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

knew his did. She could not understand why he had turned her away. He was not indifferent towards her. She could only pray that somehow she could break through the shield around his heart.

The small garden lay covered in snow, its barren shrubs laced with a frosting of ice. In the quiet before dawn, Bevan walked towards the gnarled walnut tree and the twin mounds beneath it.

He knelt before the graves. A rosebush had been planted between them to offer flowers in the spring. The canes stood bare and thorny, devoid of life. He laid his palm across the snow covering his daughter’s grave first.

He was grateful that at least he had known the sweetness of his child’s embrace and the song of her laughter. Even though her time had been short, he had that memory to hold fast.

His fingers dug into the snow, his shoulders drooping as he let the sorrow come forth. He mourned his loss alone, letting the grief sweep over him like the tide of the sea. Then, at last, he knelt beside Fiona’s resting place.

His grief for her was not less, but it had softened. Memories washed over him of Fiona’s quiet industriousness, of the way she had made Rionallís into a true home. Her fingers had never been still, always embroidering or weaving or spinning.

He admitted the truth to himself. She had not been happy here. He had tried to give her everything—his love, her every desire. But it had not been enough. Her smiles had been rare, and usually reserved for their child, never himself.

It hurt even now to acknowledge that she had not loved him the way he had loved her.

He might have been able to deceive himself into thinking she had, were it not for his new wife. Genevieve had given herself to him, heart and mind. When he had looked into her eyes he had seen the intensity of her feelings, the complete trust. And he had hurt her because he could not give the same in return.

His breath formed clouds in the frozen air as he touched the earth covering his wife’s grave. He knew the pain Genevieve felt, and he wished he could mend her torn feelings. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to love again.

But it was time to let go of the past. The vow he’d made, never to let another woman into his heart, was no longer one he wanted to keep. He had wed Genevieve believing that he could keep himself apart from her. Such was not possible.

‘Forgive me,’he whispered to the grave of his wife. Silence curled about him and the wind moved over his face. Were she alive, he believed she would release him from the vow.

He kept his vigil over the graves, praying for their souls. He prayed that he would find the strength to let them rest and to begin anew.

Behind him, he heard the soft crunching of footsteps. Turning, he saw Ewan.

‘Lionel Ó Riordan has sent for you. The Normans are attacking his lands once again.’

It was the fight he had anticipated. Bevan had given his word to his friend and ally, promising to help when he was needed. ‘Tell the men to arm themselves. We ride without delay.’

‘I am coming with you.’

‘No. You are not ready for this kind of battle. Ó Riordan’s men have faced the enemy before, but if he has asked for our garrison, then they are losing the fight.’

‘I’ll never be ready for any battle,’ Ewan argued. ‘Not in your eyes. How can I ever gain experience if I must always stay at home?’

Bevan gripped his brother’s arm. ‘Do you remember the night Liam died? Do you? Well, I do. I watched the Norman bastard bury his sword into our brother’s flesh. I’ll not lose another brother. Not when I can prevent it.’

He saw the rising adolescent rebellion in Ewan’s eyes and realised the boy might do something dangerous if he did not soften his words. ‘Besides, I need you to guard Rionallís and Genevieve.’

‘They are well protected,’ Ewan said, his eyes hot with resentment.

‘I am trusting them to you, Ewan. I know that if anything were to happen I can depend on you to come and fetch us back again.’ He gave his brother’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Can I rely on you?’

Ewan’s face was stony, but he nodded his assent. Bevan knew his brother must feel like a nursemaid.

‘Good. Now, give the orders for the men to prepare themselves. And send Genevieve to me,’ he said. She would not like it were he to ride off without saying farewell.

His brother left to make the arrangements and Bevan remained a moment longer in the garden. For his wife and child he sent up a silent prayer, that their souls would find everlasting peace in the arms of God.

Genevieve met him in the inner bailey. Her cheeks were reddened from the wind, her eyes bright. Bevan took her hands, warming them in his.

‘I missed you this morn,’ she said.

He drew her into an embrace, breathing in her scent. ‘And I you.’He meant it. More and more she occupied his thoughts, and he was glad to have her with him.

They walked alongside one another, and though she did not speak of the forthcoming battle he knew she saw the men, armed and ready to depart. He regretted having to leave, especially since he had at last made his peace with Fiona. But the time away from her would give him the chance to ponder his next move. He intended to court his wife, making theirs a true marriage.

‘I am sorry for last night,’ Genevieve said, speaking rapidly. ‘I should not have asked you to come to my bed. The mead—’

He kissed her, silencing the needless words. ‘I did not sleep last eve,’ he said, caressing her cheek. ‘And when I return, if you are willing, you’ll not sleep the night either.’

Her blush told him she knew exactly what he meant. With a smile, he left