Bevan climbed the ladder, surprising the inhabitants of the cottage. He held a finger to his lips, knowing his people would never betray him. The blacksmith moved towards his hammer, in an unspoken promise to give aid if needed.
At the entrance to the hut, Bevan counted the number of enemy soldiers in the courtyard. He would enter the fortress tonight, he decided. And Rionallís would be his once more.
* * *
‘Genevieve, I am glad to see you safe.’ Sir Hugh embraced her while Genevieve fought to breathe. Her strength had given out, and he had caught her at last. She held back tears of frustration, her skin freezing cold.
Dark memories assaulted her. She knew what he would do. She closed off her mind from her body, for it was the only way she could bear the pain.
There was no one left to help her. Her father had sent close friends of his, Sir Peter of Harborough and his wife, to act as guardians until his arrival. He might as well not have sent anyone at all. Both were blind to Hugh’s deeds. They saw only a strong leader, a man respected by his soldiers.
When she’d complained of Hugh’s punishments, Sir Peter had only shrugged. ‘A man has the right to discipline his wife,’ he’d said. But she was not Hugh’s wife. Not yet. And nothing she said would convince them of any wrongdoing.
Her father’s men refused to interfere. The last man who had tried to shield her from a beating had been discovered dead a few days later. The soldiers obeyed Hugh without question, emptiness in their eyes. They were afraid of him, and he knew it.
‘I feared for you, out here alone.’ Hugh pressed a kiss upon her temple. The gesture felt like a brand, burning into her skin. His words mocked her attempt to escape, seemingly gentle. But she recognised the hardened edge to his voice, the promise of punishment.
Possession dominated his blue eyes. She had once thought him handsome with his dark gold hair cut short. But his heart was as cold as the chain-mail covering his strong form.
She steadied herself. ‘Let me go home to my family, Hugh. I am not the wife you need.’
He cupped her chin, his fingers tightening over her flesh. ‘You will learn to be the wife I need.’
‘There are other women, wealthier than I.’ She could not meet his gaze when his hand moved lower, to her waist.
‘None of such high rank.’ His palm spanned her back, his thumb brushing against a bruise that had not healed. ‘None with land such as Rionallís.’ His voice grew tinged with ambition. ‘Here I can become a king. These Irishmen are primitive, with no knowledge of what it means to fight.’ His mouth curved upward. ‘And you will reign at my side. The King has commanded it.’
She said nothing. Hugh’s prowess on the battlefield had earned him King Henry’s favour. When he had offered for her, and received the King’s blessing, Genevieve had fallen prey to his flattery. Believing his false courtship, she’d begged her reluctant father for a betrothal. Now she wished she had remained silent.
Hugh lifted her upon his horse, mounting behind her. At the contact of his body against hers, she shuddered with revulsion. He spurred the horse onward, his harsh embrace imprisoning her. When the fortress came into view, the last vestiges of her courage died.
Denial and panic warred within her. Was there anything else she could do to stop this wedding? More than anything, she needed her father’s help. Each day she prayed to see his colours flying, heralding the arrival of his entourage. And still he did not come.
They rode beneath the gate, and she did not miss the pitying looks upon the faces of the Irish. Hugh dismounted and forced her to accompany him. ‘You must be weary,’ he said. ‘I will escort you to your chamber.’
Genevieve knew what would happen as soon as they reached the chamber. Closing her eyes, she searched for an excuse—any means to delay the inevitable punishment.
‘I am hungry,’ she said. ‘Might I have something to eat beforehand?’
‘I will have food sent above stairs. After we discuss your…journey.’ Hugh gripped Genevieve’s arm with a strength that reminded her of the retribution to come. Her eyes filled with unshed tears. She would not grant him the satisfaction of making her weep.
She concentrated on the pain of Hugh squeezing her arm as he directed her up the stairs and towards her chamber. He bolted the door behind them with a heavy wooden bar. Alone, he stood and watched her.
‘Why did you run from me?’
She didn’t answer. What could she say?
