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

not wed Genevieve. While we continue on to Laochre, you will return to England. I will have your belongings sent to you, along with all gifts and coins you brought to Genevieve. Do not show your face before me again.’

Longford reached into a pouch and withdrew a crumpled parchment. Holding it out to Sir Hugh, he read the priest’s handwriting that dictated one of Genevieve’s petitions for help. ‘This alone is not why I want you away from Genevieve. I have heard tales of your cruelty from my own men. They spoke of the soldier who tried to protect her, whom you killed for it. I’ll not wed my daughter to a murderer.’

Sir Hugh’s face turned scarlet with barely controlled rage and embarrassment. Longford kept his voice even. ‘I would rather Genevieve wed an Irish barbarian who would give his life to protect her than a man who values her dowry overmuch.’

He turned his horse away, not waiting to see Sir Hugh’s reaction. But it was enough to know that Genevieve would be safe once more.

‘My Lady Genevieve, I am sent to tell you of your parents’ arrival.’

Genevieve had been mending a basket of clothing when the soldier interrupted. She rose and set aside her needle.

‘They are below stairs?’

‘No, my lady. They await you beyond the gates of Laochre.’

Genevieve frowned. ‘Why do they not come inside?’

The soldier looked embarrassed. ‘King Patrick did not bid them welcome. He calls the Normans his enemy still.’

Something about the soldier’s words rang false. Although Bevan had threatened to deny her family entrance, she had not expected it of Patrick. The king reserved passing judgement until he had all the truths he required. He had granted Genevieve sanctuary. To forbid her parents the right to enter seemed unlikely.

She studied the soldier. His face appeared familiar somehow, though she knew not where she had seen him. A strange premonition warned her to be wary.

‘Am I to bring my belongings?’ she asked.

The soldier shook his head. ‘Patrick has agreed to send them to Rionallís later.’

Genevieve lifted a woollen brat from inside a chest, hiding a small dagger in the folds as she wrapped the length of cloth around her shoulders. She did not trust the soldier’s words, but there was a slight chance he spoke the truth. It was best to be prepared for anything.

After she had donned her mantle, the soldier led her out of doors to the inner bailey. It was there that Genevieve halted. There was no escort of soldiers to take her outside the gates. Now she was certain of his lies.

‘I will go no further with you,’ she said. ‘Not until I have spoken with the King of Laochre.’

The soldier gripped her wrist tightly, and Genevieve tried to break free. She fought against his grasp, using her fists, her elbows. Anything. But before she realised what had happened, he had located the dagger she’d hidden and manoeuvered it until it rested against her skin.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked, her voice hoarse. ‘I thought you were loyal to the MacEgans.’

The soldier’s countenance was weary. ‘Sir Hugh holds my wife prisoner. If I do not bring you to him, he will kill her.’

Genevieve’s expression faltered. ‘How do you know Sir Hugh has not killed her already? Then your betrayal would be for naught.’

She saw him glance towards a small pouch at his belt. His face sullen, he replied, ‘I don’t. But I intend to find out.’

In a flash of recognition Genevieve knew where she had seen his face: in the softness of a child’s countenance.

‘You are Declan’s father,’ she whispered. When he did not deny it, she recalled the day Declan had called out to him. ‘He saw you that day.’

At the mention of his son, the soldier eased his grasp. ‘He is safe now.’

‘I saved his life,’ Genevieve insisted. ‘Does that not mean anything to you?’

Pain flickered across his eyes, but he said only, ‘Were it not for you, my wife and child would be safely at home.’ He spat, cursing the Normans beneath his breath in Irish. ‘This is your fault.’

A desperate man took desperate measures, and she realised he would not listen to reason. When he forced her towards the main gate, Genevieve screamed.

The soldier moved the dagger until it rested against her throat. Genevieve tried to step back and use the technique Bevan had taught her to escape. Instead, the soldier caught her off balance and dragged her forward.

‘Let us pass,’ he told the guards. ‘Or I slit her throat.’ The guards moved to block him, and to prove his point he pressed the blade until blood welled up from Genevieve’s skin. The burning sensation filled her with terror. She believed he would act upon his threat if need be.

The guards lowered their weapons and let him pass. The soldier took only a few steps past the gate before Genevieve heard a dull thud. The soldier’s arms loosened their hold, and she moved away. An arrow lay embedded in his throat.

In the distance, she heard hoofbeats approaching. Within seconds she saw Bevan and a large army of men. Relief streamed through her at the sight of him. He still held the bow, though when he dismounted he set it aside.

Her breath caught when he crushed her into an embrace, drawing her so close she could smell the pine scent of him. His beard was rough against her cheeks, his hands cupping her face.

‘Are you all right?’ he whispered huskily. His fingers wiped away the smear of blood on her neck.

She managed a nod, though she could hardly stand. He enfolded her within his cloak, massaging warmth into her shoulders. It felt so good to be in his arms, and she laid her cheek against his chest while he rubbed her spine.

‘I tried to get away from him,’ she whispered.

‘I know.’He drew back and motioned towards the parapets.

‘But he would not have made it any further.’ Genevieve looked up and saw the archers waiting. Though she understood his meaning,