The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1

by Michelle Willingham

  Many times she had wanted to snap at him, to demand her freedom. But then, at night, he seemed to be making up for two years of celibacy. He brought her pleasure, each time filled with intensity and passion, and he would hold her as if trying to absorb her flesh into his. In those moments she felt cherished by him.

  When the day dawned, however, he turned distant, his attention ever focused on his people.

  Her hopes of becoming a mother, of cradling a child in her arms had met with despair. The moon had gone through its phases two more times, and their efforts had not borne fruit.

  Genevieve worked at her loom this morn, letting the mindless rhythm of weaving grant peace to her troubled thoughts. The colours blended together, creating a tapestry of lush flowers. She longed for springtime, when the snows would melt and give rise to the verdant hills and meadows.

  Today was worse than usual, for a warm spell had melted some of the ice. She longed for a walk out of doors, for a momentary escape. With a glance behind her, she saw that her guard was as irritated as she, having to accompany her about her tasks. The man was a muscular, broad-shouldered fighter, with a reputation as one of Bevan’s best. His skills were wasted because he was trapped in a room with her.

  ‘I am tired of this place,’ she told him. ‘The day is too fine for sitting inside.’

  ‘Bevan has given orders for you to remain within the fortress walls,’ the guard reminded her.

  ‘I am aware of his orders. But your orders are to guard me. And I intend to find him.’

  She donned her cloak and brat, wrapping the long length of cloth around her shoulders. Outside, she inhaled the fresh air, laced with the peat smoke of small fires that gave warmth to the outbuildings. It took nearly an hour, but she found Bevan overseeing repairs to one of the inner walls. He worked alongside his men, passing them large stones that were being used to fortify the wood. Genevieve recalled his intent to replace all of the wood with stone.

  ‘What is it?’ His tone was impatient.

  ‘I want to ride out in the meadows,’ she informed him. ‘The sun is shining and it is warm. I am sick unto death of this fortress.’

  ‘No. You must remain where we may protect you.’

  She clenched her fist and pushed back her indignation. Softening her tone, she said, ‘I am weary of these walls. Surely I would be safe if you came with me?’

  He started to refuse, but she leaned in. ‘Do you not want us to spend time together, without so many eyes watching?’ Her voice was seductive, filled with promise.

  ‘I would, but—’

  ‘Then come,’ she said. ‘And you may take as many weapons as you can carry, if it will make you feel better.’

  When he hesitated, she knew she had him. ‘It has been months, Bevan. Nothing is going to happen.’ She took his gloved hand in hers. ‘Let us enjoy the day together.’

  He let her lead him to the stables. When the horses were readied, he swung Genevieve up into the saddle. She smiled at him, grateful to at last be free of her confinement. Her mare was a chestnut palfrey, while Bevan rode a black destrier.

  His sword hung at his side, while across his tunic he wore a quiver of arrows, his bow hanging from one shoulder. A crossbow was strapped to the saddle. Genevieve had meant only to tease him about bringing as many weapons as he wished, but it seemed he had taken her seriously. Behind them, he gave orders for a party of soldiers to remain at a short distance.

  They rode at a gentle pace down the hillside. The sun cast fingers of gold across the snow, and mottled patches of green veiled the landscape.

  Once they were free of the outer bailey, Genevieve urged her mare into a gallop. The wind burned her ears and cheeks, but she revelled in the freedom.

  Bevan caught up to her, grasping the reins of her horse. ‘Stay with me, Genevieve.’

  ‘There is nothing to fear, Bevan. No harm will come,’ she protested.

  ‘No, but I would keep you close.’

  He forced her to slow the mare’s pace to a walk, moving towards a copse of trees. Tall oaks and evergreens clustered around a flattened meadow, shielding them from view. With a signal for the men to remain behind at a distance, Bevan dismounted.

  Lifting Genevieve down from her horse, he took her hand, guiding her towards a cluster of standing stones. The granite monoliths exposed patches of dead moss, and other fragmented stones lay upon the earth. It gave the landscape an eerie pagan look, as though it were sacred ground.

