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

At his furious tone, the men relented and went off to find other partners. Genevieve let Bevan escort her away, and he took her to a darkened corner.

‘Did they hurt you?’

She shook her head. ‘But they would not listen to me when I told them I had no wish to dance.’

Bevan glared at the crowd of people. ‘They know better than to force a woman. I’ll see to it they remember next time.’

‘No, it is all right.’ Genevieve sank back against the wall. ‘They meant no harm.’

He stood beside her, not touching her, not saying a word. She gained comfort just by being near him. When the harpist began another tune, her lips curved upwards at its haunting refrain.

‘You enjoy music?’

‘I love it.’ She closed her eyes, listening to the feel of each note. A moment later his hand brushed hers. Genevieve jolted at the sensation, but let her hand remain where it was. Her mind scolded her body for its weakness. But Bevan brought her comfort.

She should move away from him, escape the rush of heat that flooded through her. An instant later he drew her to face him. His hands framed her cheeks, tilting her to look at him.

‘Your bruise is better.’

‘Isabel helped me to cover it.’ She was barely conscious of her words as his thumbs touched her hair. She had let it hang down with no veil, as Isabel had suggested. It felt strange to have her hair uncovered in the Irish fashion. Bevan’s fingers threaded through the strands, his touch barely more than a breath of air.

‘You look…well tonight.’

The intense gaze made her breath catch in her throat.

Move away, Genevieve, her heart reminded her. He will bring you nothing but pain.

Her traitorous body remained in place.

Bevan started to pull back, but Genevieve covered his hands with her own, keeping them against her hair. The touch of his hands made it impossible to keep a clear thought in her mind. She longed to know how it would be to have a man kiss her with tenderness, without the desire to punish.

‘Bevan?’ she asked, her voice hardly more than a faint whisper.

In his eyes, she saw him fighting to hold his distance. He didn’t want to be near her. At his rejection, she started to pull away.

‘I’ve gone mad,’ he murmured.

Without warning, his mouth came down upon hers, warm and tender. He treated her like a cherished possession, as though she might break in his arms. The kiss was a healing balm, soothing away the past moments of pain and fear.

Her mouth parted, and the kiss turned feverish. His tongue met with hers, and raw feelings of need pulsed within her. She clung to him for balance, aware of his desire pressing against her body. His lips travelled a path down to her throat, igniting a wild storm of yearning.

When his strong arms caught her waist, she felt trapped. A moan escaped her, but before she could struggle against his embrace Bevan stepped away. His breathing was laboured, like her own.

‘I am sorry.’ He moved back several paces, not looking at her. ‘I should not have touched you.’

Genevieve closed her eyes, trying to gather her thoughts. Foremost, she saw the aversion on his face. It angered her.

‘Because I am a Norman and therefore your enemy?’

‘Tá. It is best not to complicate matters between us.’

Genevieve veiled her emotions, not wanting him to see how much his rejection hurt. Had the kiss been that terrible? Had her lack of experience repulsed him? Or could he not see past her Norman heritage?

‘I have to take you back.’ Bevan turned from her, fighting the need within him. Never had he wanted a woman as much as this. It terrified him, the way she made him forget. A few moments more and he would have taken her back to his chamber.

Two years of celibacy made the fierce need even worse. He had known it was wrong to kiss her. But when he’d seen those men pressuring her to dance, and her fear, he had overreacted. The need to keep her safe had destroyed every rational thought.

Just as the way she had looked at him had been his undoing. For the first time he had not thought of Fiona. When he’d felt her lips beneath his, an undeniable longing had ignited within him.

What bothered him most was that his own wife had never inspired such feelings of lust. He had honoured Fiona, loved her with everything in him. Their lovemaking had been sweet, tender.

But this was far more. Though he had done nothing more than kiss Genevieve, there had been a connection between them. He didn’t want to desire another woman. He had promised his wife that he would love her until the day he died. He couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.

But he could not deny that he wanted Genevieve. He berated himself for his lack of discipline. The Normans were his enemy, those he had sworn to kill.

And yet he could never raise his sword against Genevieve. Her innocent presence unravelled his plan for vengeance. If he conquered Rionallís and put her family to the sword, it would make him no better than Sir Hugh Marstowe.

By Lug, he needed to put as much distance between them as possible. Else she would divert his path and weaken his purpose.

Chapter Seven

T he next day, a blizzard howled outside the castle walls, blanketing the landscape in white. Genevieve saw little of Bevan, and it soon became clear he was avoiding her. She had slept little the night before, and her thoughts were elsewhere when she looked up and saw Bevan’s brother Patrick.

‘Good morn to you,’he said. ‘I had hoped for an opportunity to speak with you.’ From his formal tone, she sensed the matter held a great deal of importance.

‘I hope I have not caused trouble among your tribe,’ Genevieve offered.

‘Some are uncomfortable,’he admitted. ‘But since you are here at my invitation, they must accept it.’

He led her towards