Now was the time to tell him of her conversation with Patrick. She had to convince Bevan to accept the compromise. Yet the rigid cast to his face gave her pause. She was afraid of what he might say to his brother’s proposition.
‘Patrick believes we should wed.’
‘I’ll not wed you to regain what rightfully belongs to me,’ Bevan said.
The painful finality of his words cut her down. She sensed the fury behind them, the frustration of being forced into an arrangement he didn’t want.
But somehow she set aside her hurt feelings and gathered a strength she hadn’t known she had. ‘You are trying to push me away because I am the enemy,’ she whispered. ‘And yet I am the only woman you could marry. I would not expect a true marriage from you.’
Moving closer, she laid her hand upon his shoulder. His muscles were hard, his skin warm beneath her fingers. ‘I would not expect you to…share my bed.’
His pulse quickened beneath her palm.
‘You could come and go as you pleased, just as you do now.’ His breathing tightened, and she could see the effect she was having upon him. ‘Rionallís would be yours without raising a finger. Without losing a single man in battle.’
He caught her wrist in his. ‘You know not what you are doing, Genevieve.’
The nearness of him, the warm male scent, had her blood racing. His mouth was only a breath away from a kiss. She shivered, afraid of this warrior who could not forgive her for being a Norman.
‘Will you consider it?’
He said nothing, but his thumb moved upon her wrist in an unmistakable caress. His firm lips softened, his green eyes drinking in the sight of her. He desired her, though he denied it.
She pulled away, and a tendril of hope was suspended in the space between them. ‘Think upon it, Bevan. You would have your freedom and Rionallís, too.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The soldier entered the darkened fortress, its torches casting shadows upon the walls. He moved towards the men he had fought alongside in battle. Friends, rivals—they did not deserve what he was being forced to do.
The Gaillabh wanted him to betray the MacEgans. If he did not, they would hurt his wife, Kiara. The soldier swallowed back his helpless rage, knowing he had little choice but to follow their commands.
‘What happened?’A guard blocked his path, recognition dawning over his face. ‘We thought you were dead. The Normans—’
‘I escaped,’ he said. ‘The others are still held captive.’
‘Are they alive?’ his friend asked.
He nodded. ‘For now.’
‘Good. Bevan has sent a rescue party. Connor went with them days ago.’
‘And why did Bevan not go after them himself?’
‘Our king forbade it.’ His friend walked alongside him into the inner bailey. ‘But they should arrive back soon. If they’re still alive.’
The soldier did not mention his wife, though he feared for Kiara’s safety. Had Sir Hugh kept her chained with the others? Or had he moved her elsewhere? He’d seen the look of interest upon the Norman’s face, and he prayed to God that she remained untouched.
‘And what of you? Did they harm you?’
The soldier shook his head. They had not harmed him, only because he was of use to them. His gut twisted at the thought of his wife falling victim to the Normans.
Dark fear and anger burgeoned within him. All of this was for a woman—Genevieve de Renalt. Were it not for her, none of it might have happened.
Sir Hugh wanted the woman, had spoken of nothing but Genevieve. And if he returned her safely to Rionallís, Sir Hugh would be appeased. The soldier felt certain that the Norman would let his wife go free in exchange.
‘Has Bevan returned?’ the soldier asked. ‘I must speak with him.’
‘He is in his chambers.’
‘And the Lady Genevieve?’ Anticipation caused a thin film of sweat to break out over his skin. He had to find her—find some way of bringing her back to Rionallís. Only then could he exchange her for Kiara.
‘She is still here.’ His friend added, ‘Some of us will accompany Bevan to Tara in a few days’ time. Will you come?’
‘I know not what my orders are yet.’He clapped his friend on the back, and was about to make his excuses when the man stopped him.
‘We found your son a few days ago.’
‘My son?’ Kiara had sworn she’d left young Declan with a trusted friend. He had not thought any harm would befall him. ‘What has happened?’
‘Do not fear. We brought him here. Your wife—’
The soldier’s expression tightened. ‘She is held captive by Sir Hugh’s men. She came to try and free us.’
