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

‘Bevan, go back!’ she called out. ‘Come no closer.’

He ignored her request, moving his horse forward but keeping out of their range. It was like a terrible dream unfolding before him.

‘Let her go,’ he said. ‘And I will see to it you get what you want.’

Marstowe edged forward. ‘All I want is to see you dead.’

Behind him, Bevan heard horses approaching. Turning, he saw soldiers coming around to flank him, cutting off his escape. He fired several arrows, but there were too many men.

When his last arrow was gone, he drew his sword. They closed in upon him.

‘Bring him to me alive,’ Marstowe warned the men. ‘I will be the one to end his life.’

Bevan fought against his attackers, and it took six of them to disarm him. His mind raced with fear for Genevieve. The men bound him so tightly he could barely breathe from the ropes tied around his chest. His hands and feet were also tied, though he fought for his release.

Marstowe forced Bevan to look at Genevieve. Blood caked her temple, and her hair lay dishevelled about her shoulders. Her kirtle was torn and her feet were bare.

Bevan’s rage trebled at the thought of her being beaten and left to freeze. ‘Don’t touch her,’ he warned.

‘Or what?’ Marstowe mocked. ‘You can do nothing to stop me.’

‘I swear to God, you bastard, I’ll kill you if you lay a hand on her.’

‘I already have,’ Marstowe said. ‘And for your insolence she will suffer.’ Striding towards Genevieve, he struck a blow across her face.

Genevieve’s head lowered for a moment. Then she stared at Marstowe, a glittering anger in her eyes. She turned to Bevan, shaking her head slightly. He wondered what she planned to do.

Marstowe stepped behind her, fitting a knife to her throat. ‘She did not fight me, either.’ Jerking Genevieve’s head back, he rested the blade against her smooth skin.

Bevan’s world fragmented at the thought of Genevieve suffering at Marstowe’s hands. His muscles strained against the ropes and he threw his body at one of the guards, knocking the man down.

At that second Genevieve pushed Marstowe. She had somehow loosened the knots from her ropes enough to free herself. She leaned back and twisted against him, forcing him to the ground. The knife sank into Hugh’s thigh, and he exhaled in shock. Genevieve pulled the weapon free, running to Bevan.

She began cutting his ropes, but Bevan took the dagger from her. ‘Go!’he urged, and she ran towards the hillside. Genevieve’s efforts had loosened the ropes enough for him to snap the remaining ones. Straining hard against his bonds, he broke free.

As the soldiers closed in on him he used the knife to defend himself. In the distance, he saw Marstowe rise from the ground, mindless of his wound. He mounted and pursued Genevieve on horseback, his sword raised to strike her down.

A cold rage descended upon Bevan, and he swung his knife like a madman, stabbing at the soldiers until he could grasp a sword. With dagger and sword, he fended them off.

Marstowe was closing in.

Bevan punched a guard, slashed at another until he could mount a horse. He spurred the animal onward, racing towards her.

Lug, keep her safe, he prayed.

She had nearly reached the top of the hill, but Marstowe charged her. Bevan raised his sword, prepared to aim it at Marstowe’s back, when suddenly another horse came over the crest.

A battle cry emerged from the rider, and he saw his brother Ewan throw himself at Marstowe, knocking him off the horse. A small band of soldiers rode behind him, and they scattered to fight against Marstowe’s men. Bevan breathed in relief that Genevieve was unharmed.

Marstowe rose, and in horror Bevan saw him lunge with his sword towards Ewan. His brother blocked the blade, but the tip sliced through his upper arm. Ewan cried out and stumbled to the ground.

Bevan jerked back on the reins of his mount, unsheathing his own sword. He dismounted and swung against Hugh. With all his strength Marstowe pushed back against Bevan. Bevan could see the wild fear in his eyes as Hugh wielded his sword. But his enemy’s movements had slowed, his blood flowing freely from the blow Genevieve had struck.

With a fast parry Bevan moved in, his sword barely missing Marstowe’s stomach. Steel clashed against steel, until Bevan’s foot slipped against a patch of ice.

Marstowe pressed his advantage, but Bevan rolled away. At the last second he lifted his blade, embedding it deeply into Marstowe’s chest.

His eyes froze, and Bevan met his gaze. As death closed over Marstowe, Bevan withdrew the blade and let the man’s body fall to the ground.

He ran to Genevieve, crushing her in an embrace.

‘Ewan—’ she managed.

Bevan took her hand and they knelt beside the boy. The sword had cut him deeply across his left shoulder. Ewan’s face was deathly pale, but he offered a weak smile. ‘I did not fail you this time, brother,’ he whispered.

Bevan clasped his hand. ‘No, you did not.’ He smiled back. ‘I owe you our lives, young warrior.’

Ewan’s smile broadened before he closed his eyes.

‘Will he live?’ Genevieve asked, trying to reduce the flow of blood with the hem of her kirtle.

Bevan nodded. ‘We must take him back to the fortress with all haste.’

‘My thanks,’ Genevieve whispered. ‘I am sorry for the trouble I have caused.’

Bevan pulled her into his arms. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. I am the one with regrets,’ he said, his voice tinged with emotion. ‘I came back to tell you Fiona no longer lives. She died long before our marriage.’

He caressed her face, mindful of Genevieve’s fresh bruises. ‘She hid Brianna, letting everyone believe she had died of a fever years ago. I found my daughter at Somerton’s donjon.’

Genevieve’s expression was brittle, but she mustered a smile. ‘I am glad for you.’

‘Genevieve,’he breathed, holding her tightly. ‘Come back with me.’

A desperate hope welled up inside her, but she could not help the feelings of