The shadow of grief closed in on him again, but he blocked it away. When he reached his chamber, he stripped off the tunic and stanched the flow of blood with a cloth.
Patrick might believe that an alliance with Genevieve was the best way to claim Rionallís, but Bevan would not wed her. Or any woman, for that matter. He tossed the bloodstained cloth aside, letting the familiar sorrow envelop him.
Stop behaving like a child.
Genevieve was right. His pride had kept him from forgiving her. But, more than that, he was denying the attraction between them. She had looked so fragile, so vulnerable, he’d wanted to give her comfort. He had wanted to feel the touch of a woman once more.
The primal urges rising within him were the result of years of staying away from all women. He was not a monk, and at the moment his body ruled his thoughts.
Were it any other woman, he might have been able to wed her, make the alliance to keep Rionallís. Patrick’s suggestion might not have bothered him as much, for it would be easy to stay apart from a stranger.
But he feared that if he let Genevieve get too close she might try to usurp Fiona’s place. And he couldn’t let that happen. Not ever.
CHAPTER SIX
Genevieve followed Isabel into a small chamber where a hot bath had been prepared. From a chair nearby, Isabel held up a silk cream-coloured léine with close-fitting sleeves. ‘It will be perfect with your dark hair.’ She lifted a burgundy overdress and a golden girdle.
Genevieve marvelled at the rich shade and smiled. ‘’Tis beautiful.’
Isabel helped her remove the torn kirtle, but did not remark upon Genevieve’s bruises. ‘Bevan will not be able to keep his eyes from you this evening.’
Genevieve rather doubted he wanted to see her again, but instead she responded, ‘You have been very kind to me.’
She eased into the tub of water, grateful for the healing warmth. She knew Isabel wanted to ask about the bruises, but she wasn’t ready to answer any questions.
At the moment she felt lost. She had wanted peace between Bevan and herself, but there was too much turmoil. When she had stood atop the battlements he had touched her. God help her, she had been unable to pull away from him. She’d found herself drawn to him, wishing he could be the one to obliterate her dark memories. Yet Bevan wanted nothing to do with her. He despised her people and blamed them for the loss of his family and home. Somehow she had to prevent the inevitable war between her father and Bevan. But how?
Isabel added fragrant oils to the water, and Genevieve luxuriated in the feel of the bath. She dipped her head below the water and washed her hair with a rose-scented soap Isabel gave her. She touched the bruises along her ribs, soaping them lightly. The colour had turned a dark purple. She imagined her face must look the same. Suddenly she wanted to see it for herself.
‘Have you a mirror?’
Isabel nodded. ‘I’ll bring it.’
When Genevieve spied her reflection in the polished metal, she could not believe what she saw. A heavy dark bruise marred her left cheek, running along the side of her jaw to her temple.
Her hands trembled as she handed the mirror back to Isabel. Though she fought against it, a single tear ran down her cheek. ‘I had no idea it was that bad.’
‘’Tisn’t, really. It seems so, but it will heal.’ Isabel gave her a drying cloth, and Genevieve stood, wrapping herself in the soft linen. ‘I have some tinted salve,’ Isabel offered. ‘The bruise might not be so noticeable if we try to cover it.’
Genevieve saw the sympathetic look on Isabel’s face, and realised that the woman genuinely wanted to help.
‘I am glad I left Rionallís,’ Genevieve whispered, swiping at the tears. ‘I could not marry Hugh, no matter what betrothal was arranged.’
‘Hugh is the one who did this to you?’
Genevieve nodded, and combed her fingers through her hair. On impulse, she decided to trust Isabel. ‘Without Bevan’s help I could not have escaped him.’ She touched the bruise on her cheek. ‘Hugh said that if I were more obedient he would not have to punish me.’
Resting her chin on her knees, she stared at the fire. Its flames licked at the peat moss, sending airy wisps of smoke into the room. Hugh’s constant criticism had made her question whether she was fit to be anyone’s wife. The fortress was never clean enough, the food never to his tastes.
