Genevieve tried to mask her emotions. She hadn’t known the fear would return like that. Not with Bevan. But she’d never experienced the onslaught of feelings that had rushed through her, a sensation as though she were burning. When he had pressed her against the wall her nightmares had returned. Hugh had once held her against a wall, beating her until she lost consciousness.
No. She would not think of him any longer. She would keep her vow to reclaim her freedom. If she could just force herself to lie still, to submit to Bevan, she felt certain he would drive away her ghosts.
His thumb grazed a path across the neckline of her gown, sliding down to her waist. Slowly, Bevan drew her to face him.
His hands moved to her veil, and he waited for her to pull away. When she did not, he unfastened it, letting her hair fall across her shoulders. The silken mass hung below her waist in dark waves.
He threaded his hands in her hair and noted the tension that returned to her body. She was still afraid, though she fought it.
Though he wanted to bed her, wanted to take the pleasure he’d denied himself for over two years, it was her fear that made him pause. He knew he could teach her not to be afraid of a man’s touch. As long as he did not consummate the marriage he could keep a tenuous hold on his vow of faithfulness to Fiona.
Genevieve’s hands rested upon his chest. Tentatively she explored his bare skin beneath the tunic, tracing the outline of his muscles. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of her fingertips.
So long. It had been so very long since he’d let anyone touch him. The goodness of her was like a balm to his spirit.
‘Are you certain about this?’ she asked. Her fear was audible from the tremble in her voice. ‘If you do not want me—’
He placed a finger over her lips, letting his hand rest on her waist. He wanted her so badly his body was ready to ignite at her touch. She had come to him, wanting him to drive out her demons. And he would this night. He could bring her to fulfilment, chasing away her fears without forsaking his vow to Fiona.
He placed her arms around his neck and leaned in. Her lips met his, opening when he prodded her with his tongue. When at last she surrendered, he slid his tongue inside the warmth of her mouth, the fire of his need growing stronger.
The vow of fidelity was so strained he was ready to snap. This was his new wife. Before God, he was meant to make her his. And she was eager to learn everything he could teach her.
Bed her, his lust urged him.
He closed his eyes, wondering why he was keeping a vow to a woman who was dead. Just as Hugh still ruled Genevieve with the legacy of fear, Fiona still ruled his heart.
Genevieve broke away, her hands trembling. He saw fear in her eyes, but there was also trust. She let him see every feeling, every part of her.
‘What do you—?’ She stumbled over the words, then took a deep breath. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing.’A tightness rose in his throat at her confession. He couldn’t name the feelings he had for her, but she had managed to push away the darkness in his life. ‘It’s too soon for you, a chroí.’
He was lying. It was too soon for him. His heart hovered on the edge of a precipice, knowing it was time to let Fiona go. But even as he touched Genevieve, even as he warmed to the idea of loving her, he wasn’t ready to cast away his loyalty to Fiona.
But he could pleasure Genevieve, bring her to fulfilment and drive away her nightmares.
‘Shall I leave?’ she asked.
He shook his head. His hands framed her face, his thumbs stroking her cheek. He brought his palms down to her shoulders, his gaze searching.
Genevieve wondered what he was thinking, why he hadn’t responded to her words. Then his mouth descended on hers again, in a hot storm of need and desire. She shivered, clinging to him as her skin grew warm. His muscles flexed beneath her palms, and she moved her hands over his skin. His kiss invoked aching feelings of need, and liquid heat rushed between her thighs.
The fear rose up in the pit of her stomach, though he did nothing more than kiss her. She fought against the rising tide of desire filling up inside of her, afraid to let go.
Bevan released her, but kept her hands in his. Confusion clouded her mind. He brought her palm to his lips, flicking his tongue across the centre. She shivered at the strange feelings that flared again.
‘You are beautiful, Genevieve.’He took a strand of her hair and brought it to his lips. ‘No matter what he ever said to you, believe it.’