‘The MacEgans will not rest until all are freed.’ His friend tried to set him at ease.
But the soldier could not voice his agreement. Bevan had abandoned them for days, without any attempt to retake Rionallís. The men had suffered in captivity while his commander had done nothing.
If the MacEgans had attacked immediately, Kiara would be safe. The soldier laid the full blame upon Bevan.
‘Where is my son?’ he asked.
‘Above stairs.’
He excused himself, but other friends greeted him before he could venture forth. With each good wish, each welcome, his guilt grew stronger. He had no wish to betray them to the enemy.
Cursing his weakness, he slipped into the shadows. As the minutes stretched, his breath grew steadier. After he had ensured his son’s safety, he would find Lady Genevieve and bring her back to Sir Hugh.
His heartbeat hastened at the fear of failure. Stealthily, he opened the door, not knowing what he would find inside the chamber. The only sound came from the crackling of the fire at the hearth. He saw Bevan sleeping in a chair, and at the sight of his commander the soldier stopped short.
If Bevan awakened, there would be questions.
The soldier’s gaze travelled over to the bed. There he saw Lady Genevieve, along with something else that made his heart stop.
His son, resting in her arms.
The soldier closed the door, his plan no longer possible. It was as if God had asked him to choose between his wife and his son.
And the soldier had no answer for it.
* * *
A low cry woke Genevieve from her sleep. The young child stirred in her arms, murmuring for his mother.
‘We will find her, love,’ Genevieve whispered, pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead.
She had hardly slept that night, in between holding his head over the steam and trying more poultices recommended by the healer. Just before dawn he had slipped into a more restful sleep, and his breathing seemed easier. Genevieve now believed that he would live, though it would be a while before his full strength returned.
In his sleep he cuddled close to her, and Genevieve felt a pang of tenderness for him. His baby-fine hair was soft, like featherdown. He placed his thumb in his mouth, sucking for comfort.
Genevieve eased the boy to a sitting position. She saw Bevan slumped in a chair, his head resting on the table. In spite of the awkward circumstances between them he had stayed all night, refusing to leave the child’s side.
He had said nothing more about her proposition, and heat rose in her cheeks at the memory of his refusal. She had thought he might consider the arrangement, only to be rebuffed.
Genevieve held the child in her arms, tiptoeing towards the door. Bevan did not awaken, and she brought the boy below stairs. He had barely eaten in two days, and likely was hungry.
She had slept past Mass, and most of the family was already engaged in their morning duties. Genevieve spoke with one of the servants, asking for a bowl of broth.
The boy stirred in her arms. He opened his eyes, which were a greenish-brown hue, and regarded her solemnly.
‘What is your name?’ Genevieve asked.
He said nothing, but tangled his fingers into her hair, pulling it against his mouth. When the broth arrived, Genevieve helped
him to eat. Relief filled her when he ate with a good appetite.
She had just finished feeding him when a man strode into the Great Chamber. His fair hair hung to his shoulders, and he walked with an airy confidence. When he saw her, he smiled.
It was one of those smiles that could make a woman’s bones melt. She nodded, and pretended to be fascinated with the boy. The man approached her and sat beside her on the bench.
‘You must be Genevieve.’
Her cheeks flushed. What had got into her? Stealing a glance up at him, she saw his smile broaden.
‘I am Connor MacEgan.’ He reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘He’s a good lad, isn’t he? Patrick told me you rescued him from the pond.’
‘Aye. They are still looking for his parents.’
‘That is true.’A shadow crossed Connor’s face, and Genevieve wondered if he knew something. Switching topics, he added, ‘You are fair of face, I must tell you. A pleasure it is to see you this morn.’
‘Do you always greet women thus?’ Genevieve blurted out, then covered her mouth. The man had done nothing more than compliment her, but his handsome looks made her uncomfortable. Too often a handsome face hid a treacherous heart. She had learned that from Hugh.
