Genevieve pulled on her cloak and brat, needing to get away. The guards tried to block her path, but she pushed them aside. She let the rage consume her, let it fly free.

  Ewan tried to stop her, but she shrugged him away.

  ‘I overheard,’ he said softly. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No.’ She choked back the tears. ‘Please, Ewan, I need to get away. Let me ride—let me have some time to mourn.’

  He signalled for a horse to be brought. ‘He won’t want you to leave.’

  ‘He doesn’t care about me any more,’ Genevieve said wearily. ‘All that matters is that Fiona is alive. All he’ll think about is her.’

  ‘That isn’t true. He cares for you,’ Ewan said.

  ‘He doesn’t care enough,’ Genevieve whispered. In her heart she believed that, given a choice, Bevan would always choose Fiona. His sense of honour would keep it so, regardless of his feelings.

  Ewan helped her mount the horse, and Genevieve urged the animal forward. Ewan managed to convince the gate guards to let her go, and within moments she was galloping through the snow, her hair streaming behind her.

  Icy wind chilled her to the marrow, but she did not feel the cold. She rode hard, watching the landscape blur beneath the mare’s hooves. The grey sky was swollen with snowflakes, mirroring the unshed tears in her heart. The sun hid in hazy shadow, and before long it would slip below the horizon in the embrace of night.

  Genevieve reached the grove of trees Bevan had shown her the previous morn. She slowed the mare and dismounted, walking towards the stone circle. With each step, her heart broke into another piece. She leaned her cheek against the largest monolith, its roughness strangely soothing.

  She sank to her knees, the wet snow seeping into her gown. She wept for him, and for the years they would not spend together.

  But most of all she wept because he had never even considered keeping her as his wife.

  Later that night she returned, and found Bevan in their chamber. The chest belonging to Fiona lay open, and he held the scrap of linen in his hands—the one that had belonged to both his wife and daughter.

  Genevieve took a step towards him. ‘Bevan,’ she said softly. ‘What if…what if Siorcha is wrong? What if none of it is true?’

  ‘It’s true,’ he said flatly. ‘And I think you know it as well as I.’

  ‘I don’t understand why she left you,’ she whispered. For he was the man she loved. It devastated her to see the raw pain in his eyes. She wound her arms around his neck, but he did not embrace her. His hands remained at his side.

  ‘For the same reasons you left Hugh. You knew he would come after you, no matter what happened.’ His voice sounded coarse, and his eyes were lowered. ‘She fled rather than face me.’

  ‘You are not Hugh,’ she said. ‘Do not even think of comparing yourself to him.’

  ‘Am I so different?’he asked. ‘I wanted to kill the men who took her from me. If I had known she loved Somerton I cannot say what I would have done to him.’

  ‘What will become of us?’ she asked quietly. She tried to take his hand, but he moved away. The rebuke made her heart crumble more.

  ‘There is no marriage between us any more,’he said flatly. ‘You should return home to your parents.’

  He was giving up on her. Genevieve surrendered her pride and spoke her mind. ‘If you formally divorce Fiona, we could remarry.’

  Bevan shook his head slowly. ‘I must find her,’ he said. ‘And when I do I will bring her back to Éireann.’

  ‘And if she will not come?’

  His shoulders lowered. ‘I know not what she will say. It has been two years. Much has changed.’

  ‘Do you still love her?’

  He hesitated, pity filling his eyes. ‘I do not know what I feel for her.’

  Genevieve turned away so he would not see her tears. Why had she let herself care for him? Why did it have to hurt this much?

  She took a deep breath and steadied herself. ‘What of Rionallís?’

  ‘We will live at Laochre until the issue is resolved in the courts.’ He looked away for a moment. ‘Perhaps your father will allow me to buy the land from him.’

  Genevieve wanted to argue—but what good would it do? She closed her eyes, wishing that somehow she could undo the day’s events.

  ‘I still care for you,’ she whispered. ‘In spite of it all.’

  Her words were a knife in his heart, for he wanted her too. But he could not have her. He was married to Fiona, and the stolen moments he’d had with Genevieve had been nothing but a sin.

