He contemplated the rushes on the floor, suddenly wishing he had not come. He had been happy with Genevieve. She had filled up the empty pieces inside him, making him whole.
His life with her came rushing back in fleeting memories. He remembered rescuing her from Marstowe, watching her bruises fade along with her fears.
He remembered her body lying beneath his when he’d joined with her, her eyes shining with trust and something more. Even the way she would warm her freezing feet upon him in the middle of the night was something he didn’t want to forget.
He felt certain she loved him, though she hadn’t said it. And he wondered why he would give it up—why give her up for a woman who had left him?
Hurt and anger suffused him at the thought. He didn’t want Fiona. He didn’t want to see emptiness in her eyes when he could see fulfilment in another woman’s eyes. He wanted to wake beside Genevieve, to give her the children she craved. He wanted her smile, her laughter. He’d dry her tears of sorrow.
He closed his eyes, turning his back upon the dais. Just walk away. Pretend you never came here. Let the past go.
Bevan took a step away, convinced that this was the right thing to do. He had fallen in love with Genevieve, and she belonged with him.
Then he turned and saw her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
His child. His beloved daughter. Alive.
All logic and words failed him. He did not understand why or how, but it mattered not. Kneeling before her, he saw the flicker of recognition on her face.
‘Do you remember me, a iníon?’ She had grown from a baby into a young child. Her dark hair was neatly braided, and she wore a blue kirtle trimmed with gold.
‘Da?’ she whispered. Bevan opened his arms to her, and her small arms tightened about his neck. He could not stop the tears of thankfulness that came from his eyes.
‘Brianna.’He gripped her so hard he knew he was squeezing the breath from her. But he had never expected to find her again. ‘I’ve missed you. What happened? Why are you here?’
‘Mama brought me here,’ she said, hugging him tightly. He pressed a kiss against her cheek, unable to believe he was holding her once more.
Fiona had lied again. Her betrayal cut him so deeply he was almost afraid to see her. She had stolen away his own daughter. For two long years he had not seen her. His anger towards Fiona intensified.
‘Where is your mother?’
Brianna shook her head. ‘Mama died last autumn.’
Last autumn. It meant he was still married to Genevieve. A surge of happiness broke through him, and he envisioned Genevieve waiting for him beyond the gates. There had been no sin between them, only the sanctity of marriage. Bevan rejoiced inwardly at the thought.
Then at once he remembered that his daughter, just five years of age, grieved still for her mother. She knew nothing of Fiona’s actions.
Brianna turned accusing eyes upon her father. ‘I waited and waited for you, Da. Why didn’t you come for me?’
‘I knew not where you were. Who looks after you now?’
She pointed at the donjon. ‘He does. He says he is my new father now. But you are my da, not him.’
The mixture of emotions made it hard for him to grasp what she was saying. Fiona had indeed run from him, taking her daughter with her, to this place.
‘Move away from her,’ a voice said.
Bevan looked up and saw an infuriated Norman lord. His grip only tightened upon his daughter.
‘Fear not, a iníon. No one will take you from me again.’
* * *
Her captors had imprisoned Genevieve in a makeshift tent. There was no fire, and she shivered inside her cloak. Her hands were bound behind her back, and her wrists throbbed with stinging pain from the leather thongs.
Hugh Marstowe had planned a trap, intending to use her to lure Bevan. She had tried to argue that Bevan would not come, that he didn’t care about her. Then she’d learned of Ewan’s fate. She prayed that he lived still. Bevan would come after Hugh for vengeance, but when he did they would kill him.
She worked at her bonds, trying to free herself. They had taken her eating knife from her, after searching her for weapons she did not have. The tent flap moved and Marstowe entered. He sat on his haunches, watching her.
‘I wonder how long it will take for your husband to arrive?’ he mused. He leaned in, and she shrank back. Grasping her throat, he asked, ‘Would you like to watch me kill him?’
Genevieve closed her eyes, fighting the fears that rose up. She prayed that Bevan would not come for her, that he would remain safe.
A fist struck her, and pain radiated through her jaw. ‘Answer me!’