‘Don’t you know I will always come for you? You are mine to protect.’ He caressed her hair, tangling the strands in his fingers. She stood motionless, trying not to look at him.
‘The King has summoned us to Tara,’ Hugh said, releasing her suddenly. ‘We will be married there within a few days.’ Pride swelled within him. ‘He may grant me more land, as a wedding gift to both of us.’
Leaning down, he brushed a kiss upon her closed mouth. ‘Do not look so glum. It will not be long now.’
His claim was not at all reassuring. She had been thankful that King Henry had delayed Hugh’s earlier requests to come. Political alliances with the Irish kings took precedence. Now her time had run out.
‘I will not marry without my father.’
‘Thomas de Renalt will come.’ His expression tightened. ‘He should have arrived by now.’
‘He was ill,’ Genevieve argued. Her father had ordered her to continue on to Rionallís without him. With an escort of soldiers and her guardians, Papa had believed her to be safe. Genevieve had bribed a priest to send missives, pleading with her father to end the betrothal. She had sent the last one only a sennight ago. But Thomas de Renalt had given no reply, and she feared Hugh might have intercepted the messages.
‘I will not wait on him any longer.’ Hugh shook his head. ‘I know not what the Earl’s intentions are, but the betrothal documents are signed. With or without him, I will wed you.’
‘I will never wed you,’ she swore. ‘I care not what the King says.’
His fist struck the back of her head. Pain exploded, ringing in her ears, but Genevieve refused to cry out.
‘You have not lost your spirit, have you?’ Hugh remarked.
She swallowed hard, wishing she had not provoked him. She knew better than to fight him, for his strength was far greater than hers. If she offered her obedience, he was often more lenient in the punishment. She struggled to force back the words of defiance.
Then he smiled, the cruel smile she had grown to despise.
‘Remove your garments.’
Bile rose in her throat at the thought of him holding her down. For the past few weeks he had gloried in humiliating her. If she refused his commands, he beat her until she could no longer stand. Though he had not breached her maidenhead yet, she knew it was but a matter of time. Fear pulsed through her at the thought.
When she did not obey, Hugh struck her stomach, causing her to double over. She clutched her side, unable to stop the moan of agony from her lips. Was this what her life would become? Would she surrender everything to this man, letting him dominate her?
She closed her eyes, afraid it would be so. Though another woman might consider ending her life, Genevieve did not want to risk eternal damnation. She’d not let him take possession of her soul as well.
He unsheathed his dagger, and her heart nearly stopped when she saw the blade. In a swift slice, he cut the laces until her kirtle pooled at her feet. Clad only in her shift, Genevieve tried to cover herself.
‘You belong to me, Genevieve.’ He set the dagger upon a table, moving towards her. Genevieve’s glance darted to the weapon. She avoided another blow and let herself fall against the table. The dagger clattered to the floor.
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘I am sorry.’ It was not true, but the apology might slow his fists. Her head ached; blood was trickling down her cheek.
He began to strip his own clothes away, revealing a muscle-hardened body. ‘No. You are not sorry. But you will be.’
He closed the distance be
tween them. ‘It’s time you learned how to be an obedient wife.’ His fingers closed around her nape in a gesture of control. ‘Soon, Genevieve,’ he promised. He kissed her roughly, bruising her lips until she tasted blood. ‘You have no idea of the pleasure I can bring you.’
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘I do not wish to force you,’ he said, his fingers suddenly gentle. ‘I could have taken you at any time, were that my intention. But I am a patient and forgiving man. Give yourself to me willingly, and I shall teach you the rewards of obedience.’ His hand curled beneath her jaw. ‘I know you better than you know yourself. You want my touch, though you fight me.’
Never. At the thought of his hands upon her, nausea pooled in her stomach. She lifted her chin and stared into his ruthless blue eyes. His handsome face repulsed her, and she spat at him. ‘I hate you.’
Hugh’s hands curled up with rage. Fury flashed in his expression, and he struck her cheek. She turned at the last second, falling to her knees. She shut out the pain, her hand closing around the fallen dagger. Before Hugh could see what she had done, she’d hidden the weapon behind her in the folds of her shift.