His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb grazing the soft skin beneath her chin. He dipped and kissed the softness, sending a violent shiver through her. Her skin warmed with anticipation.
He spoke in Irish, murmuring words of endearment, words that touched her heart. As he spoke, his lips trailed down her collarbone to the swell above her breasts.
‘For this night I’ll show you how a husband would seek to please his wife.’
He took her to his bed, laying her down upon it. She trembled, fighting to push the bad memories away. Bevan’s mouth covered her nipple, dampening the linen of her shift. A rush of heat flooded her as his tongue circled the hardened tip. Her breath erupted in a gasp as he suckled one breast while stroking the other with his hand. His hand moved down until he reached the juncture of her hips, and his thumb found the centre of her pleasure.
She could hardly breathe as his mouth continued its sweet torment across her breast. And she sensed there was more.
‘I need you,’ she whispered, unable to stop the words. In response, his mouth covered hers, kissing her deeply. She was afraid he would stop, afraid he would be thinking of his first wife and push her away. But she couldn’t let him arouse such sensations within her without telling him how she felt.
She pulled him towards her, running her hands over his warm skin, down to his hips. He stood and removed his trews, naked before her. His manhood was thick and hard. Genevieve sat up on the bed, staring at him.
‘Do you want to touch me?’ he whispered.
Genevieve shied away, but he brought her hand to grasp the length of his shaft. She had never touched any man in such a way. Hugh had delighted in overpowering her with his strength, holding her down until she wept with shame. Though he had not taken her maidenhead, had never raped her, she had known there would come a time when he would.
Had it not been for his arrogance, his insistence that he could make her want him, it might have come. But it had not.
There was no shame with Bevan, only a new awakening. And with the awakening came the realisation that she was falling in love with him. It hurt too much, knowing that he would never love her in return.
She hoped that one day he might look upon her as more than a wife and companion. And she consoled herself with the knowledge that he did desire her.
She took Bevan in her hands, and his eyes closed as he leaned back, letting her explore him. He remained motionless while she stroked his length. She found that he grew harder when she used a rhythm, his breath growing ragged.
Then he took hold of her hand and brought it to his lips. Bevan reclined on the bed beside her, tracing a single finger along the linen of her shift. ‘I made a vow, and that vow I’ll keep. But not if you keep touching me the way you do.’
She knew not which vow he spoke of, but it gave her a small sense of victory that she had the power to make him forget himself.
He nestled her backside against him, cradling her in his arms. With one hand he stroked her breasts, and with the other he caressed a path down her stomach to the wetness between her thighs. He slipped a single finger inside her, using his thumb to rub against her while the other hand tormented her breasts.
The violent feelings of longing rushed back, and Genevieve arched her body at the sensations of pleasure. She strained as the heat intensified. Bevan rubbed harder against her nipple, and then he slipped a second finger inside her.
She cried out as he continued to move his fingers in and out. He lowered his mouth to her shoul
der, nipping lightly as his thumb increased the pressure on her hardened centre of pleasure.
All at once a stream of white-hot release shattered her, suffusing her with the most incredible feelings of fulfilment. He held her as the tremors pulsed through her, tilting her chin to recapture her lips.
He had made it beautiful for her, asking nothing in return. But she wanted to give back to him, to show him how much she cared for him.
She could feel the rigidity of his erection against her spine as he cradled her in his arms.
She moved away and sat up, straddling his hips. With her hands, she cupped his arousal. Bevan flinched as if in pain, groaning, but she sensed he felt desire at her touch. Encouraged, she stroked upward, and his manhood rubbed against her palms.
Bevan captured her wrists. ‘Don’t.’
‘Let me,’ she whispered. ‘Let me give you what you gave to me.’ She removed her shift, letting him see her bare breasts. Leaning down to kiss him, she grazed the hardened tips across his chest.
The feel of his hot length against her wetness only made her want to feel him inside her.
‘Please, Bevan,’ she whispered.