When she did not, he jerked her hair back so she was forced to look at him. It made her feel as though she were reliving her past nightmare. Marstowe’s hand gripped her chin. ‘You gave your body to him, little whore. You let him take what belonged to me. And for touching you he will pay with his life.’
He struck her across the face, shoving her to the ground. She felt the cold earth beneath her cheek, but did not struggle against him. Fighting would only excite his anger more.
In disgust, Hugh left her alone. The icy chill of the hardened ground stung against her face, but she could see a faint light beneath the tent. Easing towards the bottom edge of the tent, she peered outside. Three men guarded her, and other soldiers stood on alert, armed and ready.
Bevan was riding into a trap. Marstowe would kill him, as he’d promised. And she would have to watch him die—unless she did something to stop him.
But what?
She bit her lip against the pain and focused on the knots. Moisture from the snow had caused them to tighten, but she worked at them with her fingertips.
Escape was her only hope of saving Bevan. At the thought of him, her bruised heart hurt again. His handsome face, scarred from battle, rose up in her memory. She thought of his hooded eyes, the way he looked at her, hungry with desire. She remembered the way he had taken away her fears, teaching her the ways of loving.
She didn’t want him to die. No matter that he had chosen Fiona, she loved him. She prayed that a child grew within her womb, that a part of him would always belong to her.
One of the knots slipped, offering a thread of hope.
* * *
‘You should not have come, MacEgan.’ The Baron of Somerton glared at Bevan, his sword drawn. Somerton was stocky, dark-haired, and he wore his moustache and beard trimmed close. He stood slightly shorter than Bevan, but there was no doubt the man had seen battle before, from the way he gripped his sword.
‘I’ve come for Brianna.’ Bevan would tear the man limb from limb for daring to keep her from him.
He reached behind him and unsheathed his sword to meet Somerton’s weapon. The Baron had a wooden shield, whereas Bevan had nothing but his weapon. Their blades clashed as they circled one another. ‘Why did you steal my wife and daughter?’ Bevan demanded. ‘Is it because you lacked the courage to face me yourself?’
Somerton lifted his shield to defend Bevan’s strike and held his blade steady. ‘That was Fiona’s doing. I asked her to reveal the truth.’ His features grew harsh. ‘You should have died on the battlefield years ago, MacEgan. Were it not for Fiona’s mercy, I would have gladly taken your life then.’
Bevan had warmed to the fight, and was now beginning to take pleasure in it.
A soldier took Brianna in his arms, to keep her from running towards the men. ‘Da!’ Brianna shrieked.
The sound of her voice only made Bevan fight harder. His sword collided with Somerton’s shield again. The Baron struck his blade, twisting to force Bevan in a new direction. Lord Somerton was skilled—a challenge he hadn’t expected.
The Baron increased the tempo of the fight. It forced Bevan to concentrate on his defence, and he realised they were evenly matched. He circled the Norman, watching for any weakness. It seemed that Somerton favoured his right side.
Bevan feinted right, and whe
n Somerton raised his shield he changed his direction, forcing his enemy backward. Steel met steel, the blades ringing in the winter stillness. Bevan poured all his energies into the fight, releasing two years’ worth of grief and rage. Sweat beaded upon Somerton’s face, and his metal armour became a hindrance instead of a protection.
The Baron breathed heavily, but still he fought. Somerton sliced his sword downwards, and Bevan barely avoided the fatal strike. In response, he increased his speed, slashing until Somerton was trapped against a wall. With a final blow Bevan disarmed the Baron. He held his sword to the Baron’s throat.
‘I should kill you,’ he said. ‘For all that you have done.’
‘Da?’ a girlish voice whispered. ‘I want to go home.’
Somerton’s face softened at Brianna’s plea. ‘I treated her as my own daughter, you know. I wish she had been.’ Lowering his shoulders in defeat, he said, ‘Take her. She belongs with her father.’ With a nod to the soldier, Somerton ordered the release of Brianna.
Tiny arms gripped Bevan’s thigh. His left hand moved down to stroke her forehead.
