‘I’ll tend it,’ Genevieve interrupted. ‘Have you a needle and thread? Some of his wounds are deep.’
The priest inclined his head, and left his torch inside an iron sconce before he departed. After he had gone, Genevieve stared up at the interior of the round tower, past each level to the top.
Wind howled against the stones, a shrieking sound that made Bevan think of evil spirits. Though he was not a superstitious man, he crossed himself. He did not deceive himself by believing they were safe this night.
It took a while until the priest returned, but Father Ó Brian brought bread and mead, along with water and clean strips of linen. He handed Genevieve a small cloth packet containing the needle and thread. Then he left them alone. Ewan lifted the first ladder away, sealing the main entrance, then busied himself with the food.
With Genevieve’s help, Bevan removed his tunic, gingerly avoiding his wounded shoulder as much as possible. She cleansed the wound, her eyes never meeting his. Though she performed the duty with calm efficiency, he sensed a greater discomfort. She was afraid of him, even after everything that had happened.
Her own cheek had swollen up, a bruise beginning to form. Caked blood marred her temple, tangling the dark hair. He was glad he’d taken her from Rionallís. And yet he did not know what to do with her now.
‘Do you have other family here?’
She shook her head, threading the needle. ‘My father was supposed to come. He grew ill and could not journey with me to Rionallís. Instead he sent Sir Peter and his wife as my guardians.’ She held the edges of his shoulder wound together, and Bevan tensed. ‘I was supposed to marry Sir Hugh upon our arrival.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ He gritted his teeth through the pain of her stitching. He felt foolish that such a small needle should cause dizziness, while he had endured the stabbing wound without flinching.
‘The King wanted to witness the marriage.’ A wry expression tilted at her mouth. ‘I suspect Hugh wanted the King there. He overestimated his importance to King Henry. I was glad for the delay.’ She tied off the thread and Bevan expelled a sigh of relief.
‘Your guardians…they were supposed to look after you?’ He gazed pointedly at her bruise, then down to her ribs. The torn kirtle reminded him of Sir Hugh, and the brutal beating he’d witnessed.
Genevieve reddened. ‘Yes. Sir Peter believed I was disobedient, and that Hugh was right to punish me.’
Her hands moved to the cut upon his face, and Bevan steadied himself for the needle once more. ‘What of Sir Peter’s wife?’
‘She hardly ever spoke to me,’ Genevieve admitted. ‘She complained about Ireland and wanted to return to England. Most of the time she stayed in the solarium, weeping.’ She frowned in distaste.
Her needle moved swiftly, stitching the wound closed. Thanks be, she had finished. He breathed easier now that it was done.
She bound the wound tightly with linen strips. With a cloth, she sponged at the slash on his cheek. She finished treating his wounds and poured him a cup of mead.
Bevan drank the fermented beverage and pointed towards the bruise on her cheek. ‘Where do you want me to take you on the morrow?’
‘Away from Hugh. It matters not where.’ She rose and crossed the room, to sit upon the pallet.
Bevan reminded himself that he should not concern himself with Genevieve’s problems. She was the daughter of an enemy, nothing more. He had repaid his debt to her, and the sooner their ways parted the better. Yet her presence disconcerted him.
Her hair was dark, like his wife Fiona’s. Her eyes were a deep blue, the colour of the sea. She was tall, the top of her head reaching to his chin. Though she turned away from him, he saw the way she cradled her ribs. Tonight had not been the first time Sir Hugh had harmed her. What he could not understand was why anyone would allow it to happen.
Bevan brought the basin over and sat beside her. The faint scent of lavender emanated from her skin. Without thinking, he washed away the blood upon her temple.
What was he doing? Guilty thoughts invaded his mind with the intimate act, for it was the first time he’d touched a woman in a very long time. He held the cloth out to Genevieve, and she took it from him in silence. ‘He hurt you.’ It was not a question.
Genevieve soaked the cloth once more, wringing it out. Her hands brushed over her ribcage. ‘I don’t think he broke any bones, but, aye, it hurts.’
