His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (17 page)

A flush colored her features, and Kieran felt his energy rise again, as did his interest. Maeve was a lovely creature, full of intelligence and quiet spirit. Last night, when he told her she amazed him, he’d meant those words. Her deeds somehow only made him want to possess her more. Why, though, he could not say. Usually he cared more for a woman’s pretty white bosom than her mind.

Yet as with everything else, Maeve was different.

“But—”

“I do this to ease your path between us. Accept that and read yon book to me,” he said, settling into a nearby chair.

Maeve took the small book from beneath her arm and gripped it. “Th-this one? I-I do not think you would like it.”

Her reticence intrigued him, and he pressed on. “Why? I enjoy words as well as the next man.”

“’Tis poetry.”

“And you assume I do not like poetry?” He frowned.

“You are a man of battle, not one of study.”

“I can read, Maeve.”

She flushed guiltily. “I meant that I cannot see you enjoying these verses.”

At that, he smiled with mischief. “Mayhap you can convert me, sweet Maeve.”

Looking skeptical indeed, Maeve stepped into the chamber and sat upon the stool beside the hearth, roaring with warmth. Donning her spectacles, she opened the book and looked at him with uncertainty.

Again, he merely smiled. “Please, read.”

Her shoulders conveying tension, she began.

“After the day, before the night,

Or before day, after the night has gone,

For modest girls a reassuring shade,

Just the right sort of light, with curtains drawn,

Wherein to lay inviting ambuscade.”

Kieran leaned back in his chair and pulled the next words from his memory.

“And there Corinna entered, with her gown

Loosened a little, and on either side,

Of her white neck the dark hair hanging down.

Semiramis could not have been, as bride,

Any more lovely, nor could Lais move

The hearts of men more easily to love.”

“You know this poem?” Her face betrayed her utter shock.

“I do know a thing or two besides lances and broadswords. The earl of Rothgate, my mentor, ensured the educations of all his charges were properly completed, Ovid included.”

Maeve’s cheeks flushed a beguiling pink. “So you know what comes next?”

Kieran’s grin broadened.

“Sheer though it was, I pulled the dress away;

Pro forma, she resisted, more or less.

It offered little cover, I must say,

And why put up a fight to save a dress?”

He rose from his chair and made his way to Maeve’s side. He trailed a purposely tender thumb along her nape, then brushed the back of his hand along her cheek. Tensing, she watched him, gold eyes widening as he knelt before her.

As she took a shaky breath, Kieran kept her gaze captive and he continued.

“So soon she stood naked, and I saw,

Not only saw, but felt, perfection there,

Hands moving over beauty without flaw,

The breasts, the thighs, the triangle of hair.

“No need for catalogue, to itemize

All those delights.”

As he whispered, he traced a gentle finger upon her ankle, caressing her shin, then her knee.

To his delight, she shivered and reached for his shoulders, placing her hands upon them as if she could no longer balance without him. Grin wide, he lifted her ankle to his mouth and laved a kiss upon her stockinged skin. Her fingers curled into his arms, clutching.

He leaned closer, feeling her tremble again as he whispered against her mouth.

“Nor could I truly say

That I confined my pleasure to my eyes.

Naked, I took her, naked, until we lay

Worn out, done in.

Grant me, O gods, the boon

Of many such another sultry noon!”

When he finished speaking, Kieran’s hand rested just above her knee. Maeve looked entranced and uncertain at once.

“You know every word of it.” Maeve’s whisper sounded breathless—and accusing—as if that somehow betrayed her idea of him.

“I am more than brawn and battle, Wife.”

“Nay.” She frowned at his words.

She tensed, then gasped as he brushed his hand from just above her knee to the inside of her thigh.

“Why? Does the fact I know a few verses of Ovid make hating me harder? Or wanting me easier?” he challenged.

Maeve jerked away from his touch and closed her eyes, as if that might block out the truth. “Neither!”

“Are you certain?”