  ‘I’ve never seen this place before,’ Genevieve breathed. Gorse and heather surrounded the stones, and she imagined the sea of purple and yellow that would bloom come the spring.

  He drew her to his side, and they walked to stand below one of the stones. It stood taller than the height of a single man, and she wondered how the ancients had created the circle.

  Bevan turned her until her back rested against the stone. His eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘Do you know what they say about these stones?’

  She shook her head, but her body grew warm as his arms trapped her against the granite. He touched her nose with his own, nipping her lips.

  ‘The Ancients revered these places for granting women fertility.’ His hand moved down her neck, across her breasts, to rest upon her womb. Her lips parted and he kissed her, his mouth warm against the cold air.

  Genevieve’s heart seized at the promise of a babe, and she smiled against his mouth. ‘I want to bear you a child.’

  At the words, she saw the shadow of darkness in his gaze. ‘Will you tell me about your daughter?’ she asked.

  He leaned up against the stone, a myriad of emotions crossing his countenance before he nodded.

  ‘She was born on the Feast of St. Catherine. Fiona had longed for a son, but when I first held her in my arms I saw a babe who would grow up to be just like her mother. Beautiful.’

  Genevieve laced her fingers with his, trying not to let jealousy invade her thoughts. Bevan’s face turned despondent. ‘Were she alive, she would be five years now.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She died of a fever. I was not at Rionallís when it happened. I had gone with Patrick on a raid against the Ó Malleys. Before I left, she was laughing and running around the fortress. She hugged me and made me promise to bring her back a gift.’

  His voice grew dull. ‘When she grew ill, they told me that Fiona refused to let anyone see her save Siorcha. She stayed with her night and day, while Brianna suffered from the fever. Then she buried our daughter alone, with no one to help.’

  Genevieve took his face in her hands. ‘It was not your fault, Bevan. You could have done nothing.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she let anyone else near?’ he demanded, his voice filled with grief. ‘They might have saved her.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sensing that he no longer wished to say anything else, she offered the solace of her embrace. Leaning in, she kissed him. His response was restrained at first, but within moments it became urgent.

  Shifting their position, he lifted her up, with her back against one of the stones. His hand raised her skirts while he unlaced his trews and cupped her bottom. Within moments his body joined with hers, thrusting against her moist heat.

  His eyes, shadowed with sensual promise, burned into her. He lifted her atop him as though she weighed nothing, plunging within her until she grew wet with need. Even as he brought her to exquisite pleasure, his hot mouth covering hers, never did he speak of his feelings. She wondered if he would ever think of her the way he had his first wife.

  Wrapping her legs around his waist, she urged him to move faster, until the ache inside her grew to fever-pitch. She trembled, hovering on the edge of madness. With all her strength she tightened against him, arching in a way that she knew brought him incredible pleasure.

  Bevan groaned, and she saw the moment of his release when he spilled himself within her. He protected her, he sheltered her. But she was afraid she would never have that which she wanted most—his heart.

  CHAPTER SEVENT
EEN

  That night, in the sanctity of the fortress, after their bodies lay joined, Bevan cuddled her against his side. With her head beneath his chin, Genevieve moved her icy feet beneath his, to warm them. Though he winced at the contact, he let her keep them there.

  Her soft raven hair smelled of lavender, a fragrance he now knew she used in her bath. Though they had been wed only a few months now, their lives had blended together. She had been careful not to make more changes to Rionallís, respecting his wishes. And yet with each passing day his guilt grew stronger.

  He had broken his vow of fidelity to his first wife. He had sworn never to forget Fiona, but there were times when he had trouble remembering her face. Genevieve’s presence was everywhere, filling the voids in his broken memories.

  She yearned to be a mother, he knew. But, though he hated himself for the thought, he was secretly glad it had not yet happened. He remembered the fragile squalling infant who had scarcely been larger than his hands cupped together. It frightened him, the thought of becoming a father again. Though losing a child to death was common, and to be expected, he hadn’t known the pain it would bring. He didn’t want to lose another.

  Bevan had seen the change in Genevieve recently. Though she never neglected her duties, her gaze would sometimes fall upon someone else’s child. On those days she became the seductress, luring him with her body until he could no longer hold a rational thought in his mind.

