The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1

by Michelle Willingham

  Some time later, Ewan returned. A scowl rested upon his face. ‘Sir Hugh Marstowe is with them. Shall I give the order to attack?’ His eyes gleamed with excitement.

  Genevieve’s heart seized. She steeled herself, trying to remember that she was well protected, even without Bevan.

  ‘How many of them are there?’

  ‘Only ten. A short battle it would be,’ Ewan urged.

  She knew she should deny Hugh entrance and have the guards send them away. It was the right thing to do.

  And yet she thought again of the frail ribbon he had sent. What did Hugh mean by it? What did he want? She had already wed Bevan, and their children would inherit Rionallís. If there were any, Genevieve thought with a sigh.

  She recalled her husband’s promise and her body warmed at the memory. Before she gave herself up to Bevan’s embrace there was one memory left to excise: the terrible night when Hugh had tried to force himself upon her—and nearly succeeded.

  He had held her down, crushing her with his weight. ‘You cannot deny me,’ he had said. ‘I am to be your husband.’

  His fists had bruised her, tearing away her clothing until she lay exposed to him. She had fought him, but his strength had overpowered her.

  ‘If you do this, I shall hate you forever,’ she had whispered.

  And for some reason he had stopped. His wrath had not diminished, nor his lust, but her words had stayed his hand. He had tried to woo her once more, insisting he could give her pleasure. She had sobbed until finally he’d left her alone.

  The devastating fear had been with her ever since. She would never be free of it until she faced him.

  Here was a chance to reclaim her pride, to look upon the face of her enemy and let him see that she would not be beaten. Her hands trembled as she straightened her léine.

  ‘Allow them to enter. I will speak with him.’

  Ewan looked incredulous, but Genevieve added one further order. ‘And I want twenty guards in the room with me. Along with yourself.’ She offered him a faint smile. ‘You will protect me, will you not, brother?’

  Pride burst over his face, and he nodded. ‘I will.’

  As the moments passed, she paced. With each step her heart hammered faster, until she felt the fear starting to overtake her.

  ‘Genevieve.’ She turned, and Hugh gave her a thin smile. His face was clean-shaven, his fair hair cropped short. He wore only light armour, his conical helm tucked beneath his arm. ‘I see you received my message.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked. To her surprise, her voice sounded calm.

  ‘I wanted to apologise for my past actions,’ he said. ‘I know I lost my temper on occasion. You bore the brunt of it, and for that I am sorry.’ He looked embarrassed, particularly with all of her guards looking on. ‘Could we not speak in private?’ he asked. ‘There is more I wish to say to you.’

  ‘What you have to say must be said here,’ she replied. ‘You lost my trust long ago.’

  He bowed his head in assent. ‘Aye.’He let her see the regret in his face. It appeared genuine, something she had not expected. His expression held a fleeting glimpse of the young man she had once loved, the man who had treated her with kindness.

  ‘I came to offer my good wishes upon your marriage. And to ask forgiveness for my earlier actions.’

  Genevieve did not believe him. ‘What other reason brings you to Rionallís?’ She spoke directly, not wanting to prolong his visit.

  His forced smile tightened. ‘Are you happy with the Irishman?’

  Genevieve said nothing as Hugh sat upon a bench and unlaced his boots. As hostess, she was expected to bathe his feet. But she could not abide the thought of kneeling before him. Instead, she signalled for a servant to attend him.

  She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I am. And I would not defy our King’s command.’

  He took a drink of the mead offered by a maidservant, and donned his footwear once more. ‘Do you remember when I first gave you that ribbon? At the fair?’ He smiled as though reminiscing. ‘You gave me a kiss for it.’

  ‘That is in the past, Hugh. Why do you speak of it?’

  He moved in closer and tried to take her hands in his. Genevieve stepped back, repelled by his touch. ‘Once, you loved me,’ he said. ‘Once, you desired me, and we belonged to each other.’

  No, you thought I belonged to you, she wanted to say. Instead, she clenched her teeth and met his gaze. ‘Tell me what it is you want, Hugh.’

