The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1

by Michelle Willingham

  Her heart bruised at his words, though she had expected them. ‘I know.’

  ‘Can you accept this?’he asked. ‘All I can offer you is your freedom to do as you please.’

  ‘I have no choice, have I, Bevan?’ Her voice sounded tired, but she managed to nod. ‘I will wed you and avoid a battle between our people.’ Her anger grew until her teeth hurt with the effort to clench them.

  Bevan released her hands. ‘Go and prepare yourself. I will see you when the priest arrives.’

  Genevieve’s eyes burned as he departed. He wanted nothing to do with her—something she had to acknowledge.

  Her nerves strained at the thought of sharing his bed even a single time. Though it was necessary, in order to bind the marriage, she hated the thought of being naught more than a duty. She did not know if she had the courage to yield to him in such an intimate way.

  Isabel MacEgan interrupted her. Patrick’s wife, the Queen of Laochre, had journeyed for the wedding, and she offered a joyful smile to Genevieve. ‘Genevieve, will you come with me? I would help you dress for the wedding.’

  Though her feet felt leaden, Genevieve followed Isabel to another chamber. Upon the bed, Isabel had laid out a léine of saffron silk with an emerald overdress. A bathing tub filled with water awaited her.

  Helen de Renalt selected jewels for Genevieve to wear, muttering her disapproval of the marriage beneath her breath. Genevieve sank into the tub of warmed water, allowing Isabel to wash her hair with scented soap.

  Her mother helped her comb her hair, drying it before the fire. Afterwards she wound Genevieve’s hair into elaborate plaits, pinned atop her head.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ Isabel proclaimed, adding a cream-coloured veil trimmed with pearls.

  ‘He is unworthy of her,’ Helen said. ‘I like it not.’

  Genevieve sent a sharp look towards her mother. ‘I’ll not hear words against the man who is to be my husband.’ Helen shrugged and placed a golden necklace encrusted with jewels around her daughter’s throat. Deep emeralds accentuated the colour of the gown.

  Isabel hugged Genevieve. ‘All will be well. You’ll see.’ Touching Genevieve’s cheek, she added, ‘The bruise is gone.’

  Genevieve lifted her fingers to the spot. Though her wounds had healed, her spirit remained fragile. She gathered her courage and mustered a smile. ‘Let us go.’

  * * *

  The ceremony began at twilight, after Genevieve and Bevan had bathed the feet of their guests in welcome. The young ladies had fought over the silver coin left in the basin, for it was said that she who won it would be the next to marry.

  When the vows had been spoken, Bevan took her hand and the priest blessed their union. The warmth of his touch emanated through her skin, but his eyes stared forward, focused upon the priest and not her. She saw sadness in his gaze, and it hurt deeply.

  Was he remembering his first wedding to Fiona, the woman he loved? Genevieve tortured herself, wondering what he was thinking.

  Bevan’s lips brushed against hers in a kiss of peace, so swiftly she might not have known they were there. Afterwards, the wedding guests cheered.

  Tankards of mead were passed around, and the feasting began. Genevieve and Bevan were ushered to a table where the most sumptuous meats and pastries were piled.

  Her parents watched them, and Genevieve tried to put on a face of happiness for their sakes. It was like seeing herself through a pool of water, silent beneath the surface, drowning amid a sea of guests. Her husband smiled when others smiled at him, answered questions, and pretended to be having a good time.

  Genevieve knew better. He wore a mask of joviality, even kissing her when others teased them. His act suddenly upset her.

  Was she unworthy of a husband’s affections? Was she not deserving of a good marriage with a man who genuinely wanted her?

  She had thought it would not be so bad, wedded to a man who would never harm her. She believed that in time they could be content with one another. But as she watched him, it hurt to know that Bevan did not view their union as a reason to celebrate.

  She set down her goblet, narrowing her thoughts to that which troubled her most. Though she was not his chosen bride, not the woman he wanted, somehow she must find a way past the enmity in his heart. He desired her; that much she knew from their stolen kisses.

