Her Irish Warrior

‘You would have me take up the sword against those you love for a piece of land?’
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I do not believe you would do such a thing.’
He moved forward until only a breath hung between them. Though he did not touch her, she could feel the unspoken threat. Her lungs seized, cold fear racing within her veins.
‘Believe it. I let no one endanger what is mine.’
Genevieve knew he wanted to frighten her, to force her into surrendering the land. But, though she did fear him, an underlying thrill heated her skin. The sweet ache he had awakened rushed through her. Darkness and desire warred within, and her body remembered his forbidden touch.
‘Rionallís belongs to my family,’he added. ‘Patrick’s son, Liam, will inherit the land when he comes of age. Or Ewan.’
‘What of you? Surely you will wed and have sons of your own?’ It seemed strange that he would fight for something he did not want for himself.
‘I have sworn never to wed again,’ he said.
She heard the anger and pain in his voice and asked, ‘Is it something to do with Fiona?’
He stiffened. ‘Where did you hear that name?’
‘You called out for her when the fever was upon you.’ Genevieve caught a glimpse of his pain, though he masked it with anger. ‘Was she your wife?’
‘She was.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She was murdered by the Normans.’
His voice remained steady, but Genevieve heard the razor edge of fury in his tone. Though he had cast her people as the enemy, she saw through his rage. Instead of a warrior bent upon vengeance, she recognised a grieving husband. And yet not a trace of emotion could she see upon his face. It was as though he had an invisible shield guarding his feelings.
Genevieve longed to ask him more, but she fell silent. Beneath the scarred face of a warrior lay a man who had not yet defeated the ghosts of his past. Her heart ached for his loss.
She did not want to ask more of him than he’d already given. ‘Send a message to my father,’ she urged. ‘Why would you endanger your men for my sake? You know as well as I the risk to them.’
He did not respond, and she pressed further. ‘My father intended to travel for my wedding to Sir Hugh. It may be that he is already here in Erin.’
Bevan glanced towards the mainland and at last relented. ‘If what you say is true, then on the morrow we will journey to my brother’s home, Laochre. Should your father attempt an attack, his men will suffer at the hands of over three hundred soldiers.’
‘I have already told you—he would not do such a thing.’
‘I will not trust a Norman,’ Bevan said. ‘The sooner you leave us, the safer we will all be.’
She did not let her face show the hurt he had caused her. His blatant prejudice against all Normans included her, though she had done nothing wrong.
Her consolation lay in the fact that Hugh had made no attempt in these past few days to reclaim her. If nothing else, Bevan had kept her safe, as he’d promised.
In the firelit chamber of Rionallís, Hugh Marstowe paced. Genevieve remained with MacEgan, and he envisaged her soft skin marred by the Irishman’s touch.
Bevan MacEgan would die for it.
Hugh stood, and held a polished mirror to study his appearance. The manservant had clipped his fair hair short, in the Norman fashion, and shaved his cheeks smooth. Hugh ran a hand across his jawline, ensuring that no stubble remained.
In his bed, a young maiden awaited him. Her hair was dark, like Genevieve’s, but she was not nearly as slender or beautiful.
‘Come, my lord,’ she beckoned, opening her bare arms to him. Her breasts were inviting and plump, and he would take advantage of her offering. But it burned within his gut that Genevieve had left him.
He loved her. She was to be his wife, and jealousy snaked through his heart at the thought of her running from him. Why would she do it? He had punished her with a beating, aye, but it was for her own good. The sooner she learned how to be a proper wife, the better. He disliked having to discipline Genevieve, but during the weeks she had been alone with him he had seen a stubborn side to her.
She was like a wild mare that needed to be broken. He would be the man to tame her spirits, and she would be grateful for it. When she sat beside him as his wife, his status would be complete.
His gaze fell upon the golden torque he had ordered. Made of finely beaten gold, and set with sapphires, it would match her eyes. He hoped the gift would help her to forgive him. If she had not run away, he would not have punished her.
He would teach Genevieve what she needed to know, and she would become the perfect wife—completely obedient to his every wish. And in return he would reward her with precious gifts. He fingered the delicate torque, imagining it against her skin.
There was little time left. His missive asking Genevieve’s father to delay his journey had met with dismissal. Thomas de Renalt, the Earl of Longford, would arrive within a sennight. If he did not have Genevieve back by then, Hugh did not like to think of the Earl’s wrath.
Discomfort grew like a worm in the pit of his stomach. Dismissing the girl from his bed, he summoned Sir Peter.
He dressed carefully, ensuring that no stains or dirt were visible upon his tunic or hose. He added a chain of gold to emphasise his appearance as lord of the fortress.
A knock sounded at his door. ‘Enter,’ Hugh said.
Sir Peter folded his arms across his chain-mail armour. ‘My wife and I are returning to England at dawn.’
‘You were supposed to bring Genevieve back.’
‘We lost them in the snow. And there are too many Irishmen against our forces. We need the