His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (21 page)

Shadows whispered across Kieran’s golden flesh as dusk settled in the chamber. He pressed into her once more, this time with more urgency. The sound of his ragged breath in her ear and the tense feel of his body bespoke his control.

Maeve wanted him to lose that control for her.

She pressed her mouth to his and let her hands roam freely upon the broad plane of his back, down his hips, where she urged him on. Rocking her hips beneath him earned her a groaned warning that filled her with delight.

“Maeve, do not make me finish this too soon.”

“I wish to ease and pleasure you,” she breathed.

He plunged into her again and moaned her name. “You are not ready yet.”

Before she could argue, he began a fluid rhythm, his body increasing the pressure, the pleasure. She burned with the fever again, this time stronger than before.

As he filled her in long, quick strokes, Maeve moved beneath him, sensing another peak was near, this one savage in its strength. She felt as if she were drowning, mercy to the strength of rapture. And through it all, her sense of some invisible bond to him grew.

Suddenly, Kieran rolled to his back, taking her with him, never leaving her. She straddled him, her breasts taut and visible between them. And still he pressed into her, stroking her, driving her.

He found the center of her pleasure again, and dragged both his fingers across her aroused tip. The sensation astounded her. Blood roared in her ears, hammering her senses with pleasure. She felt helpless and unprepared as he thrust into her again, transforming the brink of satisfaction into a pool of it, thick and addicting and joy filled.

She felt herself pulse around him, gripping his shaft again. A moment later, he stiffened, surged hard into her, and cried out, fingers digging into her hips.

Maeve watched as, teeth clenched, Kieran spilled himself deep inside her. Then he stilled and opened his eyes, his lids heavy, his eyes blue-green pools of satisfaction.

Her heart seemed to explode with tenderness.

Still, Kieran held her. And Maeve felt as if she belonged here, with him inside her. She did not question it when he pulled her into an embrace, a melding of slick skin and beating hearts.

She had wanted this in her union with Quaid, but never felt thus. This sense of belonging she had sought her whole life she now found in the arms of her English husband.

“Sweet Maeve,” he breathed, still panting. “Did I hurt you?”

Concern. In the wake of his pleasure, he held concern for her. Somehow she had expected the conqueror to swagger with triumph. That he did not surprised her and touched her more.

Battling a prickling of tears at her sudden happiness, her sudden sense of being complete, she nodded. “You hurt me not at all. I felt only more pleasure than I knew possible.”

He sighed with seeming relief. “I meant not to be rough, but you—your body—’twas clenched so tight, as if it knew not what to do.”

Maeve flushed. “Quaid… We shared a bed but once.”

Surprise flashed briefly across his face at her whisper. Then he pulled her closer in his arms. “I vow that will not be the last time I share yours.”

Part of Maeve knew she should protest, should point out that naught had changed, that he was still the enemy. But he did not feel like the enemy now, with his warm skin damp against her own. He felt like a husband, a lover, a man she could no more stay away from than she could stop her heart from beating. He seemed thoroughly vital to her in so many ways.

She swallowed. “I am agreeable.”

At that, he smiled. “Are you, now? I am not surprised.”

His confidence was both galling and appealing. Maeve did not remember ever feeling so much confusion. She glared at him.

His smile slipped. “Do not frown at me. I assure you that, as amenable as you may be to sharing a bed again, I’m twice as eager to get there.”

Maeve felt a shadow of a smile creep across her mouth. “’Tis I who am not surprised.”

And he laughed, a right, hearty chuckle that echoed off the stone walls and shook the bed. Maeve found herself laughing with him, a lingering glow of warmth settling over her.

Kieran held her tight as the laughter subsided. Silence took over until he whispered, “I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier.”

Maeve sobered. “Your father angered you.”

He hesitated, then reluctantly nodded.

“Why did he come?”

His expression turned blank, flat. “He wanted my help with the rebellion.”

She stiffened in shock. She’d always known Desmond to be bold, but that request went to brazen and beyond.

“You said him nay?” She touched his shoulder in comfort.

“And told him to leave Langmore.”

