His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3)
Read His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) Online
Authors: Shayla Black,Shelley Bradley
Tags: #Shayla Black, #Shelley Bradley, #erotic romance, #Historical
His Rebel Bride
Shayla Black
writing as Shelley Bradley
His Rebel Bride
Published by Shelley Bradley LLC
Copyright © 2000 Shelley Bradley LLC
eBook ISBN 978-1-936596-27-0
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by an electronic or mechanical means—except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews—without express written permission.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Lady and the Dragon by Shayla Black—Coming Soon!
An excerpt from His To Take by Shayla Black
An excerpt from Cherished by Lexi Blake
Yorkshire, England
November 1484
Kieran Broderick exhaled in the cool, moonlit morn, blood singing as he awaited the battle cry that would come within the hour. Eagerly, his gaze swept across the rugged beauty of the Yorkshire hills surrounding Hartwich Hall.
Aye, he should have tried to sleep, and his body should be craving rest. Instead, he focused on the hum of excitement that always preceded battle. ’Twas then that men lived and died by their wits, their swords. Only one sensation exceeded the pleasure of such anticipation, and he had no wench with whom to share it now. And after last night, he might not need another for at least…twelve hours.
Grinning, he dismounted his horse and strode inside the Hall. ’Twas the home of his mentor, Guilford, earl of Rothgate—and the only real home Kieran had ever known.
As a boy, he had shared Hartwich with Guilford—a shrewd lord and something of a father, as Kieran shunned to remember his own. He had been raised with two other fine warriors, the brothers of his heart, since age eight. He still had the scar on his palm to remind him of the day they had sealed their bond with blood as boys, securing his loyalty to Aric Neville and Drake MacDougall.
At the bottom of the stairs, he heard their familiar voices coming from a chamber near the top and smiled.
“The Campbells are below and ready for battle,” said his Scottish friend, Drake MacDougall.
Aric sighed. “Will the Campbells never cease these petty squabbles with the MacDougalls? They should have understood long ago that your mother’s marriage to your father was not an act of aggression.”
“Aye, ’twas naught but a mistake.” Drake sighed. “Let us fight them once more.”
“I’ll be below shortly,” murmured Aric.
Kieran frowned. Aric’s deep voice lacked its usual vigor. Was he ill? Troubled?
As he vaulted up the stairs, wearing a frown, he heard Drake ask, “Did you receive word, then?”
For long moments, Aric did not answer. On both sides of the wall separating them, silence stretched tight.
“Aye, as I feared, they are dead,” Aric muttered, voice grave. “Suffocated September last in the Tower.”
Kieran stood in the doorway.
Dead?
Though he had missed most of the conversation, he feared Aric spoke of England’s young princes, Edward and Richard. The children’s safety had weighed much upon Aric’s mind of late. Had the boys been sacrificed to their uncle’s ambition?
A
clink
of well-oiled armor sounded from within the chamber. A moment later, Drake uttered, “’Tis a grievous day, indeed. I am sorry for England’s loss.”
Silence held for thirty seconds more. Kieran let Aric and Drake have it together. They were ever men of reflection and deep thought—Aric especially. Kieran admired that but could not follow suit. He was a man of action.
“Kieran arrived last night after we were abed,” Drake said suddenly.
“How is our Irish friend? As reckless as ever?” Aric tossed out, seeming eager for a new subject.
“At least,” Kieran quipped, leaning through the doorway.
Drake and Aric whirled toward the sound of his voice. Though a golden mane framed Aric’s square face and contrasted mightily with Drake’s dark intensity, both men wore identical expressions—welcoming and reproving at once. Kieran restrained the urge to roll his eyes at their parental scowls.
Sauntering into the room with a jaunty grin, he teased, “Zounds, the pair of you look as happy as mutts that lost their meals. Good to see you, too.”
“Aye, ’tis good,” Drake replied, voice pointed. “We simply would prefer to keep seeing you in one piece.”
Kieran opened his mouth to defend his actions, but through the open shutters of the window, he could see the battle beginning to form on the field below, calling to him. The horses pawed the mist-clung earth restlessly, their breaths white against the blue-black of the predawn sky. Troops lined up, over one hundred men unsheathed weapons.
The restless hunger called to him again, singing a siren’s song of expectancy.
The trio of knights dashed down the stairs and left the castle to join the impending fray. Aric, known throughout England as the White Lion, looked oddly weary and reluctant for a legendary warrior. Drake, as always, would serve Guilford skillfully, with an abiding sense of duty and affection for his grandfather. And Kieran…well, he always followed the thirst for adventure until it was quenched—at least for the moment.
Kieran had his squire, Colm, assist him into his armor. Then he climbed onto his gelding and looked out upon their warring Scottish opponents. With a restless gaze, he sought out those among the Clan Campbell who looked big, fast, and skilled. Eagerness to test their mettle against his own chafed him. He tapped his fingers impatiently against his thigh.