  It disturbed him to realise she had so much control over him. He had to put a stop to it—to the feelings she evoked within him. He had arranged a distraction for her tomorrow, one that would allow him to ease back from Genevieve, and would occupy her thoughts.

  The next morn, visitors approached the gates. He watched from the inner bailey, Genevieve’s hand clasped in his. When she saw who it was, her grip tightened and a smile broke over her face. She turned to Bevan, and in her eyes he saw joy.

  ‘You brought him here for me,’ she whispered, leaning up to press a kiss upon his cheek. He nodded, feeling a strange exhilaration that he had caused her such happiness.

  Running towards them, Genevieve welcomed Sheela and young Declan. The woman handed Declan over to Genevieve, and she embraced the boy, hugging him tightly. He struggled to get down, and Genevieve took him by the hand, leading him to the fortress.

  Sheela walked beside her, and the two women conversed together. Before she went inside, Genevieve turned back and sent Bevan a smile of thankfulness.

  As the day progressed, he had difficulty keeping his attention on his responsibilities. He listened to disputes in the Brehon courts, offering his opinion when necessary. He inspected the construction efforts on the fortress, and spoke with several tenants about the year’s harvest. But in the midst of it all he kept thinking of her smile.

  ‘You’re in love with her,’ his brother Ewan declared.

  Bevan sent his brother an exasperated look. ‘No. I was thinking of whether to expand the fortress and outbuildings.’

  ‘You were thinking of Genevieve.’ Ewan smirked. When Bevan tried to cuff him, his brother ducked. He was not in love with Genevieve. He cared for her, but that was all.

  ‘I am thinking that you may be in need of another lesson in swordplay,’ Bevan commented. What his brother really needed was a lesson in humility.

  Ewan drew his own sword and the two brothers faced off. Bevan moved forward, striking towards Ewan’s left side. To his surprise, Ewan met his blade with a steady hand. Bevan changed direction, lunging forward, but again Ewan parried the blow.

  ‘You’ve been practising,’ he commented, trying not to let his brother see his satisfaction. It was the first time Ewan had shown any sign of improvement.

  Ewan’s face flushed, but he held his focus. Bevan kept up the speed, forcing Ewan to exert more effort. It was only towards the end, when he saw Ewan breathing heavily, that he ended the session. Though he could easily have defeated him, by striking when his brother had revealed his exhaustion, today he had no desire to bring down Ewan’s spirits.

  Lowering his weapon, he clapped his brother across the shoulders. ‘Well done.’

  Ewan ventured a tired grin, sheathing his weapon. He nodded. ‘Genevieve has ordered the cook to prepare some of the apple pastries you like.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go and try a few yourself?’ He knew his younger brother had a fondness for the pastries.

  ‘Tá.’ Ewan walked alongside him. ‘Bevan, may I tell you something?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Genevieve is a good woman. She’s a better wife than Fiona. There are some things you didn’t know—’

  He bristled at the remark. ‘Do not speak of Fiona in that way.’

  ‘But it is true,’ his brother insisted. ‘Fiona was never as faithful to you as you think she was.’

  ‘Enough.’ Bevan’s earlier good humour vanished. ‘I do not wish to speak of this again.’ He returned in the direction of the inner bailey wall without sparing his brother another glance. He knew his marriage to Fiona had had its faults, but his wife had always been loyal to him. He knew it, no matter what Ewan might say. And he refused to believe otherwise.

  * * *

  Genevieve cuddled Declan in her lap, though the toddler was far more interested in the apple pastries she had set before him. As for herself, she had no interest in food. The thought made her slightly queasy, although she forced a smile onto her face. Ever since that morning she had felt more tired than usual.

  ‘How has Declan fared since I saw you last?’ she asked Sheela.

  ‘He misses his parents,’ Sheela said, her face darkening in sorrow. ‘I heard what happened to my sister’s husband. He should not have betrayed the MacEgans. Now my nephew has neither parent to comfort him.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Genevieve said.

  ‘Was there no justice for their deaths?’

