‘I am one of those foreigners,’ she pointed out. ‘And Rionallís now belongs to my father. It is part of my dowry.’
‘A stolen dowry.’
She didn’t know what to say. Even if she held the power to give him back the land, a part of her didn’t want to let it go. She had spent day after day cleaning the fortress, helping the soldiers repair the palisade. And in that time she had come to think of it as her own. Sometimes, at night, she would climb up to the gatehouse and watch the moon spill over the fields.
‘It is a beautiful place,’ she said at last. ‘My father has sworn to keep the land safe for King Henry.’
Bevan’s eyes turned dark as he climbed up the pathway leading to the fortress. In his visage she saw a man prepared to wage war upon her family. And, worse, she understood why.
‘Perhaps we can seek a compromise?’ she offered.
‘There will be no compromise. The land belongs to me.’
‘I set both of you free,’ she argued. ‘Are your lives not worth peace between us?’
‘I will grant you an escort to take you back to England,’ he said. ‘Then my debt will be repaid. After that, I owe you nothing more.’
The cool tone of his voice silenced her. She glanced back at the grey water below them. Her fears rose up at the thought of Bevan fighting against her father. It would happen—unless she found a way to stop it.
Her shoes did little to protect her from the craggy rocks at the base of the island, but she climbed, ignoring the ache in her ribs. Bevan made no complaint, though once he stumbled and touched a hand to his shoulder.
What sort of man was he? He did not dress as a nobleman, but his skill with a sword and his unquestioned leadership made it a possibility. And yet his plain clothing and stoic demeanour could easily allow him to pass for a commoner. A warrior, she decided. A fierce man, with a strong sense of justice.
The snow swirled harder, but in time they reached the entrance. The men there greeted Bevan by name, acknowledging him with a respectful nod. Genevieve tried to count the number of tribe members, but there were too many. It made her uneasy, knowing that so many were on hand to attack Rionallís and her family.
She followed Bevan inside, to a room with a bright fire burning in the hearth. Genevieve neared it, warming her hands. A servant brought them food and drink, and she ate hungrily. Ewan did the same, but she noticed Bevan did not partake of the meat and bread.
He removed his cloak and sat down, closing his eyes for a moment. His posture stayed erect, but Genevieve could see the signs of exhaustion. She picked up a piece of bread and brought it over to him. ‘You should eat something.’
‘I require nothing.’
His voice sounded sharp, and his face was haggard in appearance. A dark lock of hair fell across his eyes, which were glazed with pain.
‘You need to lie down and rest. Your wound must be hurting. And you need to warm your feet from the sea water.’
‘I am fine.’
On impulse, she reached out and touched his forehead. His skin felt hot and feverish.
‘Leave me, Genevieve,’ he said.
Stubborn man. Like as not his wound had become poisoned. She could see all the signs. And yet he would be the sort of soldier who refused to admit a hint of vulnerability.
‘You saved my life,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘And I saved yours. But were it not for me you would not have this wound. Let me tend it. I’ll not say anything to your brother or your men. Tell them you are showing me to a chamber where I may rest.’
He took her wrist, stopping her. ‘I need no nursemaid, nor do I require your help.’
She ignored him. In a loud voice, she said, ‘Well? Is there no place in this fortress where I may rest?’
Ewan looked uncomfortable, but a middle-aged bearded man moved forward. A steward of some sort, she guessed, from the large ring of keys tied to his waist. He nodded to Genevieve. ‘With your permission, Bevan, I will show her to a chamber.’
‘I will show the lady her place,’ Bevan said, rising to his feet. He sent Genevieve an angry look, but she ignored it.
‘I would like some warm water and clean linen to wash,’ she told the steward. ‘Please have them sent up.’
The steward inclined his head. Genevieve found a winding staircase leading to an upper level, and Bevan followed her. The fortress was not a large one, and it showed recent signs of repair to the roof. All along the walls she saw weapons of every kind. Some appeared decorative, while others revealed nicks and the evidence of battle.
