Genevieve tied fresh linen around his shoulder. ‘For now, that is true. But Hugh will come after me.’
A grim expression settled over his face. ‘You are safer upon Ennisleigh than out there alone.’
She tied the bandage and folded her hands in her lap. ‘That may be so. But I’ve no wish to be caught in the middle of your war against my people.’
‘This battle was begun long before you came to Éireann,’ he said. ‘Rionallís belongs to me, and I’ll not let it fall into Norman hands.’
‘I am a Norman,’ she said, a hardened edge rising in her voice. He was beginning to distance himself, placing her along with the enemies he despised. She didn’t like it.
‘I know.’ His gaze locked with hers, with no intent of retreat. She understood suddenly that whatever peace lay between them would vanish once she returned home. Bevan would regard her as an enemy.
In her heart she knew the property rightfully belonged to Bevan. But her father had conquered the land and would defend it. She could not allow Bevan to endanger her family.
Genevieve chose her next words carefully. ‘The land is part of my dowry, meant to be given over to my husband when I wed.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Would you shed my blood to get it back?’
Bevan stood, his shadow looming over her. Taut muscles, scarred from battle, flexed as he leaned in close. Genevieve tried to retreat, but he caught her nape and held her fast. ‘My men will take you to England. And I would suggest that you stay there.’
Her pulse quickened, even as she tried not to be afraid of him. ‘Your escort cannot protect me,’ she said. ‘Hugh will kill your men and take me captive once more. The only person whom I trust to take me home is my father,’ she said. ‘Send word to him and you need not inconvenience yourself.’
‘And bring the Norman enemy upon us? No.’ His tone was sharp, menacing. He sat, donning his tunic and hooded mantle.
‘He will come for me,’ she said softly. She believed it in her heart, even though Thomas de Renalt had not answered a single one of her missives. More than anything she had come to believe Hugh had intercepted them. ‘I know he will.’
‘I’ll ask nothing of a Norman.’ Bevan stood and turned to leave. He had seen the hurt in her eyes, the wounded spirit. He hadn’t meant to speak so harshly, but he could not let himself befriend an enemy.
Genevieve moved towards him suddenly, taking his hand in hers. Before he could react, she laid something against his palm. ‘You would not want to leave this behind,’ she said.
He recognised the token and curled his fingers around it. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘You brought it with you.’ She had not moved her hand away from his, and the soft innocence of her palm sent a flare of desire through him.
No woman had touched him since Fiona. No one had dared to. Outside, the bitter winter wind sliced through his garments, but he could still feel the heat of Genevieve’s impulsive gesture.
It meant nothing. He would not dwell upon it. He pushed the uncertainties from his mind, tucked the scrap of fabric away and gathered his cloak around him.
Bevan muttered a farewell to her, not waiting to hear a response. He climbed down to the shoreline and boarded one of the boats. As he crossed the waters, Bevan turned his gaze to the horizon. Two years ago enemy torches had cast their reddish glow upon the sea. Norman swords had dripped the blood of his kinsmen upon the earth.
He fingered the familiar piece of fabric Genevieve had given him. The tiny bit of linen was a reminder of his purpose—revenge against the Norman invaders who had taken Rionallís.
In the evening twilight a gull circled the sea, sweeping lower towards its prey. The sun drenched the horizon in a bronze glow, a benediction of light. He watched from the shoreline until the rosy hues dimmed into a rich purple.
It reminded him of the evenings he and Fiona had spent together, waiting until the stars emerged. He had shared with her his hopes for the future, his dreams yet to be fulfilled. His hand had rested upon the swelling at her waist, his greatest hope of all.
He pushed the despair aside and forced his mind upon the present. He would find another mercenary battle to fight, using mindless bloodlust as a means to forget.
And he would leave Genevieve behind, try not to think of the feelings she had stirred within him.
CHAPTER FOUR
When he first laid eyes upon his sister-in-law Isabel, Bevan felt as though a hand had choked off the air in his lungs. She held her newborn son in her arms, her face as serene as the Madonna. At a closer glimpse he saw the wrinkled infant face, the grey-blue eyes, and the tiny mouth working in search of a warm breast.