  ‘What if I could have your union annulled?’ he offered silkily. ‘We could be together once more. Give me a chance, Genevieve.’ He motioned to a servant, who brought forth a small wooden chest. ‘I have brought this gift for you. I ask only that you consider it.’ Lifting the lid, Hugh presented her with a golden torque set with sapphires.

  Genevieve could barely conceal her anger. Did he think he could eradicate the past with a golden gift?

  ‘I do not want an annulment, Hugh.’ And, to be certain he would not mistake her meaning, she added, ‘And I would not wed you if you were the last man on earth.’

  His face turned scarlet with rage. ‘You have not lost your haughtiness, have you? You would do well to learn how to submit to a man’s authority. I’ll wager your Irishman does not know how to tame you.’

  ‘Get out,’ Genevieve gritted. ‘I will not be insulted in my own home.’

  ‘It may not be yours for very long,’ Hugh insinuated. ‘Not with your husband away in battle. He could be killed. And then what?’

  Genevieve swallowed hard, but held her ground. ‘I asked you to leave. My men will see you out.’

  ‘Think upon my words, Lady Genevieve. It only takes a single arrow to end a man’s life. Your husband fights against the Norman army of Richard de Clare’s men. My sword may meet his yet.’

  With those words, Hugh departed. Genevieve waited until he had gone before sinking onto a bench. She covered her face with her hands, rubbing her temples. Hugh was right. If anything happened to Bevan, she would not be safe.

  * * *

  Genevieve did not sleep that night, nor the next. Each time she closed her eyes she saw the face of Hugh, taunting her. Then his fists would come down upon her until she woke, sweating with terror.

  Mairi noticed her sleeplessness, and offered to brew an herbal remedy. At Genevieve’s refusal, she clucked like a maternal hen, fussing over her until she at last agreed to drink the tea. She tasted chamomile and mint, and lied that it did make her feel better.

  ‘Ye need to get away from your sadness, Genevieve,’ Mairi chided. ‘Séan the brewer has invited you to his home this evening. Ye’ll be coming, won’t ye?’

  Genevieve did not feel like visiting, but she thought it would be rude to refuse. Her relationship with the tenants was slowly improving. They were a proud folk, some less forgiving than others. She decided to go, in the hopes that she could win over the hearts of those who resented her Norman heritage.

  Mairi led her to the small tract of land, its field covered with snow. She hustled Genevieve out of the cold wintry air and into the beehive-shaped cottage, where a peat fire burned brightly. ‘Ah, here we are. This is Séan. If ye are wanting gossip, he’s the man to find. Knows everything, does our Séan.’

  A portly man with ruddy cheeks smiled and handed Genevieve a mug of ale. ‘It’s welcome you are, Genevieve.’

  Inside the small cottage, several women and men had gathered to share food, drink and entertainment. Genevieve drank, and found the brew to be quite good, though strong.

  ‘I imagine you’re wanting to know about Fiona MacEgan, is that right?’ Séan asked, lighting his pipe.

  The web of jealousy snared her, but Genevieve pushed away the emotion. ‘I would rather know more about Bevan,’ she said, correcting his assumption.

  Her jealousy must have given her away, because Séan laughed. ‘Well, you’ll have to be knowing about our Fiona before you can understand Bevan.’ He launched into a tale about the Ó Callahan feud, much of w
hich she had already learned from Bevan. But throughout the tale it was clear that the people had adored Fiona.

  ‘The prettiest Ó Callahan of all, she was,’ Mairi remarked.

  ‘What happened to her?’ Genevieve asked. ‘I know little about the night she died.’

  Séan refilled everyone’s mug. Sitting back on a bench, he lit his pipe. ‘That I can tell you. And it might be that you’ll understand why Bevan grieves so when you hear the tale.’

  Séan exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘Two years ago, Bevan had taken Fiona for a visit to Laochre. Only a month had passed since they’d lost their daughter, Brianna, from a fever. Both were grieving. At Laochre, they were attacked, and Bevan told Fiona to stay in the donjon. He prides himself upon his skills in battle, you know. Bevan slew more than thirty men on the day Strongbow attacked.’

