‘I’m not.’ But she knew he could see through her pretence of bravery. He was partly right. She was remembering Hugh. But she also remembered how Bevan had turned her away the last time. What if he did so again? What if she displeased him?
He caught hold of her wrists, trapping her at the side of the tub. ‘You said that you wanted to be free of him.’
‘And I d-do,’ she stammered. ‘If you want, I’ll remove my gown and lie on the bed.’
‘You don’t deserve to be taken like that,’ Bevan said, kissing the inside of her wrist. A spiral of desire shivered through her. ‘I do not want you to be afraid.’ He brought her hand to his chest, dipping it below the water. ‘And so I am going to let you take me.’
He stroked her hand, moving it lower down to his hips. Genevieve’s eyes widened. ‘But I told you—I don’t know how.’
‘Do what you like,’he said, ‘and I’ll let you touch any part of me. For tonight, I am your servant.’
She froze, hardly able to breathe. ‘What if you don’t like it?’
‘I promise you, I’ll like it.’ His gaze grew compelling, his voice seductive. ‘Why don’t you come into the tub with me?’
‘There is no room for both of us.’
‘There is if you sit on my lap.’He offered a wicked grin. ‘I don’t think you’ve kissed all of my scars yet. I have a few more.’
And suddenly she realised what he was doing. He was ensuring that she would have no memories of Hugh to interfere with this. She was in command, and he would not force her to do anything she didn’t want.
The heady sense of power helped her gather the fragments of her courage.
‘I’ll have to remove my gown,’ she said.
Bevan’s only answer was a smile.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The water spilled over the edge of the tub, and Genevieve nearly lost her balance. Bevan caught her by the waist, turning her until she sat in his lap against his chest. She could feel the hard length of his manhood pressing against her spine, and it brought the fear back.
She tensed, trying to gather her courage. This was Bevan, not Hugh. He would not hurt her.
For a moment she rested against him, her hair falling into the water. His arms wrapped around her, just above her breasts, and he kissed the top of her head.
‘This is the way baths were meant to be taken,’ he said.
‘You don’t think it’s a bit crowded?’
‘Not at all.’ His hands wandered down, brushing against her nipples before sinking below the water. Genevieve touched his knees with her palms, running her hands over his thighs, then down to the tight calves and his feet. She explored his skin, so different from her own. His legs were strong, the muscles developed from years of riding a horse. When she reached his toes, a muffled laugh sounded from behind her.
‘You’re ticklish,’ she accused. When he didn’t answer, she tickled the bottoms of his feet, and he shook with suppressed laughter. More water sloshed onto the floor.
His laughter relaxed her. She reached for his foot again, but he captured her hands in his, placing her palms atop her breasts. The sensation of touching herself, under his guidance, made her self-conscious.
‘And you?’ His fingers moved her hands in a light caress over her nipples, sending a jolt of desire through her. ‘Does this tickle?’
He turned her towards him, pulling her legs around his waist. He took her nipple into his mouth, and she gasped. His tongue circled the hardened tip, sucking until her blood raced within her veins. ‘What about this?’
Her breathing quickened, and she felt a rush of heat between her thighs. ‘My turn,’ she whispered.
Emboldened by his touch, she reached into the water and took his length into her hands, stroking it. He shuddered, his face tightening with the effort to maintain control. She ran her palms over his chest, kissing each of the scars, her lips sliding lower until they touched the water.
Bevan stopped her and rose to a standing position. Beads of water slid over his body as Genevieve remained kneeling in the tub. Her mouth moved over a scar on his thigh, and he trembled.
‘Do you see what you do to me?’ Bevan asked in a harsh whisper.
His manhood stood erect from his stomach, and for a moment her apprehension returned. He stepped out of the tub, mindless of the dripping water, and brought a drying cloth. Genevieve rose, allowing him to wrap the cloth around her.
