His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (23 page)

He sat up and willed himself to meet her gaze, then took her hands in his. “I did. But something happened, I…I must explain to you.”

She frowned, a mixture of curiosity and concern.

He bent forward to steal one last kiss, savoring the sweet honey of her mouth, of her soft response. And he knew she would only hate him all the more for it. Still, he could not leave her be any more than he could stop breathing.

When their lips parted, he was assailed by a feeling of loss. But he could not keep O’Toole’s death to himself, for she would soon hear and be all the more angry.

“The parliament met,” he began. “They had been planning to meet for some time, but I did not receive their notice.”

Maeve flushed a guilty red.

“You took their missive?” he asked.

“Nay.”

“But you know of its fate?”

She nodded. Kieran surmised then Flynn had stolen it, but Maeve would not point an accusing finger at her brother. At this moment, he could scarce blame her for protecting her kin. He would likely do the same in her position.

“The parliament decided on many issues,” he began.

How could he get the words out? How could he tell her gently?

Her face turned from watchful to fearful. “Including the fate of the rebels?”

Kieran hesitated, wishing he could keep this moment at bay forever. But he knew ’twas not possible. “Aye.”

“Quaid?” A sharp note of anxiety lifted her tone. He hated such concern for another man, even a dead one, so clear in her voice, so obvious on her lovely face.

But he’d known all along that, while she had wedded and bedded him, ’twas Quaid O’Toole she had always loved.

Clamping down on a surge of anger, he stared into her wide eyes. “Executed.”

“Nay!”

Her eyes widened and her face crumpled moments before she buried her face in her hands and curled her knees into her chest.

Kieran slid a soothing hand over her head, down her back. He could not say he was sorry. This was war, after all. Instead, he whispered, “I know this grieves you.”

Maeve lifted a tear-streaked face wild with accusation. “You!” She scrambled away, covering herself with the sheet, fury rolling across her face. “You ordered his death.”

“I have not that power, Maeve. I but voted like everyone else,” he urged.

“Voted for death,” she accused.

“We are at war. ’Tis common to see prisoners executed. The others before me had all voted the same. My dissent would have changed naught.”

She made a rude snort of disbelief. “And you watched in glee.”

“Nay, I—”

“Of course you did. You like battle, blood. It excites you. Did you cheer when he took his last breath?”

“Nay.” Kieran reached for her shoulder.

Maeve jerked away. “Do not touch me!”

A moment later, horror dawned across her face, then she glared at him with such fury Kieran thought flames might lick his face.

“You took me in this bed, knowing he was dead, knowing how I would feel.” Her face was rife with betrayal.

He flinched and confessed, “I but wanted to touch you.”

“You wanted to dance upon Quaid’s grave, to revel in your brutal triumph. Well, never again, my lord.”

“Maeve—”

“Take your ease with the kitchen wenches or the Dublin whores. But do not think to take me again.”

He reached for her. “My sweet—”

She batted his hand away. “From now on, I am naught but your enemy. You have betrayed me, lied to me, ruined my life, and killed the man I wished to wed.”

“I did not kill him! Maeve, even if I had voted to free him, ’twould have held no weight. They wished him dead.”

“You underestimate your devil’s tongue.” Anger hardened her voice. “Had you tried, you might have seen him freed.”

Kieran frowned at the hard mask of rage that overtook her lovely face. “At what cost? To allow his efforts to further the rebellion? So that he might take you from me and make me a cuckold?”

Maeve stood, yanking the sheet about her. “So that you might see a good, worthy man live. But what would you know of such men?” she sneered. “You are naught but a heartless, violent seducer of women. Never speak to me again.”

Wrapped in a sheet like the veriest of goddesses, Maeve stamped to the door and slammed it behind her. Kieran felt its echo bang in some dark, scared, ill-used corner of his body—the corner he feared lay close to his heart.

* * * *

A week passed in veritable silence. The air within Langmore’s walls seemed thick yet more fragile than glass. Kieran spent day after day, hour upon hour, training Langmore’s army. They were beginning to become a disciplined fighting crew, able to handle the rebellion’s small forces. And Maeve worried, for ’twas as if Kieran—Lord Kildare—felt the final battle approached. Mayhap it did.

She only knew that her guilt weighted more heavily upon her than her breaking heart. How could she have lain so wantonly with Quaid’s executioner? And why did some treasonous part of her miss him even now?

Pacing the solar, she looked up as Jana entered, her sleeping son in her arms. Her elder sister glowed, her heart finally healing.

Maeve wished she could say the same for herself.

“You have acted like the tempest cloud for days now,” Jana said softly. “As likely to rain as to thunder at a moment’s notice. Fiona, Brighid, and I worry for you.”

So, Jana had been elected to speak on her sisters’ behalf.

Sighing, Maeve tried to rein in her feelings and sit calmly. Still, she felt anything but calm.

“I understand grief,” Jana offered. “I know you loved Quaid.”

