Marstowe stepped behind her, fitting a knife to her throat. ‘She did not fight me, either.’ Jerking Genevieve’s head back, he rested the blade against her smooth skin.
Bevan’s world fragmented at the thought of Genevieve suffering at Marstowe’s hands. His muscles strained against the ropes and he threw his body at one of the guards, knocking the man down.
At that second Genevieve pushed Marstowe. She had somehow loosened the knots from her ropes enough to free herself. She leaned back and twisted against him, forcing him to the ground. The knife sank into Hugh’s thigh, and he exhaled in shock. Genevieve pulled the weapon free, running to Bevan.
She began cutting his ropes, but Bevan took the dagger from her. ‘Go!’he urged, and she ran towards the hillside. Genevieve’s efforts had loosened the ropes enough for him to snap the remaining ones. Straining hard against his bonds, he broke free.
As the soldiers closed in on him he used the knife to defend himself. In the distance, he saw Marstowe rise from the ground, mindless of his wound. He mounted and pursued Genevieve on horseback, his sword raised to strike her down.
A cold rage descended upon Bevan, and he swung his knife like a madman, stabbing at the soldiers until he could grasp a sword. With dagger and sword, he fended them off.
Marstowe was closing in.
Bevan punched a guard, slashed at another until he could mount a horse. He spurred the animal onward, racing towards her.
Lug, keep her safe, he prayed.
She had nearly reached the top of the hill, but Marstowe charged her. Bevan raised his sword, prepared to aim it at Marstowe’s back, when suddenly another horse came over the crest.
A battle cry emerged from the rider, and he saw his brother Ewan throw himself at Marstowe, knocking him off the horse. A small band of soldiers rode behind him, and they scattered to fight against Marstowe’s men. Bevan breathed in relief that Genevieve was unharmed.
Marstowe rose, and in horror Bevan saw him lunge with his sword towards Ewan. His brother blocked the blade, but the tip sliced through his upper arm. Ewan cried out and stumbled to the ground.
Bevan jerked back on the reins of his mount, unsheathing his own sword. He dismounted and swung against Hugh. With all his strength Marstowe pushed back against Bevan. Bevan could see the wild fear in his eyes as Hugh wielded his sword. But his enemy’s movements had slowed, his blood flowing freely from the blow Genevieve had struck.
With a fast parry Bevan moved in, his sword barely missing Marstowe’s stomach. Steel clashed against steel, until Bevan’s foot slipped against a patch of ice.
Marstowe pressed his advantage, but Bevan rolled away. At the last second he lifted his blade, embedding it deeply into Marstowe’s chest.
His eyes froze, and Bevan met his gaze. As death closed over Marstowe, Bevan withdrew the blade and let the man’s body fall to the ground.
He ran to Genevieve, crushing her in an embrace.
‘Ewan—’ she managed.
Bevan took her hand and they knelt beside the boy. The sword had cut him deeply across his left shoulder. Ewan’s face was deathly pale, but he offered a weak smile. ‘I did not fail you this time, brother,’ he whispered.
Bevan clasped his hand. ‘No, you did not.’ He smiled back. ‘I owe you our lives, young warrior.’
Ewan’s smile broadened before he closed his eyes.
‘Will he live?’ Genevieve asked, trying to reduce the flow of blood with the hem of her kirtle.
Bevan nodded. ‘We must take him back to the fortress with all haste.’
‘My thanks,’ Genevieve whispered. ‘I am sorry for the trouble I have caused.’
Bevan pulled her into his arms. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. I am the one with regrets,’ he said, his voice tinged with emotion. ‘I came back to tell you Fiona no longer lives. She died long before our marriage.’
He caressed her face, mindful of Genevieve’s fresh bruises. ‘She hid Brianna, letting everyone believe she had died of a fever years ago. I found my daughter at Somerton’s donjon.’
Genevieve’s expression was brittle, but she mustered a smile. ‘I am glad for you.’
‘Genevieve,’he breathed, holding her tightly. ‘Come back with me.’
A desperate hope welled up inside her, but she could not help the feelings of anger that shielded her love for him. He would have chosen Fiona had she been there.
And she didn’t like it. Not at all.
‘We must tend to Ewan’s wounds,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘And then I am going home to my parents.’
She saw the injured expression on his face, the surprise. He must have thought she would fall into his arms—that she would go back to Erin with him.
‘I’m in love with you,’ he said quietly. ‘And I don’t want you to go.’
Tears pricked at her eyes, but she held on to her pride. ‘You made your choice, Bevan. Now I am making mine.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Imposing shadows stretched across the fortress belonging to Lord Thomas de Renalt, Earl of Longford. A solitary figure scaled the rampart and moved to the top of the battlement. Another man waited below, until a rope was lowered. He grumbled in Latin beneath his breath as he was hauled to the top.
‘This is foolishness, Bevan,’ Father Ó Brian remarked. ‘I much prefer stairs.’
