‘Then likely he and I would understand each other,’ Bevan said. ‘I’ve a vicious temper when it comes to Hugh as well.’ His eyes had turned dark, watching her as though he were trying to memorise her features. Her skin grew warm, and she turned her attention to her goblet.
‘Did you have other suitors besides Hugh?’ Bevan asked. He accepted a pitcher from a passing servant. Then he covered her fingers with his while he refilled her cup. The contact of his palm sent a light thrill within her.
‘I did.’ Genevieve hid her disappointment when he withdrew his hand. ‘A few were rather handsome.’
His mouth narrowed. ‘I am rather handsome.’
A startled laugh burst forth before she could suppress it. ‘Of course you are.’
Bevan glanced away, and she realised she’d embarrassed him. A faint colour appeared in his cheeks. ‘I was not being serious.’
‘I was.’ She reached out to touch the fresh scar. Unable to stop herself, she caressed his cheek.
He stared at her, as if he wanted to kiss her. She held her breath, but he did not move. Instead his attention shifted back to his brother Trahern.
‘I’ve heard this one before. He’s got a knack for making any tale funny.’
Genevieve did not respond, feeling once again that she’d been pushed away. She’d drunk the mead too quickly, and her head spun with the effects.
‘What happened to your parents?’ Genevieve asked, though she already suspected they were gone.
‘They died a few years back. Before I wed Fiona. They would never have approved of our match,’ he added.
His confession surprised her. She would have thought any parents would have been glad to claim the saintly Fiona as a daughter. She mentally rebuked herself for being spiteful. But a secret part of her felt satisfaction that at least someone had not worshipped Fiona.
‘Why wouldn’t they have approved?’
‘Da hated the Ó Callahans—every last one of them.’ When Trahern’s tale ended, the room erupted in laughter and applause. Bevan raised his goblet in a toast, and his brother began another story. ‘He called them cattle thieves and worse. But we all knew the truth.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They were enemies because of my mother. The Ó Callahan king wanted to wed her, and so did Da.’
‘But your mother chose to wed your father?’
‘No, she did not.’ Bevan refilled Genevieve’s goblet with more mead, though she had already drunk enough to make her dizzy. ‘She wanted Ó Callahan, but her father forced her to marry Da.’ Bevan sipped his own drink.
‘Did she learn to love your father?’
‘She tried to divorce him, but he’d not allow it. He had to woo her for a time, it is said.’ Bevan’s face twitched, as if hiding a smile. ‘Every sennight she went to the courts demanding a divorce, and each time Da convinced her to give their marriage another try.’
Genevieve could not imagine a woman trying to divorce her husband. Such a thing was rare in England, unless there was a close degree of kinship between a husband and wife. ‘They would allow a woman to divorce her husband?’
Bevan nodded. ‘There are seven reasons why she may do so and still keep her coibche— her dowry. But our mother could not convince the courts without losing everything, and so she stayed. She did love him in the end,’ he remarked.
‘How do you know?’
‘When he died from a poisoned battle wound, she lay down beside him and held his hand. That was how we found him, with her hand in his. She died a few months later.’
‘Love is a rare thing in a marriage,’ Genevieve said. ‘Sometimes I envy the peasants, because they may wed whomever they want.’
‘All can marry of their choosing here,’ Bevan said. ‘So long as their parents approve of the match.’
Genevieve suddenly wished that Bevan had never met Fiona. Then he would have been free to love her. They were jealous thoughts, but then again, they were in her head. She could think whatever she wanted.
‘How did you meet your wife?’ Genevieve asked. Her stomach was twisting from the mead. Food would settle her queasiness, so she ate a piece of crusty bread.
‘She was walking alone in the woods when she came across a boar. It charged her, and I killed it. She had climbed up a tree to escape and couldn’t get down again.’ Bevan took another sip from his goblet. ‘She never cared for heights.’