  An icy chill grasped her spine, and she took another sip of wine to fortify herself. He would expect her to surrender her virginity, but the thought of baring herself before him was daunting.

  With each passing minute her anxiety heightened. At home, the bedding ceremony embarrassed many brides. Genevieve remembered laughing women who would strip the bride of her shift, tucking her into bed naked to await her husband’s embrace. She glanced around, but only friendly smiles greeted her.

  When she could wait no longer, she rose from the table. If there was not a bedding custom here, then she preferred to prepare herself. She might be able to calm the terrified beating of her heart.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Bevan asked.

  ‘To our chamber.’ She offered him a weak smile. ‘I am weary.’

  The lie flowed from her mouth. She didn’t know if she would sleep at all tonight. For that matter, she knew not if he would consummate their marriage. She had offered him the choice of not sharing her bed.

  She walked away, not waiting for him to reply. She moved above stairs, turning once to look back. He met her gaze from below, and for a moment she stood transfixed by him. His tunic was an unusual shade of blue, a colour that made his strong features arresting. His hands cupped a goblet, but he did not drink.

  The crowds of people seemed to disappear, and he looked upon her as though seeing her for the first time. There was a hint of reassurance upon his face.

  Genevieve took a deep breath and forced herself to take another step. When at last she closed the door to their bedchamber, she sat upon a wooden stool to await him. She noticed that the servants had indeed disposed of the massive bed. In its place was a smaller bed, with new coverings. She had completely redecorated the chamber, removing all traces of its former design. Even the tapestries were gone. It was bare now, but she would make new ones.

  Her fingers tapped nervously against the silk of her gown. Minutes passed, and still Bevan did not come. Genevieve removed her gown, laying aside the finery and the jewelled necklace. She slipped beneath the bedcovers, the linen soft against her bare skin.

  With her eyes closed, she tried to curb her fears. He was not Hugh. Never would he strike her or humiliate her.

  After an hour of waiting, she realised he did not intend to claim his bride, either.

  Had she made a mistake? Was she not supposed to await him within her chamber? Her cheeks coloured as she donned a shift. Their customs were different here. Mayhap she should have gone to his room instead?

  Though the idea of invading his private room made her insides go numb, she steadied herself. It need only be this one time. It was expected of her, and she’d not shirk her duty.

  Closing her eyes, her last thought was that a bride should not have to go and claim her husband upon their wedding night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bevan had not missed the question in Genevieve’s eyes. He endured the ribald jests of his men before realizing that he could not stay below stairs for much longer without embarrassing his new wife. He took his leave from the guests, and Patrick prevented several drunken men from accompanying him.

  Bevan entered his chamber alone, bolting the door behind him. Thankfully, it was not a chamber he had shared with Fiona when they had lived here. He had left that one to Genevieve. His brothers had used this room upon occasion, and it held no memories for him.

  But the fortress held many memories. This time, coming home had been far different. He had recognised former servants, neighbouring tenants, and old friends at the feast. They’d seemed wary of the wedding but happy to see him once more. Bevan realised that they had been here when Genevieve had come wi
th Hugh. He wondered if there was any animosity between them, since she was Norman. It did not seem so, but he could not be certain.

  Bevan saw the wooden tub by the fire. It had been brought up before the ceremony, but he had not taken the time to bathe then. Now, the cold water offered a distraction from Genevieve. He did not doubt that she would invite him into her bed, were he to visit her. Still, he sensed fear within her. Whatever she might say, he did not think she had forgotten Hugh’s beatings.

  He was not even certain if she was a virgin. From the magnitude of her intimidation, he suspected other nightmares might haunt her.

  Bevan stripped and sat down, sluicing water over his face and chest. As he’d hoped, the frigid bath quelled any desire he’d felt. He rose from the tub and took a drying cloth. After towelling off the water, he wrapped the cloth around his hips and sat beside the fire.

  It was then that he noticed a shadow away from the bed. He reached for his dagger, but saw Genevieve step from behind one of the bed curtains. Her dark hair spilled over the thin shift she wore. She walked towards him in silence.

