Her Irish Warrior, page 2
part #1 of MacEgan Brothers Series
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘I do not wish to force you,’ he said, his fingers suddenly gentle. ‘I could have taken you at any time, were that my intention. But I am a patient and forgiving man. Give yourself to me willingly, and I shall teach you the rewards of obedience.’ His hand curled beneath her jaw. ‘I know you better than you know yourself. You want my touch, though you fight me.’
Never. At the thought of his hands upon her, nausea pooled in her stomach. She lifted her chin and stared into his ruthless blue eyes. His handsome face repulsed her, and she spat at him. ‘I hate you.’
Hugh’s hands curled up with rage. Fury flashed in his expression, and he struck her cheek. She turned at the last second, falling to her knees. She shut out the pain, her hand closing around the fallen dagger. Before Hugh could see what she had done, she’d hidden the weapon behind her in the folds of her shift.
Genevieve tightened her grip upon the dagger. The hilt felt cold in her palm, its unfamiliar weight awkward. She didn’t know if she had the courage to use it. A thousand doubts filled her mind. But she clung to the thread of survival.
A furious pounding sounded upon the door. Genevieve’s glance darted towards it.
Hugh cursed, and donned his tunic before opening the door. ‘What is it?’
‘An attack, my lord,’ the servant informed him. ‘Irish invaders have set fire to the outer palisade.’
‘Stay here,’ Hugh snarled to Genevieve. Within seconds, she was alone. Fate had granted her a reprieve. Genevieve laid her cheek against the wall. It felt as though she might blend in with the wood and plaster, so cold was she. Her fingers clutched the linen of her shift, as though the thin fabric could somehow shield her from Hugh’s return. No relief filled her, for he would come back. And then his punishment would start anew.
She could feel the old fears coming back to taunt her. She let go of the dagger, the opportunity to defend herself gone. Her hair hung down around her face. Blood matted the back of her scalp, so she removed her veil. Her dark hair would hide the injury.
Below, she could hear the men shouting commands. She rested her forehead on her knees, trying to gather her strength. If they were under siege, she’d have another chance to get away. But she could not remain idle.
Wearily, she rose to her feet. Her body ached, and she wondered if Hugh had broken her ribs this time. It hurt to breathe. Her kirtle lay on the floor, where it had fallen. Genevieve winced as she leaned over to pick it up. The stabbing pain eased when she straightened and slipped the gown over her shift. The laces were destroyed, but it would keep her warm for now.
You must leave, she told herself. Now was her opportunity, and she could not let it go.
A strange noise caught her attention. She turned towards a large tapestry hanging upon the wall. It rippled for an instant. Genevieve backed away, not knowing what the movement was. Instinct told her to be on guard. She took the dagger in her hand once more.
A man emerged from behind the tapestry, fully armed, with a sword at his side. He wore trews and a moss-coloured belted tunic that fell in folds to his knees. She recognised the large iron brooch pinning his cloak. It was the soldier from the hillside. A quiet authority resonated from his stance, but her anger remained. He had not helped her when she’d needed him most.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, holding the dagger steady. His hair, black as the devil’s soul, flowed across his shoulders. A thin scar, long ago healed, marred one cheek.
‘I am Bevan MacEgan.’
Beneath his tunic she saw the outline of heavy muscle. It occurred to her that he might be a more dangerous threat than Hugh.
‘And what is your name, a chara?’ He crossed his arms, waiting for her answer. Deep green eyes regarded her as though judging her worth.
Her mouth went dry. ‘I am Genevieve de Renalt.’
MacEgan stared at her for a moment, his gaze noting her injuries. ‘What happened to you?’
Genevieve suddenly remembered her torn kirtle, and she shielded her body as best she could. ‘I was punished for running away.’
‘By whom?’
Genevieve hesitated, but answered truthfully. ‘Sir Hugh Marstowe.’
‘And why was he hunting you?’
‘Because I refused to give myself to him.’
His eyes turned cold, like the frost-laced granite stones that lined the hills. ‘I could kill him for you, should that be your desire.’
‘You missed your opportunity.’ Heat rose in her cheeks, along with anger that threatened to break loose. ‘I could have been safely away from him by now. But you stood by and did nothing.’