‘His name is Liam,’ Isabel said softly. ‘For the uncle he never knew.’
Bevan saw the look of pride upon his brother’s face, and managed to mutter his congratulations. Isabel lifted the baby to her shoulder, and he thought of the time years ago when his own daughter had nuzzled into his neck. He forced his gaze away.
‘We’ve missed you, Bevan,’ Isabel said, giving him a light hug.
‘You look well,’ he responded.
‘Will you be staying with us longer this time?’ she asked, cradling the child in her arms.
‘Níl. Lionel Ó Riordan has asked for my sword against Strongbow’s army. His men are fighting in Kilkenny. I’ll be joining them after I’ve resolved the matter of Rionallís.’
Isabel’s face showed her disappointment, but his brother Patrick offered support. ‘If that is your wish. Tell me what happened. I gather Ewan got himself into trouble again?’
Tension edged upon him. Bevan inclined his head, and began to relate the story. At that moment his younger brother entered the Great Chamber.
‘What are you doing here?’ Ewan demanded. ‘I thought you were with Genevieve.’
At the mention of the name, Bevan saw his sister-in-law brighten with curiosity. ‘Who is Genevieve?’
Bevan sent a warning look to Ewan, but his brother ignored it. ‘She’s—’
‘Stay out of this, boy—’Bevan threatened.
‘—the woman we rescued,’ Ewan finished with a cocky grin. ‘In truth, she rescued us first.’
He dodged before Bevan could grab him, standing behind Patrick.
‘Really?’ Patrick mused. ‘Now, this is interesting.’
‘Very,’ Isabel agreed. ‘Who is she? And why isn’t she here?’
‘It was a temporary arrangement,’ Bevan said. ‘I’ve left her at Ennisleigh.’
He could tell Isabel was itching to ask more questions, but her husband silenced her with a warning look.
‘She’s a Norman,’ Ewan piped in.
‘A hostage?’ Patrick asked. His expression turned serious. ‘Not a wise move, Bevan.’
‘She’s not a hostage. She saved our lives. All she wanted in return was to escape her betrothed.’ Bevan shrugged, acting as if it were of no matter. He was going to cut off Ewan’s meddling tongue if the boy didn’t stop his chatter. To Ewan he said, ‘Meet me on the training field tomorrow morn, and we’ll see if your sword is as good as your mouth.’
Ewan’s grin widened, and Bevan wished he had not risen to his brother’s bait. He knew Ewan longed for more lessons in swordplay. Bevan loathed the training, for no matter how much he tried, Ewan never improved. His skills with a sword would get him killed one day, and all knew it. He would be better off serving the Church.
After they departed, Isabel turned to her husband. ‘Bevan hates the Normans. There’s more he’s not telling us.’
‘He must have been forced to it,’ Patrick said grimly. ‘He would never have brought her otherwise.’
‘I wonder what kind of woman she is?’ Isabel mused, putting her son to her breast to nurse. The infant latched on, making soft sighs as the milk flowed. ‘Why would she leave her home?’
Patrick shot her a suspicious look. ‘You’re not planning anything?’
‘Not yet,’ Isabel promised. ‘But I would like to know more about h
er. I think I may pay a visit to Ennisleigh.’
‘Do not interfere, Isabel.’
She lifted the babe to her shoulder for a burp. ‘I wonder if she’s pretty? Bevan has been alone for a long time.’
Patrick put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘Let him be, a chroí. He grieves for her still.’
Isabel raised her gaze to her husband. ‘Then ’tis high time he started living again. I shall find out what I can about this woman.’
* * *
The following morning, Bevan’s sword sliced through the air, nicking his brother’s arm. ‘Are you trying to let me kill you?’ he demanded. ‘Raise your shield!’
Ewan dodged another blow and stumbled, catching the tip of Bevan’s sword. Bevan turned at the last second to keep his brother from skewering himself.
In disgust, he sheathed the weapon. ‘That’s enough. Face the truth, brother. You were not meant to be a soldier.’
Ewan coughed, his head bowed towards the frozen earth. Bevan could see the frustration in his stance.
