His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (2 page)

Crows circled above, calling into the morn. Kieran watched the scene in apprehension. For if the powerful earl of Rothgate could not help Drake, he feared no one could.

He would not lose a blood brother this day!

Drake struggled, but the MacDougall soldiers contained him. Kieran drew his sword from his scabbard, ready to fight. Guilford stayed him with a firm hand until the Scotsmen disappeared.

All too quickly, Drake was taken away.

He turned to Guilford, his glance demanding an explanation.

“Let the firebrands work this foolishness out of their blood,” the earl advised. “They will soon see their words as senseless and release him.”

“I would rather fight!” Kieran objected.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Guilford answered wryly.

“They cannot imprison an innocent man so unjustly!”

“And so they shall not, Kieran. Leave this to me. You, too, Aric.” The aging man shot his blond hulk of a friend a sharp gaze.

“Aye,” Aric replied after a moment’s hesitation, though he clearly liked it not.

The crowd began to disperse as morning finally burst its way over the craggy Yorkshire hills. Men pilfered through the fresh corpses on the battlefield, gathering valuable weapons, armor, and boots for later use. Aric turned away as if disgusted.

Kieran frowned. His friend did not seem…himself.

“Aric?” he questioned, unusually concerned. Beside him, Guilford looked on.

Aric did not answer. He looked instead as if life, as if his very soul, had deserted him.

A moment later, Aric gripped his broadsword in his hands. He looked at Kieran, then at Guilford, then glared at the heavy sword he held.

Then, with a mighty thrust, Aric cast his sword into the dark, yielding earth and strode from the battlefield without a backward glance.

Baffled, Kieran watched his friend disappear.

“Aric?” he called.

No reply.

He took two steps toward the victorious yet oddly defeated man. “Aric!”

Nothing still.

Guilford laid a calming hand upon his arm. “Aric requires time alone, to think, after receiving the news of the princes’ deaths. Drake I will see to. You, however, I must speak with.”

“Now? Drake has been accused of murdering his sire by his own kin, and Aric— What happened to my friend, the warrior? ’Tis as if some brooding monk has overtaken him.”

“True, and I will deal with both soon. But this matter concerns you, and you have been in Spain for far too long.” Guilford peered up at him with sharp blue eyes. “Do you recall Hugh O’Neill from your boyhood?”

Kieran recoiled. The name itself brought back memories of his youth in Ireland. Memories of the past—the shouting, the fire—flashed in his mind. He pushed them away.

“Aye.” Kieran crossed his arms over his chest.

“He’s written me a letter, several actually, looking for you. Your kin has worried since your mother took you away as a lad. They inquire as to your well-being and hint at land that belongs to you. I think ’twould be wise to reply.”

Denial raged as Kieran shook his head. There was no purpose. His cousin Hugh was a part of his distant past—a past he had no wish to revisit.

And Ireland was not a place he sought to set foot upon ever again.

“Tell Hugh I will never return and he can gladly have what remains of Balcorthy. I have no use for it.”

Guilford gave him a disapproving scowl he’d much hated as a child. “Kieran, I—”

“Nay,” he insisted. “No more!”

At that, he made haste for his chamber within Hartwich’s walls, wanting to believe he had heard the last from Guilford about Ireland.

But he knew Guilford too well to believe the earl would stay silent for long.

CHAPTER ONE

Sheen Palace, London

Mid-January 1490

After a pleasurable night in a warm bed, Kieran finally settled into his own chamber for some much-needed sleep as dawn rose over the Thames.

Stretching his naked length out upon the mattress, he turned onto his stomach and curled into the pillow with a sigh—only to be interrupted by heavy footsteps approaching his door and the sound of someone barging in.

Kieran whirled for his knife on the floor and sat up, fist clenched around the hilt.

Aric greeted him with a blond brow raised in question. “Planning to stab me?”

“Try knocking next time,” Kieran grumbled, rubbing gritty, tired eyes.

“Who would have thought you would still be abed at this hour?”

Irritated, Kieran gestured to half-open shutters covering the window on the far side of his chamber. “The sun has scarce made an appearance as of yet. Why should I?”

Aric frowned. “You’ve a west-facing window. The sun has been up in the east for quite near two hours, as have I.”