  The room grew hushed, and Séan continued. ‘Our tribe fought against the Norman invaders—’ he glanced at Genevieve, not wanting to offend ‘—and though Fiona was not the sort to disobey, she did this day. It must have been a madness brought forth from the battle, or a fear for Bevan’s life. She left the fortress in search of him.’

  ‘Bevan saw her running from a group of Norman soldiers, and he heard her cries for help as they pursued her. He fought with all his strength to prevent them from carrying her off, but a soldier struck him across the head. No one could reach her in time.’

  ‘What happened then?’ Genevieve asked.

  Séan cleared his throat and set the pipe aside. His features turned sorrowful. ‘Her body was found later. Burned. She must have escaped into one of the cottages that was set on fire by the Normans. Had she not left the fortress she might be alive still.’

  The mood in the cottage had shifted to one of sadness, and Genevieve sensed the evening drawing to a close. She thanked Séan for his hospitality and he sent her home with the promise of a barrel of his finest ale for a bridal gift.

  When she reached the gates of Rionallís, activity in the bailey drew her attention. A large group of men, weary from battle, were giving their horses to the stable boys. Genevieve searched the crowd of men until she located Bevan.

  His armour was caked with mud, and bloodstains covered his face and clothing. A rough beard covered his cheeks and chin, and his green eyes seared her with intensity. Genevieve ran to him, and he dismounted.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ She touched the blood upon his face, checking him for injuries.

  He shook his head. ‘Only a few marks. But we defeated the Normans who were attacking Lionel’s people. I have his vow to help us, should we ever have the need.’

  Genevieve remembered Hugh’s threats and felt grateful to have another ally.

  ‘Are you going to force me to stay outside?’ Bevan asked, his voice tinged with humour. ‘Or will you help me to get warm?’ The tenor of his voice held a double meaning that made Genevieve’s skin flush.

  ‘Come inside.’ She took his hand to lead him into the fortress, but he paused, bringing her palm to his lips.

  ‘Did you think of me?’ he asked softly.

  She nodded, her heart racing. He had not forgotten his promise, from the looks of it. Tonight he would bed her, and she would do her best to be a good wife to him.

  But, oh, she feared the marriage bed. Though Bevan had awakened such feelings within her, she knew it would all change once he joined his body with hers. She loved it when he kissed her and touched her, but the joining would be painful. Mayhap he would get that part over with quickly. She hoped so.

  ‘Would you like food and drink?’ she asked, her nerves making her speak faster than usual. ‘I could have them bring you something. Meat, or cheese, or bread?’

  ‘Tá, I am hungry.’ He leaned in and kissed her, his mouth leaving her no doubt as to what he was hungry for. She shivered when he released her from his embrace. ‘Have a bath prepared for me. And send the food and wine above stairs. I would like your company while I eat.’

  After she had left to give the orders, Bevan’s body warmed with anticipation. All the time he had spent fighting he had kept the image of her in his mind. He had imagined Genevieve waiting for him, and he looked forward to teaching her the pleasures of loving. He wanted to watch her come to fulfilment with her heart in her eyes.

  He was already halfway up the stairs when Ewan interrupted.

  ‘Hugh Marstowe was here during your absence.’ Ewan rested his hand atop his sword hilt. ‘I sent a few men to follow him.’

  ‘Why did he come?’ Bevan remembered the way Sir Hugh had challenged him at Tara. The man wanted Rionallís, and he did not doubt that Marstowe would threaten Genevieve.

  ‘He claimed he wanted to congratulate Genevieve on her marriage. But his eyes were hungry. He wants this place,’ Ewan said. ‘And he warned her of what would happen if you died.’

  Norman bastard.

  ‘Why did you let him in?’

  ‘I didn’t want to. Genevieve allowed him to enter. But I kept our men fully armed. He didn’t harm her.’

  Bevan was immediately suspicious of Genevieve’s motives. She knew what the man was capable of. Why, then, would she endanger herself?

  ‘How far did your men track him?’ he asked Ewan.

  ‘They were travelling towards Tara.’

