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

he said. ‘I know I lost my temper on occasion. You bore the brunt of it, and for that I am sorry.’ He looked embarrassed, particularly with all of her guards looking on. ‘Could we not speak in private?’ he asked. ‘There is more I wish to say to you.’

‘What you have to say must be said here,’ she replied. ‘You lost my trust long ago.’

He bowed his head in assent. ‘Aye.’He let her see the regret in his face. It appeared genuine, something she had not expected. His expression held a fleeting glimpse of the young man she had once loved, the man who had treated her with kindness.

‘I came to offer my good wishes upon your marriage. And to ask forgiveness for my earlier actions.’

Genevieve did not believe him. ‘What other reason brings you to Rionallís?’ She spoke directly, not wanting to prolong his visit.

His forced smile tightened. ‘Are you happy with the Irishman?’

Genevieve said nothing as Hugh sat upon a bench and unlaced his boots. As hostess, she was expected to bathe his feet. But she could not abide the thought of kneeling before him. Instead, she signalled for a servant to attend him.

She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I am. And I would not defy our King’s command.’

He took a drink of the mead offered by a maidservant, and donned his footwear once more. ‘Do you remember when I first gave you that ribbon? At the fair?’ He smiled as though reminiscing. ‘You gave me a kiss for it.’

‘That is in the past, Hugh. Why do you speak of it?’

He moved in closer and tried to take her hands in his. Genevieve stepped back, repelled by his touch. ‘Once, you loved me,’ he said. ‘Once, you desired me, and we belonged to each other.’

No, you thought I belonged to you, she wanted to say. Instead, she clenched her teeth and met his gaze. ‘Tell me what it is you want, Hugh.’

‘What if I could have your union annulled?’ he offered silkily. ‘We could be together once more. Give me a chance, Genevieve.’ He motioned to a servant, who brought forth a small wooden chest. ‘I have brought this gift for you. I ask only that you consider it.’ Lifting the lid, Hugh presented her with a golden torque set with sapphires.

Genevieve could barely conceal her anger. Did he think he could eradicate the past with a golden gift?

‘I do not want an annulment, Hugh.’ And, to be certain he would not mistake her meaning, she added, ‘And I would not wed you if you were the last man on earth.’

His face turned scarlet with rage. ‘You have not lost your haughtiness, have you? You would do well to learn how to submit to a man’s authority. I’ll wager your Irishman does not know how to tame you.’

‘Get out,’ Genevieve gritted. ‘I will not be insulted in my own home.’

‘It may not be yours for very long,’ Hugh insinuated. ‘Not with your husband away in battle. He could be killed. And then what?’

Genevieve swallowed hard, but held her ground. ‘I asked you to leave. My men will see you out.’

‘Think upon my words, Lady Genevieve. It only takes a single arrow to end a man’s life. Your husband fights against the Norman army of Richard de Clare’s men. My sword may meet his yet.’

With those words, Hugh departed. Genevieve waited until he had gone before sinking onto a bench. She covered her face with her hands, rubbing her temples. Hugh was right. If anything happened to Bevan, she would not be safe.

Genevieve did not sleep that night, nor the next. Each time she closed her eyes she saw the face of Hugh, taunting her. Then his fists would come down upon her until she woke, sweating with terror.

Mairi noticed her sleeplessness, and offered to brew an herbal remedy. At Genevieve’s refusal, she clucked like a maternal hen, fussing over her until she at last agreed to drink the tea. She tasted chamomile and mint, and lied that it did make her feel better.

‘Ye need to get away from your sadness, Genevieve,’ Mairi chided. ‘Séan the brewer has invited you to his home this evening. Ye’ll be coming, won’t ye?’

Genevieve did not feel like visiting, but she thought it would be rude to refuse. Her relationship with the tenants was slowly improving. They were a proud folk, some less forgiving than others. She decided to go, in the hopes that she could win over the hearts of those who resented her Norman heritage.

Mairi led her to the small tract of land, its field covered with snow. She hustled Genevieve out of the cold wintry air and into the beehive-shaped cottage, where a peat fire burned brightly. ‘Ah, here we are. This is Séan. If ye are wanting gossip, he’s the man to find. Knows everything, does our Séan.’

A portly man with ruddy cheeks smiled and handed Genevieve a mug of ale. ‘It’s welcome you are, Genevieve.’

Inside the small cottage, several women and men had gathered to share food, drink and entertainment. Genevieve drank, and found the brew to be quite good, though strong.

‘I imagine you’re wanting to know about Fiona MacEgan, is that right?’ Séan asked, lighting his pipe.

The web of jealousy snared her, but Genevieve pushed away the emotion. ‘I would rather know more about Bevan,’ she said, correcting his assumption.

Her jealousy must have given her away, because Séan laughed. ‘Well, you’ll have to be knowing about our Fiona before you can understand Bevan.’ He launched into a tale about the Ó Callahan feud, much of which she had already learned from Bevan. But throughout the tale it was clear that the people had adored Fiona.

‘The prettiest Ó Callahan of all, she was,’ Mairi remarked.

‘What happened to her?’ Genevieve asked. ‘I know little about the night she died.’

Séan refilled everyone’s mug. Sitting back on a bench, he lit his pipe. ‘That I can tell you. And it might be that you’ll understand why Bevan grieves so