The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1

by Michelle Willingham

  ‘Do not try to. Practise what I taught you until you no longer have to imagine any of the moves. You’ve no time to think when an enemy attacks. Why do you suppose our men train every day? So they never have to think. Their training causes them to act.’

  He sounded so sure of himself. She wanted to believe it.

  ‘But you’re wrong,’ he added. ‘I did fear that night.’

  ‘For your brother?’ she said, thinking of Ewan and his lack of experience.

  Bevan paused, and his gaze locked with hers. Genevieve waited for him to agree, but he held his silence a moment longer. With his knuckle, he touched the edge of her bruise, his expression unreadable.

  He revealed nothing of his emotions, but she became more aware of him. The battle scars, the quiet, untamed power of this Irish warrior, both frightened her and drew her in. His dark hair and sea-green eyes watched her in a way that made her shiver.

  ‘Tá,’ he said. ‘I feared that night.’

  Bevan stood and held out a hand to help her up. Genevieve rose, but he did not release her hand. ‘So long as you are with me, I swear I will not let him harm you. He’ll not touch you.’

  He squeezed her palm as if to seal the vow. Genevieve wanted so much to believe him, but whispers of doubt eroded her confidence.

  ‘May it be so,’ she managed to reply.

  * * *

  As the afternoon faded into evening, Bevan showed her other tactics, ways of fighting an enemy. Genevieve practised, determined to learn. Alone in her chamber, she committed every move to memory, fighting against an invisible foe.

  From her window she spied Bevan, sparring with the soldiers in the bailey below. He moved with the ease of experience, blocking one blow while slashing hard with his sword arm. If she had not seen it for herself she would never have known he was injured, so swiftly did he move. Watching him, she couldn’t help but admire his skills.

  At the evening meal, she asked, ‘Where did you learn to fight?’

  ‘My father taught my brothers and myself.’

  ‘You are skilled.’ She took a sip of mead. ‘Does your shoulder hurt?’

  ‘Tá,’ he admitted. ‘But in time it will heal.’ Bevan rose to his feet. ‘Ready your belongings. At first light I will take you to Dun Laoghaire.’

  ‘Why not take a ship from here?’ she asked. ‘If we do not travel by land, Hugh’s men cannot touch us.’

  ‘Strongbow’s Norman armies are patrolling along the coast. We have no choice but to make our crossing north of here.’

  His reasoning was sound. She had heard the stories of Richard FitzGilbert de Clare, nicknamed Strongbow. Strongbow had come to Ireland two years ago, to help the deposed Irish King Diarmuid MacMurrough regain his kingdom. His soldiers had slaughtered hundreds of men, but they had succeeded in their quest.

  In return, Strongbow had wed MacMurrough’s daughter, planning to claim the kingdom for his own. King Henry had grown suspicious of Strongbow’s territorial gains. He had ordered Genevieve’s father to Ireland, along with other Norman lords, to keep a closer eye upon Strongbow.

  Genevieve wholeheartedly agreed with Bevan’s desire to avoid the southern coast. ‘How many men will accompany us?’

  ‘There are enough men.’

  His answer did not please her. ‘How many?’ she repeated.

  Bevan’s face showed his displeasure at her question. ‘Our soldiers are among the strongest fighters in Éireann. You need not fear Sir Hugh.’

  ‘Strength matters not,’ she argued. ‘You did not have enough men to retake Rionallís. Did the other soldiers ever arrive?’

  He remained silent.

  ‘I thought not.’ She shook her head. ‘If you cannot spare enough men for an escort, I prefer to remain here and let my father’s men come for me.’

  ‘I can defend you against Sir Hugh,’ Bevan said.

  ‘I have no doubt that you are a skilled fighter. But you’ve been injured.’

  Bevan rose from the table, his hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. ‘You do not think I can protect you?’

  She hesitated. ‘You helped me escape, and for that I am grateful.’ She did not mention that the only man she trusted to see her safely home was her father. Sir Hugh held no power over Thomas de Renalt.

  His expression turned as hard as the ice covering the earth outside. She straightened her shoulders, refusing to back down. There was something else in his expression, behind the wounded pride. A haunted look—one that dissipated in moments.

