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

fingers closed around her nape in a gesture of control. ‘Soon, Genevieve,’ he promised. He kissed her roughly, bruising her lips until she tasted blood. ‘You have no idea of the pleasure I can bring you.’

‘No,’ she whispered.

‘I do not wish to force you,’ he said, his fingers suddenly gentle. ‘I could have taken you at any time, were that my intention. But I am a patient and forgiving man. Give yourself to me willingly, and I shall teach you the rewards of obedience.’ His hand curled beneath her jaw. ‘I know you better than you know yourself. You want my touch, though you fight me.’

Never. At the thought of his hands upon her, nausea pooled in her stomach. She lifted her chin and stared into his ruthless blue eyes. His handsome face repulsed her, and she spat at him. ‘I hate you.’

Hugh’s hands curled up with rage. Fury flashed in his expression, and he struck her cheek. She turned at the last second, falling to her knees. She shut out the pain, her hand closing around the fallen dagger. Before Hugh could see what she had done, she’d hidden the weapon behind her in the folds of her shift.

Genevieve tightened her grip upon the dagger. The hilt felt cold in her palm, its unfamiliar weight awkward. She didn’t know if she had the courage to use it. A thousand doubts filled her mind. But she clung to the thread of survival.

A furious pounding sounded upon the door. Genevieve’s glance darted towards it.

Hugh cursed, and donned his tunic before opening the door. ‘What is it?’

‘An attack, my lord,’ the servant informed him. ‘Irish invaders have set fire to the outer palisade.’

‘Stay here,’ Hugh snarled to Genevieve. Within seconds, she was alone. Fate had granted her a reprieve. Genevieve laid her cheek against the wall. It felt as though she might blend in with the wood and plaster, so cold was she. Her fingers clutched the linen of her shift, as though the thin fabric could somehow shield her from Hugh’s return. No relief filled her, for he would come back. And then his punishment would start anew.

She could feel the old fears coming back to taunt her. She let go of the dagger, the opportunity to defend herself gone. Her hair hung down around her face. Blood matted the back of her scalp, so she removed her veil. Her dark hair would hide the injury.

Below, she could hear the men shouting commands. She rested her forehead on her knees, trying to gather her strength. If they were under siege, she’d have another chance to get away. But she could not remain idle.

Wearily, she rose to her feet. Her body ached, and she wondered if Hugh had broken her ribs this time. It hurt to breathe. Her kirtle lay on the floor, where it had fallen. Genevieve winced as she leaned over to pick it up. The stabbing pain eased when she straightened and slipped the gown over her shift. The laces were destroyed, but it would keep her warm for now.

You must leave, she told herself. Now was her opportunity, and she could not let it go.

A strange noise caught her attention. She turned towards a large tapestry hanging upon the wall. It rippled for an instant. Genevieve backed away, not knowing what the movement was. Instinct told her to be on guard. She took the dagger in her hand once more.

A man emerged from behind the tapestry, fully armed, with a sword at his side. He wore trews and a moss-coloured belted tunic that fell in folds to his knees. She recognised the large iron brooch pinning his cloak. It was the soldier from the hillside. A quiet authority resonated from his stance, but her anger remained. He had not helped her when she’d needed him most.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, holding the dagger steady. His hair, black as the devil’s soul, flowed across his shoulders. A thin scar, long ago healed, marred one cheek.

‘I am Bevan MacEgan.’

Beneath his tunic she saw the outline of heavy muscle. It occurred to her that he might be a more dangerous threat than Hugh.

‘And what is your name, a chara?’ He crossed his arms, waiting for her answer. Deep green eyes regarded her as though judging her worth.

Her mouth went dry. ‘I am Genevieve de Renalt.’

MacEgan stared at her for a moment, his gaze noting her injuries. ‘What happened to you?’

Genevieve suddenly remembered her torn kirtle, and she shielded her body as best she could. ‘I was punished for running away.’

‘By whom?’

Genevieve hesitated, but answered truthfully. ‘Sir Hugh Marstowe.’

‘And why was he hunting you?’

‘Because I refused to give myself to him.’

His eyes turned cold, like the frost-laced granite stones that lined the hills. ‘I could kill him for you, should that be your desire.’

‘You missed your opportunity.’ Heat rose in her cheeks, along with anger that threatened to break loose. ‘I could have been safely away from him by now. But you stood by and did nothing.’

‘It’s not over yet,’ he said quietly. ‘And I am here now.’

He was nothing more than an intruder, a man who had abandoned her. But she saw something in his expression when he spoke, something unexpected: sincerity. He might be a rugged barbarian, intent upon conquering Rionallís, but the timbre of his voice and the brutal honesty in his face made her reconsider.

It was better than waiting for Hugh to return, she decided. Given the choice between staying here or going with a stranger, she would rather take her chances with Bevan MacEgan.

‘If you will see me to safety, that will be enough,’ she said crisply, lowering the dagger. ‘How did you get inside?’

He pulled the tapestry aside, revealing a narrow space. A single rope hung down the passageway inside the wall. ‘You don’t expect me to go down that way?’ she said, her throat tightening at the thought of the sheer drop.

‘No. I will take you another way.’ His expression changed into a mask of