‘It’s not over yet,’ he said quietly. ‘And I am here now.’
He was nothing more than an intruder, a man who had abandoned her. But she saw something in his expression when he spoke, something unexpected: sincerity. He might be a rugged barbarian, intent upon conquering Rionallís, but the timbre of his voice and the brutal honesty in his face made her reconsider.
It was better than waiting for Hugh to return, she decided. Given the choice between staying here or going with a stranger, she would rather take her chances with Bevan MacEgan.
‘If you will see me to safety, that will be enough,’ she said crisply, lowering the dagger. ‘How did you get inside?’
He pulled the tapestry aside, revealing a narrow space. A single rope hung down the passageway inside the wall. ‘You don’t expect me to go down that way?’ she said, her throat tightening at the thought of the sheer drop.
‘No. I will take you another way.’ His expression changed into a mask of determination. ‘Come.’
‘Where?’
‘Below stairs. I have a condition before I grant your request.’
‘What condition?’
‘You will be my hostage.’
For a moment, she hesitated. She knew nothing about this man, and there was a chance he could harm her.
But he had come back, answering her earlier plea. It seemed she had little choice. ‘You won’t deliver me into his hands, will you?’
‘No. But you may help to grant us more time.’
‘Why are you attacking the fortress?’ she asked.
‘I am the rightful owner of Rionallís.’
She decided that now was not the time to inform him that Rionallís was part of her dowry. Especially when she relied upon him for her freedom. He would learn it soon enough.
Her hands closed on the wooden bar, but MacEgan grasped her waist and pulled her aside. At his touch, she gasped with pain. She bit her lip until she had control of herself.
‘I will go first,’ he said. ‘Then you.’
He opened the door and she clutched at her torn kirtle, reluctant to face Hugh. A dark side of her wished fervently that Hugh would fall to MacEgan’s blade. Without him, life would go back to the way it had been before.
After noting that it was safe, MacEgan pulled her into the hallway. Genevieve saw other men, armed and ready. He gave a sharp command in Irish, an order to follow him and guard their backs. With his hand upon her neck, he guided Genevieve down the winding stairs until they reached the Great Chamber. He positioned a knife at her throat. ‘Do not flinch. I would not have my blade slice your skin.’
It seemed strange that she should feel safe with him. A sense of calm descended upon her, because he was giving her a second chance at escape.
When the Norman guards caught sight of them, they moved to defend her.
‘Come no closer,’ MacEgan said, and they held their weapons steady. Genevieve searched the Great Chamber for Hugh, but saw no sign of him. It made her uneasy.
‘Tell Sir Hugh I wish to speak with him,’ MacEgan commanded. One of the soldiers departed, and he guided Genevieve in front of him. She waited agonising moments for Hugh to appear. The blade had warmed beneath her skin, and she dared not move. At the touch of MacEgan’s hand upon her nape, her skin prickled.
The soldiers held their weapons in readiness, but she could tell from their expressions that they would not act until Hugh gave the command.
But Hugh did not come. Instead, Sir Peter Harborough came forward. His greying hair was dishevelled, his armour stained with sweat and blood. ‘Release her,’ he commanded. He reached to draw his sword.
‘Sir Peter, wait!’ Genevieve cried out.
MacEgan held the knife at her throat. ‘If you do not wish her to die, I would suggest you call off the men. And I want to see Sir Hugh.’
Genevieve watched the soldiers, wondering when her betrothed would emerge from the shadows. No doubt he was near.
Sir Peter’s expression held a combination of fury and hesitation. After a moment, he sheathed his weapon. ‘Damned Irish. Haven’t the sense to know when they’re conquered.’He caught the glance of another soldier and ordered, ‘Bring in the prisoner.’
MacEgan grew alert. Genevieve had not known of a captive. When the prisoner was brought in, she saw a lad of hardly more than four and ten. He was skinny, with reddish-gold hair and a stubble of fuzz covering his cheeks. His head hung down, as though he were ashamed of himself.
MacEgan exploded with anger. He spoke in Irish, likely to keep the others from understanding him.