‘Shh. Come.’ Bevan gestured for the man to follow him across the battlement and into the donjon. ‘Wait here.’ The priest remained outside while Bevan searched for the right chamber.
Fortune smiled upon him, for he heard the lilting sound of Genevieve’s music, alluring and haunting in its sadness. He followed the sound until he stood outside her door.
Nearly a month had passed since he’d seen her last. It had taken longer than he had anticipated to gain her father’s favour, and to pay the necessary fines for the death of Sir Hugh.
He knew Genevieve was angry, but he would not accept her refusal to come home. And he didn’t mind breaking a few rules. Longford had agreed to let him through the gates, but he would not grant Bevan any aid in winning Genevieve over. Which was why Bevan had resorted to bringing his own priest, and ropes to scale the walls.
He entered her chamber with stealth, motioning for the priest to await him. She sat upon a stool, the Celtic harp balanced between her knees. He’d sent her the gift, hoping to gain her forgiveness.
The top of the harp stood just above her head when she was seated. She ran her fingers across its strings, the tones rising and falling beneath her hands. Her hair remained hidden behind a veil, while her slender form was clad in a dark red kirtle.
He had practised what he intended to say, repeating the words over and again in his mind. And yet as soon as he saw her, all traces of speech fled.
At last, he interrupted her song. ‘Did my gift please you?’
Her hands struck a false note, and Genevieve jerked in surprise. ‘What are you doing here? If my father finds you—’
‘Your father has allowed me into the castle. He knows I am here.’ Bevan cocked his head to the side. ‘Although I am not certain about your mother.’
‘Well, I do not want you here.’ She glared at him.
‘You were wrong, you know,’ he said, moving the harp aside. He saw her risk a glance towards the door, but he closed the distance between them. Clumsy words stumbled over his tongue. ‘I wanted—no, I needed you long before I—’
Wariness haunted her eyes, and he knew he had to find the right words. ‘You left before I could tell you the truth. Even if Fiona had been alive I would have come back to you. You are the one I want as my wife.’
Doubt clouded Genevieve’s features. She wanted so much to believe him. ‘I don’t think—’
‘I agree,’he said, drawing her up. He trapped her in an embrace. ‘Don’t think at all. Just—know that I love you.’
He meant the words. The aching intensity in his green eyes, the way he humbled himself before her, bespoke the truth.
‘And
I’m not leaving without you.’ His arms closed around her waist while his words breached the fragile defences of her heart.
Each day without him had augmented her despair. She had missed him with a need she hadn’t known. And when the Celtic harp had arrived as a gift from him, its carved wood reminding her of the days at Rionallís, she had wept with longing.
But she truly hadn’t believed he would come back.
‘Do you promise?’ she whispered, moving her hands up the strong planes of his back.
‘Do I promise what?’ He lowered his face to hers, poised to meet her lips.
‘Do you promise to carry me off like the Irish barbarian you are?’
He smiled against her mouth. ‘As long as I am allowed to ravish you a time or two.’
‘Or three,’ she whispered, even as his mouth came down to claim hers.
His hands removed the veil, twining in her hair and clinging to her in an embrace that made her whole again.
‘I love you,’ she said, claiming him as her husband.
His hands moved over her body in thanksgiving. Then he stepped back, a look of startled wonder on his face. His hand moved down to the hardened curve of her stomach.
‘Genevieve?’ He breathed the question. At her nod, he embraced her again, and Genevieve wrapped her arms around his neck, needing his closeness.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Bevan tilted her chin to look at him. ‘That will be Father Ó Brian, I believe.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I brought the priest with me.’ Kissing her lightly, he called out, ‘You may enter, Father.’
Genevieve’s throat closed up with emotion, and a desperate laugh bubbled forth. ‘You can’t possibly mean to do this.’
Moments later, Father Ó Brian cleared his throat. ‘This is not proper, Bevan. I have never blessed a marriage ceremony like this one.’
‘Sometimes stronger measures are called for when it comes to stubborn women. Continue, Father.’
Father Ó Brian began the Latin words of the marriage rite, while Genevieve took his hand. His thumb caressed her palm as he gave his vow, promising himself to her.
‘I’ve made my choice, Genevieve. And for ever and always that choice is you.’ Bevan gazed down upon her, and she saw the depth of emotion in his eyes. ‘I love you, and I want you as my bride.’
The priest awaited her response.
‘I will take you for my husband again,’ she whispered.
His face spread into a magnificent smile, and the priest continued with the marriage rite, giving his final blessing.
The kiss Bevan gave her afterwards removed every shred of doubt she might have had.
‘Leave us, Father. I’ve a marriage to consummate.’
Genevieve blushed, even as her body warmed to his words. As the moon rose to illuminate their chamber, Bevan lifted her into his arms. His hands slid across her ribs, stroking every inch of her. When he reached her stomach, his hand rested over the manifestation of their loving.
‘I love you,’ Bevan whispered, ‘and I would wed you a thousand times if I could.’ He cupped her face in his hands, and she marvelled that he belonged to her at last. ‘Is that what you want?’