  ‘Genevieve—’ he began.

  He could see the fear and uncertainty in her eyes. He remained motionless, not wanting to frighten her with the lust growing within him.

  ‘I did not know if I should come,’ she whispered. ‘Your customs are not the same, and I thought—’ She broke off, her shoulders hunched forward.

  He said nothing at first, and in time she straightened. Through the thin outline of her shift her womanly curves beckoned to him. At the sight of her slender frame, he understood the courage it had taken for her to come to him. Though he should force her to go, he knew that if he uttered the words it would devastate her.

  Bevan craved the feel of her in his arms, wishing that he could be the bridegroom she deserved. He took her hands in his, exerting a gentle pressure until she stood before him. He brought his palm to her cheek, his thumb coaxing her lips to open. When she allowed him to kiss her, he was lost.

  She tasted of the warm summer sun, of honeyed mead and the promise of loving. In spite of his intent not to touch her, his arms slid around her waist. The feel of her soft skin made him harden, and he sat upon a stool, drawing her down to straddle his lap.

  At the intimacy of their position, she tried to pull away. Her cheeks flamed, but he held her fast, until she surrendered. Though he did not intend to claim her as his bride, he wanted to ease her fears. Gently he drew his palms up her back, stroking her. Through the thin shift he saw her breasts tighten.

  The drying cloth fell away until he felt her damp womanhood pressing against his shaft. He grew rigid, inhaling sharply as she tried to stand up. The motion caused her to ride against his length, and he eased her back down again.

  His mouth possessed hers, the kiss intoxicating him with heat and lust. The voice of reason cried out for him to stop, but he could not find the strength to deny her.

  Genevieve broke away from the kiss first, trying to catch her breath. This time he released her. She looked ready to flee from the chamber.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she breathed. ‘I thought I could let you—’

  ‘Not this eventide, Genevieve,’ he breathed in a husky whisper.

  Her face paled, shadowed with dismay. ‘I am sorry for displeasing you.’ She turned from him, but he stopped her.

  ‘Genevieve, I cannot be a husband to you. Not in the way you want.’ His body burned, but he willed himself under control. Leaning down, he picked up the fallen drying cloth and wrapped it around his hips.

  ‘If you would grant me time, I will do what I must,’ she insisted.

  He led her over to the bed and turned down the covers. ‘Sleep, now.’

  Genevieve wanted to curse with frustration. She had managed to break through his wall of indifference for the briefest moment, only to be shut out again. It had taken all of her courage to seek him out, while she struggled to block out the terrible memories of her past.

  The taunting voice of Hugh rose up in her mind. You are a poor excuse for a woman. You should be grateful that I grant you my attentions at all.

  And here, too, she had failed. In the darkness, she huddled in the bed alone. What would it take for Bevan to see her as a wife and not a burden?

  She lifted her gaze to watch him. In the firelight, his skin was molten bronze. Scarred from battle, his thigh muscles flexed as he put on his trews. His chest was bare, the sculpted torso covered with a fine mat of dark hair.

  ‘Bevan?’ she whispered.

  ‘Tá?’

  ‘Don’t leave me. Not tonight,’ she pleaded.

  He met her ashamed gaze. ‘I would not humiliate you in such a way, a chroí. Those below will think that this marriage is consummated, do not fear.’

  ‘What about the sheets?’ she asked, eyeing the clean linen. Her face turned crimson. ‘The blood—’ She broke off, too embarrassed to continue. At home, the sheets of a new bride were proudly displayed to show her loss of virginity.

  A hint of amusement lined his face. ‘It is not a custom of ours. My men will believe me when I tell them you are no longer a maiden.’

  But her parents would expect to see the sheets, she realised. Custom or not, they would ask.

  ‘May I borrow your knife?’ she asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To satisfy my father. He will expect to see my blood spilled.’

  Bevan rose and unsheathed his knife. Never taking his eyes from her, he slashed a shallow cut in his hand, letting drops of his blood spill upon the sheets. ‘It need not be your blood.’

