His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (12 page)

How could she believe herself right to pine for Quaid O’Toole when the man was not her husband?

Mayhap she needed a reminder of what she missed in asking to keep their marriage unconsummated.

Kieran focused his intent gaze upon her face and walked slowly to her.

He came close. She backed up a step. Aye, he made her nervous, and with good reason, he supposed. For he was none too happy now. It must show.

Did it also show that, despite her disloyalty to him in thought, he wanted her still?

“The only person you will ever cavort with from now on, my sweet Maeve, is me.”

“I am not like a”—she threw up her hands, flustered—“a horse. You cannot command my every movement, and you cannot own me in such a way.”

“The law says otherwise,” he tossed back.

“As I’ve always said, your English laws are foolish!”

“By marriage, they are your laws now. So you will tell Quaid you are well wed now and to cease his correspondence. And you, Wife, will cavort with only me.”

Kieran took hold of her arm and used it to bring her against him.

Maeve’s head snapped back, eyes widening. She gasped and a shiver raced through her.

His body throbbing with lust, Kieran bent to her and took her lips with his own in a rush of breaths.

Possessing, sliding, seeking, his lips glided over her moist mouth. A soft press here, a nibble there. He curved his arms around her middle, hands on the small of her back, pressing her ever closer.

His next kiss was deeper, hungrier. He felt like a man starved who intended to make her his banquet. Suddenly, he floated in hazy pleasure, aware somehow he had wanted this, wanted her this way, all along.

Clasping his fingers upon her face, he touched her, swept his caress down her throat…and lower. She responded to the demand of his kiss, staying with his insistent rhythm. Yet he kept the pressure light enough that she might yearn for more.

With a mewling sound in the back of her throat, Maeve leaned into him. The sound vibrated through his aroused body. She seemed to seek that bit he withheld, more of the pleasure that intoxicated his senses, too. He groaned at the thought of giving such to her.

The tips of her breasts stiffened against his chest, through her soft garments. And he could think of naught but touching her until she cried out with a want that equaled his.

Determined to have just that, his teasing finger swirled around the edge of her nipple once, twice. She stiffened and leaned into his touch, her every sense seemingly attuned to him.

Then he encompassed her in broad palms, taking both breasts into his hands, rippling his thumbs back and forth across their tips. She panted beneath him, her mouth pressed to his as if asking for succor.

“Aye, sweet Maeve,” he whispered as he trailed kisses from the corner of her mouth to the sensitive spot behind her ear. “Show me your fire.”

Maeve hesitated, then arched her neck. He kissed his way to her throat, until his lips and teeth tantalized fragrant skin, toyed with her ear, shooting another shiver down her back.

Aye, now her body wanted him, even if her mind did not.

Suddenly, she stiffened, then broke away from his embrace. Backing away, chest heaving, she gulped in large breaths of air. Her wide golden eyes seemed to accuse him of something heinous.

“Leave me,” she demanded.

Kieran frowned. “We will share a bed, Maeve.”

She shook her head. “Your seduction is well practiced, my lord. You can make any woman want your touch, so find another, one willing. I vow I will resist, for my mind is stronger. It will not let me forget you are the enemy.”

“I am your husband,” he countered.

At that truth, Maeve closed her eyes. “You have done your duty to King Henry in taking a bride. Please leave me be.”

Though Kieran had not done his full duty to the king, since his bride did not breed yet, he saw no reason to anger Maeve by telling her thus. She would only resist him more if she knew the king thought her much like a brood mare. Instead, he dropped his hands from her and stepped away.

“This marriage is sudden for you. And I have agreed to give you a fortnight to reconcile yourself to our union. In exchange for this, you agreed to spend an hour alone with me each night. Keep up your part of the bargain, Maeve, and I will do the same. But never think I will leave you to your lover.”

Kieran knew he was angrier than he should be. Somehow that only made him angrier still, for Maeve had that effect on him, blast her. When he was with her, emotions seemed more common, more vivid.

He hated it.

Perhaps, ’twould be best if he let her be—at least until tomorrow night.