In a swift move he lifted her into his arms, carrying her to the bed. He laid her back, kissing her deeply, his tongue mingling with hers. He had never felt this way before with any woman, not even his wife. Why had he ever thought to deny himself the pleasure of her?
He rolled her on top of him, and she straddled his hips. Her fair skin was covered in tiny goosebumps. Her nipples were erect and damp from the water. His palms spanned her waist, caressing her hips and bottom.
She froze, watching him. He hoped she could see how much he desired her, how much he wanted this to be good for her.
‘You were right,’ she said. ‘I am afraid.’
‘Don’t be.’ He lifted her hips until she hovered above his manhood. A small gasp erupted from her as she slid a fraction of him inside her. Bevan forced himself to lie there, to let her make the decision whether she wanted him or not.
Lug, he didn’t think he had the strength to endure such sweet torture. His body was ready to explode, and yet she moved with excruciating slowness. Deeper.
Her moist warmth tightened against his shaft. Still deeper.
His breathing was ragged, but he held her gaze, letting her continue to take the lead. She moved once more, until he could feel the barrier of her maidenhead. At long last his length was sheathed within her, and she gave a gasping cry as she was breached. He nearly spilled himself at the intense pleasure of feeling her squeeze his manhood within her depths.
She began to move, delicate penetrations that rubbed against him, making him rock-hard. Her breath came in quick gasps, her wet hair slid across his chest, and at the look of agonised pleasure on her face he could no longer bear it.
He had thought to teach her the ways of loving. Instead, she was teaching him what it meant to hold a woman in his arms who gave herself to him completely. In her eyes he saw desire and love, as she poised on the brink of fulfilment.
She needed him, as he did her. He would never let her go.
His hands clenched her hips, increasing the speed and pressure. She cried out, her back arching to take him deeper. He moved in counter-rhythm to her thrusts, pleasure filling him until there was nothing but her.
He wanted her to love him. With Fiona, he had once thought she loved him. But she had never looked at him the way Genevieve did now.
He leaned up and took her breast into his mouth, licking her nipple as she ground her hips against him. He sucked hard and she screamed. At that moment he poured himself inside her, holding her fast while the aftershocks took them both into a mindless ecstasy.
He cradled her against his chest, their bodies still joined. It felt so right having her in his arms.
And the thought frightened him.
* * *
When the morning sky turned from grey to lavender, with dawn stealing its way above the horizon, Genevieve lay snuggled against Bevan’s back. She leaned over and kissed his shoulder.
‘Good morn to you,’ she whispered. For it was a fine morning—the finest she had known in a very long time.
But he said nothing, rolling over to get out of bed. His sudden coolness startled her, especially after he had loved her twice more that night. He had brought her to the edge of madness until she’d cried out in ecstasy. It was as though he’d craved watching her come undone.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, suddenly feeling uncertain. It troubled her to see him growing distant once more.
‘Tá,’ he said as he dressed. ‘But I must see to my men. It is late already.’
She let the sheet slide from her body and rose from the bed. Hopin
g to entice him out of his ill mood, she wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘Are you hungry?’
A flicker of interest dawned in his eyes, but he shook his head. ‘Not now, no.’He pulled her hands away from him and planted a distracted kiss upon her forehead. ‘I will see you later.’
Genevieve forced her disappointment away. Uneasy, she pulled her shift on and donned her léine and overdress. The earlier contentment between them had faded. A sombre thought occurred to her—he might hold regrets about last night.
She tried to pretend as though nothing were wrong. ‘I’ve promised Mairi that I will help her with dyeing some new wool.’
‘Good.’ But he did not say farewell as he left the chamber. When the door closed, her gaze travelled back to the bed. He had well and truly banished the memories of Hugh. For that she would ever be grateful.
As she straightened the room, tucking the bedcovers where they belonged, she took a deep breath.
It might be that she could never take the place of Fiona. But she felt whole again, empowered to seize the future she wanted. And though the path ahead curved in a direction she could not see, she wanted to believe that there was hope for them.