‘What were you thinking, Ewan? I told you to stay at Laochre.’
The boy drew back. ‘I am sorry, brother. I thought—’
‘You thought you could join in our fight? And how long did it take for them to capture you?’
The boy’s face reddened.
Genevieve could hold her silence no longer. ‘Leave him be. He is only a boy.’
‘Who may not live to be a man if he behaves in such a fashion.’ MacEgan’s grip tightened upon her, and his tension became palpable.
Sir Peter revealed a smile of victory. ‘And so we come to the terms, MacEgan. You shall call off your men, return the Lady Genevieve unharmed, and in exchange we release the boy.’
‘What if I refuse?’
‘That is your choice, of course. But you are outnumbered.’ Sir Peter gave a nod towards the opposite wall, where archers waited with bows drawn. ‘We could kill you before your men could release their weapons.’
Although Sir Peter was trying to protect her, Genevieve wanted to curse the man. He had spent nearly each day of the past two moons drinking ale and eating. Not a finger had he lifted to guard her from Hugh. But the moment an Irishman tried to rescue her, he decided to play the role of saviour.
‘This fortress was mine long before the Normans took it,’ MacEgan said. ‘The people are loyal to me. It would not be long before a dagger would slide between your ribs one night.’
Sir Peter shrugged. ‘That is Marstowe’s concern, not mine. My purpose is to guard the Lady Genevieve until her marriage.’
‘You seem to be doing a poor job of it.’
Rage exploded upon the man’s face, and Bevan’s grip tightened around her. She held her breath, afraid of the knife at her throat. Though she didn’t believe he would hurt her, the slightest pressure could make the blade slip.
Where was Hugh? Genevieve did not trust him to stay out of this. Had he run? Or was he plotting against them?
She caught a slight movement from the shadows. The gleam of an arrow-tip reflected in the firelight. Out of instinct, she pushed backwards against MacEgan with all her strength, just as the arrow was fired. The shaft grazed MacEgan’s shoulder, and would have struck her had she not moved in time.
The knife left her throat for an instant, and strong arms dragged her away.
‘Seize him!’ a voice commanded.
Five guards took hold of MacEgan. He fought back, slashing with his dagger, but there were too many of them. Genevieve tried to free herself from Sir Peter’s grasp, but he held firm. After a fierce struggle, they disarmed him. Seconds later, Hugh emerged from the shadows. At the sight of him, Genevieve’s blood ran cold. The expression on his face appeared tender, loving. Genevieve knew the act well.
He took her in his arms and touched the soft part of her throat where the blade had rested. ‘I will kill him for touching you.’ Unsheathing his dagger, he stared at MacEgan. ‘Perhaps I shall slit his throat now.’
Genevieve closed her eyes, knowing that none of the prisoners would be released.
Hugh traced a finger down her jaw. The gesture made her skin crawl. ‘But I would rather have him suffer for what he has done. On the morrow, I will have him executed, so that all will know not to attack Rionallís. He can watch the younger one hang first.’
Genevieve turned to him, unable to hide her hatred. ‘I thought you would let the boy go.’
‘I let no one escape who attacks what is mine. Return to your chamber and bolt the door.’He clapped Sir Peter on the shoulder. ‘Thank you for defending her.’
‘It was no trouble.’ Sir Peter’s hand returned to his sword. ‘Shall we rid ourselves of the rest of them?’
Hugh inclined his head. To his soldiers, he ordered, ‘Secure the outer bailey. Spare no one.’ With those words, Hugh donned his helm and left.
Genevieve forced herself to go above stairs, each step heavier than the last. She could not allow MacEgan to die, not after he had tried to save her. She cradled her arms against her sore ribs, remembering the hungry look in Hugh’s eyes. He had enjoyed hurting her. Her hands moved down to her hips, and she trembled in fear, knowing exactly how he intended to hurt her this time.
She had one last chance. She would find a way to save MacEgan and his brother, even if it meant risking her death.
Chapter Two
G enevieve hid in a chamber used for storing food and herbs until the sounds of battle faded into the distance. The thickness of smoke tainted the air, and she tried not to think of the number of men who were now dead. There were two she could save, and save them she would.