‘I could be,’ Ewan insisted. ‘I need more training.’
‘You’ve been training all your life,’ Bevan said quietly. ‘And I can’t protect you forever.’
‘I never asked you to,’ Ewan said, his voice hoarse. He rose to his feet, picking up his fallen sword. ‘I can look after myself.’
Bevan nearly said, No, you can’t, but he kept his mouth shut. ‘Go back inside.’
His brother raised his chin, and in his eyes Bevan saw rage, not acceptance. ‘I’ll prove to you that I can be a warrior. I swear it. I never meant for the Normans to capture me.’
‘No one ever intends to be caught,’ Bevan remarked. ‘But you were. You could have been killed.’
‘I am sorry.’ Ewan sheathed his own sword. ‘For all of it.’
Bevan knew he referred to the failed conquest of Rionallís, but he did not acknowledge his brother’s apology. Instead, he calmed his tone of voice. ‘You should find another skill. Not every man has to be a soldier.’
‘I am a MacEgan. That’s who we are.’ Ewan stared hard at Bevan, and in that moment Bevan feared that his brother would never accept reality. The fierce determination on Ewan’s face made it evident that he would die before choosing another path.
At the thought of another brother dying to the sword, a lump caught in his throat. His eldest brother, Liam, had died in the fight against the Normans—the same battle that had claimed the life of Fiona.
He reached out and tousled Ewan’s hair. ‘One day, perhaps,’ he said. The acknowledgement earned him a smile.
‘Are we going to see Genevieve again today?’ Ewan asked, his mood suddenly brighter. ‘I like her.’
Bevan made a noncommittal sound. ‘We are not going anywhere. I may arrange for her to return to England on the morrow. Or the next day. But you will remain here.’
‘Sir Hugh won’t let her go,’ Ewan reminded him. ‘Even now he might be raising an army.’
‘He does not have enough men to fight us. And Genevieve is safe at Ennisleigh.’
Ewan shrugged. ‘Possibly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He could come at night, alone. ’Tisn’t hard.’
‘No one can get through our guards.’
‘I can,’ Ewan said. ‘Many times have I gone to Ennisleigh. I like to sleep beneath the stars.’
‘The guards know you.’
‘They did not know I was there,’ Ewan insisted. ‘But if you send Genevieve with an escort to England he will find her. And kill any man with her.’
The boy’s assertion infuriated him, because it was exactly what Genevieve had said. He wanted to groan with frustration. For the only way to ensure Genevieve’s safety and prevent Sir Hugh from capturing her was to escort her himself.
* * *
Bevan cursed when he set foot on the island. He hadn’t intended to come back to Ennisleigh, but not only had he returned, he’d brought Ewan with him. Ewan had begged to come along, since he’d had to endure teasing after his failure at Rionallís.
Bevan had gone over Ewan’s arguments many times, and he had no desire to be Genevieve’s escort. Yet he hadn’t forgotten the beating Marstowe had given her, nor the fear in her eyes when she’d cowered beneath his fists.
Again, he wished he’d had time to kill the man.
Ewan was right. Sir Hugh would come sooner or later to claim his betrothed, or he would intercept them on their journey to Dun Laoghaire.
Bevan reached up to touch his shoulder wound, which had begun to heal. It would take weeks yet, but thankfully he had been wounded on the left side, which had not affected his sword-fighting.
He strode into the inner bailey, towards a section set aside for training. His tribesmen were engaged in their daily exercises, overseen by their captain. Ever since the invasions, all men were expected to defend the ring fort. It was the only way to survive.
Ewan joined them, practising his swordplay. The clang of metal rang out over the stones, and the breath of the men hung in clouds in the icy air.
Genevieve stood nearby, watching. She wore a hooded black cloak, and when she saw him approaching, her face brightened. ‘’Tis good to see you again, Lord MacEgan.’
‘Bevan,’ he corrected. ‘We do not use titles here—unlike your people.’
‘Bevan, then.’ She turned back to watch the men. ‘Do they do this every day?’
‘Tá. Our soldiers are among the best-trained in Éireann.’