‘I had started to believe him,’ Genevieve said. ‘I knew I had to leave.’
Isabel brought over the léine and helped Genevieve dress. The hem of the cream gown was long enough to touch her ankles. Isabel adjusted the garnet overdress on top, draping the folds over the girdle fastened about Genevieve’s waist. Then she took a comb and began easing it through the tangled dark strands on Genevieve’s head. The motion soothed her.
‘It was right that you left him,’ Isabel said.
‘I wish I had never been betrothed.’ Genevieve gave a half-smile. ‘But I am glad I was able to save Bevan and Ewan. I could not let them die—not after Bevan tried to help me.’
‘He cares for you,’ Isabel said. She opened a chest and began looking through sets of jewelled earrings and necklaces. ‘I’ve not seen him with a woman before. Not since his wife died.’
‘He told me her name was Fiona.’
Isabel nodded. ‘He never talks of her, but we all know how much he mourns. Sometimes I see him walking along the water’s edge, where she—’
Abruptly, she broke off and stood. She picked up some golden earrings. ‘These might look well with your léine.’
‘Where she what?’
Isabel seemed torn on whether or not to say anything. After a time, she relented. ‘Where she was captured. Bevan tried to save her, but the soldiers took her before he could reach her.’
‘What happened?’
‘Fiona escaped her captor and tried to hide in one of the cottages. It caught on fire during the battle, and Bevan found her body afterwards. He blames himself for her death.’
Genevieve remembered how Bevan had reached out to her during his illness. ‘Did he love her?’
Isabel nodded. ‘Aye, he did. He would have given his life for her.’
A thread of envy wound across Genevieve’s heart—envy for a woman who had been loved so much.
Isabel took out a small pot. She studied Genevieve’s face, and used her finger to smear a light dab of a coloured salve over the bruise. ‘In the firelight, no one will see this.’
‘Thank you.’ Genevieve allowed Isabel to conceal the bruise. Last, Isabel fastened a gold torque around her throat. Though Genevieve did not feel like celebrating, she knew it was important to her hostess. When both of the women had finished their preparations, they went below to the Great Chamber.
Genevieve was startled to see such an array of people. It seemed that everyone, from the lowliest serf to the wealthiest nobleman, was engaged in feasting and merriment. She thought of Bevan’s comment days ago, when he had said they did not use titles here. There seemed to be no distinction between any man, and it created an atmosphere like a large, boisterous family. Peasant and lord alike were dancing, laughing, and enjoying the celebration.
Isabel put a hand on Genevieve’s arm. ‘Welcome to our home. May you enjoy our hospitality for as long as you have the need.’
Genevieve searched for a sign of Bevan but did not see him. All around her torches lined the walls. A laughing young man played a lilting melody on the pipes, while another struck a rhythm upon a rounded drum.
Men and women joined hands, dancing intricate steps and clasping each other’s waists. Others drank cups of mead, feasting on roasted meat, pastries and cheeses. Isabel found her husband, Patrick, who presented her with a squalling infant. Genevieve watched as Isabel took her son to a corner and began to nurse. In England, such a thing was out of the ordinary. The lady of a castle would have hired a wet nurse to care for her babe. Never would she have taken the child into her own arms.
The love and contentment on the young mother’s fa
ce made Genevieve envious for a child of her own. She slipped away from the crowd, her back towards the wall. The lively music faded, and a woman began to play a harp. The room grew quiet; all were listening as another man sang a ballad of the tragic love between a shepherd and a maid.
Genevieve drank in the lyrical song, closing her eyes. It had been so long since she’d heard any kind of music. The harpist’s melody faded into silence, and another dancing song began. A hand touched her shoulder, and she jumped at the contact.
Hoping to see Bevan, she turned with a smile. A bearded man smiled in return. He had long reddish hair, braided at his temples. ‘I’ve not see you here before. Would you care to dance?’ He spoke in Irish, and his eyes showed open admiration. ‘You’re a lovely one.’
