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

her eyes with her hands. ‘I wanted only to help Fiona find happiness with her lover. No one was supposed to die. God has punished me for it.’

‘If she did not want to be my wife any longer, why did she not ask for a divorce?’ Bevan asked. ‘There was no need for such a deception.’

Siorcha stared at him. ‘And would you have granted it?’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Fiona knew you would never let her go. You treated her as your prized possession.’

Something shifted inside him at her words. He wanted to deny it—to claim that he would have granted her a divorce if she’d asked him. But inside him he saw the brutal truth. He had loved her with every part of him. And he wouldn’t have surrendered her. Especially not to a Norman.

If it had taken the rest of his life, fighting within the Brehon courts, never would he have let her go. His own father had refused to grant his wife a divorce. Bevan was no different. He had believed that eventually Fiona would love him as much as he loved her.

The grim reality was that he had been no different than Sir Hugh Marstowe.

‘You are right,’ he said softly. ‘I would not have granted her the divorce.’ His wife had fled him. Just as Genevieve had left Hugh. And it hurt him to know that Fiona would rather remain in hiding with another man than face him with the truth.

A terrible realisation dawned within him. His entire body grew frigid, and his breath seemed to catch in his lungs.

‘Nuala is buried in that grave,’ Siorcha said. ‘Fiona escaped. And as far as I know she is still alive.’

Chapter Eighteen

G enevieve’s eyes were heavy with unshed tears—for what was, and what was never been meant to be. Her future with Bevan was over, destroyed by a woman they had both believed to be dead.

When Genevieve had asked Bevan what he intended to do, he’d merely shaken his head. ‘I wish to be alone.’

She had seen in his eyes that he didn’t want her near him. The old emptiness had returned to his face, that mask of indifference. He was hurting as much as she was, and already he had begun separating himself.

If Fiona were alive, Bevan would go after her. He would mend whatever breach lay between them, and as for Genevieve—she would be discarded.

Her fear dissipated, to be replaced by anger. She felt a mind-searing fury at the woman who had taken away their second chance at happiness.

Genevieve pulled on her cloak and brat, needing to get away. The guards tried to block her path, but she pushed them aside. She let the rage consume her, let it fly free.

Ewan tried to stop her, but she shrugged him away.

‘I overheard,’ he said softly. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No.’ She choked back the tears. ‘Please, Ewan, I need to get away. Let me ride—let me have some time to mourn.’

He signalled for a horse to be brought. ‘He won’t want you to leave.’

‘He doesn’t care about me any more,’ Genevieve said wearily. ‘All that matters is that Fiona is alive. All he’ll think about is her.’

‘That isn’t true. He cares for you,’ Ewan said.

‘He doesn’t care enough,’ Genevieve whispered. In her heart she believed that, given a choice, Bevan would always choose Fiona. His sense of honour would keep it so, regardless of his feelings.

Ewan helped her mount the horse, and Genevieve urged the animal forward. Ewan managed to convince the gate guards to let her go, and within moments she was galloping through the snow, her hair streaming behind her.

Icy wind chilled her to the marrow, but she did not feel the cold. She rode hard, watching the landscape blur beneath the mare’s hooves. The grey sky was swollen with snowflakes, mirroring the unshed tears in her heart. The sun hid in hazy shadow, and before long it would slip below the horizon in the embrace of night.

Genevieve reached the grove of trees Bevan had shown her the previous morn. She slowed the mare and dismounted, walking towards the stone circle. With each step, her heart broke into another piece. She leaned her cheek against the largest monolith, its roughness strangely soothing.

She sank to her knees, the wet snow seeping into her gown. She wept for him, and for the years they would not spend together.

But most of all she wept because he had never even considered keeping her as his wife.

Later that night she returned, and found Bevan in their chamber. The chest belonging to Fiona lay open, and he held the scrap of linen in his hands—the one that had belonged to both his wife and daughter.

Genevieve took a step towards him. ‘Bevan,’ she said softly. ‘What if…what if Siorcha is wrong? What if none of it is true?’

‘It’s true,’ he said flatly. ‘And I think you know it as well as I.’

‘I don’t understand why she left you,’ she whispered. For he was the man she loved. It devastated her to see the raw pain in his eyes. She wound her arms around his neck, but he did not embrace her. His hands remained at his side.

‘For the same reasons you left Hugh. You knew he would come after you, no matter what happened.’ His voice sounded coarse, and his eyes were lowered. ‘She fled rather than face me.’

‘You are not Hugh,’ she said. ‘Do not even think of comparing yourself to him.’

‘Am I so different?’he asked. ‘I wanted to kill the men who took her from me. If I had known she loved Somerton I cannot say what I would have done to him.’

‘What will become of us?’ she asked quietly. She tried to take his hand, but he moved away. The rebuke made her heart crumble more.

‘There is no marriage between us any more,’he said flatly. ‘You should return home to your parents.’

He was giving up on her. Genevieve surrendered her pride and spoke her mind. ‘If you