She shivered in the cold air, and a light drifting of snow began. ‘Do you think they could train me?’
‘What do you mean?’
She stared at the soldiers. ‘Not sword-fighting. Hand-to-hand combat.’
‘Why?’
‘So that a man like Hugh will never touch me again.’ Her words were brittle, like the icicles that hung from the turrets.
‘Come inside. It’s cold.’ He led her away from the men, but she stopped him.
‘I want to learn to fight,’ she insisted.
‘You’re safe here. There is no need.’ The bruise on her cheek had deepened to a purple hue, he noted. A protective instinct rose within him to guard her from Marstowe.
‘I don’t want to feel that way ever again. Helpless. I was not strong enough to defend myself.’
He laid a hand on her arm, and she jerked. Tears glistened in her eyes, but they were tears of anger, not sorrow. ‘I will learn to take care of myself. With or without your help.’
If his wife had known how to defend herself, would she still have been taken by the invaders?
‘I’ll teach you,’ he said finally. One day more would not matter. It was too late in the day to start their journey to Dun Laoghaire, he reasoned. On the morrow would be soon enough.
He was rewarded with a faint smile. Mayhap this was his second chance to atone for his sins. He had not been able to protect his wife.
But he could teach Genevieve to protect herself.
* * *
Their first lesson began in the Great Chamber. Bevan faced Genevieve, and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. ‘Never take your eyes off your enemy.’
She obeyed, watching him. The scars on his face only accentuated the strong planes, the firm mouth, and those fierce green eyes.
‘Don’t fight fair. Aim for the soft spots. A man’s eyes. His throat. His groin.’
Her glance flickered downwards as she remembered the feeling of his skin against hers. His warm touch, his hands moving over her. Her body tightened in response to the memory. She did not like the way he made her feel. Strange longings conjured up fears she didn’t want to face.
Bevan stepped behind her, gripping her across her shoulders. Though the gesture meant nothing, a tremor of unwanted desire kindled within her veins. She forced it away, along with her discomfort at being held so closely.
‘If a man attacks you this way, use the back of your head to smash his nose. With any luck you’ll break it, and his concentration.’
/> Her concentration had already wandered away, but she managed a nod. ‘You had a knife,’ she said. ‘What should I do then?’
‘You can still fight off your opponent.’He switched places, standing in front of her. ‘Pretend as though you have a knife at my throat.’
Genevieve reached up, but her arms would barely surround his broad shoulders. She stood on her tiptoes to reach him, an imaginary knife in her hands.
The posture reminded her of an embrace, and she lost her courage for a moment.
Do not be a fool. You must learn this. She took a deep breath and adjusted her position.
‘First, I would tuck my chin down and take a good grip on the man’s knife arm.’ He covered her hands with his own.
The closeness of him made her uncomfortable once more. He smelled clean, of woodsmoke and the wintry forest.
‘Now you step back.’ He pressed his leg backwards, against hers, twisting his body to the right. Genevieve lost her balance and had to grab him. Within seconds he had her on the ground beneath him.
She could not stop the trembling, the blind fear that hit her. Hugh had tried to hold her down like that once before. Though a part of her was dimly aware that Bevan had no intention of harming her, she closed her eyes tightly.
‘If you fall on top of him, ’twill knock the breath out of his lungs,’ Bevan instructed. ‘And then you have the knife against his throat.’
She opened her eyes, but could not mask her terror.
‘What is it?’ Bevan sat beside her on the ground, lifting her to a seated position. ‘Did I harm you?’
She shook her head, trying to push away the sharp burst of fear that kept clouding her mind. He was not Hugh.
But Hugh would come for her. He would not stop hunting her. Not until he had her cowering beneath him again.
‘He still frightens me,’ she whispered.
‘Every man is afraid in battle. The only man who isn’t afraid is the man who is already dead.’
‘You weren’t afraid that night. I saw Hugh stab you. He would have killed you.’
‘No. His intention was to harm me, not to kill me.’
‘How? How could you know something like that?’ She held her arms tightly, furious at herself for being unable to control the terror. ‘He tried to make you fear him. But you faced him. As for me…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I can’t take away my fear.’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 58