* * * *

The following morn, Maeve was still shaking from that kiss. Body and mind warred until she felt exhausted.

She cried at the injustice of feeling such desire for Kildare and not her own betrothed. Why? Why could Quaid rouse naught in her but a loyalty to the Irish cause and an abiding friendship? Always she had known they were destined to wed. Always she had refused the advances of others because of it. Quaid cared for her. His was a kind soul. And he loved her.

How, then, could she kiss and crave a man who would cheer at Quaid’s hanging and do his best to coax her into his bed for little more than the sport of it?

The sounds of horses, many of them, riding toward Langmore interrupted her thoughts. Curious, she left the comfort of her bed, despite the morning chill, to open her shutters and peek out the narrow window.

English soldiers, about two dozen of them. Damnation, what could they want here?

Her heart began to race. Had they come to arrest Flynn?

Maeve knew she must hide Quaid’s last missive to her—and hide it well. Mayhap such would protect her brother. As she turned away, she collided with Fiona, who peered out the window in wide-eyed horror, countenance chalky white.

No O’Shea liked the English, true. But Fiona seemed a bit more afraid than the others. Then again, her quiet nature had never provided for outright bravery.

“Come,” she said to her sister. “We will dress and sit in the solar.”

“Nay,” resisted Fiona.

“We must appear as if we have naught to hide,” Maeve insisted. “We must appear as if we have not a care.”

Fiona looked at her, stricken. Finally, she nodded, then turned away.

Maeve sighed with relief, but her sister’s reaction worried her. Aye, Fiona had always been the quiet one. But she did not like this fear.

Pondering the matter as she dressed, Maeve could think of naught that made sense.

Shrugging, she waited for Fiona to finish dressing, then took her by the hand and led her to the solar. Thankfully, Jana was already there. Their gazes met, and Maeve realized her elder sister had decided a group of sewing ladies would rouse less suspicion than those going over household accounts—and a rebel missive or two.

“Where is Brighid?” she whispered.

“Breaking her fast, I think.”

“Alone in the great hall with a lot of soldiers?” gasped Fiona.

Maeve frowned, seeing the problem in that. “Let us find her, shall we?”

Fiona hesitated. She looked back at a largely pregnant Jana, then to Maeve again. They both nodded. Finally, reluctantly, she followed.

* * * *

Inside the great hall, Kieran greeted the lieutenant from the English army in Dublin.

A few days past, he had realized the army at Langmore would need reinforcements to hold the castle in case of rebel attack and had requested more men, particularly until the curtain walls could be raised for their defense. Today, they had arrived, and he could breathe more easily now.

Maeve was another tale altogether.

As if the thought of her conjured up his wife, Maeve stepped into the great hall, Fiona by her side.

His wife looked about the room, past all the soldiers, sparing barely a glance for him. Finally, she found her youngest sister in the corner, giggling with Colm and drinking a mug of ale.

With purpose in her stride, Maeve made her way to Brighid.

Kieran wondered if she was aware of all the male eyes of appreciation following her.

The soldiers also gazed at Fiona with rapt eyes. But where Maeve had ignored such stares, Fiona stood rooted in place, her face ashen. She seemed to tremble, gaze fixed on a pair of men who eyed her with more interest than most.

True, she did not seem one who wanted much attention, but she looked more than merely overwhelmed. He frowned. Did she think the soldiers would harm her here? Now?

When Fiona swayed where she stood and began to crumple to the ground, Kieran raced to catch her. He narrowly saved her head from hitting the hard floor.

Maeve dashed to his side, Brighid’s hand in hers. “What happened?”

“I know not. Take Brighid away. I will bring Fiona up.”

With a worried glance at Fiona, then Brighid, Maeve nodded and disappeared up the stairs.

Behind him, Kieran heard several men laugh.

“Sent her right into a swoon, Freddy,” joked one lanky man missing two front teeth.

“That we did,” answered Freddy, a dark-haired swain with a barrel chest.

Irritation swept through him. The girl had fainted. ’Twas no matter to laugh at.

He turned to reprimand them. “Shut your mouths, both of you.”

Their laughter ceased immediately.

“Aye, my lord,” Freddy said.