‘Why do you defy me?’ he asked in a low tone.
‘You are being foolish. The wound may be poisoned with bad blood.’
He stepped in front of her, crossing his arms. ‘I do not intend to give up the attack on Rionallís, if that is what you are thinking.’
‘No. Such would show more wisdom than you have,’ she shot back.
‘What you are doing is far more foolish,’ he warned. ‘I have said that I do not want your aid.’
Genevieve entered a small chamber containing a bed. The hearth held nothing but cold ashes. A chair and table stood by one wall.
‘Sit,’ she commanded, while she bent to build the fire. At the motion, her ribs ached. Genevieve pushed away the pain, focusing on her task. Within minutes she had a small blaze going.
Glancing behind, she saw him watching her. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but she could see the underlying strain. It reminded her of her older brothers, when they did not want to admit an injury from the practise field.
A knock at the door sounded, and when she answered she saw the steward, bearing a basin of water and fresh linen. Genevieve thanked him and closed the door.
Bevan remained standing, even as she laid out the water and linen to change his bandages. The fierce glare upon his face intimidated her. The new scar on his cheek twitched.
He moved towards her so swiftly Genevieve flinched, covering her face instinctively. A moment later, she lowered her arms, her face flooded with shame.
‘I do not strike women,’ he said, his tone softer. She stiffened, hating herself for the moment of weakness.
‘I know.’ She busied herself with the linen, trying to regain her composure. ‘I—you—you startled me.’
He reached out to her with deliberate slowness, his fingers grazing the bruised side of her cheek. ‘Only a coward would use his fists upon a woman. Only one with the need to prove himself.’
She swallowed and nodded. ‘Aye.’ The whisper of his touch made her cheeks flush. All at once she wanted to fade away, to disappear from his penetrating gaze.
‘Sit and let me change your bandage,’ she said. To her surprise, he obeyed.
Bevan’s hands gripped the arms of the chair as Genevieve brought the basin over to the table. Tension lined every muscle in his body, and she feared she would cause him pain, no matter her desire to be gentle.
She saw that she would have to unfasten the buckle at his waist. His fists clenched before she lifted the bloodstained tunic over his head, but he made no sound.
Though she had seen his chest the night before, the intimacy of touching his bare skin made her shiver. Hardened muscles, formed from years of training, tensed beneath her palms. His heated skin held its bronzed colour from the summer sun, and she imagined him upon a practise field without his tunic. Deep ridges outlined his stomach muscles.
The wound in his shoulder was swollen, and she saw a dark purple bruise forming over the torn flesh. Gently, she touched the edge of the wound and he flinched. By the saints, she did not know how he had managed to go as far as he had without collapsing. But her stitches had held, in spite of the journey.
She washed the dried blood away with the linen, trying not to cause him discomfort. With a quick glance around the room, Genevieve saw large cobwebs, their threads glinting in the low light of the fire. She went to the corner, reached up, and grabbed handfuls of the sticky material.
She held a cloth to
the wound, to wipe away the excess blood, before packing his shoulder with the cobwebs. She had seen evidence of their healing powers, and knew they would help mend his flesh. Last, she bound his shoulder with clean linen.
‘This needs a poultice,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask the steward for the herbs I need.’
He said nothing, his face tense with pain. Genevieve knelt down and removed his boots, baring his feet. She lifted them into her lap and massaged his cold skin.
She had never touched a man’s feet before. The gesture felt strangely intimate. His feet were rough, and she smoothed her fingers over his skin, trying to bring feeling back into them. She rubbed firm, muscled calves, continuing the motion until the colour returned to them.
‘I am sorry you had to suffer for my sake,’ she whispered.
‘Pain is a part of battle. I am accustomed to it.’
His face tightened, and she guessed that some of her ministrations were beginning to work.
‘Come.’ Genevieve helped him over to the bed. ‘Lie down and rest.’ She pulled back the coverlet on the bed and eased his head onto a pillow. Bevan’s skin still felt fiery hot to the touch, and she worried about his fever.