Trahern accepted a large tankard of ale from a maid and started another tale in his deep, booming voice. ‘There once was a lass from Kilkenny, who took pity upon a man left for dead by the roadside…’
As the tale went on, Genevieve grew absorbed in the magical legend, of a woman who fell in love with a changeling. The voices blended together into a hazy buzzing.
Ewan approached and sat beside her. ‘Don’t fall asleep,’ he urged. Genevieve blinked, and saw that the story had ended. Bevan had gone to join his kinsmen. All the men of Rionallís had risen, forming a line with swords.
‘What is going on?’
‘The games are about to begin. The men will compete to show off their fighting skills. There are prizes for the winners.’
‘What kinds of prizes?’ She yawned and let Ewan lead her closer, to a bench where the women sat watching. A burly soldier had stripped off his tunic, revealing a heavily muscled chest. The other men removed their outer garments as well, to the shrill cheering of the women.
‘It depends. Sometimes an animal, like a cow or a pig. Sometimes money. Sometimes a kiss from their choice of maiden.’
He’d better not kiss his choice of maiden, Genevieve thought when she saw Bevan among the fighters. The jealousy had returned, though she tried to keep more ladylike thoughts in her head.
Trahern raised his arms, and the crowd cheered. With a mighty swing, he rammed his fist into the first soldier’s gut. The man gasped, stumbled, but held his ground.
‘What is he doing?’ Genevieve asked, horrified.
‘A test of strength. A man has to be able to handle pain in battle,’ Ewan explained. ‘Trahern is the strongest here.’
Trahern continued down the line, felling some of the men with his punches, cracking the ribs of a few others, Genevieve was certain. When he reached Bevan, a hush fell over the crowd.
‘Bevan is wounded,’ she whispered, remembering his shoulder. ‘He wouldn’t harm his own brother, would he?’
‘Especially his brother,’ Ewan commented.
But even as Trahern’s fist shot towards Bevan, her husband caught the man’s wrist. Neatly twisting it, he moved in such a way that Trahern lost his balance and hit the floor. Bevan rested his boot upon his brother’s throat.
‘You’ve still not learned to best me in all your travels, I see.’
Trahern gave a hearty laugh. Grasping Bevan’s wrist, he hauled himself to his feet. With a wicked roll to his hips, he leered, ‘I can best you in one area, brother. At least, that’s what the women tell me.’
Genevieve joined in the laughter, but her concentration was focused on Bevan. The mead had gone to her head, and she thought what a fine warrior she had married. Without the tunic, his corded muscles gleamed in the firelight.
Mine, she thought.
Her body grew warmer as she imagined what it would be like if he cast off his vow and made her his wife in truth.
Mairi slid onto the bench beside Genevieve. ‘The next contest is one of the sword. Bevan is the best of all, but he’ll not compete in this one.’
‘Why not?’ Genevieve’s gaze followed her husband as he donned his tunic.
‘The prize for this sword competition is a kiss. The winner may choose a lady, and she must grant him that boon.’
‘Can anyone enter?’ Genevieve asked, as she watched Bevan sit closer to the competitors.
‘Tá. There, you see—the first match is begun.’
Two soldiers faced off with their swords, parrying blows and lunging. The heavy clang of metal echoed in the stone chamber as the fighters were surro
unded by a throng of cheering spectators. A few of the women had moved closer, primping and awaiting the winner to make his choice.
At long last one of the swordsmen drew blood, and the loser bowed in defeat. The winner took the hand of one of the maidens and drew her into a lusty kiss.
Seeing the hearty embrace of the two lovers made something stir inside of Genevieve. Though it might be wrong, she could not banish the thoughts from her mind. As swordsman after swordsman joined in the competition, the idea grew stronger in her head. She wanted to destroy the memory of Hugh forever and face her fears.
The crowd had grown quiet once more as the last fighter stepped into the circle, his sword drawn.
‘Will no one fight me?’ he demanded.
The swordsman was Ewan. Surrounded by the other soldiers, his thin body appeared gangly and weak. Genevieve remembered the long hours he’d trained, and how he’d been practising his footwork.