Genevieve’s smile faded. ‘No. That is, I don’t dance.’
‘All the more reason to learn. My name is Seán.’ He took hold of her hands and started to pull her towards the crowd, where couples had joined hands.
‘No, really. I would prefer not to.’ She tried to free her hands, but the man refused to let go.
Another man, taller and also bearded, joined in and took her by the waist, laughing as he pushed her forward. ‘We’ll both dance with her, Seán. Then she can choose one of us. Or both.’ He gave a wicked grin.
A sense of panic pervaded her, and Genevieve struggled to get away from them. ‘Leave me—please.’
They paid her no heed, and soon she found herself in the midst of the dancers. Seán gripped her around the ribs, and Genevieve gasped as searing pain ripped through her bruised side. She tried to push him off, but he ignored her.
Then suddenly the hands were gone, and she had space to breathe once more. She looked up and saw Bevan. He glared at the men. ‘No one touches her.’
At his furious tone, the men relented and went off to find other partners. Genevieve let Bevan escort her away, and he took her to a darkened corner.
‘Did they hurt you?’
She shook her head. ‘But they would not listen to me when I told them I had no wish to dance.’
Bevan glared at the crowd of people. ‘They know better than to force a woman. I’ll see to it they remember next time.’
‘No, it is all right.’ Genevieve sank back against the wall. ‘They meant no harm.’
He stood beside her, not touching her, not saying a word. She gained comfort just by being near him. When the harpist began another tune, her lips curved upwards at its haunting refrain.
‘You enjoy music?’
‘I love it.’ She closed her eyes, listening to the feel of each note. A moment later his hand brushed hers. Genevieve jolted at the sensation, but let her hand remain where it was. Her mind scolded her body for its weakness. But Bevan brought her comfort.
She should move away from him, escape the rush of heat that flooded through her. An instant later he drew her to face him. His hands framed her cheeks, tilting her to look at him.
‘Your bruise is better.’
‘Isabel helped me to cover it.’ She was barely conscious of her words as his thumbs touched her hair. She had let it hang down with no veil, as Isabel had suggested. It felt strange to have her hair uncovered in the Irish fashion. Bevan’s fingers threaded through the strands, his touch barely more than a breath of air.
‘You look…well tonight.’
The intense gaze made her breath catch in her throat.
Move away, Genevieve, her heart reminded her. He will bring you nothing but pain.
Her traitorous body remained in place.
Bevan started to pull back, but Genevieve covered his hands with her own, keeping them against her hair. The touch of his hands made it impossible to keep a clear thought in her mind. She longed to know how it would be to have a man kiss her with tenderness, without the desire to punish.
‘Bevan?’ she asked, her voice hardly more than a faint whisper.
In his eyes, she saw him fighting to hold his distance. He didn’t want to be near her. At his rejection, she started to pull away.
‘I’ve gone mad,’ he murmured.
Without warning, his mouth came down upon hers, warm and tender. He treated her like a cherished possession, as though she might break in his arms. The kiss was a healing balm, soothing away the past moments of pain and fear.
Her mouth parted, and the kiss turned feverish. His tongue met with hers, and raw feelings of need pulsed within her. She clung to him for balance, aware of his desire pressing against her body. His lips travelled a path down to her throat, igniting a wild storm of yearning.
When his strong arms caught her waist, she felt trapped. A moan escaped her, but before she could struggle against his embrace Bevan stepped away. His breathing was laboured, like her own.
‘I am sorry.’ He moved back several paces, not looking at her. ‘I should not have touched you.’
Genevieve closed her eyes, trying to gather her thoughts. Foremost, she saw the aversion on his face. It angered her.
‘Because I am a Norman and therefore your enemy?’
‘Tá. It is best not to complicate matters between us.’
Genevieve veiled her emotions, not wanting him to see how much his rejection hurt. Had the kiss been that terrible? Had her lack of experience repulsed him? Or could he not see past her Norman heritage?
