Her Irish Warrior

It is part of my dowry.’
‘A stolen dowry.’
She didn’t know what to say. Even if she held the power to give him back the land, a part of her didn’t want to let it go. She had spent day after day cleaning the fortress, helping the soldiers repair the palisade. And in that time she had come to think of it as her own. Sometimes, at night, she would climb up to the gatehouse and watch the moon spill over the fields.
‘It is a beautiful place,’ she said at last. ‘My father has sworn to keep the land safe for King Henry.’
Bevan’s eyes turned dark as he climbed up the pathway leading to the fortress. In his visage she saw a man prepared to wage war upon her family. And, worse, she understood why.
‘Perhaps we can seek a compromise?’ she offered.
‘There will be no compromise. The land belongs to me.’
‘I set both of you free,’ she argued. ‘Are your lives not worth peace between us?’
‘I will grant you an escort to take you back to England,’ he said. ‘Then my debt will be repaid. After that, I owe you nothing more.’
The cool tone of his voice silenced her. She glanced back at the grey water below them. Her fears rose up at the thought of Bevan fighting against her father. It would happen—unless she found a way to stop it.
Her shoes did little to protect her from the craggy rocks at the base of the island, but she climbed, ignoring the ache in her ribs. Bevan made no complaint, though once he stumbled and touched a hand to his shoulder.
What sort of man was he? He did not dress as a nobleman, but his skill with a sword and his unquestioned leadership made it a possibility. And yet his plain clothing and stoic demeanour could easily allow him to pass for a commoner. A warrior, she decided. A fierce man, with a strong sense of justice.
The snow swirled harder, but in time they reached the entrance. The men there greeted Bevan by name, acknowledging him with a respectful nod. Genevieve tried to count the number of tribe members, but there were too many. It made her uneasy, knowing that so many were on hand to attack Rionallís and her family.
She followed Bevan inside, to a room with a bright fire burning in the hearth. Genevieve neared it, warming her hands. A servant brought them food and drink, and she ate hungrily. Ewan did the same, but she noticed Bevan did not partake of the meat and bread.
He removed his cloak and sat down, closing his eyes for a moment. His posture stayed erect, but Genevieve could see the signs of exhaustion. She picked up a piece of bread and brought it over to him. ‘You should eat something.’
‘I require nothing.’
His voice sounded sharp, and his face was haggard in appearance. A dark lock of hair fell across his eyes, which were glazed with pain.
‘You need to lie down and rest. Your wound must be hurting. And you need to warm your feet from the sea water.’
‘I am fine.’
On impulse, she reached out and touched his forehead. His skin felt hot and feverish.
‘Leave me, Genevieve,’ he said.
Stubborn man. Like as not his wound had become poisoned. She could see all the signs. And yet he would be the sort of soldier who refused to admit a hint of vulnerability.
‘You saved my life,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘And I saved yours. But were it not for me you would not have this wound. Let me tend it. I’ll not say anything to your brother or your men. Tell them you are showing me to a chamber where I may rest.’
He took her wrist, stopping her. ‘I need no nursemaid, nor do I require your help.’
She ignored him. In a loud voice, she said, ‘Well? Is there no place in this fortress where I may rest?’
Ewan looked uncomfortable, but a middle-aged bearded man moved forward. A steward of some sort, she guessed, from the large ring of keys tied to his waist. He nodded to Genevieve. ‘With your permission, Bevan, I will show her to a chamber.’
‘I will show the lady her place,’ Bevan said, rising to his feet. He sent Genevieve an angry look, but she ignored it.
‘I would like some warm water and clean linen to wash,’ she told the steward. ‘Please have them sent up.’
The steward inclined his head. Genevieve found a winding staircase leading to an upper level, and Bevan followed her. The fortress was not a large one, and it showed recent signs of repair to the roof. All along the walls she saw weapons of every kind. Some appeared decorative, while others revealed nicks and the evidence of battle.
‘Why do you defy me?’ he asked in a low tone.
‘You are being foolish. The wound may be poisoned with bad blood.’
He stepped in front of her, crossing his arms. ‘I do not intend to give up the attack on Rionallís, if that is what you are thinking.’
‘No. Such would show more wisdom than you have,’ she shot back.
‘What you are doing is far more foolish,’ he warned. ‘I have said that I do not want your aid.’
Genevieve entered a small chamber containing a bed. The hearth held nothing but cold ashes. A chair and table stood by one wall.
‘Sit,’ she commanded, while she bent to build the fire. At the motion, her ribs ached. Genevieve pushed away the pain, focusing on her task. Within minutes she had a small blaze going.
Glancing behind, she saw him watching her. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but she could see the underlying strain. It reminded her of her older brothers, when they did not want to admit an injury from the practise field.
A knock at the door sounded, and when she answered she saw the steward, bearing a basin of water and fresh linen. Genevieve thanked him and closed the door.
Bevan remained standing, even as she