‘My thanks,’ he said, and then closed his eyes.
Genevieve touched the back of her palm to his forehead. ‘Sleep now.’
She studied his bare torso, checking for any other wounds. She did not see any. She found herself comparing him to her betrothed. Unlike Bevan, Hugh’s skin was pale, the colour of rising dough. She shuddered at the thought.
She sat before the fire, staring into the flickering warmth. Her eyes caught sight of the old bandage lying on the table, stained with blood.
There was no going back now. She would never let Hugh Marstowe near her again.
* * *
Genevieve stayed near Bevan all night, though she confided in the steward about Bevan’s wounds. The man was helpful, and provided the herbs Genevieve requested. She made a poultice of comfrey and other roots to help heal Bevan’s torn flesh.
The sky had grown darker, and Genevieve pulled the shutters closed. The fire upon the hearth brought a little warmth inside the small chamber, but still she shivered. She sat upon the bed beside Bevan, trying to make him drink tea made from willow bark. He tossed and turned in his sleep, his skin burning to the touch. She sponged his brow with cool cloths, but often had to hold him down to restrain his struggles.
Once, he caught Genevieve’s waist and pulled her close. She struggled, but his strength overpowered her, even with his injury. It was only when she lay beside him that he calmed. His hands threaded through her hair, and he slept.
Genevieve could not extricate herself without more fighting, and after a time she gave up. If her presence brought him comfort, so be it. It was a small price to pay for escaping Hugh.
The night hours stretched out, the freezing winter air enveloping them. The meagre fire did little to warm her, so she curled up against Bevan’s length. At long last she succumbed to sleep.
* * *
Bevan dreamed of Fiona, of her milky white skin, soft as the first spring flowers. Her raven hair tangled in his fingers as he traced the lines of her face. Downward his hands skimmed, until they cupped her breasts. They seemed fuller than he remembered, but it felt good to have her in his arms once more.
His body hardened as he pulled her bottom against him. By the god Lug, how he had missed her. He wanted to roll her beneath him and sink inside her, loving her until they both trembled with ecstasy.
A harsh aching burned in his shoulder, but he refused to dwell on it, giving his full attention to his wife. He pulled her closer and captured her lips with his own.
Dark and sweet, just as he’d remembered. He heard her give a muted cry, and he stroked the softness of her nape, tasting her mouth as though it were the first time.
‘A chroí,’ he whispered, for she was his heart, his soul. At the edge of his memory he sensed something was wrong, but he forgot it when his lips met hers again. ‘Don’t leave,’ he whispered.
He pulled her into his arms and heard the sound of her weeping. He reached out a thumb to brush her tears away.
‘Bevan—stop,’ she whispered. Her hands pushed at him, pushing him away. Why? He tasted her lips again.
‘Let me love you, Fiona. Let me give you another child.’
‘No!’ She was fighting harder this time, struggling to move away from him. ‘Let me go.’
His hands stilled, and in the dim fog of his dream he saw his wife leaving him. She didn’t love him. She didn’t want his touch. He rolled away, releasing her while a tightness filled his throat.
‘You were dreaming. Hush, now.’ A cool cloth touched his forehead and he closed his eyes. ‘Sleep.’
Genevieve pulled her chair near the fire, her body shaking with fear. She had known Bevan was dreaming—known he was thinking of a woman.
But when his hand had stroked her breast feelings had come alive within her. They had been terrifying feelings, unlike the pain Hugh had caused. Bevan’s touch had made her relive those moments, and yet she had felt pleasure, too. She had been about to push him away when he’d kissed her.
Dear God, she had not known what to do. He had murmured endearments, words of love, making her feel desire such as she’d never known. Hugh had never kissed her with love or compassion. There had been only degradation in his embrace.
But this…
Bevan had used his tongue, worshipping her mouth. Her hand moved to her breast, where the tip was still hard and pebbled. The enormity of her desire had made it the hardest thing in the world to push him away.