  ‘Do not worry about protecting me,’ she said. ‘At least here we can see our enemy. I would be safe until my father’s arrival.’

  ‘I have already said that I’ll not bring more Normans here.’

  ‘My father would not harm your men. He would reward you for your aid.’

  ‘How? By returning Rionallís to me?’ he mocked gently.

  Genevieve shook her head. ‘It is not possible.’

  ‘You would bring my vengeance upon your family?’ he asked, his voice like a thread of steel. ‘You would have me take up the sword against those you love for a piece of land?’

  She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I do not believe you would do such a thing.’

  He moved forward until only a breath hung between them. Though he did not touch her, she could feel the unspoken threat. Her lungs seized, cold fear racing within her veins.

  ‘Believe it. I let no one endanger what is mine.’

  Genevieve knew he wanted to frighten her, to force her into surrendering the land. But, though she did fear him, an underlying thrill heated her skin. The sweet ache he had awakened rushed through her. Darkness and desire warred within, and her body remembered his forbidden touch.

  ‘Rionallís belongs to my family,’he added. ‘Patrick’s son, Liam, will inherit the land when he comes of age. Or Ewan.’

  ‘What of you? Surely you will wed and have sons of your own?’ It seemed strange that he would fight for something he did not want for himself.

  ‘I have sworn never to wed again,’ he said.

  She heard the anger and pain in his voice and asked, ‘Is it something to do with Fiona?’

  He stiffened. ‘Where did you hear that name?’

  ‘You called out for her when the fever was upon you.’ Genevieve caught a glimpse of his pain, though he masked it with anger. ‘Was she your wife?’

  ‘She was.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She was murdered by the Normans.’

  His voice remained steady, but Genevieve heard the razor edge of fury in his tone. Though he had cast her people as the enemy, she saw through his rage. Instead of a warrior bent upon vengeance, she recognised a grieving husband. And yet not a trace of emotion could she see upon his face. It was as though he had an invisible shield guarding his feelings.

  Genevieve longed to ask him more, but she fell silent. Beneath the scarred face of a warrior lay a man who had not yet defeated the ghosts of his past. Her heart ached for his loss.

  She did not want to ask more of him than he’d already given. ‘Send a message to my father,’ she urged. ‘Why would you endanger your men for my sake? You know as well as I the risk to them.’

  He did not respond, and she pressed further. ‘My father intended to travel for my wedding to Sir Hugh. It may be that he is already here in Erin.’

  Bevan glanced towards the mainland and at last relented. ‘If what you say is true, then on the morrow we will journey to my brother’s home, Laochre. Should your father attempt an attack, his men will suffer at the hands of over three hundred soldiers.’

  ‘I have already told you—he would not do such a thing.’

  ‘I will not trust a Norman,’ Bevan said. ‘The sooner you leave us, the safer we will all be.’

  She did not let her face show the hurt he had caused her. His blatant prejudice against all Normans included her, though she had done nothing wrong.

  Her consolation lay in the fact that Hugh had made no attempt in th
ese past few days to reclaim her. If nothing else, Bevan had kept her safe, as he’d promised.

  * * *

  In the firelit chamber of Rionallís, Hugh Marstowe paced. Genevieve remained with MacEgan, and he envisaged her soft skin marred by the Irishman’s touch.

  Bevan MacEgan would die for it.

  Hugh stood, and held a polished mirror to study his appearance. The manservant had clipped his fair hair short, in the Norman fashion, and shaved his cheeks smooth. Hugh ran a hand across his jawline, ensuring that no stubble remained.

  In his bed, a young maiden awaited him. Her hair was dark, like Genevieve’s, but she was not nearly as slender or beautiful.

  ‘Come, my lord,’ she beckoned, opening her bare arms to him. Her breasts were inviting and plump, and he would take advantage of her offering. But it burned within his gut that Genevieve had left him.