Like water that gently eroded the jagged edges of a rock, she intended to fight for her warrior’s heart.
* * *
She found Mairi in one of the buildings used for dyeing wool. The malodorous scent of wet wool burned her nostrils. Bags of fleece waiting to be washed were stacked against one wall, by the heavy cauldron containing lye, which was used to soak the wool and thereby remove its natural oils. She was surprised to see Siorcha, laying out lengths of wool for more dyeing.
‘’Tis good to see you once more,’ she remarked, recognising the older woman who had cared for young Declan at Laochre.
Siorcha’s lined face managed a smile, though the woman appeared tired. Her grey hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her eyes were a dull, clouded blue.
‘Rionallís has always been my home,’ Siorcha said. ‘Though I left when that Norman took it. I refused to work for such a monster. I am thankful to be back.’
Genevieve inwardly agreed with Siorcha’s assessment of Hugh. She helped the older woman lift another pile of wool into the pot of lye to soak. She remembered how well Siorcha had cared for young Declan, treating him like a lost grandchild. ‘We are glad to have you back with us.’
Siorcha stirred the pot, not replying. Genevieve greeted Mairi, who was busy preparing madder root for another pot of boiling wool. ‘Can I help you with that?’
Mairi nodded in return. ‘Tá, ye can.’ With a quick glance at her face, she added, ‘I see he’s bedded ye at last.’
Genevieve flushed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Ye have a satisfied look about you. Only a MacEgan could make a woman look like that, as cold as it is today.’ With a smirk, Mairi immersed the madder root in boiling water.
Genevieve started to protest, but decided it was not worth the effort. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘He is a fine man.’
Mairi snorted, but a moment later Genevieve released a laugh. It felt good to release the tension. As she helped Siorcha add a fixative to the dye her mind travelled ahead to the coming night, when she would share Bevan’s bed again. Her body warmed at the thought, though she did not know if he would welcome her or push her away.
The pair worked long hours, assisted by Siorcha, until they had dyed the wool a deep red with the madder roots. Another sack of wool had been dyed a rich fawn colour, with dandelion leaves and roots, while a third had become a bright orange hue from onion skins.
The Irish nobility wore every colour imaginable—some in combinations that dazzled the eye. It seemed that they believed the more colours, the better.
Later that afternoon, Genevieve stopped by the training field. Despite the freezing temperature, the men sparred against one another, practising swordplay and perfecting their aim. Bevan moved among them, challenging his men to improve their technique.
Against the far wall, Ewan observed the men. She could see him mentally performing the same exercises, watching for any flaw. The longing in his eyes to be one of them made her ache with sympathy. She knew he would go to the weaponry room long after everyone was abed, to practise alone. Genevieve prayed that one day he would learn the skills that did not come naturally to him.
Bevan seemed different today, somehow. There was an energy about him, a swiftness in the way he moved. He fought off one soldier, only to spin and catch another’s sword. He moved with the grace of an experienced fighter.
He seemed to sense her stare, and lowered his weapon, stepping out of the match and nodding towards his men to continue. She could read his thoughts as he fixed his attention upon her. His hair was bound with a cord, and he wore leather armour that accentuated his muscular frame. She envisaged him plunging deep within her, his hands cupping her bottom as his mouth ravaged her throat.
Without her realising it, he had crossed the bailey and now stood before her. ‘What is it?’
Genevieve blushed at the wanton thoughts clouding her mind. ‘It is naught. I should go and oversee the food preparations.’
‘I’ll come with you. I’ve finished for today.’He walked beside her, but when she reached out her hand for his, his pace increased to avoid her touch.
Startled by his rejection, she held back.
A servant brought basins, towels, and fragrant oil for foot baths. Bevan sat at a bench and removed his foot coverings. He dipped his feet into the water, but Genevieve interrupted him.
‘Let me,’ she said. Kneeling before him, she brought forth a linen cloth and a vial of fragrant oil. She washed his feet, massaging the soles.
