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

to kill her. Were that the case, he could have done so already. No, the Norman’s intent was to capture the woman.

And by turning away he’d let it happen.

He’d been forced to choose between the safety of his men and a woman he didn’t know. And, though he knew he’d made the right decision, his sense of honour cringed. He was supposed to protect women, not let them come to harm.

But if he interfered now, his battle plans could go awry. He dared not risk the lives of his men by giving away their position. Their attack depended upon the element of surprise. He needed to watch and wait for the right moment.

He found himself issuing orders. ‘I want five men to accompany me inside the fortress. Take the others and surround the outer palisade. At sunset, light the fires.’

‘You’re going after her, aren’t you?’ the captain of his men remarked.

‘I am.’

‘You cannot save them all. She is only a woman.’

‘Do as I command.’ Tá, it was an unnecessary risk. But in the woman’s eyes he had seen pure terror—the same terror as in his wife’s eyes just before the enemy had taken her captive.

And he felt the same helplessness now.

Bevan chose the men who would accompany him and led them towards the fortress of Rionallís. It was his land, stolen by the invaders. With the help of his men, he meant to take it back.

Rionallís was not a rath, like the other fortresses, but slightly larger. Within it he’d built an earth and timber castle, similar to the Norman style. He knew every inch of it, and exactly how to penetrate its defences.

At his command, the men moved into position. Bevan waited until they were ready, and pushed away the brambles hiding the entrance to the souterrain. The secret tunnel led beneath the fortress, into the chambers used for storage.

He glanced up at the donjon, silhouetted by a blood-red sunset. Inwardly, he prayed for victory.

The chill of the souterrain passage surrounded him as he entered. He had not been here for the past year and a half, and he noted the emptiness of the storage chambers. They should have been filled with bags of grain and clay-sealed containers of food. His people would suffer this winter unless he did something to help them.

Though he hadn’t known about the conquest of his lands until now, he blamed himself. He had allowed his grief to consume him while he hired his sword as a mercenary to other tribes. And last spring the Normans had descended upon Rionallís like locusts, feeding off the labour of his people and desecrating his home. His small army was outnumbered, but he knew the territory well. He would stop at nothing to drive out his enemy.

When he reached the ladder leading into one of the stone beehive-shaped cottages, he paused. He wished he had not seen the Norman woman, her eyes filled with fear as she pleaded for help. It would have been easy to simply hate them all and kill them, spilling their blood for vengeance. But the woman complicated matters.

She was a pretty cailín, with a sweet face and deep blue eyes. An innocent, who deserved his protection. He had been unable to save his wife from her attackers. But he could save this woman.

It should have made him feel better. Instead, it added a further element of risk to an already dangerous attack. And yet his mind grasped the possibilities. She would make a good hostage, providing him with the means to regain the fortress. Afterwards he would grant her the freedom she so desired.

Bevan climbed the ladder, surprising the inhabitants of the cottage. He held a finger to his lips, knowing his people would never betray him. The blacksmith moved towards his hammer, in an unspoken promise to give aid if needed.

At the entrance to the hut, Bevan counted the number of enemy soldiers in the courtyard. He would enter the fortress tonight, he decided. And Rionallís would be his once more.

‘Genevieve, I am glad to see you safe.’ Sir Hugh embraced her while Genevieve fought to breathe. Her strength had given out, and he had caught her at last. She held back tears of frustration, her skin freezing cold.

Dark memories assaulted her. She knew what he would do. She closed off her mind from her body, for it was the only way she could bear the pain.

There was no one left to help her. Her father had sent close friends of his, Sir Peter of Harborough and his wife, to act as guardians until his arrival. He might as well not have sent anyone at all. Both were blind to Hugh’s deeds. They saw only a strong leader, a man respected by his soldiers.

When she’d complained of Hugh’s punishments, Sir Peter had only shrugged. ‘A man has the right to discipline his wife,’ he’d said. But she was not Hugh’s wife. Not yet. And nothing she said would convince them of any wrongdoing.

Her father’s men refused to interfere. The last man who had tried to shield her from a beating had been discovered dead a few days later. The soldiers obeyed Hugh without question, emptiness in their eyes. They were afraid of him, and he knew it.

‘I feared for you, out here alone.’ Hugh pressed a kiss upon her temple. The gesture felt like a brand, burning into her skin. His words mocked her attempt to escape, seemingly gentle. But she recognised the hardened edge to his voice, the promise of punishment.

Possession dominated his blue eyes. She had once thought him handsome with his dark gold hair cut short. But his heart was as cold as the chain-mail covering his strong form.

She steadied herself. ‘Let me go home to my family, Hugh. I am not the wife you need.’

He cupped her chin, his fingers tightening over her flesh. ‘You will learn to be the wife I need.’

‘There are other women, wealthier than I.’ She could not meet his gaze when his