‘Your father has allowed me into the castle. He knows I am here.’ Bevan cocked his head to the side. ‘Although I am not certain about your mother.’

‘Well, I do not want you here.’ She glared at him.

‘You were wrong, you know,’ he said, moving the harp aside. He saw her risk a glance towards the door, but he closed the distance between them. Clumsy words stumbled over his tongue. ‘I wanted—no, I needed you long before I—’

Wariness haunted her eyes, and he knew he had to find the right words. ‘You left before I could tell you the truth. Even if Fiona had been alive I would have come back to you. You are the one I want as my wife.’

Doubt clouded Genevieve’s features. She wanted so much to believe him. ‘I don’t think—’

‘I agree,’he said, drawing her up. He trapped her in an embrace. ‘Don’t think at all. Just—know that I love you.’

He meant the words. The aching intensity in his green eyes, the way he humbled himself before her, bespoke the truth.

‘And I’m not leaving without you.’ His arms closed around her waist while his words breached the fragile defences of her heart.

Each day without him had augmented her despair. She had missed him with a need she hadn’t known. And when the Celtic harp had arrived as a gift from him, its carved wood reminding her of the days at Rionallís, she had wept with longing.

But she truly hadn’t believed he would come back.

‘Do you promise?’ she whispered, moving her hands up the strong planes of his back.

‘Do I promise what?’ He lowered his face to hers, poised to meet her lips.

‘Do you promise to carry me off like the Irish barbarian you are?’

He smiled against her mouth. ‘As long as I am allowed to ravish you a time or two.’

‘Or three,’ she whispered, even as his mouth came down to claim hers.

His hands removed the veil, twining in her hair and clinging to her in an embrace that made her whole again.

‘I love you,’ she said, claiming him as her husband.

His hands moved over her body in thanksgiving. Then he stepped back, a look of startled wonder on his face. His hand moved down to the hardened curve of her stomach.

‘Genevieve?’ He breathed the question. At her nod, he embraced her again, and Genevieve wrapped her arms around his neck, needing his closeness.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Bevan tilted her chin to look at him. ‘That will be Father Ó Brian, I believe.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I brought the priest with me.’ Kissing her lightly, he called out, ‘You may enter, Father.’

Genevieve’s throat closed up with emotion, and a desperate laugh bubbled forth. ‘You can’t possibly mean to do this.’

Moments later, Father Ó Brian cleared his throat. ‘This is not proper, Bevan. I have never blessed a marriage ceremony like this one.’

‘Sometimes stronger measures are called for when it comes to stubborn women. Continue, Father.’

Father Ó Brian began the Latin words of the marriage rite, while Genevieve took his hand. His thumb caressed her palm as he gave his vow, promising himself to her.

‘I’ve made my choice, Genevieve. And for ever and always that choice is you.’ Bevan gazed down upon her, and she