‘I never wanted this deception, you know,’ Somerton admitted. ‘I wanted Fiona to tell you the truth from the beginning. But she wanted to take Brianna with her. She swore you would never grant her a divorce, and she couldn’t bear to be separated from her daughter.’
Bevan lowered his sword. ‘She was right.’ Even now, he could not believe the lengths she had gone to. How could she have taken his own child from him? Any feelings he had held for Fiona had now disappeared. He’d never truly known her, nor had he realised how desperate she was.
‘How did she die?’
Somerton inclined his head. ‘Her melancholy never left her, I fear. She grieved for the loss of her maid—the one who took her place and died in battle. Then Fiona miscarried a babe.’ The Baron’s face filled with regret. ‘She took her life soon afterwards. I could not save her.’
Bevan lowered his sword. His wife’s infidelity meant little to him any more. ‘I am taking Brianna with me,’ he informed the Baron.
Somerton hunched down in front of Brianna. Bevan tensed, keeping his blade ready.
‘Go with your da, little poppet. Be happy,’ Somerton said, his voice heavy.
Brianna’s thumb tucked into her mouth and she nodded. As Somerton gave orders for an escort, Bevan’s gaze searched the grounds for some sign of Genevieve.
Worry curled in his gut when he saw that she was gone.
* * *
Ewan’s hands were raw, and his body was beaten and bruised, as he rode towards Lord Somerton’s donjon. The gait of the horse jarred his sore muscles, and he fought to keep himself upright.
He had failed Bevan again. And Genevieve. He had told Sir Hugh everything he knew, but they had not stopped torturing him. They had carved the skin from his palms until he doubted he would ever handle a sword again. Blood seeped through the bandages on both hands, and he used his wrists to hold the reins.
At the gate, the guards would not allow him entrance. He was fortunate, for Bevan had come into the inner bailey.
‘Ewan!’he called out. ‘What has happened?’ Bevan’s face shadowed with worry.
‘Marstowe,’ Ewan managed. ‘He’s taken Genevieve.’ He nodded towards the hills. ‘Across the river.’
Rage blackened Bevan’s face. ‘Why?’
‘Rionallís,’ Ewan managed, before he slipped into unconsciousness.
Bevan caught his brother’s body, his mind infused with guilt. He blamed himself for Ewan’s wounds. At the sight of his brother’s hands, he wanted to inflict the same wounds tenfold upon their enemy.
A sick dread filled him at the thought of Genevieve’s fate. Bevan knew Hugh wanted him dead, and this was a means of luring him. Marstowe would take Genevieve for himself, for only through her could he gain Rionallís.
Bevan thought of asking Lord Somerton for soldiers, but he doubted if the man would help him. He held no liking for Bevan, not to mention that an entourage might inspire Marstowe to harm Genevieve.
No, he would have to go alone. If he could infiltrate Marstowe’s men and get her out alive, it would be his only hope. His mind devised a strategy while he gave orders for Ewan to be looked after.
The Baron approached the pair and, seeing Ewan’s wounds, sent for the healer.
‘Will you keep my daughter safe for me?’ Bevan asked.
Lord Somerton nodded. ‘I will.’
With Brianna in the Baron’s care, Bevan mounted and rode in the direction of the camp. He berated himself for letting Ewan leave by himself. He knew the boy had pride—pride that Bevan had broken many times with his words. Bevan had believed that allowing Ewan the chance to travel alone would show his faith in his youngest brother. He should have listened to his instincts. Now, because of his eagerness to find Fiona, he had endangered two of his loved ones.
A fierce need for vengeance rooted in his heart. He would find Genevieve and rescue her from Marstowe.
He could only pray that it wasn’t too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ewan opened his eyes to a searing pain in his hands. He fought against crying out, and the healer pressed him back down onto the pallet. ‘Hush, lad. I must clean your wounds.’
The woman gave him a bitter-tasting drink that made him feel dizzy. As she worked to tend his hands, he tried not to succumb to sleep.
‘I have to help him,’ he said, struggling to sit up.