Closing the book with a frustrated sigh, she pulled off her spectacles and rose, darting for the door. Kieran took hold of her arm with a firm grip and stayed her.

When she struggled against his hold, he brought her closer with a subtle tug, then pressed his mouth to the inside of her wrist.

Her heartbeat surged beneath his lips.

With a feminine growl of fury, she wrenched her arm from his grasp. “Touch me no more!”

Kieran paused, pondering her reaction. She responded to him as a woman does to a man she desires. He had no reason to believe she would not eventually succumb to their marriage bed and the pleasures it would bring. But if she resisted him for the reasons he suspected, he feared ’twould take much time to overcome her strong mind and her convictions.

“I know this marriage has meant much change in your plans, sweet Maeve. But if you forget for a moment that King Henry sent me, you might find we can talk with much to say.”

“I do not wish it.”

“Since we are wed, ’tis best if you try. This marriage will only be a failure, dismal beyond comprehension, if we do not.”

Though she stood half a head shorter than him, Maeve somehow managed to look down her nose at him. “I imagine you will think yourself well versed with the ladies. What I think you fail to understand, my lord, is my disinterest in you as anything other than the man who can keep peace here.”

“If ’tis peace you seek, why do you aid the rebellion? And do not deny your involvement.”

She arched a reddish brow at him, her expression haughty. “I merely want freedom without bloodshed. I want no war. And you’ve no need to worry, for I will do my duty to you as God intends, but I do not think you draw me into your kisses now that I know what you’re about. I do not wish to be breathless or enthralled.”

“But I will not rest until you are, sweet Maeve.”

With a regal lift of her head, she shrugged. “If you enjoy a life of disquiet, that is your choice.”

Cloaked in silence, she left, a vision of aloof female.

But Kieran knew a woman too well, sensed the excitement she fought, tried even to hide from herself.

And with half of her fortnight’s reprieve gone, he thought now might be an excellent time to show her the strength of his charm until he found her, sighing and happy, in his bed.

* * * *

The following afternoon, the sun glowed with golden intensity across the Irish hills. Maeve watched Langmore’s army. A few were still in sore need of training, and they grumbled at Kieran’s directives and stared at passing maids. She repressed a grin, glad to see her cocksure husband had made little progress with the most unruly of the group. But the rest were much improved.

He worked patiently with the soldiers each day. Some of the fat ones were beginning to slim under his rigorous training. Some of the old were building strength again. Those with no training were learning, a few eager, as if sensing they learned from a master. Indeed, he seemed to be winning the respect of most of the soldiers, for they looked upon him at times as if he were a god.

Maeve only prayed she did not look at him with that same expression.

If the man would make war, ’twas double certain he could seduce a woman. Last night, his words and a few simple touches alone near made her skin dew with moisture, her heart beat, her belly tingle with wants she never felt in Quaid’s arms.

Why him? Of all men, why?

Before she could ponder the question again, as she had during her last sleepless night, she watched Kieran round the men up and dismiss them for the day.

Surprise furrowed her brow. ’Twas barely after midday and nary a cloud hung in the sky to portend rain. So why did he cease their work?

As if he could sense her curiosity, Kieran raised his gaze to the battlements where she watched him and smiled. “Come down, sweet Maeve.”

He wanted something, and as weak as her resistance to his charm had been last night, more contact she needed not. Her resolve could hardly be called immune to his grin, his touch.

“I am enjoying the view from here, my lord.”

“I’ve a mind to show you something,” he called up, his voice strong, sure.

And she did not have a mind to see anything he had to display. What could he wish to show her now?

Maeve shook her head. Down that path lay troublesome thoughts. Did he plot to interrogate her? Seduce her?

“Later, perhaps. I must see to supper.”

“Let it wait, Wife. Come down to me now.”

Maeve hesitated, aware suddenly that Langmore’s army, as well as the passing servants, watched, waited to see who was master here. For so long, Maeve had held power, made decisions, acted as the lord, since Flynn was so frequently gone or occupied. And she resented Kildare assuming the mantle of her responsibility so quickly and easily.