The pained expression on his face made her want to give to him every feeling, every sensation he had given to her.
Very gently, he lifted his hips and moved her to the side. He raised her arms and adjusted her shift over her body once more. The unyielding look in his eyes told her he would not change his mind.
He kissed her again and drew her against him. ‘Sleep, Genevieve.’
Her body burned with unfulfilled desire, as she knew his did. She could not understand why he had turned her away. He was not indifferent towards her. She could only pray that somehow she could break through the shield around his heart.
* * *
The small garden lay covered in snow, its barren shrubs laced with a frosting of ice. In the quiet before dawn, Bevan walked towards the gnarled walnut tree and the twin mounds beneath it.
He knelt before the graves. A rosebush had been planted between them to offer flowers in the spring. The canes stood bare and thorny, devoid of life. He laid his palm across the snow covering his daughter’s grave first.
He was grateful that at least he had known the sweetness of his child’s embrace and the song of her laughter. Even though her time had been short, he had that memory to hold fast.
His fingers dug into the snow, his shoulders drooping as he let the sorrow come forth. He mourned his loss alone, letting the grief sweep over him like the tide of the sea. Then, at last, he knelt beside Fiona’s resting place.
His grief for her was not less, but it had softened. Memories washed over him of Fiona’s quiet industriousness, of the way she had made Rionallís into a true home. Her fingers had never been still, always embroidering or weaving or spinning.
He admitted the truth to himself. She had not been happy here. He had tried to give her everything—his love, her every desire. But it had not been enough. Her smiles had been rare, and usually reserved for their child, never himself.
It hurt even now to acknowledge that she had not loved him the way he had loved her.
He might have been able to deceive himself into thinking she had, were it not for his new wife. Genevieve had given herself to him, heart and mind. When he had looked into her eyes he had seen the intensity of her feelings, the complete trust. And he had hurt her because he could not give the same in return.
His breath formed clouds in the frozen air as he touched the earth covering his wife’s grave. He knew the pain Genevieve felt, and he wished he could mend her torn feelings. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to love again.
But it was time to let go of the past. The vow he’d made, never to let another woman into his heart, was no longer one he wanted to keep. He had wed Genevieve believing that he could keep himself apart from her. Such was not possible.
‘Forgive me,’he whispered to the grave of his wife. Silence curled about him and the wind moved over his face. Were she alive, he believed she would release him from the vow.
He kept his vigil over the graves, praying for their souls. He prayed that he would find the strength to let them rest and to begin anew.
Behind him, he heard the soft crunching of footsteps. Turning, he saw Ewan.
‘Lionel Ó Riordan has sent for you. The Normans are attacking his lands once again.’
It was the fight he had anticipated. Bevan had given his word to his friend and ally, promising to help when he was needed. ‘Tell the men to arm themselves. We ride without delay.’
‘I am coming with you.’
‘No. You are not ready for this kind of battle. Ó Riordan’s men have faced the enemy before, but if he has asked for our garrison, then they are losing the fight.’
‘I’ll never be ready for any battle,’ Ewan argued. ‘Not in your eyes. How can I ever gain experience if I must always stay at home?’
Bevan gripped his brother’s arm. ‘Do you remember the night Liam died? Do you? Well, I do. I watched the Norman bastard bury his sword into our brother’s flesh. I’ll not lose another brother. Not when I can prevent it.’
He saw the rising adolescent rebellion in Ewan’s eyes and realised the boy might do something dangerous if he did not soften his words. ‘Besides, I need you to guard Rionallís and Genevieve.’
‘They are well protected,’ Ewan said, his eyes hot with resentment.
‘I am trusting them to you, Ewan. I know that if anything were to happen I can depend on you to come and fetch us back again.’ He gave his brother’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Can I rely on you?’
Ewan’s face was stony, but he nodded his assent. Bevan knew his brother must feel like a nursemaid.