  He loved her. She was to be his wife, and jealousy snaked through his heart at the thought of her running from him. Why would she do it? He had punished her with a beating, aye, but it was for her own good. The sooner she learned how to be a proper wife, the better. He disliked having to discipline Genevieve, but during the weeks she had been alone with him he had seen a stubborn side to her.

  She was like a wild mare that needed to be broken. He would be the man to tame her spirits, and she would be grateful for it. When she sat beside him as his wife, his status would be complete.

  His gaze fell upon the golden torque he had ordered. Made of finely beaten gold, and set with sapphires, it would match her eyes. He hoped the gift would help her to forgive him. If she had not run away, he would not have punished her.

  He would teach Genevieve what she needed to know, and she would become the perfect wife—completely obedient to his every wish. And in return he would reward her with precious gifts. He fingered the delicate torque, imagining it against her skin.

  There was little time left. His missive asking Genevieve’s father to delay his journey had met with dismissal. Thomas de Renalt, the Earl of Longford, would arrive within a sennight. If he did not have Genevieve back by then, Hugh did not like to think of the Earl’s wrath.

  Discomfort grew like a worm in the pit of his stomach. Dismissing the girl from his bed, he summoned Sir Peter.

  He dressed carefully, ensuring that no stains or dirt were visible upon his tunic or hose. He added a chain of gold to emphasise his appearance as lord of the fortress.

  A knock sounded at his door. ‘Enter,’ Hugh said.

  Sir Peter folded his arms across his chain-mail armour. ‘My wife and I are returning to England at dawn.’

  ‘You were supposed to bring Genevieve back.’

  ‘We lost them in the snow. And there are too many Irishmen against our forces. We need the Earl’s men.’

  Hugh’s temper snapped. ‘I will not tolerate excuses. You were her guardian, responsible for her care.’

  The knight’s expression grew insolent. ‘You are not my overlord. I have admitted my mistake to the Earl. He knows his daughter was taken by the Irish.’ With a shrug, he added, ‘And you were her betrothed, sworn to protect her. You may answer to the Earl’s displeasure. We are leaving.’

  With a disdainful bow, the knight closed the door. Hugh fought to control his rage. He barked an order to a passing servant to send in the commander of his troops.

  Within minutes Robert Staunton, the leader of his men, entered. He bowed. ‘My lord.’

  The formal address soothed his anger somewhat. At least Staunton knew his place.

  ‘Why have our men not brought her back?’ Hugh demanded. ‘Why have they failed in their duty?’

  Staunton’s expression grew strained. ‘We have thirty men at our disposal,’ he said. ‘And the MacEgans have over three hundred. We will gladly give up our lives for your honour, my lord. But I would rather make the sacrifice knowing we have been successful at our task.’

  Hugh detected a faint trace of sardonic humour from the commander. ‘I’ll not let my future wife perish at the hands of the Irish,’ he reminded Staunton.

  ‘I have a prisoner who might interest you,’ Staunton replied. ‘If you wish to accompany me below, I could show you my proposition.’

  Hugh concealed his distaste at the thought of the filth, and accompanied Staunton below. When he saw the MacEgan soldiers, still chained, it returned his good spirits. At least he had managed to capture them, even if he could not reach Genevieve.

  Staunton led him to the last prisoner—a woman.

  ‘Where did you get this one?’ Hugh asked. The woman was thin, her face streaked with dirt. He noticed that one of the soldiers stiffened, and the pair exchanged glances.

  ‘We found her among the servants here. She was trying to help the men escape. I would have executed her, but I thought she might be useful to us.’

  Hugh could not see how, but he allowed Staunton to continue.

  Staunton withdrew a dagger and the woman blanched. When the commander brought the blade to her throat, he added, ‘I could kill her now, of course.’

  ‘Don’t,’ came a voice. When Hugh turned to see the source of the sound, he saw one of the MacEgan soldiers. Short of stature, with hair the colour of fire, and square shoulders, the man seemed hardly fit to be a fighter.

  ‘Your name?’ Hugh demanded.

  The soldier struggled against his chains and spat at Hugh’s feet. ‘Leave her alone.’ Rage outlined the soldier’s face, along with a hint of desperation.

