Her Irish Warrior by Michelle Willingham (top rated ebook readers txt) 📗

across the fields. When the church was barely visible behind them Bevan increased their pace to a gallop. She gritted her teeth, fighting the vicious ache in her side.

Her eyes scanned the horizon, searching for a trace of Sir Hugh’s men. She wished for a forest, or for some way to hide. Riding across open fields would make it easy for an archer to strike them down.

The snow continued to fall, covering their tracks. Behind her, she felt the warmth of Bevan’s body heat. His rough demeanour and wiry strength intimidated her. Though she understood the necessity of sharing a horse, she inched forward, trying not to let his body touch hers. The position made her ribs burn from the effort, but his injuries were far worse. She did not want to cause him further discomfort.

After a brief interval he shifted their direction. Ewan followed, bringing his horse alongside theirs.

‘This isn’t the closest way,’ he protested.

‘Be silent.’ Bevan glanced behind them, and urged the horse faster. Genevieve saw that they were moving towards the coastline, slightly south of Rionallís.

Her fingers dug into the mane of the horse as she wondered what Bevan was doing. He changed their pattern once more, heading downhill. Genevieve could now see Rionallís, further back from the sea. Below them, small fishing boats bobbed in the water. Bevan led them towards the boats and dismounted.

In the early morning, the sea reflected the cloudy sky above. A pungent, salty aroma filled her nostrils as they approached. The screech of seagulls echoed in the morning silence as the birds swooped in search of fish.

The rocky coastline held a hint of frost, but no snow covered the sands. Fishermen loaded their nets onto the small water crafts, talking in hushed voices. Bevan dismounted and approached one of the fishermen, pointing towards the boat.

After a lengthy discussion, Bevan exchanged silver with him. The fisherman gathered his things and left the tiny boat, muttering beneath his breath.

She couldn’t understand why he wanted a boat. It was much faster to travel on horseback. Where did he plan to go?

Bevan beckoned, and she followed, taking his hand to board the small wooden vessel. The fisherman led the two horses away.

‘Stay down.’ Bevan pressed her shoulders back so she lay against the bottom of the boat. Genevieve obeyed, but the rocking motion made her stomach churn.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked. Neither answered at first, so she held her tongue. She glanced behind, wondering if he had seen anyone following them. Although the falling snow continued to cover their tracks, she didn’t for a moment believe that Hugh would let her go. Somewhere, men were looking for her.

She laid her head against the damp wood, watching the men. Bevan’s arm muscles strained as he rowed, and she did not miss the subtle flash of pain. He pulled the oars through the water effortlessly, though it cost him. After a short while they unfurled a sail and set their course.

She watched him row, snowflakes catching upon his lashes and face. His green eyes met hers for a moment, and within them she saw emptiness. His gaze returned to the landscape, as though searching for something.

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

‘My men. I don’t think they made it past the Normans.’

‘You don’t know that for certain,’ she offered, but he shook his head.

‘We would have found them by now.’

Genevieve risked a look back at the mainland. Clouds of snow obscured the coast, and the sea surrounded their tiny boat. The water was a deep grey colour, almost black. She wanted to reassure him that he could go back for his men, that he could rescue them. But if he did, more of her father’s soldiers would die.

Instead, she changed the subject. ‘You never said where we’re going.’

Ewan adjusted one of the sails, tying the rope while the wind made it billow. ‘Ennisleigh,’ he replied. The look on his face showed pride.

‘Where is that?’

‘It’s an island fortress that belongs to our older brother, Patrick. They can’t track us by water,’ was all Bevan said.

A slight smile curved her lips. At this time of morning no one would look for them along the coast. The snow made the small boat nearly invisible, cloaked in the foggy mist.

She settled back against the swaying boat, watching the snow drift along the breath of the wind. After nearly an hour she saw gulls gliding in the air. They pulled in the sail, and soon the boat scraped bottom. Ewan jumped from the boat onto the rocks, avoiding the water. Bevan stepped directly into the sea, lifting Genevieve into his arms so her feet would not touch the water. He set her down upon the shoreline, seemingly unaware of the cold. His feet had to be freezing. He and Ewan pulled the boat onto the sand.

She took a moment to look at her surroundings. They had arrived at a small island off the coast, with an imposing ring fort. ‘Is this where you live?’

Bevan shook his head. ‘But we will stop here to rest. I’ll leave you here until an escort can be arranged.’

Genevieve held her tongue, not at all pleased with the idea of being left alone. ‘What about you?’

‘I will gather more soldiers and renew the attack on Rionallís. I have to go back for my men.’

‘Why did you leave Rionallís at all?’ she asked. ‘When my father’s men arrived last spring, no one held claim to it.’ The fortress had been all but abandoned when she’d arrived. The Great Chamber had not been cleaned in months, and layers of rotten food and dirt had covered the rushes. None of the people living within the palisade had set foot inside the dwelling.

Bevan’s expression was stony, unreadable. ‘I gave orders for no one to enter my home. My people obeyed. They knew I would come back to protect that which belongs to me. Especially from the Gaillabh.’

‘I am one of those foreigners,’ she pointed out. ‘And Rionallís now belongs to my father.