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

had melted some of the ice. She longed for a walk out of doors, for a momentary escape. With a glance behind her, she saw that her guard was as irritated as she, having to accompany her about her tasks. The man was a muscular, broad-shouldered fighter, with a reputation as one of Bevan’s best. His skills were wasted because he was trapped in a room with her.

‘I am tired of this place,’ she told him. ‘The day is too fine for sitting inside.’

‘Bevan has given orders for you to remain within the fortress walls,’ the guard reminded her.

‘I am aware of his orders. But your orders are to guard me. And I intend to find him.’

She donned her cloak and brat, wrapping the long length of cloth around her shoulders. Outside, she inhaled the fresh air, laced with the peat smoke of small fires that gave warmth to the outbuildings. It took nearly an hour, but she found Bevan overseeing repairs to one of the inner walls. He worked alongside his men, passing them large stones that were being used to fortify the wood. Genevieve recalled his intent to replace all of the wood with stone.

‘What is it?’ His tone was impatient.

‘I want to ride out in the meadows,’ she informed him. ‘The sun is shining and it is warm. I am sick unto death of this fortress.’

‘No. You must remain where we may protect you.’

She clenched her fist and pushed back her indignation. Softening her tone, she said, ‘I am weary of these walls. Surely I would be safe if you came with me?’

He started to refuse, but she leaned in. ‘Do you not want us to spend time together, without so many eyes watching?’ Her voice was seductive, filled with promise.

‘I would, but—’

‘Then come,’ she said. ‘And you may take as many weapons as you can carry, if it will make you feel better.’

When he hesitated, she knew she had him. ‘It has been months, Bevan. Nothing is going to happen.’ She took his gloved hand in hers. ‘Let us enjoy the day together.’

He let her lead him to the stables. When the horses were readied, he swung Genevieve up into the saddle. She smiled at him, grateful to at last be free of her confinement. Her mare was a chestnut palfrey, while Bevan rode a black destrier.

His sword hung at his side, while across his tunic he wore a quiver of arrows, his bow hanging from one shoulder. A crossbow was strapped to the saddle. Genevieve had meant only to tease him about bringing as many weapons as he wished, but it seemed he had taken her seriously. Behind them, he gave orders for a party of soldiers to remain at a short distance.

They rode at a gentle pace down the hillside. The sun cast fingers of gold across the snow, and mottled patches of green veiled the landscape.

Once they were free of the outer bailey, Genevieve urged her mare into a gallop. The wind burned her ears and cheeks, but she revelled in the freedom.

Bevan caught up to her, grasping the reins of her horse. ‘Stay with me, Genevieve.’

‘There is nothing to fear, Bevan. No harm will come,’ she protested.

‘No, but I would keep you close.’

He forced her to slow the mare’s pace to a walk, moving towards a copse of trees. Tall oaks and evergreens clustered around a flattened meadow, shielding them from view. With a signal for the men to remain behind at a distance, Bevan dismounted.

Lifting Genevieve down from her horse, he took her hand, guiding her towards a cluster of standing stones. The granite monoliths exposed patches of dead moss, and other fragmented stones lay upon the earth. It gave the landscape an eerie pagan look, as though it were sacred ground.

‘I’ve never seen this place before,’ Genevieve breathed. Gorse and heather surrounded the stones, and she imagined the sea of purple and yellow that would bloom come the spring.

He drew her to his side, and they walked to stand below one of the stones. It stood taller than the height of a single man, and she wondered how the ancients had created the circle.

Bevan turned her until her back rested against the stone. His eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘Do you know what they say about these stones?’

She shook her head, but her body grew warm as his arms trapped her against the granite. He touched her nose with his own, nipping her lips.

‘The Ancients revered these places for granting women fertility.’ His hand moved down her neck, across her breasts, to rest upon her womb. Her lips parted and he kissed her, his mouth warm against the cold air.

Genevieve’s heart seized at the promise of a babe, and she smiled against his mouth. ‘I want to bear you a child.’

At the words, she saw the shadow of darkness in his gaze. ‘Will you tell me about your daughter?’ she asked.

He leaned up against the stone, a myriad of emotions crossing his countenance before he nodded.

‘She was born on the Feast of St. Catherine. Fiona had longed for a son, but when I first held her in my arms I saw a babe who would grow up to be just like her mother. Beautiful.’

Genevieve laced her fingers with his, trying not to let jealousy invade her thoughts. Bevan’s face turned despondent. ‘Were she alive, she would be five years now.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She died of a fever. I was not at Rionallís when it happened. I had gone with Patrick on a raid against the Ó Malleys. Before I left, she was laughing and running around the fortress. She hugged me and made me promise to bring her back a gift.’

His voice grew dull. ‘When she grew ill, they told me that Fiona refused to let anyone see her save Siorcha. She stayed with her night and day, while Brianna suffered from the fever. Then she buried our daughter alone, with no one to help.’

Genevieve took his face in her hands. ‘It