* * *
‘He’s going to murder me,’ Ewan remarked as the Ó Flayerty lands came into view. ‘I promised him I would keep you at Rionallís.’
‘You promised to protect me,’ Genevieve said. ‘And you couldn’t very well do that if I was travelling alone.’
When Genevieve had awakened to find Bevan gone, she had refused to let him leave her behind. Until she saw Fiona for herself, she would try to hold onto their marriage. Fiona might not be alive now, even if she had been last summer. And Genevieve had to cling to her hopes, for she had nothing else.
During the past several nights they had travelled north, with Ewan protesting at every mile of the journey. But he had kept her safe, and now she would face Bevan’s ire for disobeying him.
Ewan greeted the men guarding the entrance to the Ó Flayerty fortress. The guards allowed them to pass, and Ewan helped Genevieve dismount. ‘I’ll care for the horses while you find him.’
‘Coward,’ Genevieve chided. But her own stomach churned. She did not know what Bevan would say when he saw her.
‘Tá. But I shall stay clear of his fists.’
‘He’d not beat you.’
‘He might. For endangering you, I think he wouldn’t hesitate.’ Ewan glanced at the entrance to the house and gathered the reins. ‘I’ll leave you to him.’
Genevieve squared her shoulders. She had gone over all her arguments until she knew she could present her side with cool logic.
A rosy-cheeked woman, heavy with child, greeted her with a smile.
‘I’ve come to see Bevan,’ Genevieve said, removing her cloak.
‘He is dining with my husband. I am Aoife Ó Flayerty,’ the woman said. ‘May I tell him your name?’
‘Tell him his wife Genevieve has come.’
Aoife looked surprised, but hid it with another smile. ‘You may dine with us. I’ll tell Ewan to join you when he’s finished with the horses.’
Genevieve followed Aoife to a crowded room where a harpist played a lilting tune. Platters of food were spread out, and torches glowed merrily from sconces set into the walls.
When Bevan saw her, Genevieve thought that Ewan might be right. He did have murder in his eyes.
Still, she faced him. She had come this far, and if nothing else he had to listen to her. Bevan spoke not a word, but took her shoulder in an iron grip. With a smile to his hosts, he half dragged her to an alcove in the corner of the room.
‘You should not be here, Genevieve.’
‘Neither should you,’ she shot back, startling herself with the unexpected anger that rose up. ‘Aye, Fiona left you. Her body does not lie next to your daughter’s. But that is all you know. She may not be there with Somerton. All of this could be for naught.’
‘I have to know,’ he told her. ‘And I will do it alone.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Until I see her for myself, you are still my husband.’
Gone was the timid woman he’d known, and in her place stood an indignant wife. Bevan halted the smile before it caught the corner of his mouth. ‘Am I?’
‘Aye, you are.’ She took his hand in hers, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘And I’ll not give up my last few days with you.’
Her hand touched his cheek, and lust speared through him. Lug, but he wished he did not have to make this journey. He wished he could forget Siorcha’s testimony. Were it not true, he would take his wife above stairs and love her until morning dawned.
Yet, because of the revelation, he had no choice. He had broken his wedding vows, and he had no right to touch Genevieve or be with her.
But Fiona had broken their vows first.
Bevan tried to shake the argument away. He could not forsake his honour, regardless of what his wife had done. He would remain true to Fiona, despite his desire for Genevieve.
Later that evening, when they were alone, a single bed awaited them. He would take the floor and allow Genevieve to sleep on the bed.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, as he prepared his cloak upon the floor.
‘I intend to sleep.’ He removed his boots and tried to arrange the cloak into a pallet for sleeping.
Genevieve came over and sat down beside him on the floor. ‘Do not be foolish. You can share the bed with me. I promise I’ll not ravish you.’
He sent her a wary look. ‘You might.’
She laughed then, the tension broken. ‘Bevan, for one night let us forget about the morrow. Sleep beside me. There is no sin in that.’