The pleasure building within her rushed in a flood of desire for him. ‘No.’ She slid her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest. Her heart swelled with love. ‘All I’ve ever wanted is you.’
EPILOGUE
‘You have a son,’ Isabel said, presenting him with a tiny swaddled infant. The boy’s hand curled about Bevan’s thumb, and he could not describe the magnitude of the love that filled him.
He was a father again. He touched the boy’s cheek, offering up a silent prayer of thanks.
When his sister-in-law opened the door to their chamber, he saw the tired face of his wife. Never was any face more dear to him than hers. He sat beside Genevieve, nestling their son between them.
‘We’ve a fine son, a ghrá.’
‘Aye, we do.’ She leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘Brianna will be eager to see her new brother. Though I know she wanted a sister.’
Bevan stroked her hair. ‘What shall we name him?’
A head poked around the doorframe. ‘Ewan is a good name.’
Bevan grinned at his brother’s suggestion. ‘I thought you were preparing for your travels to England.’
Genevieve’s father had offered to continue Ewan’s training, now that his hands had healed. Each day Ewan practised with the sword, and Bevan had seen a new confidence in him.
Ewan would always be the greatest of warriors in Bevan’s eyes, for he owed Genevieve’s life to him. And he hoped that one day his younger brother would gain the skills he so desired.
‘I wanted to see my nephew before I left,’ he said. ‘Good wishes to you both.’
Genevieve embraced him, and Bevan did likewise. ‘Safe journey to you. Send us word when you arrive.’
‘What was your father’s name?’ Genevieve asked Bevan, after Ewan had left.
Startled, he answered, ‘Duncan.’
‘I like it,’ she said, kissing his cheek.
‘I love you, Genevieve,’ he said, capturing her lips for a deeper kiss. Though he said it often, he wondered if she truly understood how much he meant it. Each day with her was a blessing.
‘And I love you.’
With their child cradled beside them, Bevan felt a profound sense of goodness. For out of his greatest sorrow had come his greatest joy.
* * * * *
ISBN: 978-1-4268-0157-0
HER IRISH WARRIOR
Copyright © 2007 by Michelle Willingham
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If you enjoyed reading this special Irish Warrior collection,
you’ll love this story from Michelle Willingham,
WARRIOR OF ICE
Taryn held her hood over her face to shield her from the freezing rain, choosing her words carefully. ‘Would you rather not go to Tara?’ she asked. ‘I could still speak to the High King myself and plead for mercy.’
At that, Killian faced her. There was a dark expression on his face, as if he didn’t at all like that idea. ‘He will not listen to a woman’s desires.’
He drew closer, and she grew nervous beneath his gaze. The water and ice clung to his face, but the cold did not appear to bother him. ‘And he might threaten you in other ways.’
It was disconcerting to be the focus of this man’s attention. He was so handsome, almost as if he were not real. She found herself watching his mouth, remembering the aching pleasure of his kiss.
‘No man would threaten me at Tara,’ she said. ‘I know what I look like and how I seem to outsiders.’
But he caught her chin and tilted it up, forcing her to face him. With his hands, he framed her scarred face, staring into her eyes. She watched as a droplet of water rolled down his cheek, and the instinct to touch it came over her.
‘Believe me when I say that men do not care about a woman’s face. Some will take what they desire, whether a woman wills it or no
t. You would not be safe from the High King’s men.’
She supposed that could be true of some soldiers. Thankfully she had never been in such danger. But even so, most men shunned her presence.
‘They say I am cursed,’ she said softly.
His fingers passed over her marred skin, and the touch was so light, she felt it spiral down her body. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to have smooth skin. Or to have a man like Killian look upon her with interest. The sudden flare in his eyes made her go motionless. He did not take his hand from her face, and his thumb edged her lips.
‘Perhaps you are,’ he answered. But in his eyes, she saw an intensity that frightened her. He was watching her in a different way, one that made her cheeks grow warm.
He does not want a woman like you, she reminded herself. All he wants is land of his own.
And there was no means of granting that to him.
‘You won’t go to Tara alone,’ he swore. Her skin rose up with goose flesh beneath his stare. For a moment, she imagined what it would be like if this man were her protector. The thought only heightened an unspoken yearning.
‘I know the MacEgan soldiers have agreed to be my escorts,’ she said. ‘But will you come with me as well?’
He didn’t answer at first. Then he slid one hand against her waist. For a moment, he kept it there, watching to see what she would do. His touch burned through her gown, making her wonder why she was so fascinated by this man. Was it because he saw past her scars? Or was there something more?
He is using you, her mind warned. And that could indeed be true. But at this moment, she hardly cared. This handsome warrior was watching her with the eyes of a man who was interested in her. And her wayward heart wanted so badly to believe it.
‘I suppose I should confront the man who sired me,’ he said at last. His thumb edged a circle over the base of her spine, and the gesture melted away her reservations. Killian added, ‘If he allows it, I will ask for mercy on your father’s behalf. If not, then I will attempt to free Devlin in secret.’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 78