Genevieve tightened her grip upon the dagger. The hilt felt cold in her palm, its unfamiliar weight awkward. She didn’t know if she had the courage to use it. A thousand doubts filled her mind. But she clung to the thread of survival.
A furious pounding sounded upon the door. Genevieve’s glance darted towards it.
Hugh cursed, and donned his tunic before opening the door. ‘What is it?’
‘An attack, my lord,’ the servant informed him. ‘Irish invaders have set fire to the outer palisade.’
‘Stay here,’ Hugh snarled to Genevieve. Within seconds, she was alone. Fate had granted her a reprieve. Genevieve laid her cheek against the wall. It felt as though she might blend in with the wood and plaster, so cold was she. Her fingers clutched the linen of her shift, as though the thin fabric could somehow shield her from Hugh’s return. No relief filled her, for he would come back. And then his punishment would start anew.
She could feel the old fears coming back to taunt her. She let go of the dagger, the opportunity to defend herself gone. Her hair hung down around her face. Blood matted the back of her scalp, so she removed her veil. Her dark hair would hide the injury.
Below, she could hear the men shouting commands. She rested her forehead on her knees, trying to gather her strength. If they were under siege, she’d have another chance to get away. But she could not remain idle.
Wearily, she rose to her feet. Her body ached, and she wondered if Hugh had broken her ribs this time. It hurt to breathe. Her kirtle lay on the floor, where it had fallen. Genevieve winced as she leaned over to pick it up. The stabbing pain eased when she straightened and slipped the gown over her shift. The laces were destroyed, but it would keep her warm for now.
You must leave, she told herself. Now was her opportunity, and she could not let it go.
A strange noise caught her attention. She turned towards a large tapestry hanging upon the wall. It rippled for an instant. Genevieve backed away, not knowing what the movement was. Instinct told her to be on guard. She took the dagger in her hand once more.
A man emerged from behind the tapestry, fully armed, with a sword at his side. He wore trews and a moss-coloured belted tunic that fell in folds to his knees. She recognised the large iron brooch pinning his cloak. It was the soldier from the hillside. A quiet authority resonated from his stance, but her anger remained. He had not helped her when she’d needed him most.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, holding the dagger steady. His hair, black as the devil’s soul, flowed across his shoulders. A thin scar, long ago healed, marred one cheek.
‘I am Bevan MacEgan.’
Beneath his tunic she saw the outline of heavy muscle. It occurred to her that he might be a more dangerous threat than Hugh.
‘And what is your name, a chara?’ He crossed his arms, waiting for her answer. Deep green eyes regarded her as though judging her worth.
Her mouth went dry. ‘I am Genevieve de Renalt.’
MacEgan stared at her for a moment, his gaze noting her injuries. ‘What happened to you?’
Genevieve suddenly remembered her torn kirtle, and she shielded her body as best she could. ‘I was punished for running away.’
‘By whom?’
Genevieve hesitated, but answered truthfully. ‘Sir Hugh Marstowe.’
‘And why was he hunting you?’
‘Because I refused to give myself to him.’
His eyes turned cold, like the frost-laced granite stones that lined the hills. ‘I could kill him for you, should that be your desire.’
‘You missed your opportunity.’ Heat rose in her cheeks, along with anger that threatened to break loose. ‘I could have been safely away from him by now. But you stood by and did nothing.’
‘It’s not over yet,’ he said quietly. ‘And I am here now.’
He was nothing more than an intruder, a man who had abandoned her. But she saw something in his expression when he spoke, something unexpected: sincerity. He might be a rugged barbarian, intent upon conquering Rionallís, but the timbre of his voice and the brutal honesty in his face made her reconsider.
It was better than waiting for Hugh to return, she decided. Given the choice between staying here or going with a stranger, she would rather take her chances with Bevan MacEgan.
‘If you will see me to safety, that will be enough,’ she said crisply, lowering the dagger. ‘How did you get inside?’