She studied the dried roots and stalks until she found the ones she was looking for. Mixed with ale, their bitterness would not be tasted by the guards, and the herbs would cause sleep.
Hugh had sent the captives to an underground cellar. As Genevieve had anticipated, MacEgan was heavily guarded. She balanced the pitcher of ale and tankards while climbing down the ladder. The cool air raised gooseflesh on her arms, but she squared her shoulders and put on a false smile.
As soon as the guard saw her, he frowned. ‘Lady Genevieve, you should not be here.’
‘I thought you and your men deserved a reward for your bravery this eve,’ she said, holding out the pitcher.
The guard brightened at her offering, allowing her to fill his cup. He lifted his tankard in a toast, then drank heartily. Genevieve poured ale for the other soldiers, and soon they relaxed with a game of dice. For a moment she waited, to see if anyone responded to the drugged mixture, but nothing happened.
Had she added enough? Or, worse, would the herbs take effect at all? Tonight was her only chance to help the MacEgans escape, while Hugh was occupied with the Irish invaders. She glanced towards the prisoners, shrinking back at the sight of Bevan MacEgan’s suspicious glare.
He rested on his haunches, both wrists chained. Though outwardly he appeared calm, she sensed he was biding his time. He exuded strength, a caged wolf prepared to tear out the throat of his enemy, given an opportunity.
Was it the right decision to free them? If it were only the young boy, Ewan, she’d not hesitate. But she knew nothing about Bevan MacEgan, nor whether he was an honest man.
She moved towards the ladder as if about to leave. Another soldier raised his hand in farewell, and she pretended to step upon the ladder. When their attention was firmly on the game, she slipped into the shadows. She leaned back against the cool stones, her pulse thrumming in anticipation.
In the darkness, she saw MacEgan staring at her. His penetrating gaze made her shiver, though he said nothing to reveal her presence.
It was taking far too long for the herbs to take effect. Genevieve did not know what she would do if the guards did not succumb to sleep.
The younger boy struggled with his chains, fighting to gain release. MacEgan settled back against the wall, not a trace of emotion upon his scarred face. He waited with the patience of a man who had known captivity before. Genevieve prayed she had not been mistaken about trusting him.
Before long she heard footsteps approaching. Hugh’s voice echoed off the stones as he descended the ladder. ‘I want to speak with the prisoners alone.’
At the sound of his voice, she tried to shrink back further. She found a small niche behind one of the barrels, pulling her body into a tight ball. The guards climbed the ladder, but none seemed aware of her. She clenched her hands together, every muscle tensed.
Hugh withdrew a dagger and fingered the edge of the blade. The steel flashed silver in the torch light. He stood before MacEgan, a grim expression lining his mouth.
‘You should not have touched her. She belongs to me. Any man who threatens her will die.’
The boy paled, but MacEgan met his adversary’s gaze evenly. ‘Then you must be ready to face death yourself. It was you who beat her, was it not?’
A murderous rage darkened Hugh’s face. He unsheathed his dagger and slashed it at MacEgan’s cheek, carving a wound that mirrored the scar on his opposite cheek.
Though a flash of pain dimmed the Irish warrior’s eyes, he did not move. He stared at Hugh in a silent challenge. Genevieve held her breath, her hand moving towards her bruised ribs.
Then Hugh plunged the dagger into MacEgan’s shoulder, where the arrow had skimmed it earlier. Genevieve expected MacEgan to cry out, but he made not a sound. Instead, he met Hugh’s gaze, his features tight with pain.
She had seen enough. If she didn’t act now, Hugh would slit MacEgan’s throat next. She emerged from her hiding place, grabbing the pitcher of ale. The fragile pottery shattered across Hugh’s head, but he remained standing. Genevieve tried to move away, but he caught her.
He struck her across the face, and a fierce pain blasted through her cheek. She couldn’t stop the cry that slipped from her mouth at the terrible agony. His fist collided with her bruised ribs, expelling the air from her lungs. For the first time she glimpsed the face of death. She had crossed the boundary past fear and anger, slipping into the need to survive. Her knees buckled, for she could not breathe. Darkness hovered at the edge of her periphery.