  He couldn’t say anything. To answer her would only cause them more pain. ‘It has been a long day for both of us,’ he said. ‘You should sleep.’

  ‘Where?’ Genevieve asked brokenly. Her gaze travelled to the bed, where only that morning they had lain in each other’s arms, skin upon skin.

  ‘It does not matter. I will sleep below stairs with the men.’

  ‘But—’ She reached out to touch him.

  He stepped away. ‘Don’t you see, Genevieve? You are no longer my wife. It is over between us.’

  Without another glance, he closed the door behind him, leaving her. He waited a few moments, and then heard the sound of her tears. His own eyes burned, but there was nothing to be done for it.

  Bevan leaned with his back against the door, his head bowed. Though he shed no tears, his grief was no less than hers. The only way to atone for his sin was to bring his wife home again and try to make her happy.

  And he would not see Genevieve again.

  Bevan rose at dawn, packing only the barest of necessities to take with him. He broke his fast in the quiet of the morning, and stopped only to wake Ewan by nudging the sleeping boy on his pallet.

  Ewan stretched, uncurling his long limbs. ‘What is it?’he mumbled, yawning.

  ‘I am leaving for England. I want you to send for Connor, and the two of you will look after Rionallís and Genevieve while I go.’

  ‘You’re going to find her, aren’t you?’ The look of distaste on Ewan’s face revealed his feelings on the matter. ‘I don’t see why you won’t keep Genevieve. I like her. She prepares better food.’ Ewan scowled, rubbing his eyes.

  Bevan shook his head in exasperation. Always thinking of his stomach, was Ewan. ‘If Fiona is alive, I have to find her. She belongs here.’

  ‘She didn’t want to stay here,’ Ewan pointed out.

  Bevan knew it, but he would have to convince her otherwise. Guilt plagued him for dishonouring his first wife. He had allowed himself to share the intimacies of marriage with another woman. Fate had granted him his wish—to have his wife alive again. He had no choice but to bring her back.

  Ewan was right, however. Bevan did not know how he would convince Fiona to return if she had left willingly.

  ‘If I do not return within a fortnight, send Patrick to the Welsh border. He’ll know what to do if I am taken captive.’

  ‘You’re going alone?’ Ewan stared at him as though he’d grown a second head. ‘You can’t go alone!’

  ‘I can hardly take an army with me,’ Bevan said. ‘The Baron will not exactly give up Fiona without a fight. And I see no reason to start a war if I can convince her to come back of her own free will. I intend to disguise myself as one of the peasants. I’ll have more freedom to observe the castle.’

  ‘It’s dangerous. What if she betrays you?’ Ewan asked.

  Bevan donned his mantle and cloak. ‘I can only hope she will not.’

  But Ewan’s remark left him shaken. Had Fiona betrayed them to the Normans during that first battle? They had managed to drive the enemy back, but at great cost.

  Bevan knew it was a risk, but it was one he had to take. More than anything else, he had to know if she was still alive. For the past two years, he had dreamed of holding her in his arms again, of loving her.

  He didn’t know if he still loved her any more. Both of them had been unfaithful, though his infidelity had been unintentional. What would he say to her when he saw her again? A heaviness settled over his heart. He was supposed to be overjoyed. Instead, he felt sadness that his marriage with Genevieve had ended.

  It had never been a real marriage, he knew. But it had felt like one. He had loved watching her wake up in the mornings, stretching and trying to steal the coverlet from him. He would never have that again.

  Bevan cast a look up the staircase, to where Genevieve slept above. Better to leave without saying farewell. He would face the uncertain future without the memory of looking upon her one last time.

  The wintry air was crisp, laced with the pungent aroma of peat smoke. His destrier was saddled and loaded with the supplies he’d requested.

  ‘Where will you stay before the crossing?’ Ewan asked.

  ‘With the Ó Flayertys,’he replied. His brother Trahern had fostered with the family, and his mother’s cousins lived in Leinster.

  Somerton’s lands were just beyond the Welsh border, and it would be safer to make the northern journey on their own shores before crossing the waters to England.

