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

his tunic, gingerly avoiding his wounded shoulder as much as possible. She cleansed the wound, her eyes never meeting his. Though she performed the duty with calm efficiency, he sensed a greater discomfort. She was afraid of him, even after everything that had happened.

Her own cheek had swollen up, a bruise beginning to form. Caked blood marred her temple, tangling the dark hair. He was glad he’d taken her from Rionallís. And yet he did not know what to do with her now.

‘Do you have other family here?’

She shook her head, threading the needle. ‘My father was supposed to come. He grew ill and could not journey with me to Rionallís. Instead he sent Sir Peter and his wife as my guardians.’ She held the edges of his shoulder wound together, and Bevan tensed. ‘I was supposed to marry Sir Hugh upon our arrival.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ He gritted his teeth through the pain of her stitching. He felt foolish that such a small needle should cause dizziness, while he had endured the stabbing wound without flinching.

‘The King wanted to witness the marriage.’ A wry expression tilted at her mouth. ‘I suspect Hugh wanted the King there. He overestimated his importance to King Henry. I was glad for the delay.’ She tied off the thread and Bevan expelled a sigh of relief.

‘Your guardians…they were supposed to look after you?’ He gazed pointedly at her bruise, then down to her ribs. The torn kirtle reminded him of Sir Hugh, and the brutal beating he’d witnessed.

Genevieve reddened. ‘Yes. Sir Peter believed I was disobedient, and that Hugh was right to punish me.’

Her hands moved to the cut upon his face, and Bevan steadied himself for the needle once more. ‘What of Sir Peter’s wife?’

‘She hardly ever spoke to me,’ Genevieve admitted. ‘She complained about Ireland and wanted to return to England. Most of the time she stayed in the solarium, weeping.’ She frowned in distaste.

Her needle moved swiftly, stitching the wound closed. Thanks be, she had finished. He breathed easier now that it was done.

She bound the wound tightly with linen strips. With a cloth, she sponged at the slash on his cheek. She finished treating his wounds and poured him a cup of mead.

Bevan drank the fermented beverage and pointed towards the bruise on her cheek. ‘Where do you want me to take you on the morrow?’

‘Away from Hugh. It matters not where.’ She rose and crossed the room, to sit upon the pallet.

Bevan reminded himself that he should not concern himself with Genevieve’s problems. She was the daughter of an enemy, nothing more. He had repaid his debt to her, and the sooner their ways parted the better. Yet her presence disconcerted him.

Her hair was dark, like his wife Fiona’s. Her eyes were a deep blue, the colour of the sea. She was tall, the top of her head reaching to his chin. Though she turned away from him, he saw the way she cradled her ribs. Tonight had not been the first time Sir Hugh had harmed her. What he could not understand was why anyone would allow it to happen.

Bevan brought the basin over and sat beside her. The faint scent of lavender emanated from her skin. Without thinking, he washed away the blood upon her temple.

What was he doing? Guilty thoughts invaded his mind with the intimate act, for it was the first time he’d touched a woman in a very long time. He held the cloth out to Genevieve, and she took it from him in silence. ‘He hurt you.’ It was not a question.

Genevieve soaked the cloth once more, wringing it out. Her hands brushed over her ribcage. ‘I don’t think he broke any bones, but, aye, it hurts.’

He regretted not killing Sir Hugh when he’d had the opportunity.

They ate the meagre meal provided by Father Ó Brian while outside the wind howled. Bevan climbed up the rope ladder to the level surrounded by windows. Wind blasted through the openings, but he peered into the darkness to see if the enemy approached. A flurry of white swirled into the room.

‘Do you see anything?’ Ewan called up.

‘Snow.’ He climbed down several levels, favouring his good shoulder. The change in weather lightened his worry, though he saw the confusion in Ewan’s eyes. ‘It will hide our tracks, should they try to pursue us. For tonight, so long as the snow continues, we are safe.’

An answering smile tipped at Genevieve’s lips. The softness of her expression drew his attention, and Bevan took a step forward. She held his gaze for a moment before looking away.

What was it about her that bewitched him so? Her Norman kinsmen had slaughtered his people and stolen his home. The blood running through her veins was the same as his enemy’s. And yet she remained an innocent, caught up in a battle that should not involve her.

‘Sleep now,’ he said, moving away from her. ‘I’ll keep watch for tonight.’

Genevieve curled up on the straw pallet, huddling to keep warm. Ewan slept against a sack of grain on the opposite side of the tower.

The night stretched in long moments, making Genevieve uneasy about leaving Rionallís. Hugh would come after her, hunting her until he possessed her once more. He would not stop until she returned to him. In many ways she wished she could become invisible—a serf who would attract no man’s attention.

She remembered Bevan’s eyes upon her, and the way he had tended her wound. Once she might have encouraged his attentions. She might have welcomed the feelings he could awaken within her as his hand warmed hers.

Now she knew better. Those days were over, and she no longer trusted her own judgement. She would let no man court her affections again, though Papa might arrange a different marriage. Her heart grew heavy as she closed her eyes, wishing she knew what the morning would bring.

In the darkness, Bevan watched Genevieve sleeping. She slept on her stomach, her palms atop the pallet, her breathing