He regretted not killing Sir Hugh when he’d had the opportunity.
They ate the meagre meal provided by Father Ó Brian while outside the wind howled. Bevan climbed up the rope ladder to the level surrounded by windows. Wind blasted through the openings, but he peered into the darkness to see if the enemy approached. A flurry of white swirled into the room.
‘Do you see anything?’ Ewan called up.
‘Snow.’ He climbed down several levels, favouring his good shoulder. The change in weather lightened his worry, though he saw the confusion in Ewan’s eyes. ‘It will hide our tracks, should they try to pursue us. For tonight, so long as the snow continues, we are safe.’
An answering smile tipped at Genevieve’s lips. The softness of her expression drew his attention, and Bevan took a step forward. She held his gaze for a moment before looking away.
What was it about her that bewitched him so? Her Norman kinsmen had slaughtered his people and stolen his home. The blood running through her veins was the same as his enemy’s. And yet she remained an innocent, caught up in a battle that should not involve her.
‘Sleep now,’ he said, moving away from her. ‘I’ll keep watch for tonight.’
Genevieve curled up on the straw pallet, huddling to keep warm. Ewan slept against a sack of grain on the opposite side of the tower.
The night stretched in long moments, making Genevieve uneasy about leaving Rionallís. Hugh would come after her, hunting her until he possessed her once more. He would not stop until she returned to him. In many ways she wished she could become invisible—a serf who would attract no man’s attention.
She remembered Bevan’s eyes upon her, and the way he had tended her wound. Once she might have encouraged his attentions. She might have welcomed the feelings he could awaken within her as his hand warmed hers.
Now she knew better. Those days were over, and she no longer trusted her own judgement. She would let no man court her affections again, though Papa might arrange a different marriage. Her heart grew heavy as she closed her eyes, wishing she knew what the morning would bring.
* * *
In the darkness, Bevan watched Genevieve sleeping. She slept on her stomach, her palms atop the pallet, her breathing steady and even. Dark hair fell across her shoulders. He reached out and touched a strand of her hair. It curled around his finger, soft as a silken ribbon, before he released it.
Why had she helped them? Her desperation to escape Sir Hugh was genuine, and he knew her act of bravery had saved their lives. In return, he had sworn to protect her. And yet the promise meant bringing an enemy among his family.
Ewan had accepted their escape as a lucky twist of fate, but then, he was a boy. He did not stop to consider the repercussions of Genevieve’s actions. Although she had fled willingly, Bevan knew Sir Hugh would come after them, seeking their deaths. He welcomed the prospect of killing him, but he could not allow Genevieve to stay with them. Her presence would endanger those he loved.
A soft sound broke his attention. Genevieve was awake. She sat up and brought her knees to her chest, keeping her gaze upon him. The wind battered the stone tower, moaning in the winter’s darkness.
‘I cannot sleep.’
He made no move, no sound, but stared at her. Genevieve’s long hair flowed across her shoulders like a pool of water, haloed against the dying torchlight. The intense blue of her eyes regarded him in the stillness.
‘I never thanked you for saving me,’ she said. ‘There are no words to express how grateful I am.’
‘As soon as we reach my brother’s fortress I’ll
arrange to send you away to a safe place,’ he said gruffly.
‘I want to go home to England.’ Genevieve glanced at Ewan and added, ‘But later, when you have brought your brother to safety. Your lives are at stake, after all.’
‘I care not for my own life. Only his.’ He had not meant to voice the thought aloud, but it was true. Death did not frighten him any more. Many times Patrick and Connor had chastised him for his recklessness in raids against other tribes.
Genevieve drew nearer, her scent rising to tempt him. She took another step closer, and he could scarcely breathe. Raising her palm to his cheek, she traced her fingers along the fresh scar upon his jaw. ‘Your cheek is bleeding again.’
In the darkness, with her hair unbound around her shoulders, he could almost imagine she was a lover, reaching out to him.
He jerked backwards. ‘Leave it be.’