  ‘What do you want me to tell Genevieve?’ Ewan glanced above. ‘She’ll be angry with you.’

  ‘Tell her what you like. But keep her here, whatever you do. Send for her parents to take her home again.’

  ‘This is her home,’ Ewan argued.

  Bevan did not reply, but mounted his horse. Not a single flake of snow came down from the clear blue skies. The frozen ground crunched beneath his horse’s hooves, iced over after a freezing rain the night before.

  ‘God go with you,’ Ewan called out.

  ‘And with you.’ Bevan urged his destrier through the gates, heading north towards Dun Laoghaire, where he would make the crossing to Holyhead. As Rionallís grew more distant behind him he tried not to think of Genevieve.

  ‘He’s going to murder me,’ Ewan remarked as the Ó Flayerty lands came into view. ‘I promised him I would keep you at Rionallís.’

  ‘You promised to protect me,’ Genevieve said. ‘And you couldn’t very well do that if I was travelling alone.’

  When Genevieve had awakened to find Bevan gone, she had refused to let him leave her behind. Until she saw Fiona for herself, she would try to hold onto their marriage. Fiona might not be alive now, even if she had been last summer. And Genevieve had to cling to her hopes, for she had nothing else.

  During the past several nights they had travelled north, with Ewan protesting at every mile of the journey. But he had kept her safe, and now she would face Bevan’s ire for disobeying him.

  Ewan greeted the men guarding the entrance to the Ó Flayerty fortress. The guards allowed them to pass, and Ewan helped Genevieve dismount. ‘I’ll care for the horses while you find him.’

  ‘Coward,’ Genevieve chided. But her own stomach churned. She did not know what Bevan would say when he saw her.

  ‘Tá. But I shall stay clear of his fists.’

  ‘He’d not beat you.’

  ‘He might. For endangering you, I think he wouldn’t hesitate.’ Ewan glanced at the entrance to the house and gathered the reins. ‘I’ll leave you to him.’

  Genevieve squared her shoulders. She had gone over all her arguments until she knew she could present her side with cool logic.

  A rosy-cheeked woman, heavy with child, greeted her with a smile.

  ‘I’ve come to see Bevan,’ Genevieve said, removing her cloak.

  ‘He is dining with my husband. I am Aoife Ó Flayerty,’ the woman said. ‘May I tell him your name?’

  ‘Tell him his wife Genevieve has come.’

  Aoife looked surprised, but hid it with another smile. ‘You may dine with us. I’ll tell Ewan to join you when he’s finished with the horses.’

  Genevieve followed Aoife to a crowded room where a harpist played a lilting tune. Platters of food were spread out, and torches glowed merrily from sconces set into the walls.

  When Bevan saw her, Genevieve thought that Ewan might be right. He did have murder in his eyes.

  Still, she faced him. She had come this far, and if nothing else he had to listen to her. Bevan spoke not a word, but took her shoulder in an iron grip. With a smile to his hosts, he half dragged her to an alcove in the corner of the room.

  ‘You should not be here, Genevieve.’

  ‘Neither should you,’ she shot back, startling herself with the unexpected anger that rose up. ‘Aye, Fiona left you. Her body does not lie next to your daughter’s. But that is all you know. She may not be there with Somerton. All of this could be for naught.’

  ‘I have to know,’ he told her. ‘And I will do it alone.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Until I see her for myself, you are still my husband.’

  Gone was the timid woman he’d known, and in her place stood an indignant wife. Bevan halted the smile before it caught the corner of his mouth. ‘Am I?’

  ‘Aye, you are.’ She took his hand in hers, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘And I’ll not give up my last few days with you.’

  Her hand touched his cheek, and lust speared through him. Lug, but he wished he did not have to make this journey. He wished he could forget Siorcha’s testimony. Were it not true, he would take his wife above stairs and love her until morning dawned.

  Yet, because of the revelation, he had no choice. He had broken his wedding vows, and he had no right to touch Genevieve or be with her.

  But Fiona had broken their vows first.