They expected him to lose, she realised. His reputation as a poor fighter made them reluctant to humiliate him.
But she believed he had promise as a fighter, young though he was. She moved closer to the crowd and took a sword away from one of the bystanders. The hilt warmed within her grasp, and she steadied her wrist from its heavy weight.
The bystander started to protest, but Genevieve silenced him with a hand. She held out her sword, smiling at Ewan. ‘I will fight you.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Loud guffaws and jeers met her challenge. Genevieve straightened her posture and glared at the onlookers. Bevan shook his head, intending to stop the swordfight. Before he could reach her, she tilted the sword towards him. ‘Step away, husband. This is my challenge, not yours.’
‘I’ll not allow you to—’
Genevieve brandished the sword, poking it towards his chest. ‘You may fight me after I fight him.’
The crowd roared at that, and Trahern grabbed his brother across the ribs, holding him back. ‘I want to see her fight.’ He grinned, giving a nod of encouragement to Genevieve.
‘Can you best a woman, boy?’ one jeered.
Their laughter infuriated Ewan, and he started to lower his sword out of humiliation.
‘Do not listen to them,’ Genevieve said. ‘Show them how you’ve been practising.’
He looked doubtful, but Genevieve repeated, ‘Show them.’
When he didn’t move, she decided she would have to initiate the fight by swinging her sword at him. He waited until the last moment before blocking the blade.
‘Is that all you can do?’ she taunted. She was rewarded with a glower from Ewan.
He circled her, and struck with an arm-numbing blow. She barely defended herself from his first strike.
His sword moved in the patterns they had practised together over the past few days, and Genevieve saw he was trying to go easy on her. He didn’t want to fight her, but he didn’t want to make it appear that he was incapable of fighting a woman.
She was going to have to make him look good. And the only way to do that was to fight better herself. She swung her sword at him with all her strength, and by instinct he met her blow with a parry. The effects of the mead caused her to stumble, but she caught her balance in time to dodge his next thrust.
The crowd had grown silent as the swordfight continued. Ewan’s feet moved in the intricate patterns, twisting this way and that. She saw an opening to strike at him, because his eyes were on his footwork again. She let the opportunity go by, not wanting to make him look like a failure. When she saw his gaze flicker back, she struck again, only to be dealt a jarring blow that made her teeth rattle.
He had relaxed finally, focusing his attention on the mock battle. His sword moved more rapidly, and Genevieve’s arm ached with the effort of defending herself. She knew she wouldn’t last much longer. Ewan seemed to sense this, for he met her glance. A shared bargain was made between them, and with the next lunge they both raised their swords and ended the competition.
‘I would not draw the blood of my brother’s wife,’ Ewan declared with a cocky grin.
Trahern gave a hearty laugh and clasped their arms, raising them in victory. ‘I say they both deserve the winner’s prize. Ewan, go and choose your lass.’
Ewan’s face turned scarlet, but he took the hand of the young girl with auburn braids. She giggled as he kissed her, blushing at the same time.
‘And you, Genevieve—whom shall you kiss?’ Trahern puckered up his lips. The crowd laughed. Genevieve patted Trahern’s cheek, but shook her head, stepping past the bystanders. Her concentration focused on Bevan.
‘He is my choice,’ she said, taking her husband’s hand. The people roared their approval as Genevieve leaned towards Bevan’s scarred face.
Tension lined his face, but she knew he would not shame her by refusing the kiss. He would feign interest, even kiss her back. But it would not be real.
His mask of indifference had returned. She should just kiss him and finish it. But, oh, it hurt to think that he did not want her. The pretence had ruined it all.
She brushed a soft kiss across his lips, and fled before he could react. Behind her, she heard Eoin playing the pipes. The crowd had begun their dancing. No one would pursue her. She escaped up the stairs to a narrow passageway that led to their chamber.
* * *
Bevan felt the way he had the first time he’d hunted with his father. He remembered the fear in the eyes of the doe before he’d shot her down with an arrow.
