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

Resting her chin on her knees, she stared at the fire. Its flames licked at the peat moss, sending airy wisps of smoke into the room. Hugh’s constant criticism had made her question whether she was fit to be anyone’s wife. The fortress was never clean enough, the food never to his tastes.

‘I had started to believe him,’ Genevieve said. ‘I knew I had to leave.’

Isabel brought over the léine and helped Genevieve dress. The hem of the cream gown was long enough to touch her ankles. Isabel adjusted the garnet overdress on top, draping the folds over the girdle fastened about Genevieve’s waist. Then she took a comb and began easing it through the tangled dark strands on Genevieve’s head. The motion soothed her.

‘It was right that you left him,’ Isabel said.

‘I wish I had never been betrothed.’ Genevieve gave a half-smile. ‘But I am glad I was able to save Bevan and Ewan. I could not let them die—not after Bevan tried to help me.’

‘He cares for you,’ Isabel said. She opened a chest and began looking through sets of jewelled earrings and necklaces. ‘I’ve not seen him with a woman before. Not since his wife died.’

‘He told me her name was Fiona.’

Isabel nodded. ‘He never talks of her, but we all know how much he mourns. Sometimes I see him walking along the water’s edge, where she—’

Abruptly, she broke off and stood. She picked up some golden earrings. ‘These might look well with your léine.’

‘Where she what?’

Isabel seemed torn on whether or not to say anything. After a time, she relented. ‘Where she was captured. Bevan tried to save her, but the soldiers took her before he could reach her.’

‘What happened?’

‘Fiona escaped her captor and tried to hide in one of the cottages. It caught on fire during the battle, and Bevan found her body afterwards. He blames himself for her death.’

Genevieve remembered how Bevan had reached out to her during his illness. ‘Did he love her?’

Isabel nodded. ‘Aye, he did. He would have given his life for her.’

A thread of envy wound across Genevieve’s heart—envy for a woman who had been loved so much.

Isabel took out a small pot. She studied Genevieve’s face, and used her finger to smear a light dab of a coloured salve over the bruise. ‘In the firelight, no one will see this.’

‘Thank you.’ Genevieve allowed Isabel to conceal the bruise. Last, Isabel fastened a gold torque around her throat. Though Genevieve did not feel like celebrating, she knew it was important to her hostess. When both of the women had finished their preparations, they went below to the Great Chamber.

Genevieve was startled to see such an array of people. It seemed that everyone, from the lowliest serf to the wealthiest nobleman, was engaged in feasting and merriment. She thought of Bevan’s comment days ago, when he had said they did not use titles here. There seemed to be no distinction between any man, and it created an atmosphere like a large, boisterous family. Peasant and lord alike were dancing, laughing, and enjoying the celebration.

Isabel put a hand on Genevieve’s arm. ‘Welcome to our home. May you enjoy our hospitality for as long as you have the need.’

Genevieve searched for a sign of Bevan but did not see him. All around her torches lined the walls. A laughing young man played a lilting melody on the pipes, while another struck a rhythm upon a rounded drum.

Men and women joined hands, dancing intricate steps and clasping each other’s waists. Others drank cups of mead, feasting on roasted meat, pastries and cheeses. Isabel found her husband, Patrick, who presented her with a squalling infant. Genevieve watched as Isabel took her son to a corner and began to nurse. In England, such a thing was out of the ordinary. The lady of a castle would have hired a wet nurse to care for her babe. Never would she have taken the child into her own arms.

The love and contentment on the young mother’s face made Genevieve envious for a child of her own. She slipped away from the crowd, her back towards the wall. The lively music faded, and a woman began to play a harp. The room grew quiet; all were listening as another man sang a ballad of the tragic love between a shepherd and a maid.

Genevieve drank in the lyrical song, closing her eyes. It had been so long since she’d heard any kind of music. The harpist’s melody faded into silence, and another dancing song began. A hand touched her shoulder, and she jumped at the contact.

Hoping to see Bevan, she turned with a smile. A bearded man smiled in return. He had long reddish hair, braided at his temples. ‘I’ve not see you here before. Would you care to dance?’ He spoke in Irish, and his eyes showed open admiration. ‘You’re a lovely one.’

Genevieve’s smile faded. ‘No. That is, I don’t dance.’

‘All the more reason to learn. My name is Seán.’ He took hold of her hands and started to pull her towards the crowd, where couples had joined hands.

‘No, really. I would prefer not to.’ She tried to free her hands, but the man refused to let go.

Another man, taller and also bearded, joined in and took her by the waist, laughing as he pushed her forward. ‘We’ll both dance with her, Seán. Then she can choose one of us. Or both.’ He gave a wicked grin.

A sense of panic pervaded her, and Genevieve struggled to get away from them. ‘Leave me—please.’

They paid her no heed, and soon she found herself in the midst of the dancers. Seán gripped her around the ribs, and Genevieve gasped as searing pain ripped through her bruised side. She tried to push him off, but he ignored her.

Then suddenly the hands were gone, and she had space to breathe once more. She looked up and saw Bevan. He glared at the men.