It seemed an eternity before the battle began with a shout in the dark morn. The clash of swords declared the fighting under way.
With a nudge to his horse’s flanks, Kieran urged Lancelot into the melee, his sword at the ready.
Opponents came at him one after the other, sometimes in pairs. He felt a surge of achievement as he sliced into one man. Surprise crossed the Scot’s face—just before death did. Kieran let loose a battle cry as he ducked to avoid a Campbell blade on his left, only to see it enter one of the Scottish men on his right.
Feint. Thrust. Parry. Kill.
Lunge. Slice. Plunge. Defeat.
The battle was like a rhythm in his head, one he could understand and dance to. One to which he was addicted.
The motions were automatic and rewarding, as were the results—his challengers lost.
The metallic scent of blood tinged the air, along with the smells of damp earth and dewed grass. The
thud
of metal upon bone mixed with the cries of defeat as the battle whirled all around the revelry at its zenith. Still, the sun hid slyly behind the winter-bare hills, as if to add an intriguing dimension to this game of life and death.
True, Kieran could not exactly recall what squabbles the Campbells now had with Guilford. Years past, the Scots had become the earl’s foes when his daughter, Drake’s mother, had wed Drake’s father, an enemy MacDougall. Apparently, the union, though long over, still angered and threatened the Campbells.
He shrugged. Their reasons hardly mattered. Here was a battle to be fought. And he would not back away.
With a
whoosh
of his broadsword and a
whoop
of excitement, Kieran rode to Drake’s side.
His Scottish friend smiled back wryly. “How fare you?”
“The battle is near finished and no one has killed me yet. That makes for a good morn thus far. And you?”
Drake’s expression turned grim. “Ready to end this farce with the bloody Campbells.”
At the sight of a charging foe, Drake tossed down his
claidmor
, then retrieved the longbow from his back. He fired an arrow, felling the man. Beside him, Kieran repeated the process when another man approached behind the first.
Kieran laughed. “Lord, ’tis an excitement, besting your enemies, pitting your skills against mighty warriors.”
“Killing is never fun,” Drake said harshly.
Did neither Aric nor Drake feel the excitement of testing their skills anymore? What had happened to the warriors he had always known? Kieran frowned.
“Battle is the stuff of men and life,” Kieran protested.
“Aye, but not of amusement.” Drake grunted. “Do you find nothing else pleasurable these days?”
With a rogue grin, Kieran replied, “How well you have forgotten me since I last saw you!”
“’Tis right you are,” his Scottish friend said dryly. “You
always
enjoy a good wench.”
“At least one,” he shot back.
Shaking his head, Drake retrieved his sword and whirled away to discover another attacking Campbell. Kieran leaped in front of him and severed the warrior’s head from his body. Then he let loose a battle cry and rode for another opponent.
Kieran whirled to the hiss of flames and discovered that someone had set fire to the cottages of Guilford’s crofters. He angled his mount away from the heat—and the distant memory of flames on the wood stones of Balcorthy Castle, burning across Irish soil. Men howled, and Kieran recalled the sounds from many years past…
Shaking his head, Kieran cleared it. He never thought about the past, about his childhood. Such reminiscing served no purpose. He could not change what had happened.
Shrugging, Kieran turned to dispatch a new opponent. A moment later, fresh blood adorned his sword as he whirled to find another foe, to lose himself in the familiar dance of battle.
Within minutes, the Campbells were outnumbered and retreating.
Kieran hollered in triumph. Another day’s work well done. More liquid excitement ran through his veins, slowly being replaced by a languid satisfaction.
Behind him, Aric tiredly dismounted, looking about. Kieran followed the Englishman’s gaze. At the top of the next rise, he spotted Drake nearly surrounded by his fellow MacDougalls as he knelt with bloody hands next to a fallen man. Frowning, Kieran peered out at the bloodied warrior lying upon the earth.
Was that Lochlan, Drake’s father?
“Traitor! Murderer!” he heard one of the Scotsmen yell at Drake as he stood protectively over Lochlan’s body.
What? Do they believe Drake killed his own father?
Stunned by the exchange of accusations and protestations of innocence, Kieran charged toward the group. Aric followed beside him.
He rushed to his friend’s side, his quick gaze assessing the scene and the blame upon the faces of Drake’s kin.
“Drake is innocent,” Aric vowed. “His love for his sire is well known by you all.”
His words affected none of the Clan MacDougall. Hunger for blood was running high among the men now that the cowardly Campbells had thwarted everyone’s feast by retreating. Fury pelted Kieran as a pair of men grabbed Drake and shoved him roughly to his feet.
“Pea-witted fools, Drake would never kill Lochlan! This you know,” Kieran added with fervor.
The Scotsmen still paid no heed.
Suddenly, the crowd parted to admit the old earl, Guilford. His white hair was a shock against the dark sky. “I demand you release him. Drake murdered no one, least of all his own father.”
Still, a Scotsman Kieran vaguely remembered as Duff refused. “The Clan MacDougall maun judge him now.”