He pulled the tapestry aside, revealing a narrow space. A single rope hung down the passageway inside the wall. ‘You don’t expect me to go down that way?’ she said, her throat tightening at the thought of the sheer drop.
‘No. I will take you another way.’ His expression changed into a mask of determination. ‘Come.’
‘Where?’
‘Below stairs. I have a condition before I grant your request.’
‘What condition?’
‘You will be my hostage.’
For a moment, she hesitated. She knew nothing about this man, and there was a chance he could harm her.
But he had come back, answering her earlier plea. It seemed she had little choice. ‘You won’t deliver me into his hands, will you?’
‘No. But you may help to grant us more time.’
‘Why are you attacking the fortress?’ she asked.
‘I am the rightful owner of Rionallís.’
She decided that now was not the time to inform him that Rionallís was part of her dowry. Especially when she relied upon him for her freedom. He would learn it soon enough.
Her hands closed on the wooden bar, but MacEgan grasped her waist and pulled her aside. At his touch, she gasped with pain. She bit her lip until she had control of herself.
‘I will go first,’ he said. ‘Then you.’
He opened the door and she clutched at her torn kirtle, reluctant to face Hugh. A dark side of her wished fervently that Hugh would fall to MacEgan’s blade. Without him, life would go back to the way it had been before.
After noting that it was safe, MacEgan pulled her into the hallway. Genevieve saw other men, armed and ready. He gave a sharp command in Irish, an order to follow him and guard their backs. With his hand upon her neck, he guided Genevieve down the winding stairs until they reached the Great Chamber. He positioned a knife at her throat. ‘Do not flinch. I would not have my blade slice your skin.’
It seemed strange that she should feel safe with him. A sense of calm descended upon her, because he was giving her a second chance at escape.
When the Norman guards caught sight of them, they moved to defend her.
‘Come no closer,’ MacEgan said, and they held their weapons steady. Genevieve searched the Great Chamber for Hugh, but saw no sign of him. It made her uneasy.
‘Tell Sir Hugh I wish to speak with him,’ MacEgan commanded. One of the soldiers departed, and he guided Genevieve
in front of him. She waited agonising moments for Hugh to appear. The blade had warmed beneath her skin, and she dared not move. At the touch of MacEgan’s hand upon her nape, her skin prickled.
The soldiers held their weapons in readiness, but she could tell from their expressions that they would not act until Hugh gave the command.
But Hugh did not come. Instead, Sir Peter Harborough came forward. His greying hair was dishevelled, his armour stained with sweat and blood. ‘Release her,’ he commanded. He reached to draw his sword.
‘Sir Peter, wait!’ Genevieve cried out.
MacEgan held the knife at her throat. ‘If you do not wish her to die, I would suggest you call off the men. And I want to see Sir Hugh.’
Genevieve watched the soldiers, wondering when her betrothed would emerge from the shadows. No doubt he was near.
Sir Peter’s expression held a combination of fury and hesitation. After a moment, he sheathed his weapon. ‘Damned Irish. Haven’t the sense to know when they’re conquered.’He caught the glance of another soldier and ordered, ‘Bring in the prisoner.’
MacEgan grew alert. Genevieve had not known of a captive. When the prisoner was brought in, she saw a lad of hardly more than four and ten. He was skinny, with reddish-gold hair and a stubble of fuzz covering his cheeks. His head hung down, as though he were ashamed of himself.
MacEgan exploded with anger. He spoke in Irish, likely to keep the others from understanding him.
‘What were you thinking, Ewan? I told you to stay at Laochre.’
The boy drew back. ‘I am sorry, brother. I thought—’
‘You thought you could join in our fight? And how long did it take for them to capture you?’
The boy’s face reddened.
Genevieve could hold her silence no longer. ‘Leave him be. He is only a boy.’
‘Who may not live to be a man if he behaves in such a fashion.’ MacEgan’s grip tightened upon her, and his tension became palpable.
Sir Peter revealed a smile of victory. ‘And so we come to the terms, MacEgan. You shall call off your men, return the Lady Genevieve unharmed, and in exchange we release the boy.’
‘What if I refuse?’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 54