‘Tá.’ Bevan’s voice interrupted from across the room. ‘He has his eye on many women, Connor does.’He strode towards them, his face glistening with drops of water. The dark bristle of his unshaved beard shadowed his cheeks, though it did not cover the matching scars. His feral looks made Genevieve’s skin grow warmer as she thought of their conversation the night before.
Though he had stayed with her to look after the boy, he had avoided her, behaving as if he could not bear to be near her. Genevieve did not understand what she had done wrong. And yet during a few stolen moments she had caught him watching her, his expression inscrutable.
She held the child tighter, pretending to give the boy her full attention.
Connor leaned closer. ‘And has my brother his eye on you? If so, I could battle him for you.’
‘Leave her be.’ Bevan leaned against the trestle table, glaring at Connor. ‘Did you find the men?’
Connor’s expression turned serious. ‘We brought back three of them. Two died in captivity. One went missing.’
‘You were not detected by Hugh’s men?’
‘Your people helped us. And Sir Hugh was not inside the rath.’ Connor glanced at Genevieve. ‘He’s looking for her.’
Invisible threads of apprehension wrapped around her throat, making it difficult to breathe. She’d known Hugh would not give up.
‘He knows where she is,’ Bevan said.
‘Tá. But he is also aware of our strength. He hasn’t the men to attack Laochre. I saw them returning to their encampment later that evening.’
Genevieve’s shoulders drooped with relief. She wouldn’t put it past Hugh to slip through their defences. His battle skills were deadly, honed from years of experience.
With a glance towards the child, Connor added, ‘It is the boy’s father who has gone missing. But I’ve learned he escaped on his own.’
‘Is he here?’ Without waiting for a reply, Bevan ordered, ‘Send him to me. He’ll want to see his son.’
Connor’s gaze shifted to one of unease. ‘He was here. Except he’s disappeared again. Something is wrong. The men told me Sir Hugh holds his wife captive. He wanted him to turn traitor against us.’
Genevieve held the child tightly, stroking his hair. She pressed a kiss upon his temple, praying for the safety of his mother. For if Hugh had the woman in his possession, he would show no mercy.
‘There was no woman there when we freed the men,’ Connor added. ‘I know not what has happened to her.’
Genevieve’s vision swam with unshed tears as she held the boy close. Though she wanted to believe everything was all right, in her heart she knew the truth. If the Irishwoman held no use for Hugh, he would kill her.
‘Then we must find him,’ Bevan emphasised. ‘And his wife.’
‘I’ll see to it.’ Connor shot his brother a roguish look. ‘While you are visiting the High King, that is.’
He reached inside his tunic and withdrew a sprig of holly, its berries red and glistening from melted snow. ‘For you.’He offered it to Genevieve, raising her hand to his lips.
At his kiss, Genevieve tried to pull her hand away. Connor’s excessive attentions reminded her too much of the way Hugh had once courted her.
‘I’ll be leaving for Tara on the morrow,’ Bevan said, behaving as though nothing had happened. ‘Patrick has agreed to lend soldiers from Ennisleigh to accompany me.’ With a nod to his brother, he added, ‘Look after her, won’t you?’
Connor placed the sprig of holly into her hand, his smile becoming more heated. ‘Oh, I believe I will be taking very good care of her.’
Bevan’s words made Genevieve feel as though she’d just been handed over to another man. And she found she did not like the notion.
‘I can care for myself, thank you both.’ Rising to her feet, Genevieve balanced the boy on her hip. As she left the Chamber and continued through the first set of doors, the boy struggled in her arms.
‘Da!’ he cried out, arching his back.
Genevieve stopped and turned around. She thought she saw a flicker of motion, but back in the Great Chamber, Connor and Bevan remained deep in conversation. The boy whined, trying to pull away. Genevieve hushed him, bouncing him against her shoulder. She saw no one. But her spine prickled and she grew suspicious.
In time, his fussing gave way to quiet crying. At last he tucked his head beneath her chin and pulled her hair close for comfort. Her heart gave a tug, and she wished for a moment that the boy were her own son.