No, but the thought of lying beside her without being able to touch her was a torment. He ached to hold her in his arms, to taste the sweetness of her skin once more. Just one last time.
He closed his eyes, fighting the temptation. Either way, he would not sleep this night.
She made the decision for him, flipping back the coverlet and sliding to the far side. She closed her eyes, turning her back to him. He suppressed a groan at the sight of her bare skin. He slipped in beside her, still wearing his trews, the straw mattress crackling under his weight.
‘Goodnight,’ she whispered.
‘And to you,’he whispered back. Her body lay only inches from him, and when she moved her skin brushed against him. Immediately he grew aroused, so he turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
He mentally counted, willing himself not to give in to his desire. Her lavender scent surrounded them, and he closed his eyes, trying to block it out.
Hours passed, and he could not stop thinking of his journey. Would Fiona want to see him again? Would she divulge his identity to the Baron? His stomach gnawed with a tension that ate at him. He admitted to himself that he didn’t want to go. He wished he had never learned the truth.
He looked over to Genevieve. Her shoulders rose and fell in sleep, her dark hair spilling across the pillow.
He believed in the sanctity of marriage, believed in his vows. And it was for those vows that he would sacrifice his own happiness and return to Fiona. He had loved her once; he would learn to love her again.
His chest grew rigid at the thought of leaving Genevieve. He could not take her with him, couldn’t bear to watch her sadness if he had to bring Fiona home. He knew of an abbey near Dun Laoghaire. They would say farewell there, and he would have her parents come for her.
In the darkness, she rolled over and planted her icy cold feet upon his thigh.
‘ Belenus,’ he breathed at the contact. At first he nearly pushed her away. Then he realised that this was their last night together. He would not ever be able to touch her again.
Reaching down, he cupped her cold feet in his hands, rubbing the skin to warm them. First one, then the other. She did not stir, but as her feet warmed he pulled her close.
Wrapping his arms around her, he finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
Ewan bent low upon the saddle. The sun had nearly reached its zenith in the wintry sky, and his stomach rumbled. Bevan had departed at mid-morn, ordering Ewan to return home alone.
He spurred his horse onward, enjoying the speed even as he resented his brother’s orders. When would his brother ever have faith in him? Ewan spent hours every day trying to become a strong fighter. He was improving, he knew. But it was never enough for Bevan.
Behind him, he heard the noise of horses approaching. Ewan scanned the horizon, but not a tree stood in sight to provide cover. Out in the open, he was a target.
He willed himself to stay calm and collected. Glancing behind him, he saw a small group of cavalry—Normans by the look of them. He recognised the armour, and when they drew nearer, it became more difficult to keep his emotions in check.
They were Sir Hugh’s men. Marstowe himself rode a chestnut destrier, trimmed in elaborate armour. Ewan hoped they would ride past, but soon it became apparent that they intended to surround him.
Ewan inhaled a deep breath. He mentally recited a Latin prayer, letting the words distract him from the desire to flee. The soldiers cut in front of him and forced him t
o stop. Ewan lowered his head.
‘The youngest MacEgan, aren’t you?’ Marstowe asked. He drew his horse alongside Ewan’s. ‘And they have sent you home.’
Ewan did not answer, but pretended Marstowe wasn’t there. He tried to remember how to count in Latin, but the sword that slid to his throat made it impossible.
‘Where are they going?’
Ewan remained motionless, panic clawing its way inside his throat. These men would torture him if he didn’t talk. But how could he betray his own brother and Genevieve? He had failed Bevan once already, causing them both to be captured from his cowardice.
He could not allow it to happen a second time.
The sword broke through his skin and he felt the warm wetness of his blood. A rushing noise filled his ears, and his vision swam. ‘I won’t tell you anything,’ he said.
He prayed for courage to endure whatever Marstowe planned.
‘They are travelling alone,’ Marstowe remarked. ‘How curious. Why would they not bring an escort? Unless they did not wish to be noticed.’ The man’s voice was smooth, oily in tone.