  ‘It is complicated,’ she replied, thinking of Hugh. No one had seen or heard from him since his visit. ‘But I know Bevan will see it done.’

  ‘Good.’ Sheela studied the Great Chamber, a concerned expression upon her face. ‘I am glad to speak with you alone. There is something which troubles me, and I think you need to know it.’ She lowered her voice. ‘My husband and I live in the north—many days’ journey from here.’

  Genevieve’s stomach clenched again, but she closed her eyes to clear the illness away. She placed her hands upon her cheeks to cool them. ‘Go on.’

  Sheela hesitated. ‘I know not how to say this to you, nor do I know if ’tis true. But you must find out.’

  Genevieve was puzzled. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you remember I told you I saw Fiona MacEgan this past summer?’

  Genevieve nodded. ‘You had mistaken someone else for her.’

  Sheela shook her head. ‘No.’

  Genevieve grew confused at Sheela’s words. A spinning sensation gripped her stomach, but she nodded for the woman to continue.

  ‘I discovered from others that it was she. Fiona MacEgan did not die in battle, as your husband believes. And if what I have learned is true, your marriage to Bevan is invalid.’

  It was as though Genevieve’s life began to unravel with Sheela’s words. ‘No.’ She denied it, tension pounding at her temples. ‘Bevan buried her himself.’

  ‘Her body was burned. No one could know for certain,’ Sheela corrected. ‘They identified a woman wearing her jewels.’

  Genevieve shook her head, unwilling to believe it. But she steeled herself. ‘Why would you think this?’

  ‘The Normans I spoke with say she left of her own accord. She was in love with Raymond Graham, the Baron of Somerton.’

  Genevieve had heard the name. The Somerton lands were near the Welsh border, to the north of her father’s. ‘How do you know if their words are the truth?’ she managed to ask.

  Sheela’s face was filled with compassion. ‘Find out. I pray for your sake that it is not. But were it me I would want to know.’

  Genevieve needed to l
ie down, to clear her thoughts. ‘Please, make yourself welcome,’ she told Sheela. ‘I must attend some duties above stairs. We will speak of this later.’

  Sheela placed her hand on Genevieve’s sleeve. ‘You do not look well. Shall I come with you?’

  ‘No. I am fine,’ she lied. At the moment, she didn’t want anyone near. She had only Sheela’s suppositions, but the possibility of its truth shook her to the core.

  A terrible voice inside her questioned whether to tell Bevan. Her sense of honesty conflicted with her desire to remain with her husband. If she said nothing, her life would stay the same. But it would be a lie. She had more honour than that.

  The deepening sensation of illness strengthened, so she lay down upon the bed. She would rest for a moment. And later she would tell Bevan what she had learned.

  * * *

  When Bevan returned at sunset, he opened the door to their chamber and found Genevieve lying upon the bed, her eyes closed. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, her breath rising and falling like the ebb of the sea. When he caressed her face, her cheeks felt fiery to the touch.

  ‘Genevieve?’ Lifting her into his arms, he stroked her hair, attempting to revive her. All at once his thoughts dwelled upon his daughter, Brianna. He had not been there for her when she had fallen ill. She’d been hardly more than a babe when he’d lost her. And still the memory of it filled him with a crushing sadness.

  Genevieve opened her eyes. ‘I must have fallen asleep, I fear.’ She tried to muster a smile.

  ‘I will send for Siorcha.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice sounded frail, and fear seized him once more. ‘Bevan, there is something I must tell you.’

  ‘Shh…’He held her in his arms, covering her mouth with his fingers. ‘Do not speak. Rest now and regain your strength. Whatever you have to say can wait.’

  She laced her fingers with his, and her hands were cold. ‘Thank you for bringing Declan to me,’ she whispered.

  ‘I will summon the healer,’ he insisted.

  Genevieve did not protest, for she understood Siorcha’s presence would reassure Bevan. When at last the healer arrived, she examined Genevieve under Bevan’s watchful eyes. She gave Genevieve a powder mixed with wine to drink, to help her sleep. It was then that Genevieve remembered Siorcha had been with Fiona and Bevan’s daughter when she died. It occurred to her that the healer might have the answers she sought.