To all the soldiers, he said, “Sit. The maids will bring you ale and a small repast. When I return, I will give you further assignments.”

As all the men ambled to the benches to do Kieran’s bidding, he left the great hall to take Fiona to her chamber.

Once there, he laid the girl down upon her bed. Still she moved not. She looked like a fragile bird, one whose wings had been broken. One who would rather see death than face life.

Concerned, Kieran snapped his fingers next to Fiona’s ear.

A moment later, she began to open her eyes and moan.

Upon seeing him, she bolted upright and gazed around the room, blue eyes glassy and wide.

To know she was not ill should have been enough to convince him to leave Fiona to recover on her own. But the panic on her face gave him pause.

“What is it?” he asked, voice low. When she did not reply, he pressed on. “What is it you fear?”

Realizing they were alone, Fiona fixed her gaze solely on him. The terror in her eyes shook him, startled him.

“Release me, please.”

Her voice shook so violently Kieran could scarce understand her.

He did as she asked but could not keep his alarmed gaze from her wounded expression.

“What is it you fear?”

“’Tis naught.” She tried to smile. “Too many people in a room overwhelm me.”

She lied. He knew that by the way she glanced at her shaking hands, the way her voice held forced cheer. He more than suspected it had to do with the Englishmen.

“Why do you fear the soldiers?”

At his question, her eyes widened with horror. “I-I do not. I—”

“You do,” he countered softly. “I saw you. I watched your response to the one called Freddy and his friend.”

At that, Fiona’s eyes became huge pools of terror.

Kieran watched her, wondering what in Hades’ name he should do. A part of him wanted not to become involved in Fiona’s struggle, whatever it was. But somehow, he could not leave the terrified girl.

By Saint Peter’s toes, Aric was wise, knew when to be gentle, how to soothe when necessary. Even Drake, who had an uncanny ability to ferret out people’s thoughts and motives, would know what to do with Fiona.

He, however, had no damned idea.

Slowly, he reached for her hands and took them in his. Her palms were icy, clammy. She flinched at his touch.

Then she tried to jerk from his grasp, began shaking her head violently from side to side.

“Nay!” she screamed. “Do not touch me.”

Kieran held fast. “Freddy and his friend, did they hurt you?”

She only struggled more. “Do not ask me. Please!”

The answer was clear in what she tried not to say. His ire soared. Aye, he might have seduced more than a few women in his life. But he had never wanted to incite fear, never hit one, never taken one by force.

Suddenly he feared something like that had happened to young Fiona.

“They hurt you,” he stated, willing her to tell him all.

She said naught. Tears began to fall, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Color returned to her face as despair and something that tore at Kieran’s gut took over. Her whole body trembled with these silent tears. Kieran’s anger multiplied.

“They hit you?” he asked.

Fiona squeezed her eyes shut. More tears fell—one, two.

Then she nodded.

Kieran kept his curse to himself. “Did they rape you?”

This time, Fiona tensed and paused for a long minute. She seemed not to breathe. Her chin trembled with an effort to hold in more tears, to hold in her words.

“Tell me. You can trust me,” he assured. “I will never hurt you.”

“I can trust no one,” she cried. “If-if my family knew…Flynn would seek rev-revenge. They would kill him—mayhap all of us—for it.”

Gripping Fiona’s hands, Kieran willed the girl to calm, to understand he was not her enemy. He willed the girl to tell him the truth.

“Did Freddy and his friend rape you?”

A long moment passed. Fiona’s eyes slid shut. She bit her lip as if to keep the words within.

“I will tell no one,” he vowed. “I but ask you to tell me the truth, lass. Did they?”

A terrible moment passed and the tears came again, now in a stream.

Finally, silently, she nodded.

“Both of them?”

More tears fell, wetting her ravaged face. Tight white fists came up to block her desolate face.

She nodded once more.

Kieran felt anger explode within him. Fiona was a fragile creature, at six and ten barely a woman. They had stripped the innocence from her and replaced it with fear. They had left her with a terrible secret to bear, lest her brother die defending her honor.

And the awful deed would not go unpunished.