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

there could span it with her arms, and he had encouraged all to try. Genevieve had been embarrassed, but had joined in on the fun when urged by Ewan.

‘How many brothers do you have?’ she asked Bevan when he joined in the merriment. ‘I thought I’d met all of you.’

‘There are five of us living,’ he said. ‘Our eldest brother, Liam, died in battle years ago. Patrick is now the eldest, then me, then Trahern, Connor, and Ewan.’ He settled back into a chair while Trahern began his stories.

‘Six sons,’ she mused, dropping her voice lower so as not to interrupt the tale. ‘Most fathers would be pleased at that. No daughters?’

Bevan shook his head. ‘My mother kept hoping, but God saw fit to give her us.’ He passed her a full cup of mead, taking a swallow from his own goblet. ‘What about you? Have you brothers or sisters?’

She nodded. ‘Two brothers. James is the eldest, then Michael.’ She took a deep sip of mead. ‘It’s a good thing Michael was in Scotland and didn’t know what Hugh did to me. He has a vicious temper.’

‘Then likely he and I would understand each other,’ Bevan said. ‘I’ve a vicious temper when it comes to Hugh as well.’ His eyes had turned dark, watching her as though he were trying to memorise her features. Her skin grew warm, and she turned her attention to her goblet.

‘Did you have other suitors besides Hugh?’ Bevan asked. He accepted a pitcher from a passing servant. Then he covered her fingers with his while he refilled her cup. The contact of his palm sent a light thrill within her.

‘I did.’ Genevieve hid her disappointment when he withdrew his hand. ‘A few were rather handsome.’

His mouth narrowed. ‘I am rather handsome.’

A startled laugh burst forth before she could suppress it. ‘Of course you are.’

Bevan glanced away, and she realised she’d embarrassed him. A faint colour appeared in his cheeks. ‘I was not being serious.’

‘I was.’ She reached out to touch the fresh scar. Unable to stop herself, she caressed his cheek.

He stared at her, as if he wanted to kiss her. She held her breath, but he did not move. Instead his attention shifted back to his brother Trahern.

‘I’ve heard this one before. He’s got a knack for making any tale funny.’

Genevieve did not respond, feeling once again that she’d been pushed away. She’d drunk the mead too quickly, and her head spun with the effects.

‘What happened to your parents?’ Genevieve asked, though she already suspected they were gone.

‘They died a few years back. Before I wed Fiona. They would never have approved of our match,’ he added.

His confession surprised her. She would have thought any parents would have been glad to claim the saintly Fiona as a daughter. She mentally rebuked herself for being spiteful. But a secret part of her felt satisfaction that at least someone had not worshipped Fiona.

‘Why wouldn’t they have approved?’

‘Da hated the Ó Callahans—every last one of them.’ When Trahern’s tale ended, the room erupted in laughter and applause. Bevan raised his goblet in a toast, and his brother began another story. ‘He called them cattle thieves and worse. But we all knew the truth.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They were enemies because of my mother. The Ó Callahan king wanted to wed her, and so did Da.’

‘But your mother chose to wed your father?’

‘No, she did not.’ Bevan refilled Genevieve’s goblet with more mead, though she had already drunk enough to make her dizzy. ‘She wanted Ó Callahan, but her father forced her to marry Da.’ Bevan sipped his own drink.

‘Did she learn to love your father?’

‘She tried to divorce him, but he’d not allow it. He had to woo her for a time, it is said.’ Bevan’s face twitched, as if hiding a smile. ‘Every sennight she went to the courts demanding a divorce, and each time Da convinced her to give their marriage another try.’

Genevieve could not imagine a woman trying to divorce her husband. Such a thing was rare in England, unless there was a close degree of kinship between a husband and wife. ‘They would allow a woman to divorce her husband?’

Bevan nodded. ‘There are seven reasons why she may do so and still keep her coibche— her dowry. But our mother could not convince the courts without losing everything, and so she stayed. She did love him in the end,’ he remarked.

‘How do you know?’

‘When he died from a poisoned battle wound, she lay down beside him and held his hand. That was how we found him, with her hand in his. She died a few months later.’

‘Love is a rare thing in a marriage,’ Genevieve said. ‘Sometimes I envy the peasants, because they may wed whomever they want.’

‘All can marry of their choosing here,’ Bevan said. ‘So long as their parents approve of the match.’

Genevieve suddenly wished that Bevan had never met Fiona. Then he would have been free to love her. They were jealous thoughts, but then again, they were in her head. She could think whatever she wanted.

‘How did you meet your wife?’ Genevieve asked. Her stomach was twisting from the mead. Food would settle her queasiness, so she ate a piece of crusty bread.

‘She was walking alone in the woods when she came across a boar. It charged her, and I killed it. She had climbed up a tree to escape and couldn’t get down again.’ Bevan took another sip from his goblet. ‘She never cared for heights.’

Trahern accepted a large tankard of ale from a maid and started another tale in his deep, booming voice. ‘There once was a lass from Kilkenny, who took pity upon a man left for dead by the roadside…’

As the tale went on, Genevieve grew absorbed in the magical legend, of a woman who fell in love with a changeling. The voices blended together into a hazy buzzing.

Ewan approached and sat beside her. ‘Don’t fall asleep,’ he urged. Genevieve blinked, and saw that the story