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

Bevan barely heard Genevieve’s reply as he returned outside. The air had grown colder, the clouds swelling with forthcoming snow. He needed to feel the clash of steel on steel, to bury the anger within him.

After everything he had done for her, she thought he was behaving like a child?

Furious at her criticism, he signalled one of the men to spar against him. He’d not allow himself to be trapped into marriage with her, regardless of what Patrick said. If it meant war, so be it.

Bevan blocked his opponent’s blow with his shield, allowing his anger to erupt full force. He struck with his sword again and again, driving the soldier towards the wall as he pictured Sir Hugh’s face.

Genevieve might have saved his life and Ewan’s, but he had more than repaid the debt. His sword slipped, and he missed blocking a slash from his opponent.

The soldier’s sword nicked his wounded shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Bevan. I didn’t mean—’

The intense pain made him gasp, and Bevan signalled for the fight to end. ‘Tá, you fought well. Make no excuses. I dropped my defence and deserved the cut.’

Pressing his hand to the injury, he felt blood seeping. It sobered him, and he thought again of how Genevieve had tended his wounds. He remembered the dark bruise across her cheek, and the dried blood on her scalp from the man who had once been her betrothed. He remembered her fear.

Marstowe had always treated her as a possession, never as an equal. Bevan admitted that his own wife had never been an equal—she had been far above his reach. Beautiful, nearly perfect in every way. He had felt unworthy to be her husband. He would have given Fiona anything she desired, had he been able.

The shadow of grief closed in on him again, but he blocked it away. When he reached his chamber, he stripped off the tunic and stanched the flow of blood with a cloth.

Patrick might believe that an alliance with Genevieve was the best way to claim Rionallís, but Bevan would not wed her. Or any woman, for that matter. He tossed the bloodstained cloth aside, letting the familiar sorrow envelop him.

Stop behaving like a child.

Genevieve was right. His pride had kept him from forgiving her. But, more than that, he was denying the attraction between them. She had looked so fragile, so vulnerable, he’d wanted to give her comfort. He had wanted to feel the touch of a woman once more.

The primal urges rising within him were the result of years of staying away from all women. He was not a monk, and at the moment his body ruled his thoughts.

Were it any other woman, he might have been able to wed her, make the alliance to keep Rionallís. Patrick’s suggestion might not have bothered him as much, for it would be easy to stay apart from a stranger.

But he feared that if he let Genevieve get too close she might try to usurp Fiona’s place. And he couldn’t let that happen. Not ever.

Chapter Six

G enevieve followed Isabel into a small chamber where a hot bath had been prepared. From a chair nearby, Isabel held up a silk cream-coloured léine with close-fitting sleeves. ‘It will be perfect with your dark hair.’ She lifted a burgundy overdress and a golden girdle.

Genevieve marvelled at the rich shade and smiled. ‘’Tis beautiful.’

Isabel helped her remove the torn kirtle, but did not remark upon Genevieve’s bruises. ‘Bevan will not be able to keep his eyes from you this evening.’

Genevieve rather doubted he wanted to see her again, but instead she responded, ‘You have been very kind to me.’

She eased into the tub of water, grateful for the healing warmth. She knew Isabel wanted to ask about the bruises, but she wasn’t ready to answer any questions.

At the moment she felt lost. She had wanted peace between Bevan and herself, but there was too much turmoil. When she had stood atop the battlements he had touched her. God help her, she had been unable to pull away from him. She’d found herself drawn to him, wishing he could be the one to obliterate her dark memories. Yet Bevan wanted nothing to do with her. He despised her people and blamed them for the loss of his family and home. Somehow she had to prevent the inevitable war between her father and Bevan. But how?

Isabel added fragrant oils to the water, and Genevieve luxuriated in the feel of the bath. She dipped her head below the water and washed her hair with a rose-scented soap Isabel gave her. She touched the bruises along her ribs, soaping them lightly. The colour had turned a dark purple. She imagined her face must look the same. Suddenly she wanted to see it for herself.

‘Have you a mirror?’

Isabel nodded. ‘I’ll bring it.’

When Genevieve spied her reflection in the polished metal, she could not believe what she saw. A heavy dark bruise marred her left cheek, running along the side of her jaw to her temple.

Her hands trembled as she handed the mirror back to Isabel. Though she fought against it, a single tear ran down her cheek. ‘I had no idea it was that bad.’

‘’Tisn’t, really. It seems so, but it will heal.’ Isabel gave her a drying cloth, and Genevieve stood, wrapping herself in the soft linen. ‘I have some tinted salve,’ Isabel offered. ‘The bruise might not be so noticeable if we try to cover it.’

Genevieve saw the sympathetic look on Isabel’s face, and realised that the woman genuinely wanted to help.

‘I am glad I left Rionallís,’ Genevieve whispered, swiping at the tears. ‘I could not marry Hugh, no matter what betrothal was arranged.’

‘Hugh is the one who did this to you?’

Genevieve nodded, and combed her fingers through her hair. On impulse, she decided to trust Isabel. ‘Without Bevan’s help I could not have escaped him.’ She touched the bruise on her cheek. ‘Hugh said that