Genevieve had looked at him that way just now, fearful, and yet hoping for a second chance. He hadn’t given it. He had planned to give her the kiss she wanted, making it look as if all were well between them—a hearty kiss between husband and wife. But she had left him standing alone, after granting a kiss that a child might give to a parent. He found himself going after her, not really knowing why.
He saw her standing at the door to her chamber, her face pressed against the wall, her shoulders trembling. He had made her cry.
Regret pulled at him, and he knew there was only one way to mend the torn feelings.
‘Genevieve,’ he whispered softly. ‘Come here.’
She turned, and he saw the despair in her eyes. Bevan closed the distance between them, cupping her face in his hands. He couldn’t say why, but he felt the need to kiss her truly.
He tasted the salt of her tears, but soon the warmth of her mouth distracted him. She drew in her breath and he deepened the kiss, coaxing her mouth to open. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her thumbs softly stroking his nape.
The kiss was gentle, a humble offering of healing. Tongues mingled, and this time he didn’t fight the rush of desire coursing through him. His hands moved down to her hips as he lost himself in her.
‘Bevan, you don’t have to—’
‘Shh.’ He covered her mouth with his again, ignoring the voices of protest in his mind. He knew this was wrong, knew he should never have started it. But in the name of Lug, he wanted her. He wanted to feel her softness in his arms.
He opened the door to their bedchamber and bolted it behind them. Then he took her back into his arms, pressing her against the wall. His hands fumbled with the laces of her gown, and he felt her warm skin. He cupped her breasts, stroking the tips while he plundered her mouth.
Desire roared through him with the force of a tempest. Her knees buckled and he caught her, lifting her against him. His mind was blessedly empty of everything but her.
He balanced her weight against the wall, his heart thundering while he sought her bare skin. Linen tore and laces fell away as his mouth covered her nipple.
It was then that he noticed she had stopped responding to him. Tears streamed down her face and she clutched his arms. She hadn’t fought him, but the terrible fear in her eyes made him aware of what he’d done. He’d torn her clothing in an effort to be close to her, not thinking of her former suffering.
Genevieve was not ready to share his bed, no matter what she might say. The realization was like a bucket of
cold water upon his lust.
‘I am sorry.’ He released her, and she slid in a boneless heap to the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just—’
He raked his hand through his hair, not knowing what to say. ‘I would never hurt you, Genevieve. I swear it.’
She said nothing, nor would she look at him.
‘I’ll leave, if that’s what you want,’ he said.
‘No.’ She kept her head down, but whispered, ‘Don’t leave.’
He sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder. ‘You made me forget myself.’
‘I thought I was over him. I thought it would be different with you.’
Her words struck him like a fist. He didn’t like being compared to Hugh, not in any way. He wanted to argue that he was different.
But hadn’t he just shown her otherwise? He’d lost his control, forcing her to kiss him. ‘I won’t bother you again,’ he promised. ‘It should never have happened.’
‘I know we must consummate our marriage once,’ she whispered. ‘After that you need not come to me. I won’t ask it of you.’
‘It isn’t your fault, Genevieve. I pushed you too far, and you were not ready.’
Slowly, she sat up. Though her tears remained, he saw a fierce determination. ‘I can be,’ she insisted. ‘Teach me not to fear. I promise I won’t push you away. Just…have patience with me.’
‘You don’t know what you are asking me.’He didn’t have that kind of restraint. And it was becoming harder to silence the voices that reminded him he was betraying Fiona. He didn’t want to think of his first wife any more. He was tired of the guilt weighing upon him.
Her palm reached up to his scar. ‘I trust you,’ she whispered.
He didn’t want this kind of responsibility. His body craved her, tá, but he wasn’t the right man.
He started to refuse again, but the words tangled in his mouth. She laid her cheek against his, and his arms folded around her. He couldn’t speak, but merely held her. He wondered if he had enough honour to turn her away.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 70