  To appeal to the King, no doubt. They would want to press their case again before Henry returned to England. Bevan gritted his teeth. ‘You did well to inform me of this.’

  He met his brother’s gaze, and suddenly saw a hint of maturity there. Ewan had accepted responsibility for guarding Genevieve and he had succeeded. There was a glimpse of the man he would become.

  He clapped Ewan on the shoulder. ‘My thanks, brother.’

  Ewan gave an embarrassed nod before returning to the others in the Great Chamber. He busied himself with eating, though Bevan saw pride in Ewan’s posture. There was hope for the boy yet.

  Above stairs, he stopped before the door to Genevieve’s chamber. No, their chamber now—though he had shared it once with Fiona. Instead of the anger he’d felt when Genevieve had ordered the bed destroyed, he now felt regret. But it was better with the old bed gone, allowing nothing of the past to intrude upon them.

  Opening the chamber door, he found Genevieve sitting on a bench near the fire. Her hair was undone, falling across her cream-coloured léine. She held her hands in her lap while she stared at a chest against the wall.

  ‘Ewan tells me Marstowe was here,’ he began.

  Genevieve nodded. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’ He kept his tone firm, needing to understand her reasons. ‘Why did you open the gates to him?’

  Genevieve met his gaze directly. ‘I’ve been running from him for weeks now. I thought it was time to stop.’

  ‘He could have harmed you.’ Bevan caressed the side of her jaw, where the dark bruise had once been.

  Genevieve held his hand to her face. ‘I know it. But I wanted to face him. I wanted him to see that I will not allow my fears to rule me any more.’

  ‘Why?’ All the thoughts of what might have happened came rising up. ‘Why would you put yourself in such danger?’

  ‘Because I knew your men would keep me safe. Even without you here.’

  Her trust in him was the last thing he had expected. He didn’t know what to say, so he rested his hands upon her shoulders. He massaged the tension from her neck, sliding her hair over one shoulder. She leaned back against him, closing her eyes. ‘Mmm.’

  He turned her to face him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against him. ‘I missed you.’

  He gripped her tightly, feeling a surge of tenderness. The faith she had placed in him made him want to give something back to her.

  Cupping her face between his hands, he kissed her. She responded, meeting his lips with sweetness. Fiona had never looked at him the way Genevieve did. It made him feel powerful, knowing that he could make her feel the same passion he did. The way he never had for his former wife.

&
nbsp; Genevieve traced a finger across the scar on his left cheek, then his right.

  ‘Battle has taken away my good looks,’ he teased.

  She shook her head. ‘No. The scars show your strength.’ With her lips, she pressed a kiss against each one. His skin grew warm beneath her lips, his body rising to meet her.

  ‘I have other scars,’ he offered, glancing below his waist. She laughed, her cheeks flushing.

  Bevan unfastened his sword belt, then removed his tunic. Bare-chested, he caught her in his arms again, pressing a kiss along her nape. ‘Did you order the bath?’

  ‘I did.’

  Bevan removed the rest of his clothes, standing naked before her.

  Genevieve’s cheeks reddened, but she did not look away. Her heartbeat quickened with anticipation. Like a fierce warrior’s, Bevan’s body held numerous scars from countless battles. The skin at his shoulder wound had healed at last, a mark he would carry on her behalf.

  Not an ounce of fat did he hold on his lean, muscled frame. When he sank down into the tub of water his dark hair fell about his shoulders. His green eyes beckoned to her in wordless invitation.

  Genevieve picked up a cloth to wash him, and he stopped her. ‘Use your hands,’ he said, in a deep whisper.

  She had expected to submit to him, to lie beneath him and let him do as he wished to her body. Never had she anticipated that he would ask her to take the lead. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Tá, you can.’ He took her hand in his, soaping it and laying it atop his chest. He brought her palm over the hard planes of his chest, over the scars, and the gesture frightened her.

  She wasn’t any good at this. She could never please him in the same way he did her. When she tried to pull her hand away, he caught it, asking, ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  Liar, she thought. Though she tried to hide it, Bevan was not misled.

  ‘He hurt you. And I know you’re thinking of him now.’