Kieran’s voice and his earlier actions told her O’Neill had hurt him. Maeve held him closer, stroking his back.

“The worst part, Maeve,” he whispered against her neck, tense beneath her. “The man came here, after all these years, not to be a father but to be a rebel. He never once asked how my life has been since I last saw him.”

Kieran would not cry, but somehow Maeve wanted to do it for him. She squeezed him tight, offering her silent support. A million questions about the past raced to mind, but she said naught. ’Twas not the time.

He kissed her temple, softly caressing her back until he drifted to sleep. And he looked so peaceful in repose. Maeve found herself wishing that kind of peace for him always.

But she feared ’twas not destined to be.

* * * *

Kieran woke before the sun to the feel of Maeve slumbering beside him, her hand splayed over his belly. Though his mind felt heavy with sleep, his body was awake and eager.

He smiled, hardly surprised. Maeve had been every bit as womanly and passionate as he had suspected. In fact, she had responded beyond his expectations, pulsing around him in gloried abandon.

His erection tightened, thickened, demanding her attention.

Rolling to his side, he lifted the hair covering her cheek and shoulder, placing it behind her back. He brushed her mouth with his finger. Maeve frowned and moaned before rolling away. Kieran smiled. The woman slept with as much vigor as she made love.

Had she made love with Quaid O’Toole with such abandon?

Kieran scowled, disliking that question. Maeve was here now, in his bed. Here she would stay. And he would do his best to see she forgot another man had touched her, even if only once.

He reached for Maeve again, determination and possession heating his blood.

Someone knocked on the door. He cursed.

“What?” he ground out, sitting up in bed.

The door opened, and Colm peeked in. “My lord? Sorry to catch you…abed.” He glanced at Maeve’s bare shoulders above the sheet, then quickly away. “A messenger just arrived. You’ve been summoned to Dublin, to Malahide Castle.”

Kieran cursed again, soundly this time. Maeve stirred beside him but did not fully wake.

“Why?” he asked.

Colm shrugged. “He would not say, my lord.”

Kieran had thought for some while the other Englishmen in the Pale would wish a meeting, but why now? “When must I go?”

“This very morn.”

“And they gave no reason for such urgency, boy?”

Colm shook his head.

Kieran had little doubt such secrecy boded ill.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kieran arrived in Dublin two days later, exhausted, irritable, and damned tired of the rain.

Malahide Castle sat in gray splendor along the banks of a peaceful loch. The structure was solid, worthy, and accessible from but one road. Kieran had no trouble imagining why the other Palesmen thought it best for imprisoning the rebels. Thus far, Malahide’s dungeons had held them.

Groaning with cold, he swung off his mount. Guards greeted him immediately in the dusk and took him to the great hall. There, fifteen lords sat with tankards in hand.

“Why should we not tax the heathens?” spouted one thick-waisted Englishman.

“Their land is more profitable, man,” said another, this one younger and heartier of voice. “If we take the land and let them keep what pittance of funds they have, we’ll have them by the throats.”

“Why not both?” suggested a third, raising his tankard with a lopsided grin.

The group laughed.

Kieran scowled at their greed. None of these men appeared to need the funds, the lands, or the food either would provide. Did they not see taking the people’s lands and funds would leave women and children to starve? Break up families? Force men to take up arms who had not previously, just to survive?

“Tax policies are directly solicited to King Henry though my correspondence, gentlemen.”

At Kieran’s words, all heads turned in his direction. Wariness, curiosity, and distrust inhabited different faces around him.

Suddenly he felt sure this would be a long trip.

“M-my lord, you’ve arrived,” stuttered the nearest fop.

“You summoned me with such urgency, what else could I do?” he returned dryly. “I have business back at Langmore. What needs have you so I may address them and be gone?”

At the far end of the table, a frail old man rose and gestured him to an empty seat upon a bench. “We feared the worst when you did not appear as scheduled.”

Kieran made his way to the bench and sat with a frown. “As scheduled? Of what do you speak, sir?”

“This parliament, of course. As governor of the Pale, you must preside over this session and vote. We have many issues before us.”