At the touch of her hands upon his skin, he tensed. Ever since he had joined with her he had been able to think of little else than bedding her again.
He rebuked himself, trying to separate his mind from the needs his body demanded. He had been foolish once, letting himself love his wife. Love held no place in a marriage, and he’d not let Genevieve weaken him in such a way.
She poured the oil into her palm, using it to anoint his ankles, soles, and toes. When at last she had dried his feet, and replaced his foot coverings, he tilted her chin to look up at him. His hand threaded through her silken hair, and he captured her mouth in a fierce kiss until he needed to feel her bare skin against his.
Without speaking a word, he took her hand and led her up to their chamber. Once inside, he dropped the bolt.
Lug, but he could not contain his desire for her. He couldn’t get enough—not after all this time. He loved having her in his arms, beneath him and atop him. There was none of the emptiness in her eyes when he embraced her in the darkness of their bed. Instead she looked upon him with an aching emotion, even as he closed his heart off to her.
Bevan tried to take her in his arms, but saw her attention fixed upon the hearth behind him.
There, upon the stones, lay a golden torque set with sapphires.
‘What is this?’ Bevan demanded.
Genevieve shook her head, her fingers pressed to her lips. ‘It was a gift Hugh brought to me. I turned it away.’
The mention of the Norman knight ignited Bevan’s temper. The intrusion had alerted every instinct towards potential danger. ‘How did this get in our chamber?’
‘I know not. He sent his first message a sennight ago.’ Genevieve stared at the jewellery as though it were a living reminder of Hugh. ‘It was a ribbon he had once given me. He tried to court me again.’
His hackles rose because she had not confided in him. Did she still believe him incapable of defending her from the Norman bastard?
‘You should have told me of it.’ He directed her from the chamber, for they both knew of the secret souterrain passage that led underground beyond the fortress. Whether or not Hugh himself knew of it, Bevan would not take the chance that he might be nearby.
‘Ewan might know who has been seen near the chamber.’
Bevan dismissed the
idea immediately. Although the boy worshipped Genevieve, and would do anything to help, he didn’t want him involved in something this dangerous. ‘No. I will ask some of my men to search for the answers.’
‘Bevan, give him a chance. He wants so much to help. What harm can it do?’ Genevieve put her hand on his shoulder, her eyes pleading. ‘You can put both your men and Ewan to this task. And if he succeeds it will give him a sense of purpose. Do you not see how restless he is? How much he yearns to be one of your men?’
‘Ewan is not, nor will he ever be, a good soldier. In all these years he has never shown any natural abilities.’
‘But he works hard,’ Genevieve argued. ‘He tries.’
‘Trying is not good enough in battle,’ Bevan said sharply.
‘A man must defeat his opponent, or he dies.’ His tone softened. ‘I don’t want him to die, Genevieve. He should choose another path for himself.’
‘This is what he wants. I do not think you can sway him. Better to keep training him until he does succeed.’
‘I’ll not train my brother so he can die at an enemy’s hand. If he does not fight, he’ll not be harmed.’
His youngest brother idolised him, he knew. And Bevan would protect him at all costs. Even if it meant causing his brother to hate him.
‘Until the person who did this is found, I want you to stay here. Do not visit the tenants or leave the donjon. Remain with a guard at all times.’ He started forming a plan in his mind. Which men to question first? After that, the women. He would not rest until he found out how Hugh had broken through their defences.
* * *
After being confined to the donjon for nearly three months, Genevieve was ready to scream with frustration. Ewan had discovered that a servant had been bribed to deliver the torque to their bedchamber. Even after the man had been fined for his deed, Bevan had ordered that Genevieve was never to be left alone. She had no privacy, no moments to herself.
Though she knew why he was so over-protective, her resentment at being treated like a prisoner grew stronger with each passing day. She bit her tongue each time she was barred from the gates, but she didn’t know how to convince Bevan that this treatment of her was unnecessary.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 73