Her Irish Warrior Michelle Willingham (i read books .TXT) 📖

visitors with her voice. Hugh had destroyed the instrument when she’d driven him to another rage. He had called it a useless activity, and she had not sung again for fear of antagonising him.

She feared that the others would also regard music as foolishness, and so she replied, ‘I am good with a needle.’ With a glance down at her torn kirtle, she admitted, ‘I’ve been trying to repair this, but I haven’t the proper tools.’

‘I will see to it that you have everything you need. And…’ Isabel pondered a moment. ‘If it doesn’t offend you, you might wish to try the Irish style of dress later. ’Tis quite comfortable.’

Genevieve agreed, wanting to rid herself of the frayed gown as soon as possible.

‘You speak my husband’s language very well,’ Isabel remarked. ‘How did you learn it? No one speaks the Irish tongue in Normandy.’

‘I am from England, not Normandy,’ Genevieve corrected. ‘But my father’s lands are near the Welsh border. I was fostered in Wales, along with an Irish woman. We taught each other our languages as we grew up.’

Isabel brightened. ‘My family was also from England.’ She described the location of her father’s lands, but they were far from Genevieve’s parents’.

‘How long has your family lived there?’ Isabel asked.

‘For three generations. My great-grandfather came over from Normandy. He married, and his bride brought him a great deal of property. She refused to wed him unless he allowed her to stay in England.’

‘And you wish to go back?’ Isabel asked.

Genevieve hesitated, but nodded. ‘Until the matter of my betrothal is resolved, it is for the best. One day I hope to return here.’

Isabel smiled and led her outside. They walked past several outbuildings towards the inner bailey. The familiar sounds of activity were no different from those she had heard at home. Nearby, steam rose from a cauldron as a woman used a paddle to stir laundry. There was a sense of security here, of people who were at ease in their work despite the outside threats.

Next they entered a hut that contained weaving looms, and Isabel spoke to one of the women. She arranged to have lengths of wool and linen brought to her chamber later.

When they went back inside the donjon, Genevieve’s respect for Isabel grew. She was obviously accustomed to hard work. A servant spreading fresh rushes was instructed to bring more, and Isabel herself joined in the activity of scattering the rushes.

Genevieve hung behind, not knowing what to do. She had never seen the lady of a castle engaged in the same menial tasks as the servants. She didn’t know what to think of it, but she soon joined in the work. The women laughed and chattered as they performed their tasks.

As Isabel stood atop a bench, to correct a hanging tapestry, a man came up behind her. He resembled Bevan, with black hair and grey eyes, but he moved with a stealthy grace. The man embraced Isabel, catching her around the waist and letting her slide against him until her feet touched the ground. He kissed her, and Genevieve guessed that the man was Isabel’s husband, Patrick.

The pair were completely absorbed in one another, and Genevieve looked away guiltily. Footsteps approached from behind her, and she turned to see Bevan.

His face had healed, but she could see a bandage beneath his tunic, covering his shoulder wound.

‘Bevan,’ Genevieve greeted him quietly. She held out her hands to him, meaning only a polite welcome.

He did not take them, and so she lowered them, her face flushed with embarrassment. He looked as though he wanted to say something to her, but the uncomfortable silence stretched on.

Masking her disappointment, Genevieve raised her glance to the ceiling and turned around. ‘Laochre is the largest fortress I’ve ever seen. And yet Patrick is not your High King?’

‘He was asked to compete for the honour,’ Bevan said, ‘but he turned down the invitation.’

‘Why would he do such a thing?’

‘He preferred to look after his own tribe,’ Bevan replied.

Genevieve was surprised that any man would turn down such an opportunity for power, but she supposed it held great sacrifices with the position.

Bevan stood beside her, and they watched as Isabel and the servants arranged greenery around the chamber for the feast. Several times she tried to ask Bevan questions, but he only mumbled a reply or spoke in single-word responses.

‘Have you sent anyone to bring my father here?’ she asked.

‘No.’He did not look at her, his attention fixed upon a swag of greenery.

Genevieve tried again. ‘What are your plans?’

‘Patrick has agreed to handle the matter.’

More than anything, Genevieve wanted this awkwardness between them to end. She decided to be direct.

‘You are avoiding me, I think.’ Crossing her arms, she nodded, as if speaking to herself. ‘You do not wish to speak to me because I am a dreadful Norman who devours newborn babes and breathes fire.’

His mouth twitched, but he did not respond.

‘Or perhaps you are sulking like a child because I did not want you to escort me to Dun Laoghaire? Is that it?’

‘That was your choice. I have other tasks to attend—ones that do not involve you.’

Bevan stepped in front of her, and she saw he was trying to intimidate her with his height. Looking up at his strong arms, his wide chest, she knew she should fear him. And yet part of her believed he would never harm her, despite his rough words.

‘And I am not a child, Genevieve.’

She kept her chin up. ‘Then stop behaving like one. My family will come for me, and you need not trouble yourself over me again.’ Leaving him standing there, she went over to help Isabel with the preparations.

Bevan couldn’t believe her accusation. At that moment he was itching for a sword fight—anything to relieve the tension growing within him. To Patrick, he called out, ‘I am going to the training field. Send Ewan to me for another lesson, if he wants it.’

‘Genevieve, come above stairs with me,’ he heard Isabel say. ‘I