  Genevieve winced, but he behaved as though the gesture were of little consequence. Afterwards, he made his bed before the fire, lying on the hard wooden floor.

  Genevieve thought of asking him to sleep beside her, for the sake of comfort. But she could not bring herself to speak the words. Her body aching with frustration and embarrassment, she buried her face in the mattress. Within Bevan’s bedchamber dwelled the ghosts of his past. She had tricked herself into thinking she wanted a separate life away from him.

  When he’d kissed her tonight, she had dreamed of a time when she could relinquish all fears and welcome him into her arms.

  In the flickering of the firelight, she saw him stretch out to sleep. His back held silvery scars from former battles. His was a body that had witnessed death and vanquished its foes. But beneath the surface lay other scars. A father who had lost his only daughter. A husband who hadn’t been able to protect his wife from the enemy. And a man forced to wed a woman he didn’t want.

  ‘Bevan?’ she whispered, unable to stop the question tormenting her. ‘Why did you wed me?’

  He had been so adamant before he’d left for Tara that he could not wed her. He would have done anything to avoid it.

  For a time he didn’t answer, and she wondered if he’d heard her. Then at last he said, ‘To keep you away from Hugh. You would have been forced to marry him. No woman deserves such a life.’

  Her eyes swam with tears at his admission. ‘But my father ended the betrothal,’ she whispered. ‘Hugh couldn’t have harmed me any more.’

  Bevan turned to face her. ‘I offered myself in Hugh’s place. Hugh is one of the King’s favourites, do not forget. But an Irish alliance is better for King Henry than an English one.’

  ‘I suppose you are right.’

  ‘And I don’t trust Hugh. I don’t believe he will give you up so easily. If anything happened to your father, he would come for you. And for Rionallís.’ He softened his voice, as if to allay her fears. ‘You’re safe from him now.’

  When he turned away from her she clenched her fists into the sheets. It would have been easier to dismiss his change of heart had she cared nothing for him. She could have closed off her heart to the stoic warrior who held her at a distance.

  But not to the man who had wed her to keep her safe. And not to the man who had kissed her, awakening her body to a man’s touch.

  She prayed that one day he could release
the memories that haunted him. Until that day there was no hope for their marriage to become anything more than an arrangement.

  * * *

  When Bevan awoke, Genevieve was gone. He rose from the floor, wincing at his sore shoulder, aching from the long night. He hadn’t slept at all, thinking of her. Though he had considered joining her upon the bed, he did not trust himself not to touch her. She had a way of disarming his willpower and shattering it into dust.

  He donned his tunic, and as he entered the Great Chamber delicious smells of pastry and warm fruit tantalised him. Ewan sat at a long table, stuffing his mouth with food.

  At the sight of his brother, Bevan asked, ‘Where is Genevieve?’

  ‘I have not seen her this morn. But you should break your fast,’ Ewan suggested. ‘Try the apple cakes.’ He used his forearm to swipe a dribble of honey away from his mouth.

  The table was piled high with bowls of steaming oat pottage and cakes dripping with honey and dried apples. Bevan reached out to sample one of the pastries. The sweet crust practically melted on his tongue, and he reached for another.

  ‘Did she make these?’

  ‘No, but she ordered them for us. I’ve not had such food before in all my life,’ Ewan commented. ‘I may never leave.’

  ‘Soon,’ Bevan said firmly, ‘you must return to Laochre.’ His brother’s response was to shovel in another mouthful of pottage.

  Though he knew there was no reason for concern, he wondered about Genevieve’s motives. He had never bothered much with food in the morning, and the sudden change gave him cause to worry about what other changes she intended to make.

  After he’d finished, he went outside to find her. The frosty winter air cut through his cloak, but while traversing the grounds he saw her in the inner bailey. He stood back, watching as she helped the laundress with a steaming cauldron. Genevieve used a long pole to stir the laundry. The heat from the boiling water dampened the strands of hair at her temples, and her cheeks shone from exertion. A linen veil kept her hair back from her face.