Ewan tried to reach for the sword at his side, but Marstowe twisted his arm. The knight unsheathed a dagger and ran the blade over Ewan’s palm. ‘Where are they going, boy?’
The MacEgans are the greatest warriors in Éireann. They never surrender. Their courage is legendary.
But as Marstowe’s dagger carved through his skin, he could only manage, ‘Somerton,’ before darkness claimed him.
* * *
‘I am not leaving you,’ Genevieve said, as they reached Dun Laoghaire. ‘If you believe I will stay behind in an abbey while you go after Fiona you are sorely mistaken.’
‘I am not taking you with me,’ he said, bringing their horses to a halt. ‘And that is final.’
‘If you do not, I’ll follow you again.’ She sat up straight in the saddle. Stubborn man. Genevieve knew that there was a strong chance Fiona was alive. But there was a slim chance of hope, too. And she intended to hold out, praying that somehow they could save their fragile marriage.
Genevieve turned her horse in the direction of the coast.
Bevan caught up to her, anger and worry lined in his face. ‘Genevieve, heed my command.’
He wasn’t going to let her go. She could tell. With a sigh, she stopped and faced his anger.
‘Bevan, hear me.’ She lowered her tone, softening it. ‘Put yourself in my place for a moment. If Hugh were still here, would you let me go alone to face him?’
‘It isn’t the same thing.’
‘Aye, it is. You would be afraid for me because you know what he is like. Just as I fear for your safety. What makes you believe Somerton will let her go? If he catches you, he’ll put you to death. At least if I am with you I can try to get help. To go alone is madness.’
She could see him beginning to consider it, so she pressed further. ‘If she is alive, I’ll—I’ll stay only long enough to see you both safe. Then I’ll leave. I promise.’
Tentacles of jealousy wrapped around her heart, for she knew Bevan would forget her as soon as he saw his wife once more. Any feelings he held towards her would evaporate like wisps of smoke when he laid eyes upon Fiona.
Genevieve wanted to fight for him, to make him love her. But her only choice was to leave, to let him go. The very thought of never seeing him again made her heart bleed.
Like as not, she had lost him already. He was determined to set her aside and find his wife. And, though it was like a blade to her soul, she would let him go if he was happier with Fiona.
She had one consolation, though. A small grain of hope. Her courses were late, and it could be that she was with child. She prayed desperately that it was so, that she would have a part of him to keep. But she could not tell him—not unless she knew for certain.
‘I do not want to hurt you, a chroí,’ he said. ‘And I like it not, putting you in danger.’
‘I am in more danger alone than with you,’ she said. ‘No harm will come to me under your protection.’
Her faith in him broke his resolve. Though he didn’t want to see the sadness in her face, he understood her need to be there. It was the same as his need to see Fiona, to find out if she was still alive.
With a sigh, he nodded. ‘All right. You may come with me.’
They made it to the coast to undergo the crossing. The sky was overcast with grey clouds, shadowing a sombre tint to the waters. Within a few days they would reach Somerton’s castle and learn the truth.
Bevan turned his gaze to the horizon, where the coast of Wales would eventually emerge. Beyond the borders he would find the answers he sought. He cleared his mind of all thoughts, steeling himself to face whatever might come.
* * *
The Baron of Somerton’s holdings were equal to Laochre in stature. The donjon stood high upon a motte, elevated above the surrounding baileys. The outbuildings were made of timber, covered in plaster save for the wooden beams that supported the structures. They surrounded the donjon in a circular pattern, and the castle boasted two palisades for protection.
Bevan had clothed himself as a peasant, and Genevieve had done likewise, wearing a brown kirtle with her head veiled. He wore his sword strapped beneath his tunic, the hilt covered behind his hood. If needed, he could reach behind his back and unsheath it. They would enter the castle behaving as servants, while Bevan searched for Fiona.
Genevieve had been unable to eat that morning. Her stomach clenched in a bundle of nerves. She prayed with every fibre of her being that Fiona was not here, that it had been a journey for naught. The fear crept into her heart that today she would lose Bevan forever.