  The woman meant something to the man. It pleased Hugh to hold such power over another. He approached the woman, taking the dagger from Staunton. He fingered a lock of her fair hair. With a swift slice, he cut it off.

  ‘Answer my question.’

  The soldier stared at him, and Hugh saw hesitation. The woman was his weakness, and he pressed his advantage.

  ‘The next thing I cut off will be one of her fingers.’

  Hugh gripped the woman’s hand, separating the fingers while she fought him. Again, he revelled in the feeling of overpowering her. She could do nothing against his strength.

  ‘Do you know Bevan MacEgan?’ Hugh asked the soldier.

  The man gave a nod. ‘Tá. I know him.’ Struggling against his chains, he begged, ‘Let her go.’

  Staunton stepped forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘We will use him to get to MacEgan. Let him bring back information to us, so that we may better plan our attack.’

  ‘A traitor,’ Hugh said softly.

  ‘Aye.’

  The idea took shape and metamorphosed. If this man wanted his woman to live, he would obey every dictate they asked of him.

  Hugh smiled—a thin smile of gloating. And dreamed of vengeance.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It took less than an hour to reach the fortress of Laochre upon the mainland. Though Genevieve felt foolish, glancing behind her every few moments on such a short journey, she did not breathe easily until the square towers of the gatehouse were within view. Ewan rode ahead of them, instructed to keep his eyes open for potential attackers.

  Genevieve suspected Bevan wanted his younger brother out of the way, for Ewan had chattered without ceasing ever since they had left the island.

  Her heart caught in her throat at the majesty of the donjon. Gleaming white in colour, a thick wall protected a fortress nearly three times the size of Rionallís. It stood atop a hillside, and she could see soldiers patrolling the upper battlements.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was made of stone,’ Genevieve remarked. Many of the Norman castles in England were currently being converted to stone, but few were complete.

  ‘It isn’t,’ Bevan said. As they drew nearer, Genevieve saw what he meant. The smooth white walls were plaster, covering a timber frame. ‘But our enemies believe it is, and that is all that matters. Patrick is replacing it with stone.’

  She marvelled at the ingenuity of the architecture. The guards let them pass inside the gates, and Genevieve was struck by the vast bustle of activity.
/>   The heavy clang of a blacksmith’s hammer mingled with the din of people working. Servants carried stacks of peat for burning, while one merchant brought a wagonload of goods to be inspected for purchase. Horses were led to the stables and children ran freely, laughing at a game.

  The people greeted Bevan with smiles and hearty claps on the back. A tall fair-haired man greeted Bevan with a bear hug—another MacEgan brother named Connor. A smile softened Bevan’s face from the rugged fierceness she had grown accustomed to.

  When he wasn’t glowering, he was actually rather handsome, she admitted. His deep green eyes, the colour of rough-hewn malachite, along with the black hair, were a striking combination. The scars along the planes of his face added an element of danger.

  ‘I must meet with my brother Patrick,’ Bevan said at last. To Ewan, he instructed, ‘See that she has a place to sleep.’

  Genevieve started to follow Ewan, but before she did she cast one look back at Bevan. She could not forget the look of determination on his face when she’d refused to relinquish Rionallís. How could she trust a man who wanted to conquer the land that was hers? But her fear of Hugh was stronger, and so she had little choice.

  She did not feel safe here, not yet. Despite all the soldiers, and the proud Irish warrior who had sworn to protect her, she could not let down her guard. Her heart heavy, she accompanied Ewan inside the donjon.

  * * *

  Bevan strode in the direction of the donjon, greeting friends as he passed. He located Patrick, commanding a group of soldiers.

  ‘You brought the woman, I see.’ Patrick dismissed the men, greeting his brother with a nod.

  ‘I told Ewan to find a place for her. She wishes to send word to her family, to return to England.’

  ‘Why do you not escort her yourself to Dun Laoghaire?’

  Patrick’s query revived the anger he felt towards Genevieve. After her admonition that she did not believe him capable of protecting her, his first instinct had been to cast her out, to let her fend for herself against Marstowe. Or he could prove himself capable by escorting her to Dun Laoghaire, despite her desire to await her family.