‘Lie down,’ she urged. ‘You must rest.’
No. He could not lie abed. Not while Bevan was riding to save Genevieve. Marstowe’s soldiers would kill both of them, and it would be his fault.
A surge of fury welled up within him—anger at himself for his failure. Ewan used what remained of his strength to push the woman back. ‘My brother’s life depends upon it.’
The heaviness of sleep descended upon him from the herbal drink. Ewan went to a corner and forced himself to retch up the tea, knowing he needed his wits for survival.
Lord Somerton entered the chamber. ‘What is it?’
‘Marstowe’s men will kill my brother when he arrives. I need you to send reinforcements to help him. He’s out there alone.’
Somerton started to shake his head. ‘I do not think I should get involved in this battle.’
‘He’ll die if you don’t!’ Ewan insisted. ‘Or is that what you wanted all along?’ His voice shook with anger and helplessness. He had failed his brother once before, and Bevan had rescued him. If it hadn’t been for his weakness, Marstowe would never have found them.
‘No. Such was not my intention.’
‘Then send men,’ Ewan pleaded. ‘After what you allowed to happen, you must help him.’
The Baron paused, deliberating. ‘Where are they?’
Ewan described the whereabouts of the campsite, and after a long moment the Baron relented. ‘I owe him this for what I did.’ He departed to give orders.
Ewan reached out to open the door, his hands bleeding once more. He blocked out the pain, keeping his mind steady.
This time he would not fail.
* * *
Bevan dismounted from his horse when the camp came into view. He lowered himself to the ground, and the frost-laced grasses dampened his tunic. Inching over the top of the hillside on his stomach, he gazed down upon the enemy.
Not a tree or stone offered a hiding place. The soldiers awaited him in full view. In the centre of their camp was a single tent, heavily guarded. He didn’t even know if Genevieve was inside.
A secret attack was not possible under the circumstances. But before he made a move he had to ensure that Genevieve was alive.
He remounted his horse, leading the destrier over the crest of the ridge. Pulling an arrow from his quiver, he nocked it to the bowstring.
‘Marstowe!’ he called out.
A soldier rode towards him, his spear aimed. Bevan released his arrow, and the shaft struck its mark. The man’s body fell to the ground, and Bevan re
adied another arrow.
‘I want to see Genevieve. If she is alive, I will come down to you.’
He could not see Sir Hugh, but the guards parted the tent folds. Moments later they dragged Genevieve out. Her hands were bound behind her back; blood was trickling down her cheek.
‘Bevan, go back!’ she called out. ‘Come no closer.’
He ignored her request, moving his horse forward but keeping out of their range. It was like a terrible dream unfolding before him.
‘Let her go,’ he said. ‘And I will see to it you get what you want.’
Marstowe edged forward. ‘All I want is to see you dead.’
Behind him, Bevan heard horses approaching. Turning, he saw soldiers coming around to flank him, cutting off his escape. He fired several arrows, but there were too many men.
When his last arrow was gone, he drew his sword. They closed in upon him.
‘Bring him to me alive,’ Marstowe warned the men. ‘I will be the one to end his life.’
Bevan fought against his attackers, and it took six of them to disarm him. His mind raced with fear for Genevieve. The men bound him so tightly he could barely breathe from the ropes tied around his chest. His hands and feet were also tied, though he fought for his release.
Marstowe forced Bevan to look at Genevieve. Blood caked her temple, and her hair lay dishevelled about her shoulders. Her kirtle was torn and her feet were bare.
Bevan’s rage trebled at the thought of her being beaten and left to freeze. ‘Don’t touch her,’ he warned.
‘Or what?’ Marstowe mocked. ‘You can do nothing to stop me.’
‘I swear to God, you bastard, I’ll kill you if you lay a hand on her.’
‘I already have,’ Marstowe said. ‘And for your insolence she will suffer.’ Striding towards Genevieve, he struck a blow across her face.
Genevieve’s head lowered for a moment. Then she stared at Marstowe, a glittering anger in her eyes. She turned to Bevan, shaking her head slightly. He wondered what she planned to do.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 77