Her Irish Warrior

‘Possibly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He could come at night, alone. ’Tisn’t hard.’
‘No one can get through our guards.’
‘I can,’ Ewan said. ‘Many times have I gone to Ennisleigh. I like to sleep beneath the stars.’
‘The guards know you.’
‘They did not know I was there,’ Ewan insisted. ‘But if you send Genevieve with an escort to England he will find her. And kill any man with her.’
The boy’s assertion infuriated him, because it was exactly what Genevieve had said. He wanted to groan with frustration. For the only way to ensure Genevieve’s safety and prevent Sir Hugh from capturing her was to escort her himself.
Bevan cursed when he set foot on the island. He hadn’t intended to come back to Ennisleigh, but not only had he returned, he’d brought Ewan with him. Ewan had begged to come along, since he’d had to endure teasing after his failure at Rionallís.
Bevan had gone over Ewan’s arguments many times, and he had no desire to be Genevieve’s escort. Yet he hadn’t forgotten the beating Marstowe had given her, nor the fear in her eyes when she’d cowered beneath his fists.
Again, he wished he’d had time to kill the man.
Ewan was right. Sir Hugh would come sooner or later to claim his betrothed, or he would intercept them on their journey to Dun Laoghaire.
Bevan reached up to touch his shoulder wound, which had begun to heal. It would take weeks yet, but thankfully he had been wounded on the left side, which had not affected his sword-fighting.
He strode into the inner bailey, towards a section set aside for training. His tribesmen were engaged in their daily exercises, overseen by their captain. Ever since the invasions, all men were expected to defend the ring fort. It was the only way to survive.
Ewan joined them, practising his swordplay. The clang of metal rang out over the stones, and the breath of the men hung in clouds in the icy air.
Genevieve stood nearby, watching. She wore a hooded black cloak, and when she saw him approaching, her face brightened. ‘’Tis good to see you again, Lord MacEgan.’
‘Bevan,’ he corrected. ‘We do not use titles here—unlike your people.’
‘Bevan, then.’ She turned back to watch the men. ‘Do they do this every day?’
‘Tá. Our soldiers are among the best-trained in Éireann.’
She shivered in the cold air, and a light drifting of snow began. ‘Do you think they could train me?’
‘What do you mean?’
She stared at the soldiers. ‘Not sword-fighting. Hand-to-hand combat.’
‘Why?’
‘So that a man like Hugh will never touch me again.’ Her words were brittle, like the icicles that hung from the turrets.
‘Come inside. It’s cold.’ He led her away from the men, but she stopped him.
‘I want to learn to fight,’ she insisted.
‘You’re safe here. There is no need.’ The bruise on her cheek had deepened to a purple hue, he noted. A protective instinct rose within him to guard her from Marstowe.
‘I don’t want to feel that way ever again. Helpless. I was not strong enough to defend myself.’
He laid a hand on her arm, and she jerked. Tears glistened in her eyes, but they were tears of anger, not sorrow. ‘I will learn to take care of myself. With or without your help.’
If his wife had known how to defend herself, would she still have been taken by the invaders?
‘I’ll teach you,’ he said finally. One day more would not matter. It was too late in the day to start their journey to Dun Laoghaire, he reasoned. On the morrow would be soon enough.
He was rewarded with a faint smile. Mayhap this was his second chance to atone for his sins. He had not been able to protect his wife.
But he could teach Genevieve to protect herself.
Their first lesson began in the Great Chamber. Bevan faced Genevieve, and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. ‘Never take your eyes off your enemy.’
She obeyed, watching him. The scars on his face only accentuated the strong planes, the firm mouth, and those fierce green eyes.
‘Don’t fight fair. Aim for the soft spots. A man’s eyes. His throat. His groin.’
Her glance flickered downwards as she remembered the feeling of his skin against hers. His warm touch, his hands moving over her. Her body tightened in response to the memory. She did not like the way he made her feel. Strange longings conjured up fears she didn’t want to face.
Bevan stepped behind her, gripping her across her shoulders. Though the gesture meant nothing, a tremor of unwanted desire kindled within her veins. She forced it away, along with her discomfort at being held so closely.
‘If a man attacks you this way, use the back of your head to smash his nose. With any luck you’ll break it, and his concentration.’
Her concentration had already wandered away, but she managed a nod. ‘You had a knife,’ she said. ‘What should I do then?’
‘You can still fight off your opponent.’He switched places, standing in front of her. ‘Pretend as though you have a knife at my throat.’
Genevieve reached up, but her arms would barely surround his broad shoulders. She stood on her tiptoes to reach him, an imaginary knife in her hands.
The posture reminded her of an embrace, and she lost her courage for a moment.
Do not be a fool. You must learn this. She took a deep breath and adjusted her position.
‘First, I would tuck my chin down and take a good grip on the man’s knife arm.’ He covered her hands with his own.
The closeness of him made her uncomfortable once more. He smelled clean, of woodsmoke and the wintry forest.
‘Now you step back.’ He pressed his leg backwards, against hers, twisting his body to the right. Genevieve lost her balance and had to grab him. Within seconds he had her on the ground beneath him.
She could not stop the trembling, the blind fear that hit her. Hugh had tried to hold her down like that once before. Though a part of her was dimly aware that Bevan had no intention of