‘Good. Now, give the orders for the men to prepare themselves. And send Genevieve to me,’ he said. She would not like it were he to ride off without saying farewell.
His brother left to make the arrangements and Bevan remained a moment longer in the garden. For his wife and child he sent up a silent prayer, that their souls would find everlasting peace in the arms of God.
* * *
Genevieve met him in the inner bailey. Her cheeks were reddened from the wind, her eyes bright. Bevan took her hands, warming them in his.
‘I missed you this morn,’ she said.
He drew her into an embrace, breathing in her scent. ‘And I you.’He meant it. More and more she occupied his thoughts, and he was glad to have her with him.
They walked alongside one another, and though she did not speak of the forthcoming battle he knew she saw the men, armed and ready to depart. He regretted having to leave, especially since he had at last made his peace with Fiona. But the time away from her would give him the chance to ponder his next move. He intended to court his wife, making theirs a true marriage.
‘I am sorry for last night,’ Genevieve said, speaking rapidly. ‘I should not have asked you to come to my bed. The mead—’
He kissed her, silencing the needless words. ‘I did not sleep last eve,’ he said, caressing her cheek. ‘And when I return, if you are willing, you’ll not sleep the night either.’
Her blush told him she knew exactly what he meant. With a smile, he left her standing in the bailey, his thoughts fired with the promise of making her his wife.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Genevieve wondered what had brought about Bevan’s change of attitude, but instead of it filling her with joy, she felt only wariness. Self-doubts plagued her, with little voices reminding her that she had never been able to please Hugh. How long would Bevan’s desire for her last? Would he, too, become dissatisfied with her?
She tried to drown out the voices by working. Over the next few days she occupied herself with any task that would busy her fingers.
Ewan had remained behind to look after Rionallís, on Bevan’s orders. Genevieve wondered how long her husband would be gone, and Ewan reassured her that it would likely be a matter of days. In the meantime, he took it upon himself to learn more abo
ut the ribbon Hugh had sent, despite her protests. He insisted that it could not be pushed aside.
Genevieve suspected that he was more interested in having a reason to spy on others than to uncover the mystery. But it kept him occupied, so she ignored it.
With the help of the servants, she swept the hearth and recovered the floors with fresh rushes. When she found herself scrubbing the walls, searching for cobwebs, she decided she had done enough.
Bevan had forbidden her to touch the chamber he had shared with his first wife, save for cleaning. The new bed reminded her of his promise to consummate their marriage, and she wondered if he would keep it. Would he love her upon it? Or would the ghost of his wife haunt him still? She did not fear his touch any more, but she worried about pleasing him.
Her gaze travelled to a chest against the wall. She knew its contents well, from even before Bevan had forbidden her to open it. Inside were a woman’s gowns, a length of rose-coloured linen, and an infant’s bonnet. Only months ago Genevieve had tried on a gown, though it had been too short for her. She had wondered about what their lives must have been like.
Now she knew, and understood the sorrow that went with that knowledge. Love lay in that chest, tucked away with packets of herbs to preserve it. His memories were there.
She opened the chest again, lifting the gowns aside, holding the bonnet in her palm. So tiny. The grief he must feel she could not imagine.
Had he truly let go of them? Or had she merely incited his lust? She wanted him to love her in the way he had Fiona.
Why open this Pandora’s Box? Why let herself dream again when he held the power to break her heart? Genevieve closed her eyes. Though it might make her a fool, a fool she would be.
All at once, Ewan burst in. He sounded out of breath from running. ‘A small party of Normans. To the north. I’ve ordered the men to be on guard.’
Genevieve rose to her feet. ‘And their intent?’
Ewan shook his head. ‘I do not know. But I’ll find out.’
He departed the chamber with all haste, and Genevieve stifled the rush of nervousness. She straightened her attire, ensuring that her hair was properly covered. Below stairs, she gave orders for refreshments and a footbath for the guests. She would treat them as such until she knew the reason for their visit.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 71