Kieran had known these duties would haunt him whilst he remained in Ireland. But the timing could not be more ill suited. Maeve and the joys of her body awaited him.

“I knew naught of any plans to open parliament.”

The older man frowned with puzzlement. “We sent a missive over a month past.”

And he had never received it. He frowned, pondering its fate. Nearly everyone at Langmore would want him to miss this session. Flynn, Maeve, and Jana all had reasons in particular, though Flynn seemed the most likely person to engage in something so devious.

Damnation! That O’Shea man near begged to have his arse kicked from here to London with all his mighty talk of rebellion. And Kieran longed to do the dirty work himself.

Except ’twould infuriate Maeve.

Then again, his own Maeve did receive most of the correspondence at Langmore. Was shuffling information her role in the rebellion?

Muttering a curse, he sat. “Let me meet everyone and then you may tell me what business we have before us.”

The older man nodded and resumed his seat. “I am Lord Burkland.”

Kieran nodded in acknowledgment. Burkland then pointed out each of the others.

The thick-middled man was Bishop Elmond, and Kieran distrusted him and his pinched expression right away. Men ambitious in the Church had ever been shifty. This one appeared no exception.

The younger, hearty-voiced man proved to be Lord Butler, a swaggering prick if he’d met one. Suddenly, Kieran thought he might give his right arm to be away from these pompous men and back at Langmore.

“Well, now that we are done with introductions, my lord, we shall go on with business at hand. Most notably, we meet to discuss the rebels.”

“As we should!” shouted the bishop.

“Aye, they have all but destroyed parts of Malahide trying to break their own free,” said another Englishman whose name escaped Kieran’s memory.

He resisted the urge to run a tired hand across his eyes. ’Twas no doubt in his mind—and probably King Henry’s—that action must be taken against the rebels before they succeeded in destroying some major English holdings, and rightly so. Among other threats, King Henry would not tolerate another Yorkist pretender to his throne hiding on Irish soil. Lambert Simnel and the duchess of Burgundy’s forces had attempted such an overthrow a year past. Aiding the cause had been the treasonous downfall of the last earl of Kildare.

The issue could wait no longer.

But Kieran found himself oddly reluctant to participate in this decision, and he wondered why.

Burkland turned to a pair of guards in the great hall. “Get the rest of your force and bring up the rebels.”

The duo left to follow the old man’s orders right away. Tensing, Kieran waited for the rebels to arrive whilst the others around him spoke of taxes, land disputes, and the king himself. Kieran could think of little more than Quaid O’Toole—and Maeve’s reaction if her once-betrothed’s fate was not a kind one.

Within minutes, ten motley, unwashed rebels filed in with bound hands and ankles. Their faces were grim but proud. Kieran tried to remember their crimes against the crown, everything from petty mayhem to the murder of Englishmen. In their hearts, they harbored the seeds of rebellion, which had grown, feeding others just like them. They must be dealt with.

Why, then, was he so damned reluctant?

“Shall we, Lord Kildare?” Burkland asked.

At that, a rebel’s blond head snapped up. The short, stocky man fixed him with a gaze that burned hate. “You’re the bastard! You’ve stolen my Maeve from me.”

Around him, a few of the men gasped. Others stared.

Kieran gritted his teeth and met his opponent’s gaze squarely. “Quaid O’Toole, I presume?”

“You knew before you wed her that she belongs to me.”

“The Church and the law have decreed differently now.”

Quaid’s blue gaze brimmed ire. “Don’t you be layin’ a slimy English hand on her.”

“Bind that man’s mouth!” ordered Burkland, then turned to Kieran, who would rather have exchanged fists with the man. Stony silence would have to do instead.

Burkland smiled, and a guard placed a cloth firmly over Quaid’s mouth. “Let us begin.”

Burkland recited the murder allegations against the first of the rebels. The parliament allowed the man to speak in his defense for less than five minutes.

Burkland interrupted the rebel’s words with an impatient wave. “What say you, gentlemen?”

All present voted for death. Kieran followed suit.

One by one, the small parliament worked its way through the rebels, always with the same outcome.