She climbed the stairs, and his relaxing body succumbed to sleep. A softness filled her while she held him close. Her thoughts of children abruptly shifted to the marriage bed.
She knew the necessity of submitting to her future husband in order to bear a child. And yet a cold darkness flooded her at the thought of yielding beneath a man. With Bevan it might not be so bad. He, at least, knew the beatings she had endured, and would not raise his fists to her.
But then, she had offered herself with the promise of granting him his freedom. She had sworn not to make demands of him. Bevan would not want to share her bed even if she somehow overcame her fear. He had made it clear that he still regarded her as the Norman enemy. Even if he stayed with her at Rionallís as her husband, she doubted if he would ever change his mind.
In the next few days her father would decide her future while she waited at Laochre. She hated this lack of control over her future. There had to be some way to guide the hand of fate. She mulled over the possibilities.
Above stairs, she found Isabel, instructing her ladies on tasks to be done for the evening. Baskets of greenery were being spread around the room, and Isabel herself held an armful of pine branches.
‘Oh, Genevieve.’ Isabel turned and smiled gratefully. ‘I could use your help, if you’re willing.’ She took the boy from Genevieve’s arms and handed him to the healer, an older woman Genevieve recognised. ‘Siorcha will look after him for now.’
She didn’t like the idea of relinquishing the boy, but Isabel seemed to understand her discomfort. ‘Siorcha has grandchildren his age, you needn’t worry. And his parents will be found soon.’
Genevieve kept silent, for she doubted if the boy’s mother lived. And there was no way of knowing where his father was. Though she sent up another unspoken prayer for both of them, she ached for the child’s loss.
Isabel placed another basket of greenery into Genevieve’s arms. ‘Tonight we celebrate Alban Arthuan. ’Tis similar to our Christmas celebration, but the Irish have their own unique customs. You will enjoy it,’ she promised.
Genevieve followed the women below stairs, but she did not believe she would find much to celebrate. With Bevan soon to be gone, she felt alone and uncertain. And Connor’s attentions, though friendly, thre
atened her sense of security. His forward manner bothered her, and she preferred not to see him this evening—particularly if Bevan was not there to shield her from unwanted affection.
As she helped the women hang garlands of greenery, Genevieve reprimanded herself for her cowardice. She needed to rely on her own strengths and face her fears.
She was tired of waiting for others to make the decisions affecting her life. She wanted to take control of matters, to prevent war between her family and the MacEgan family she had come to care for.
Bevan’s aversion to marriage cast a shadow upon her plans, but she believed he wanted to avoid bloodshed as much as herself.
Perhaps she should journey to Tara with them, to seek the aid of King Henry.
* * *
The Alban Arthuan celebration marking the beginning of the winter solstice was both enchanting and comforting. The warm flicker of candles, the roaring fire on the hearth, and the garlands of greenery reminded Genevieve of home.
Connor was charming her with humourous stories, coaxing a laugh out of her even as he brought her delicious morsels of food.
‘It is good to see you smile,’ he said.
‘I have not had reason to smile for some time now,’ she admitted. ‘I like your family.’
‘They are good people, yes.’ He took a sip of mead and added, ‘We protect those in need.’
His remark reminded her of the young boy, lost without his own family. ‘Will you be searching for the child’s parents?’
‘At dawn,’ he said. ‘But for tonight I intend to celebrate the solstice.’
Genevieve caught several women’s jealous glares as Connor remained by her side. But her mind had wandered, and she watched in a detached manner. She wondered if Bevan had gathered his soldiers from Ennisleigh. Was he returning to Laochre for the celebration? Or would he avoid her on this last night, pretending she did not exist?
Stop thinking of him. She berated herself for her errant thoughts.
‘Your attentions are elsewhere, I can see,’ Connor said, holding her palm lightly. ‘Shall I leave you alone?’
Genevieve shook away her reverie. ‘No. I am sorry. It’s just that I cannot seem to concentrate tonight.’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 63