Still, she knew his request had naught to do with the castle’s duties. That knowledge was in his eyes.

She hesitated. Going to him would show all she’d been vanquished by her husband. The thought of everyone believing her subjugated chafed her pride.

“Come, Maeve, or I shall come after you. Mayhap then we will not appear for supper at all.”

Shocked by his intimation, Maeve stared. Heat flooded her cheeks moments later.

Dear Lord, the man was bold, so brazen he put the Devil to shame. And she had little doubt he would carry through with his threat and scale the battlements to get to her.

“I must check with the cook. Then I will see you.”

Before he could protest, she fled the battlements. Racing to the kitchen, she peeked her head into the hot room. An open fire cooked several loaves of yeasty bread. A cupboard of spices stood locked against the far wall. In her hand, the aging cook held a fat goose, plucked fresh.

The woman was so efficient Maeve scarce had to check in more than twice a week.

“How can I be helpin’ you, m’lady?”

Maeve shook her head. “You are as organized as always, I see. Finish with your goose.”

Knowing such an errand had been foolish at best, Maeve chastised herself. If Kieran wanted to talk, she could carry on a conversation with the rogue. She need not avoid him. Certainly she feared him not.

Only her body’s reaction to his touch.

Pushing the rebellious thought aside, she made her way to the middle bailey. There, Kieran stood much as she had left him.

Upon spying her emerge into the sun, he flashed her that knowing grin, the one that never failed to make her head spin with the possibilities of his charm.

She must absolve herself of these foolish notions! Aye, his smile might hold more lure than Flynn’s or even Quaid’s. But it meant naught except he had practiced before a mirror catching a lady’s eye.

“What wish you to show me?”

Maeve silently applauded her crisp question. Kieran could not find any invitation there.

He held out his hand to her—and his smile grew more mischievous. To herself, she denied any surge in her heartbeat.

Refusing to meet his blue-green gaze, she walked to his side and fixed on his nose. It was long and straight, though slightly bent at the bridge and just above his mouth, which maintained that wicked grin still.

She sighed. Perhaps her heartbeat was a trifle faster, aye, but no more than that.

Finally, mercifully, he turned away and bent to retrieve a bow at his feet. To her shock, he placed it in her hand.

Instantly, she dropped it. “I will not touch this instrument of death.”

With patience, he retrieved the bow and placed it back in her hand, this time wrapping his hand around her own. His fingers felt firm and warm and rough against her own.

“It is an instrument of protection, as well as a means to feed the castlefolk. It is also an amusement to be mastered.”

Kieran had lost possession of his mind, she felt certain. For him to believe the very instrument that could pierce armor and skewer a soldier at thirty paces was also one of recreation was the height of madness.

“Nay, do not frown at me thus, sweet Maeve. I will show you.”

The protests were still forming in her mind as he took her hand in his callused one and led her to his horse. He lifted her up on the animal’s back with no more effort than the wind lifts a leaf, then mounted behind her. After tucking the bow away in a pouch attached to his saddle, he kicked the stallion’s flanks.

That simply, Maeve found herself out of doors, away from Langmore. Wind fingered its way through her hair, pulling loose strands about her face and nape. The sun beat its golden rays upon the fragrant earth, waking to the coming spring.

But she was more aware of Kieran’s arm about her waist, tight, pulling her against the solid warmth of his chest. She could feel him breathe, feel his heart beat. When had she noticed anything so familiar about Quaid? About anyone?

Moments later, he stopped them in the midst of a small glade of trees beginning to bud after the winter. As soon as he halted his mount, he jumped to the soft earth and reached up for her.

Maeve looked at his waiting hands, into his expectant eyes. Her heart tripped dangerously. Why did this man hold appeal for her? He called to her in ways she did not understand, challenging her notions of war, of politics and marriage…of what passed between a man and a woman.