Bevan tried to shut out the images in his mind. Before he lost his only thread of honour, he climbed to a higher level of the tower, seeking the cold iciness of the night.
CHAPTER THREE
‘It is time to leave,’ Bevan said in the quiet morning darkness.
Genevieve opened her eyes, and a strange mixture of elation and hope overcame her. She had escaped Hugh. If she could return to England, she held faith that her father would help her end the betrothal.
‘Where are we going?’ She rubbed her arms, trying to bring warmth into them. Inside the tower, the stones held a chill. Her breath formed clouds in the morning air.
‘To the Norman encampment at Tara. You can find an escort there.’
Genevieve was not so sure. If she went to Tara, Hugh would find her within days.
‘It will be safe,’ Bevan reassured her.
‘No. The men there are loyal to Hugh.’ She sensed irritation from Bevan. He did not like her questioning his authority. Though she was grateful to him for his help, she could not risk being left at Tara. Hugh’s fighting reputation had earned him respect among his peers. They would not see her as anything but a hysterical female. She needed to find her father, the one person who could help.
Bevan’s shoulder wound had begun to seep, in spite of the stitching. A dark stain spread across the linen of his tunic. ‘We need to find a healer to care for your wound,’ she said. She didn’t like the tension etched upon his face, the silent pain he endured.
‘My brother’s healer will tend it.’ He buckled his sword belt around his waist. Genevieve realised that he had slept against the wall on the floor—if he’d slept at all. He drew near, and she shrank back against the stone wall of the round tower.
‘What about you?’he asked softly. ‘Are your ribs broken?’
‘They are only bruised.’ The pain was more bearable now, though they were tender to the touch.
Bevan shook his younger brother awake. Ewan yawned, stretching his gangly frame. His fair hair was rumpled from sleep, and his tunic hung open. He reminded Genevieve of her own brothers when they were younger. She had idolised them, believing they could slay dragons for her. A pang of remorse curled within her. She hadn’t seen her brothers in almost a year. Her eldest brother, James, had married, while the second-born, Michael, had gone to Scotland. She missed them, even though they had teased her mercilessly.
She had almost considered sending for one of them, but dismissed the idea. If Michael or James ever came to Ireland they would murder Hugh without a second thought. Her father was a better choice, for he could end the betrothal without any bloodshed.
‘Come,’ Bevan said, carefully adjusting his cloak. ‘Father Ó Brian has arranged two horses for us.’
Genevieve sat up slowly, biting back a cry at the aching of her ribs. Everything hurt, even the back of her scalp.
They did not stop to break their fast, but said farewell to Father Ó Brian and departed. Outside, thick snowflakes continued to fall, covering the ground in a layer of pristine white. The sun had not yet dawned, but a faint light in the east turned the sky lavender against the grey shadow of morning.
Bevan lifted her astride a brown mare, swinging up behind her on the saddle while Ewan rode a black rouncy. Genevieve masked the pain of her ribs, refusing to show any sign of weakness. Nothing could be done for them, and she did not want to slow down their escape.
With his nicker to the mare, the animal broke into a trot across the fields. When the church was barely visible behind them Bevan increased their pace to a gallop. She gritted her teeth, fighting the vicious ache in her side.
Her eyes scanned the horizon, searching for a trace of Sir Hugh’s men. She wished for a forest, or for some way to hide. Riding across open fields would make it easy for an archer to strike them down.
The snow continued to fall, covering their tracks. Behind her, she felt the warmth of Bevan’s body heat. His rough demeanour and wiry strength intimidated her. Though she understood the necessity of sharing a horse, she inched forward, trying not to let his body touch hers. The position made her ribs burn from the effort, but his injuries were far worse. She did not want to cause him further discomfort.
After a brief interval he shifted their direction. Ewan followed, bringing his horse alongside theirs.
‘This isn’t the closest way,’ he protested.
‘Be silent.’ Bevan glanced behind them, and urged the horse faster. Genevieve saw that they were moving towards the coastline, slightly south of Rionallís.