  Bevan tried to shake the argument away. He could not forsake his honour, regardless of what his wife had done. He would remain true to Fiona, despite his desire for Genevieve.

  Later that evening, when they were alone, a single bed awaited them. He would take the floor and allow Genevieve to sleep on the bed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, as he prepared his cloak upon the floor.

  ‘I intend to sleep.’ He removed his boots and tried to arrange the cloak into a pallet for sleeping.

  Genevieve came over and sat down beside him on the floor. ‘Do not be foolish. You can share the bed with me. I promise I’ll not ravish you.’

  He sent her a wary look. ‘You might.’

  She laughed then, the tension broken. ‘Bevan, for one night let us forget about the morrow. Sleep beside me. There is no sin in that.’

  No, but the thought of lying beside her without being able to touch her was a torment. He ached to hold her in his arms, to taste the sweetness of her skin once more. Just one last time.

  He closed his eyes, fighting the temptation. Either way, he would not sleep this night.

  She made the decision for him, flipping back the coverlet and sliding to the far side. She closed her eyes, turning her back to him. He suppressed a groan at the sight of her bare skin. He slipped in beside her, still wearing his trews, the straw mattress crackling under his weight.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she whispered.

  ‘And to you,’he whispered back. Her body lay only inches from him, and when she moved her skin brushed against him. Immediately he grew aroused, so he turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

  He mentally counted, willing himself not to give in to his desire. Her lavender scent surrounded them, and he closed his eyes, trying to block it out.

  Hours passed, and he could not stop thinking of his journey. Would Fiona want to see him again? Would she divulge his identity to the Baron? His stomach gnawed with a tension that ate at him. He admitted to himself that he didn’t want to go. He wished he had never learned the truth.

  He looked over to Genevieve. Her shoulders rose and fell in sleep, her dark hair spilling across the pillow.

  He believed in the sanctity of marriage, believed in his vows. And it was for those vows that he would sacrifice his own happiness and return to Fiona. He had loved her once; he would learn to love her again.

  His chest grew rigid at the thought of leaving Genevieve. He could not take her with him, couldn’t bear to watch her sadness if he had to bring Fiona home. He knew of an abbey near Dun Laoghaire. They would say farewell there, and he would have her parents come for her.

  In the darkness, she rolled over and planted her icy cold feet upon his thigh.

  ‘ Belenus,’ he breathed at the contact. At first he nearly pushed her away. Then he realised that this was their last night together. He would not ever be able to touch her again.

  Reaching down, he cupped her cold feet in his hands, rubbing the skin to warm them. First one, then the other. She did not stir, but as her feet warmed he pulled her close.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  Ewan bent low upon the saddle. The sun had nearly reached its zenith in the wintry sky, and his stomach rumbled. Bevan had departed at mid-morn, ordering Ewan to return home alone.

  He spurred his horse onward, enjoying the speed even as he resented his brother’s orders. When would his brother ever have faith in him? Ewan spent hours every day trying to become a strong fighter. He was improving, he knew. But it was never enough for Bevan.

  Behind him, he heard the noise of horses approaching. Ewan scanned the horizon, but not a tree stood in sight to provide cover. Out in the open, he was a target.

  He willed himself to stay calm and collected. Glancing behind him, he saw a small group of cavalry—Normans by the look of them. He recognised the armour, and when they drew nearer, it became more difficult to keep his emotions in check.

  They were Sir Hugh’s men. Marstowe himself rode a chestnut destrier, trimmed in elaborate armour. Ewan hoped they would ride past, but soon it became apparent that they intended to surround him.

  Ewan inhaled a deep breath. He mentally recited a Latin prayer, letting the words distract him from the desire to flee. The soldiers cut in front of him and forced him to stop. Ewan lowered his head.

  ‘The youngest MacEgan, aren’t you?’ Marstowe asked. He drew his horse alongside Ewan’s. ‘And they have sent you home.’

  Ewan did not answer, but pretended Marstowe wasn’t there. He tried to remember how to count in Latin, but the sword that slid to his throat made it impossible.

  ‘Where are they going?’

 

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