Sighing, Kieran regarded his friend of near twenty years. Aric, as oldest, had always thought he knew more, had a right to guide the actions of his younger comrades.

“My goal in life is not to rise with the sun. I seek rest, and if you had enjoyed the night I had…” He grinned.

“With a wife as saucy as Gwenyth, what makes you think my night was restful?” Aric queried as if daring him to reply.

Kieran found himself scowling. “But she expects a babe within the month.”

The robust laughter rumbling from Aric’s chest conveyed great amusement. “Such hardly makes Gwenyth dead.”

“But her delicate condition—”

“When have you ever known Gwenyth to be delicate?” he challenged.

’Twas a good point, Kieran conceded. Gwenyth had ever been full of fire, from her sharp tongue to her brave ways.

“True,” he conceded. “But after losing the last—”

“Gwenyth will not lose this babe,” Aric said, his voice a vow. “This one grows strong.”

Sensing the issue disturbed Aric, Kieran asked, “What news have you of Guilford? Does he recover from his fever?”

“Aye. Drake and Averyl arrived a fortnight ago at Hartwich and sent word just yestereve that Guilford appears to be recovering, thank the Lord.”

Knowing Aric and Drake shared his great fondness for the old earl, he nodded. “’Tis good news indeed.”

“Drake also says Averyl expects another babe come summer.”

Gratified, Kieran nodded. “Ah, more cause for celebration.”

He cared much for fair Averyl. Her soft heart had done his friend Drake well, and the babes, this now the third, seemed to delight his Scottish friend much.

Aric’s and Drake’s happiness pleased him, as did all the children he could tickle and tease. Drake’s eldest son, Lochlan, grew more daring each day for a wee lad of three. Their daughter, Nessa, had learned to walk this past Michaelmas. And with God’s help, Aric and Gwenyth would add a son or daughter to the close-knit association Guilford held together with his gruff affection.

He couldn’t be more pleased for his friends. They had overcome political strife, false accusations, near death, and much anguish, but love was now theirs. Still, Kieran had no intention of following suit, ever. Love and marriage did not seem worth such trouble and effort.

Tomorrow he would leave for Spain and his profitable journeys as a mercenary. Today he would enjoy the comforts that castles and ladies afforded him. Now that Guilford was recovering from his illness and Aric had returned to Sheen Palace, Kieran had no need to stay and see to his mentor’s business any longer.

Except that another glance at Aric proved he looked like a man on a mission, a man with something on his mind.

And judging from his careful expression, Kieran did not imagine he would like what his old friend had to say.

“Out with it,” he barked.

Aric did not pretend to misunderstand. “’Tis your antics, my friend.”

Kieran paused, trying to sort it through. “Zounds, that could mean anything.”

He soothed a hand across knuckles sore from boxing a particularly vexing swain yesterday and flexed thighs stiff from pleasuring a woman most of last night.

“You keep the ladies aflutter with your…shifting attentions—”

“Do you expect me to take but one?”

Clearly exasperated, Aric sighed. “’Twas not expected you would plough through most of them within half the month!”

Kieran shrugged. “’Twas harmless fun. And good times were had by all.”

“The men complain,” Aric went on as if Kieran had not spoken. “You make war freely and do not observe court rituals.”

Discarding the sheet and pulling on his braies, Kieran stood. “They are fops and coxcombs. Slop jars have more brains.”

With growing impatience, Aric sighed. “King Henry maintains a very sober court.”

At that, Kieran rolled his eyes. “You’ve no need to tell me thus. How can you spend so much time here? ’Tis lucky I am the boredom has not yet killed me.”

“I doubt you’ve had much time to be bored,” countered Aric. “And King Henry has had enough of your ways.”

“I’ll be gone by sunrise tomorrow.” He grabbed his tunic from the cold wooden floor. “I am expected back in Spain—”

“King Henry is sending you to Ireland.”

Ireland?
The tunic in Kieran’s hand fell from limp fingers back to the floor. Nay, he had not heard that properly.

Had he?

“Did you say—”

“Aye, Ireland,” Aric answered. “Henry thinks to keep you out of mischief there, as well as perform a favor for the crown.”

Memories better left forgotten flashed in his mind. He frowned as he pushed them away. “I’ve no need to do King Henry a favor.”

“’Tis not for Henry but for Guilford.”