Her fingers dug into the mane of the horse as she wondered what Bevan was doing. He changed their pattern once more, heading downhill. Genevieve could now see Rionallís, further back from the sea. Below them, small fishing boats bobbed in the water. Bevan led them towards the boats and dismounted.
In the early morning, the sea reflected the cloudy sky above. A pungent, salty aroma filled her nostrils as they approached. The screech of seagulls echoed in the morning silence as the birds swooped in search of fish.
The rocky coastline held a hint of frost, but no snow covered the sands. Fishermen loaded their nets onto the small water crafts, talking in hushed voices. Bevan dismounted and approached one of the fishermen, pointing towards the boat.
After a lengthy discussion, Bevan exchanged silver with him. The fisherman gathered his things and left the tiny boat, muttering beneath his breath.
She couldn’t understand why he wanted a boat. It was much faster to travel on horseback. Where did he plan to go?
Bevan beckoned, and she followed, taking his hand to board the small wooden vessel. The fisherman led the two horses away.
‘Stay down.’ Bevan pressed her shoulders back so she lay against the bottom of the boat. Genevieve obeyed, but the rocking motion made her stomach churn.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked. Neither answered at first, so she held her tongue. She glanced behind, wondering if he had seen anyone following them. Although the falling snow continued to cover their tracks, she didn’t for a moment believe that Hugh would let her go. Somewhere, men were looking for her.
She laid her head against the damp wood, watching the men. Bevan’s arm muscles strained as he rowed, and she did not miss the subtle flash of pain. He pulled the oars through the water effortlessly, though it cost him. After a short while they unfurled a sail and set their course.
She watched him row, snowflakes catching upon his lashes and face. His green eyes met hers for a moment, and within them she saw emptiness. His gaze returned to the landscape, as though searching for something.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
‘My men. I don’t think they made it past the Normans.’
‘You don’t know that for certain,’ she offered, but he shook his head.
‘We would have found them by now.’
Genevieve risked a look back at the mainland. Clouds of snow obscured the coast, and the sea surrounded their tiny boat. The water was a deep grey colour, almost black. She wanted to reassure him that he could go back for his men, that he could rescue them. But if he did, more of her father’s soldiers would die.
<
br /> Instead, she changed the subject. ‘You never said where we’re going.’
Ewan adjusted one of the sails, tying the rope while the wind made it billow. ‘Ennisleigh,’ he replied. The look on his face showed pride.
‘Where is that?’
‘It’s an island fortress that belongs to our older brother, Patrick. They can’t track us by water,’ was all Bevan said.
A slight smile curved her lips. At this time of morning no one would look for them along the coast. The snow made the small boat nearly invisible, cloaked in the foggy mist.
She settled back against the swaying boat, watching the snow drift along the breath of the wind. After nearly an hour she saw gulls gliding in the air. They pulled in the sail, and soon the boat scraped bottom. Ewan jumped from the boat onto the rocks, avoiding the water. Bevan stepped directly into the sea, lifting Genevieve into his arms so her feet would not touch the water. He set her down upon the shoreline, seemingly unaware of the cold. His feet had to be freezing. He and Ewan pulled the boat onto the sand.
She took a moment to look at her surroundings. They had arrived at a small island off the coast, with an imposing ring fort. ‘Is this where you live?’
Bevan shook his head. ‘But we will stop here to rest. I’ll leave you here until an escort can be arranged.’
Genevieve held her tongue, not at all pleased with the idea of being left alone. ‘What about you?’
‘I will gather more soldiers and renew the attack on Rionallís. I have to go back for my men.’
‘Why did you leave Rionallís at all?’ she asked. ‘When my father’s men arrived last spring, no one held claim to it.’ The fortress had been all but abandoned when she’d arrived. The Great Chamber had not been cleaned in months, and layers of rotten food and dirt had covered the rushes. None of the people living within the palisade had set foot inside the dwelling.
Bevan’s expression was stony, unreadable. ‘I gave orders for no one to enter my home. My people obeyed. They knew I would come back to protect that which belongs to me. Especially from the Gaillabh.’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 56