Her Irish Warrior, Michelle Willingham [early reader books TXT] 📗

steady and even. Dark hair fell across her shoulders. He reached out and touched a strand of her hair. It curled around his finger, soft as a silken ribbon, before he released it.

Why had she helped them? Her desperation to escape Sir Hugh was genuine, and he knew her act of bravery had saved their lives. In return, he had sworn to protect her. And yet the promise meant bringing an enemy among his family.

Ewan had accepted their escape as a lucky twist of fate, but then, he was a boy. He did not stop to consider the repercussions of Genevieve’s actions. Although she had fled willingly, Bevan knew Sir Hugh would come after them, seeking their deaths. He welcomed the prospect of killing him, but he could not allow Genevieve to stay with them. Her presence would endanger those he loved.

A soft sound broke his attention. Genevieve was awake. She sat up and brought her knees to her chest, keeping her gaze upon him. The wind battered the stone tower, moaning in the winter’s darkness.

‘I cannot sleep.’

He made no move, no sound, but stared at her. Genevieve’s long hair flowed across her shoulders like a pool of water, haloed against the dying torchlight. The intense blue of her eyes regarded him in the stillness.

‘I never thanked you for saving me,’ she said. ‘There are no words to express how grateful I am.’

‘As soon as we reach my brother’s fortress I’ll arrange to send you away to a safe place,’ he said gruffly.

‘I want to go home to England.’ Genevieve glanced at Ewan and added, ‘But later, when you have brought your brother to safety. Your lives are at stake, after all.’

‘I care not for my own life. Only his.’ He had not meant to voice the thought aloud, but it was true. Death did not frighten him any more. Many times Patrick and Connor had chastised him for his recklessness in raids against other tribes.

Genevieve drew nearer, her scent rising to tempt him. She took another step closer, and he could scarcely breathe. Raising her palm to his cheek, she traced her fingers along the fresh scar upon his jaw. ‘Your cheek is bleeding again.’

In the darkness, with her hair unbound around her shoulders, he could almost imagine she was a lover, reaching out to him.

He jerked backwards. ‘Leave it be.’

Bevan tried to shut out the images in his mind. Before he lost his only thread of honour, he climbed to a higher level of the tower, seeking the cold iciness of the night.

Chapter Three

‘I t is time to leave,’ Bevan said in the quiet morning darkness.

Genevieve opened her eyes, and a strange mixture of elation and hope overcame her. She had escaped Hugh. If she could return to England, she held faith that her father would help her end the betrothal.

‘Where are we going?’ She rubbed her arms, trying to bring warmth into them. Inside the tower, the stones held a chill. Her breath formed clouds in the morning air.

‘To the Norman encampment at Tara. You can find an escort there.’

Genevieve was not so sure. If she went to Tara, Hugh would find her within days.

‘It will be safe,’ Bevan reassured her.

‘No. The men there are loyal to Hugh.’ She sensed irritation from Bevan. He did not like her questioning his authority. Though she was grateful to him for his help, she could not risk being left at Tara. Hugh’s fighting reputation had earned him respect among his peers. They would not see her as anything but a hysterical female. She needed to find her father, the one person who could help.

Bevan’s shoulder wound had begun to seep, in spite of the stitching. A dark stain spread across the linen of his tunic. ‘We need to find a healer to care for your wound,’ she said. She didn’t like the tension etched upon his face, the silent pain he endured.

‘My brother’s healer will tend it.’ He buckled his sword belt around his waist. Genevieve realised that he had slept against the wall on the floor—if he’d slept at all. He drew near, and she shrank back against the stone wall of the round tower.

‘What about you?’he asked softly. ‘Are your ribs broken?’

‘They are only bruised.’ The pain was more bearable now, though they were tender to the touch.

Bevan shook his younger brother awake. Ewan yawned, stretching his gangly frame. His fair hair was rumpled from sleep, and his tunic hung open. He reminded Genevieve of her own brothers when they were younger. She had idolised them, believing they could slay dragons for her. A pang of remorse curled within her. She hadn’t seen her brothers in almost a year. Her eldest brother, James, had married, while the second-born, Michael, had gone to Scotland. She missed them, even though they had teased her mercilessly.

She had almost considered sending for one of them, but dismissed the idea. If Michael or James ever came to Ireland they would murder Hugh without a second thought. Her father was a better choice, for he could end the betrothal without any bloodshed.

‘Come,’ Bevan said, carefully adjusting his cloak. ‘Father Ó Brian has arranged two horses for us.’

Genevieve sat up slowly, biting back a cry at the aching of her ribs. Everything hurt, even the back of her scalp.

They did not stop to break their fast, but said farewell to Father Ó Brian and departed. Outside, thick snowflakes continued to fall, covering the ground in a layer of pristine white. The sun had not yet dawned, but a faint light in the east turned the sky lavender against the grey shadow of morning.

Bevan lifted her astride a brown mare, swinging up behind her on the saddle while Ewan rode a black rouncy. Genevieve masked the pain of her ribs, refusing to show any sign of weakness. Nothing could be done for them, and she did not want to slow down their escape.

With his nicker to the mare, the animal broke into a trot