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

at Hugh in a silent challenge. Genevieve held her breath, her hand moving towards her bruised ribs.

Then Hugh plunged the dagger into MacEgan’s shoulder, where the arrow had skimmed it earlier. Genevieve expected MacEgan to cry out, but he made not a sound. Instead, he met Hugh’s gaze, his features tight with pain.

She had seen enough. If she didn’t act now, Hugh would slit MacEgan’s throat next. She emerged from her hiding place, grabbing the pitcher of ale. The fragile pottery shattered across Hugh’s head, but he remained standing. Genevieve tried to move away, but he caught her.

He struck her across the face, and a fierce pain blasted through her cheek. She couldn’t stop the cry that slipped from her mouth at the terrible agony. His fist collided with her bruised ribs, expelling the air from her lungs. For the first time she glimpsed the face of death. She had crossed the boundary past fear and anger, slipping into the need to survive. Her knees buckled, for she could not breathe. Darkness hovered at the edge of her periphery.

Bevan seized the opportunity and wrapped his chains around the man’s throat. He tasted blood, but ignored the fiery pain in his shoulder. A clear sense of focus sharpened the anger rising within.

When the Norman knight had struck Genevieve, it had been as though he were seeing a vision of his wife. Past and present had blurred, and the images of a battlefield had filled his mind. He saw his wife, Fiona, crying out for help while the Normans chased her on horseback. He had fought against the hordes of enemy soldiers, trying with all his strength to reach her.

His failure had haunted him ever since.

Though it was Genevieve who had fallen beneath Sir Hugh’s fists, it was his wife he was seeing as he tightened the metal chain around the man’s throat, strangling him. The chains strained and the knight’s face grew slack, his body slipping into unconsciousness.

Motion caught his eye, and soldiers began descending the ladder, swords drawn. He was forced to release Hugh, though he wished he’d had time to twist the life from him. Any man who struck a woman was not worth the dust beneath his feet. He risked a glance at Genevieve, and saw her cradling her ribs. She was alive, but it unnerved him, having a woman try to rescue him.

A blade arced towards him, and Bevan caught the blow with his chains. Years of training made it easy to defend himself, and he waited for an opportunity to disarm his opponent.

Strangely, the soldiers were unsteady on their feet, behaving as though they had drunk too much ale. One of the men aimed for Ewan, and Bevan twisted to take the blade’s impact upon his chains. He breathed easier when the men left his brother alone.

Ewan dropped to the ground, using his feet to trip one of the guards. Bevan evaded more slashes while fighting to remain on his feet. Energy surged through him when one stumbled, and Bevan seized the sword. Seconds later, the man lay dead upon the ground.

The second guard stumbled forward, his expression vacant. A dagger lay embedded in his back. Behind him stood Genevieve, her face ghostly pale. Bevan had seen that expression before. The first time she’d killed a man, he’d wager. And she looked as though she expected God to strike her down for the sin.

Bevan no longer cared about his soul. He’d lived through everlasting damnation during the past two years. He seized the third guard, wrapping his chains tightly around the man’s throat and aiming the sword at his belly. ‘Unlock our manacles.’

The guard glanced towards the ladder. Bevan’s patience disappeared. ‘You will be dead before they get here unless you unlock these.’

The man fumbled for the heavy iron ring of keys at his waist, and unlocked the chains.

‘Now my brother.’

When the last chain fell free, the guard tried to bolt towards the ladder. Bevan swung his sword towards the man’s head, striking him with the hilt. The guard crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

‘You didn’t kill him,’ Genevieve murmured.

‘I keep my word.’To his brother he said, ‘Get our weapons and free the men. Tell them to alert the others and return to Laochre.’

Ewan scurried to the far end of the storage chamber to do his bidding.

Bevan helped Genevieve stand, though she was still guarding her ribs. ‘You’re hurt.’

‘Not as badly as you,’ she managed. ‘Let me tend your wounds. Your shoulder is bleeding badly.’

‘There is no time.’ His injury was not a mortal wound, though the pain staggered him.

‘You have to leave. They’ll kill you.’

He knew it, just as surely as he knew that he had to take her with him. It was the only way to keep her safe. ‘Are you coming with us?’

Genevieve’s eyes glimmered with tears, and she stared at the fallen body of Hugh. ‘He’s still alive?’

Bevan shrugged. ‘For now.’

‘I can’t stay here. Not any more.’

Ewan returned, carrying a bow and arrows, as well as two swords. The blade was easily more than half the boy’s height, but Ewan clutched it with fervour. ‘The men have left. Through the souterrain passage, as you ordered.’

‘Good.’ Bevan sheathed his sword and held out his hand to Genevieve. ‘Go or stay. It is your choice, a chara.’

With a fearful look back at the man who had beaten her, she put her hand in his. ‘I’ll go.’

They escaped through the narrow passageway, the scent of wet soil and clay surrounding them. Bevan led them to a secondary tunnel that opened out into the forest. The night had grown cold, its chilled air biting their faces as the harsh wind swept by.

Genevieve clutched her side, her face tight with suffering, but she made no complaint.

A kind of madness had overcome him, to bring a woman along. It was his weakness that he could not stand to see a woman beaten. He suspected that Sir Hugh was someone close to Genevieve—a relative, or her betrothed.

Bevan knew he had