But he wasn’t dreaming of her. He wasn’t touching her or calling her name. It was someone else. The fever had caused him to lose sight of where he was.
And yet she wished she could have known such a love. There had been a time when Hugh had brought her ribbons and flowers. Her heart had leapt whenever he’d smiled at her. She had thought it was love.
What did she know of love anyway? Her own parents’ marriage was a rarity. She should not use their match as a comparison for her own.
She began to straighten up the room—anything to occupy her hands—and spied something small and white on the floor, near Bevan’s discarded tunic. The tiny scrap of linen was hardly as large as her palm. She wondered where it had come from. At the bottom, a tiny row of embroidered flowers covered its hem.
It was too small to be a lady’s handkerchief. She frowned. It must belong to Bevan. For all she knew it had no value whatsoever.
Then, on a whim, she placed it upon the table, folding it. She sensed that it meant something to him and should be guarded carefully. What kind of man kept a token such as this?
He slept, his breathing harsh with pain. But she believed he would heal. When he did, she would try to convince him to let the matter of Rionallís rest.
As the sun rose along the waters, turning the sea from darkness into a silvery reflection of the sky, Genevieve prayed that more blood would not be shed on her behalf.
* * *
Hugh Marstowe rubbed at his neck. Red lines marred his skin where the prisoner had dared to strangle him.
Genevieve had helped the man—helped both of the prisoners escape. And now the bastard had his betrothed. Hugh’s skin itched at the thought of any man touching her. Even now Genevieve might be sharing his bed, the whore. Hadn’t he shown restraint? Holding back his lust when she pushed him away? He was a patient man.
But now she had run from him, keeping company with an Irishman. His hand tightened upon the metal links of the chain.
He’d learned more of the prisoner—Bevan MacEgan—from a wench in the village. It had taken hardly any convincing at all for the girl to tell him where the MacEgan family holdings were.
He remembered the look of fear in the maid’s eyes when he’d strangled her, leaving her body in the woods. He had used the same chain that had been used on himself. He’d kept the heavy iron chain, for he meant to tighten it
around the Irishman’s neck, watching until the life faded from his enemy’s eyes.
But not yet. No. He needed to learn more about MacEgan. If Genevieve’s father learned what had happened, Hugh risked losing her and the dowry. He would not let anything threaten this opportunity to own Rionallís and to become lord of his own demesne. The land was his foothold—a stepping stone for becoming a powerful lord. He had no doubt King Henry would bestow a title upon him one day. Rionallís would be one property among many.
But first he had to regain his bride. There was no question Genevieve was in the company of MacEgan. Hugh had sent men to follow them, and they had tracked the prisoners to the coast. Now was not the time to rush into battle, but rather to plan carefully.
The MacEgan holdings were among the strongest fortresses in Erin. He did not have enough men to launch an attack—not without alerting Genevieve’s father. Hugh selected a sword from the armoury, testing its sharpness with his thumb until a thin line of blood appeared.
He refused to admit weakness of any kind. He would bring Genevieve back without the Earl ever learning the truth.
He chose a mace as a second weapon and swung it, letting the heavy spiked ball smash into a wooden table. He imagined it was MacEgan’s face.
Soon, my sweet Genevieve, he thought. I’ll come for you soon.
* * *
‘I am leaving for Laochre tonight,’ Bevan said. Days had passed since Genevieve had first tended his wound. Though the skin remained raw, no longer did it seep poisoned blood. In a few more weeks she believed he would have full use of his shoulder.
She refused to look at him, focusing her concentration on his wound while cutting away the old bandage. Bevan had removed the tunic so she could better reach the injury. The sight of his bare skin made her uncomfortable.
‘You will stay here,’ he added. ‘It will be safe until I can arrange for your escort.’
‘If you say so.’ Not for a moment did she believe Hugh had given up. The longer she stayed, the greater the chance he would find her.
‘There are over sixty men here,’ Bevan pointed out. ‘And no one has tracked you here thus far.’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 57