“What mean you?” Kieran asked, reaching again for his tunic, his stomach clenched with tension.

“You know King Henry seeks to rebuild his treasury and regain control over the nobles by ‘borrowing’ funds from them. He’s borrowed a fair amount from me, but apparently fears Guilford’s political influence with others, as he’s borrowed much more. Guilford can scarce afford to ‘lend’ any more or he may lose Hartwich.”

Guilford had risked his life many times over Hartwich Hall. ’Twas in his blood, as it was in Kieran’s own. He could not let the old man lose his home, not after all Guilford and Hartwich had done for him, meant to him.

But Ireland?

Sighing, Kieran said, “Tell me.”

“I…I negotiated a compromise.”

Kieran knew he wasn’t going to like it. “Well?”

“Since King Henry wanted you gone and Guilford could ill afford to give more money…”

“Aye, so you agreed to send me to Ireland?” Kieran prompted.

“King Henry is having a bit of trouble in the Pale,” Aric admitted.

“The Pale?”

“Aye, that area about Dublin he has managed to keep English control over—”

“I know what the Pale is.”

Did he ever. His mother had married a virtual barbarian trying to protect it for England. He had no interest in defending it himself.

“What I cannot understand,” said Kieran, “is how it affects me.”

Aric paused as if weighing his words. Kieran stared, hands on hips, feeling none too patient. The longer Aric remained mute, Kieran knew, the less he would like the answer.

“I grow gray waiting.”

“The good word is that King Henry has made you an earl. The earl of Kildare, to be precise.”

“
What?
Moments ago, did you not say he disapproved of me? So King Henry must expect something.” Kieran’s eyes narrowed. “Or rather, you promised some service on my behalf.”

Slowly, Aric nodded. “In return for your absence and this new title, King Henry decrees that you go to Ireland. Actually, to Kildare and a certain Langmore Castle. ’Tis home to the O’Shea family.”

Kieran shook his head, still not comprehending. “What have I to do with them? I know them not.”

“Well, nay, not…yet. The O’Sheas make much rebellion inside the Pale and seek to incite the other leaders to insurrection. King Henry has not the funds or the army to see to the task, so he is sending you to organize what remains of the army, suppress the rebellion, and enforce peace.”

“Me, enforce peace?” Kieran might have laughed at the notion if he did not loathe the thought of seeing to Ireland and this duty.

Aric nodded, as if conceding the absurdity of that. “Apparently.”

“So, I’m to travel to Kildare and knock a few heads together until they behave like good little subjects once more?”

“Not…exactly,” said Aric.

Kieran felt his stomach tense further. “What exactly, then?”

If anything, Aric’s expression turned grimmer. “King Henry wants someone to wed and breed them to English ways, starting with the unruly O’Sheas.”

“Wed? As in take one to
wife
?”

Kieran refused to believe his ears. He still did not want to believe it when Aric began to nod.

“There are four O’Shea sisters,” Aric began. “Take one of your choosing.”

As if he would willingly choose one!

“Once she breeds,” Aric went on, “you are free to return with your babe to raise him English, then send him back to Langmore when he is a man grown. ’Tis simple.”

Simple? Nay, ’twas terrible. No sane Englishman would marry a heathen Irish girl. ’Twas even forbidden by law.

At that realization, he brightened. “The Statute of Kilkenney forbids the English from wedding anyone Irish.”

Aric grimaced. “Aye. ’Tis why you, my half-Irish friend, were chosen.”

“But I have lived here since I was a boy.”

“Still, you cannot deny your Irish blood, not to King Henry. Not to yourself.”

Kieran’s throat tightened. Aric spoke true, no matter how badly he wished to deny thus.

Damn his O’Neill father. Damn his love for Hartwich and Guilford.

Damn Ireland.

* * * *

A fortnight later, Kieran inched his horse along—ever closer to his doom.

Wed? He shook his head. Somehow he had never imagined the word would describe him. Aye, Aric and Drake were excellent examples of marital bliss. But such had not always been the case, and they had sacrificed much to realize those loves. Kieran could imagine not how ’twas worth such.

Besides, he expected naught but contempt to come of his union with an Irish O’Shea wench. Most like as not, each of them would be crafty hags, deeply buried in rebellion. Every time he took his wife abed, he’d probably have to search her and the bedclothes for daggers first.