Her Irish Warrior

laid out the water and linen to change his bandages. The fierce glare upon his face intimidated her. The new scar on his cheek twitched.
He moved towards her so swiftly Genevieve flinched, covering her face instinctively. A moment later, she lowered her arms, her face flooded with shame.
‘I do not strike women,’ he said, his tone softer. She stiffened, hating herself for the moment of weakness.
‘I know.’ She busied herself with the linen, trying to regain her composure. ‘I—you—you startled me.’
He reached out to her with deliberate slowness, his fingers grazing the bruised side of her cheek. ‘Only a coward would use his fists upon a woman. Only one with the need to prove himself.’
She swallowed and nodded. ‘Aye.’ The whisper of his touch made her cheeks flush. All at once she wanted to fade away, to disappear from his penetrating gaze.
‘Sit and let me change your bandage,’ she said. To her surprise, he obeyed.
Bevan’s hands gripped the arms of the chair as Genevieve brought the basin over to the table. Tension lined every muscle in his body, and she feared she would cause him pain, no matter her desire to be gentle.
She saw that she would have to unfasten the buckle at his waist. His fists clenched before she lifted the bloodstained tunic over his head, but he made no sound.
Though she had seen his chest the night before, the intimacy of touching his bare skin made her shiver. Hardened muscles, formed from years of training, tensed beneath her palms. His heated skin held its bronzed colour from the summer sun, and she imagined him upon a practise field without his tunic. Deep ridges outlined his stomach muscles.
The wound in his shoulder was swollen, and she saw a dark purple bruise forming over the torn flesh. Gently, she touched the edge of the wound and he flinched. By the saints, she did not know how he had managed to go as far as he had without collapsing. But her stitches had held, in spite of the journey.
She washed the dried blood away with the linen, trying not to cause him discomfort. With a quick glance around the room, Genevieve saw large cobwebs, their threads glinting in the low light of the fire. She went to the corner, reached up, and grabbed handfuls of the sticky material.
She held a cloth to the wound, to wipe away the excess blood, before packing his shoulder with the cobwebs. She had seen evidence of their healing powers, and knew they would help mend his flesh. Last, she bound his shoulder with clean linen.
‘This needs a poultice,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask the steward for the herbs I need.’
He said nothing, his face tense with pain. Genevieve knelt down and removed his boots, baring his feet. She lifted them into her lap and massaged his cold skin.
She had never touched a man’s feet before. The gesture felt strangely intimate. His feet were rough, and she smoothed her fingers over his skin, trying to bring feeling back into them. She rubbed firm, muscled calves, continuing the motion until the colour returned to them.
‘I am sorry you had to suffer for my sake,’ she whispered.
‘Pain is a part of battle. I am accustomed to it.’
His face tightened, and she guessed that some of her ministrations were beginning to work.
‘Come.’ Genevieve helped him over to the bed. ‘Lie down and rest.’ She pulled back the coverlet on the bed and eased his head onto a pillow. Bevan’s skin still felt fiery hot to the touch, and she worried about his fever.
‘My thanks,’ he said, and then closed his eyes.
Genevieve touched the back of her palm to his forehead. ‘Sleep now.’
She studied his bare torso, checking for any other wounds. She did not see any. She found herself comparing him to her betrothed. Unlike Bevan, Hugh’s skin was pale, the colour of rising dough. She shuddered at the thought.
She sat before the fire, staring into the flickering warmth. Her eyes caught sight of the old bandage lying on the table, stained with blood.
There was no going back now. She would never let Hugh Marstowe near her again.
Genevieve stayed near Bevan all night, though she confided in the steward about Bevan’s wounds. The man was helpful, and provided the herbs Genevieve requested. She made a poultice of comfrey and other roots to help heal Bevan’s torn flesh.
The sky had grown darker, and Genevieve pulled the shutters closed. The fire upon the hearth brought a little warmth inside the small chamber, but still she shivered. She sat upon the bed beside Bevan, trying to make him drink tea made from willow bark. He tossed and turned in his sleep, his skin burning to the touch. She sponged his brow with cool cloths, but often had to hold him down to restrain his struggles.
Once, he caught Genevieve’s waist and pulled her close. She struggled, but his strength overpowered her, even with his injury. It was only when she lay beside him that he calmed. His hands threaded through her hair, and he slept.
Genevieve could not extricate herself without more fighting, and after a time she gave up. If her presence brought him comfort, so be it. It was a small price to pay for escaping Hugh.
The night hours stretched out, the freezing winter air enveloping them. The meagre fire did little to warm her, so she curled up against Bevan’s length. At long last she succumbed to sleep.
Bevan dreamed of Fiona, of her milky white skin, soft as the first spring flowers. Her raven hair tangled in his fingers as he traced the lines of her face. Downward his hands skimmed, until they cupped her breasts. They seemed fuller than he remembered, but it felt good to have her in his arms once more.
His body hardened as he pulled her bottom against him. By the god Lug, how he had missed her. He wanted to roll her beneath him and sink inside her, loving her until they both trembled with ecstasy.
A harsh