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

feelings he held towards her would evaporate like wisps of smoke when he laid eyes upon Fiona.

Genevieve wanted to fight for him, to make him love her. But her only choice was to leave, to let him go. The very thought of never seeing him again made her heart bleed.

Like as not, she had lost him already. He was determined to set her aside and find his wife. And, though it was like a blade to her soul, she would let him go if he was happier with Fiona.

She had one consolation, though. A small grain of hope. Her courses were late, and it could be that she was with child. She prayed desperately that it was so, that she would have a part of him to keep. But she could not tell him—not unless she knew for certain.

‘I do not want to hurt you, a chroí,’ he said. ‘And I like it not, putting you in danger.’

‘I am in more danger alone than with you,’ she said. ‘No harm will come to me under your protection.’

Her faith in him broke his resolve. Though he didn’t want to see the sadness in her face, he understood her need to be there. It was the same as his need to see Fiona, to find out if she was still alive.

With a sigh, he nodded. ‘All right. You may come with me.’

They made it to the coast to undergo the crossing. The sky was overcast with grey clouds, shadowing a sombre tint to the waters. Within a few days they would reach Somerton’s castle and learn the truth.

Bevan turned his gaze to the horizon, where the coast of Wales would eventually emerge. Beyond the borders he would find the answers he sought. He cleared his mind of all thoughts, steeling himself to face whatever might come.

The Baron of Somerton’s holdings were equal to Laochre in stature. The donjon stood high upon a motte, elevated above the surrounding baileys. The outbuildings were made of timber, covered in plaster save for the wooden beams that supported the structures. They surrounded the donjon in a circular pattern, and the castle boasted two palisades for protection.

Bevan had clothed himself as a peasant, and Genevieve had done likewise, wearing a brown kirtle with her head veiled. He wore his sword strapped beneath his tunic, the hilt covered behind his hood. If needed, he could reach behind his back and unsheath it. They would enter the castle behaving as servants, while Bevan searched for Fiona.

Genevieve had been unable to eat that morning. Her stomach clenched in a bundle of nerves. She prayed with every fibre of her being that Fiona was not here, that it had been a journey for naught. The fear crept into her heart that today she would lose Bevan forever.

He had eaten little himself, and his demeanour was distant. When she tried to make conversation, he answered with a single word, if at all. He had been careful not to touch her, and he behaved as if she weren’t there. She knew why he was acting this way, but it didn’t make the hurt less.

With each step closer to the donjon, she felt herself dying a little inside. Her eyes burned, but she kept onward, each step heavier than the last. All around them the castle buzzed with activity. Dogs barked, scampering around the inner bailey. A blacksmith worked upon armour at his forge, while the women brought steaming containers from the kitchen.

As Bevan turned to step into the donjon, Genevieve stopped. Her entire body felt like ice with the premonition that Siorcha had been right. She couldn’t bear to watch another woman embrace the man she had come to love.

‘What is it?’ Bevan returned to her side, his face concerned.

‘I am not going in.’

He pulled her away from the crowd of servants, bringing her near the outer wall. ‘Tell me.’

She blinked away the hot tears. ‘Go on. Find her.’ She cradled her elbows, trying to keep a tenuous hold upon her feelings. ‘I think you should be alone when you see her for the first time.’

He reached out and cupped her cheek. Strands of her dark hair fell against his palm. Deep inside him, he ached for her. Genevieve had healed him when all he’d wanted was to avenge Fiona’s death. She had given so much of herself. And today he would have to let her go.

‘I am sorry.’He brushed a kiss across her forehead, damning himself for what he must do. ‘I will return for you once I have seen what I need to see.’

Genevieve nodded once, a single tear spilling over. The sight of her tears was like a knife twisting within him. But he had to go.

‘Genevieve.’ He breathed her name like a prayer. ‘I—’

She waited as the seconds stretched between them. Bevan bowed his head. ‘I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, a chroí,’ he whispered.

‘Do not call me that.’ She couldn’t bear to hear the endearment. It reminded her too much of the way he had looked at her when he’d loved her, late at night. She straightened her shoulders. ‘I wish you well.’ She walked away, pulling her cloak around her shoulders against the cold.

Once she saw him leave, it was as though something splintered deep within her. She had wanted so badly for him to change his mind, to choose her over his first wife. But he hadn’t.

The loss of him cut her deeply, and she wished she had guarded her heart more closely. He didn’t belong to her and he never would.

She stopped next to a wall, her lungs burning. With her hands on the icy timber, she grieved for the marriage she had lost. She sank down onto the snowy ground, her back against the wall. Her throat was raw and her cheeks stung. She didn’t know how long she wept, but releasing the tears helped to gather what remained of her pride.

She slipped away, moving in and out of the crowd