She held out the bag of silver, her eyes cool. “Here. For the land you want so badly.”
The weight of the coins was so heavy, it was nearly triple what he’d receive from the sale of his cattle. He shoved the coins back. “I don’t want them. I want to know what possessed you to fight where anyone could see you.”
Her eyes flashed, and before he realized it, she’d drawn her blade upon him. She pressed a sword against his throat and snarled, “Because I won’t hide any more. This is who I am. It’s who I’ve always been. And I am tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.”
Her flushed cheeks and the rigid anger made her face deeply alluring. In spite of the sword pressed against his skin, he wanted to drag her against him and kiss her. He wanted to mark her for his own, to make her understand that she was his.
“And who are you, Honora?”
“I am a warrior.”
HonoraleftEwanstandingthere, the bag of coins at his feet. A sense of liberation filled her up inside. She should have done this long ago.
Ewan didn’t like it, not at all. She’d seen the way he’d watched her fight, his hand resting on his own sword hilt as though he were ready to rescue her. He lacked faith that she would win.
Her spirits fell, and she knew that Ewan, unlike his tribesmen, was not pleased by what she’d done. She removed herself from the festivities, walking back toward Laochre.
He would not want to stay with her now; she was certain of it. And while the thought should have been reassuring, it cast a darkness over her heart.
She walked up the winding stone staircase to the solar, where she found Genevieve MacEgan seated next to a tow-headed young boy who was pushing a tiny wooden cart across the floor. She was spinning, the thread easing through her fingers with practiced ease.
“I brought your sword back,” Honora said, setting the weapon beside Genevieve. "Thank you for loaning it to me."
The dark haired woman smiled. Of Norman heritage, like herself, she had offered Honora the weapon after speaking to her husband Bevan.
“My father told me of your skills,” Genevieve admitted. “He was quite proud of you.”
Honora let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “The Earl of Longford was a kind man. I suppose I wasn’t meant to enjoy my exile.” A chagrined smile met her lips. “I didn’t realize he knew about my secret.”
“He never minded. And he would be glad to see you marry Ewan if that is your desire.”
Honora avoided answering the unspoken question. She sat down beside the young child and pushed the cart across the floor. The boy beamed and raced off to chase it.
“That is Connor’s son Finn,” Genevieve said. “He is being fostered with Bevan and myself, along with his twin brother Dylan.” She put her spinning aside, resting her hands upon her swelling stomach. “I hope this new baby is another son. I love boys.”
“I wish you well with the birth.” Honora ventured a smile, though the idea of bearing her own child sent a panic through her.
Genevieve’s serenity calmed her. “It will go well enough. I have faith.”
Finn sent his wooden cart racing across the floor until it bumped against Honora’s knee. He pursued it and plopped down in her lap as he picked up the cart. The familiarity of the child startled her, and she couldn’t resist offering him a hug.
“Do you want children of your own?” Genevieve asked.
Honora shook her head. She couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying. “I would not be a good mother. I was never taught how to care for a child.”
A laugh escaped Genevieve. “No amount of training is ever enough to be a mother. But your instincts guide you. That, and your babe won’t stop crying until you discover what it is they want.” Turning the subject to another she added, “I understand you fought well today.”
“I defeated the Ó Phelan tribesman,” Honora admitted. “But Ewan was not pleased with me.”
“He probably wishes he had been given the opportunity first.” Genevieve smiled. “If I know Ewan, he’s likely jealous.”
“It’s more than that,” Honora confessed. “He’d be happy if I never touched a weapon again. He’d prefer it if I stayed home and tended the hearth.”
Genevieve tilted her head to the side. “Don’t be too sure of that. You aren’t the first woman he's trained.”
Honora’s gaze narrowed upon Genevieve. Then when she studied the sword she’d borrowed more closely, she noticed that it was thinner. The weight was lighter, easier to wield.
“I used to practice swordplay with Ewan when I first came to Laochre,” Genevieve admitted. “My father wasn’t pleased at first, but after I married Bevan, he relented. Then, of course, he told my mother that it was entirely his idea.” She continued spinning, her fingers moving across the wool. “I haven’t used a sword in many years, though. And I was never as skilled as you, from what Ewan tells me.”