He had eaten little himself, and his demeanour was distant. When she tried to make conversation, he answered with a single word, if at all. He had been careful not to touch her, and he behaved as if she weren’t there. She knew why he was acting this way, but it didn’t make the hurt less.
With each step closer to the donjon, she felt herself dying a little inside. Her eyes burned, but she kept onward, each step heavier than the last. All around them the castle buzzed with activity. Dogs barked, scampering around the inner bailey. A blacksmith worked upon armour at his forge, while the women brought steaming containers from the kitchen.
As Bevan turned to step into the donjon, Genevieve stopped. Her entire body felt like ice with the premonition that Siorcha had been right. She couldn’t bear to watch another woman embrace the man she had come to love.
‘What is it?’ Bevan returned to her side, his face concerned.
‘I am not going in.’
He pulled her away from the crowd of servants, bringing her near the outer wall. ‘Tell me.’
She blinked away the hot tears. ‘Go on. Find her.’ She cradled her elbows, trying to keep a tenuous hold upon her feelings. ‘I think you should be alone when you see her for the first time.’
He reached out and cupped her cheek. Strands of her dark hair fell against his palm. Deep inside him, he ached for her. Genevieve had healed him when all he’d wanted was to avenge Fiona’s death. She had given so much of herself. And today he would have to let her go.
‘I am sorry.’He brushed a kiss across her forehead, damning himself for what he must do. ‘I will return for you once I have seen what I need to see.’
Genevieve nodded once, a single tear spilling over. The sight of her tears was like a knife twisting within him. But he had to go.
‘Genevieve.’ He breathed her name like a prayer. ‘I—’
She waited as the seconds stretched between them. Bevan bowed his head. ‘I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, a chroí,’ he whispered.
‘Do not call me that.’ She couldn’t bear to hear the endearment. It reminded her too much of the way he had looked at her when he’d loved her, late at night. She straightened her shoulders. ‘I wish you well.’ She walked away, pulling her cloak around her shoulders against the cold.
Once she saw him leave, it was as though s
omething splintered deep within her. She had wanted so badly for him to change his mind, to choose her over his first wife. But he hadn’t.
The loss of him cut her deeply, and she wished she had guarded her heart more closely. He didn’t belong to her and he never would.
She stopped next to a wall, her lungs burning. With her hands on the icy timber, she grieved for the marriage she had lost. She sank down onto the snowy ground, her back against the wall. Her throat was raw and her cheeks stung. She didn’t know how long she wept, but releasing the tears helped to gather what remained of her pride.
She slipped away, moving in and out of the crowd of people to ensure no one noticed her. Then she moved with another group outside the gates, until she was free. It took only moments to return to where their horses were tethered.
Spurring her horse into a gallop, she rode past the village and into the open fields, willing herself to close off the grief of losing him.
Genevieve did not know how long she rode, and in her state of numbness she did not hear the riders approaching behind her. Her mare reared as a hood was thrown over her head.
She struggled, but the men grabbed her arms, pulling her off the horse. She landed hard on the ground, and when she fought to stand, a fist struck her down. Blood trickled from her lip, and she ceased her movement. They tightened leather thongs around her wrists so she could not escape.
‘Take her to the camp,’ one of the men said.
‘What about MacEgan?’ another asked.
‘He’ll come when he learns we have her. Send the boy.’
Someone pulled her atop a horse. She almost wanted to laugh. Bevan would not come for her. Not any more.
If she intended to escape, the only person she could rely on was herself.
* * *
Bevan picked up a bundle of wood, following a servant into the donjon. With his head kept low, no one spoke to him.
The warmth of the donjon was a sharp contrast to the frigid air outside. Bevan deposited his wood near the hearth and hung back in the shadows. Deliberately, he kept his gaze down. If Fiona were here she would be seated upon the dais with the Baron, awaiting the noon meal.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 76