‘I have to take you back.’ Bevan turned from her, fighting the need within him. Never had he wanted a woman as much as this. It terrified him, the way she made him forget. A few moments more and he would have taken her back to his chamber.
Two years of celibacy made the fierce need even worse. He had known it was wrong to kiss her. But when he’d seen those men pressuring her to dance, and her fear, he had overreacted. The need to keep her safe had destroyed every rational thought.
Just as the way she had looked at him had been his undoing. For the first time he had not thought of Fiona. When he’d felt her lips beneath his, an undeniable longing had ignited within him.
What bothered him most was that his own wife had never inspired such feelings of lust. He had honoured Fiona, loved her with everything in him. Their lovemaking had been sweet, tender.
But this was far more. Though he had done nothing more than kiss Genevieve, there had been a connection between them. He didn’t want to desire another woman. He had promised his wife that he would love her until the day he died. He couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.
But he could not deny that he wanted Genevieve. He berated himself for his lack of discipline. The Normans were his enemy, those he had sworn to kill.
And yet he could never raise his sword against Genevieve. Her innocent presence unravelled his plan for vengeance. If he conquered Rionallís and put her family to the sword, it would make him no better than Sir Hugh Marstowe.
By Lug, he needed to put as much distance between them as possible. Else she would divert his path and weaken his purpose.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next day, a blizzard howled outside the castle walls, blanketing the landscape in white. Genevieve saw little of Bevan, and it soon became clear he was avoiding her. She had slept little the night before, and her thoughts were elsewhere when she looked up and saw Bevan’s brother Patrick.
‘Good morn to you,’he said. ‘I had hoped for an opportunity to speak with you.’ From his formal tone, she sensed the matter held a great deal of importance.
‘I hope I have not caused trouble among your tribe,’ Genevieve offered.
‘Some are uncomfortable,’he admitted. ‘But since you are here at my invitation, they must accept it.’
He led her towards a more secluded area, away from those who might overhear their conversation. ‘I have spoken to Bevan about an arrangement.’
His piercing grey eyes stared at her, as though assessing her worth. Genevieve waited for him to explain the proposition, but she sensed hesitation in his tone, as though he knew not how to broach the subject.
‘This is about Rionallís?’ she guessed.
‘Tá. I know a way to bring peace among our people, and I believe you wish to do the same.’
His sincerity and calm manner put her at ease. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to wed Bevan. His alliance with your family would divide Rionallís between you, and I believe your king would welcome the union.’
Though at one time Genevieve might have considered this as a solution, she knew Bevan would never agree. ‘Your brother would die before wedding a Norman.’
Her prediction did not deter Patrick. ‘He will obey if I command it.’
Turmoil and disappointment gathered in her heart. She knew Patrick’s offering was the best solution—a way for her to protect her family from war. But in return she would have to spend her life with a man who didn’t want her.
‘Will you agree if I bring the matter before King Henry and our High King?’
‘My opinion holds no bearing. You must have my father’s approval before a betrothal can be made.’
‘I sent word for him to meet us at Tara. His messenger brought a response today. He has agreed to join us there.’
A combination of numbness and relief settled over her. At last her father would come. She didn’t know if he had received any of her missives, but she felt certain he would help her end the betrothal to Hugh.
But would he want her to wed Bevan? She had her doubts. In all likelihood her father and Bevan would war against one another, fighting for the rights to Rionallís. Unless she stood between them.
She wished Papa would come to Laochre and take her home again, avoiding the problem entirely.
‘What is your opinion, Lady Genevieve?’ Patrick asked quietly. ‘Will you wed my brother if it mends the breach between us?’
She had no choice. No more than Bevan did. It was the only way to avoid bloodshed. ‘If my father agrees, I will do it.’
* * *
The blizzard slowed, thick snowflakes cloaking the ground in white. Genevieve decided to walk out of doors, to think about her conversation with Patrick.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 61