Aye, she had loved him. He had been a gentle friend, as interested in books as she. He had ever understood her moods, never trying to sway her from them. They had been of like minds about Langmore and Ireland. Their match had been sound.

Now he was gone forever.

“Rebellion is costly,” Jana said. “We must believe Quaid’s and Geralt’s sacrifices will come to good.”

Maeve nodded weakly. Jana spoke true. But such did not erase the depth of her anguish—or her guilt. She had welcomed Quaid’s English tormenter to bed her twice. She had fallen for Kildare’s guile and allowed him to sweep her up in his charm until she betrayed the man who had vowed to love her always. Worse, she had not loved Quaid in the same manner.

That secret made her feel most guilty of all.

“You are not ready to talk of it?” Jana queried.

Maeve shifted her gaze to her sister’s dark eyes, soft with understanding. She shook her head.

Jana rose from her seat. “Young Geralt sleeps. I shall lay him down and rest myself then. If you change your mind—”

“Thank you.” Maeve rose, too, and curled an arm about Jana’s shoulder, giving her a grateful hug. “I know.”

With a sad smile, Jana left Maeve alone to pace once more.

The deep mire of her feelings threatened to drown her, and Maeve knew not what to do, how to sort through her grief, her guilt, her body’s shameful yearnings for her terrible husband.

“Maeve?”

Kildare’s voice made her twirl about to face him. Inside the solar he stood. Maeve quivered, both from fury and something more dangerous.

Each day, he tried to speak to her, coax her into forgetting his sins, forgiving him. She refused.

Ripping her gaze from his earnest face, she grabbed her needlework from the trestle table beside her and swept toward the door.

He stopped her by grasping her arm and pulling her to his side. “Someday, you will have to speak to me.”

Briefly, she glanced up at him, as if he were naught more than an odious rodent.

“Listen to me.”

She sent him a long-suffering sigh and looked just beyond his shoulder, avoiding his countenance.

His grip tightened. “Damnation, Maeve! I could not have stopped Quaid’s execution, even if I had wished it. I can bear your grief. I cannot bear your blame.”

She merely shrugged, glancing at the far wall. Inside, she seethed. Did he not understand she hated him as much for his part in Quaid’s death as she did for his lovemaking that morn when he knew the truth? Or did the lewdster see her body as his right, even after such a betrayal? Aye, he was English. No doubt, he did.

“By the saints, speak to me!” he roared.

Maeve fixed him with a dispassionate glance, though she wanted to rail at him in the worst way. Still, she would not give him the satisfaction of the exchange he sought.

Kildare muttered a curse, then released her arm. “Where is your brother?”

Flynn had disappeared six days past. Maeve knew not to where and worried for his safety. When she had told him in tearful words of Quaid’s execution, his fury had known no bounds.

Again, she shrugged, saying naught.

“Woman, you try your best to kill me,” Kildare ground out.

Then he surprised her by covering her mouth with his own.

Maeve kept her lips stiff and clenched against his invasion. The crush of his mouth upon hers ground her lips against her teeth. She could feel him willing her to open to him. And she resisted.

Still, his familiar scent brought an answering pang in her chest.

Tearing her mouth from him with a cry, she speared him with a venom-filled glare. “Once, you seduced me from my convictions and my loyalty to Ireland. I know now what manner of miscreant you are. Such will not happen again.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kieran remained tenacious. Maeve refused his pursuit. Another tense week passed.

Listening to Father Sean’s soothing Latin, Maeve tried to block out the presence of her sisters and the castlefolk around her this Sunday Mass. She could forget them for moments. She could even disregard her missing brother for a bit.

’Twas Kieran, who had taken to attending daily Mass beside her, she could not ignore.

He stood close. Too close. Their arms brushed. Her skin broke out in chill bumps. He shifted his weight. His thigh nudged hers. Maeve wanted to scream.

Certainly he had found a recent interest in the church simply to annoy her. She had always attended daily, as required, along with her sisters. Her parents had been adamant about that. Occasionally, she found solace in prayer when troubled. The stained glass familiarity of the chapel she had ever found soothing.

With Kildare’s nearness abrading her nerves, she wanted no more than to abandon faith and flee.

Except that would put her in Langmore’s walls whilst everyone else attended Mass, leaving her quite alone with the heathen Kildare. ’Twas too risky. So in Mass she stood.

The brute beside her prodded her with an elbow. She glared at him, then looked about to realize everyone was filing from the chapel. Red-faced, she followed suit, not sparing him a glance. She also prayed he did not know her thoughts.

As they went out, a blond hulk of a man, seven or eight inches over six feet, stood at the door looking over her head at Kildare with a wide smile.

Curious, Maeve pulled her stare from the man to see Kildare’s answering grin. “Aric! I expected you not. When—” He frowned. “How did you get past Langmore’s gates?”

The giant called Aric laughed and held up a missive with a royal crest. “King Henry’s name and seal opens many doors.”

Kildare nodded, then stepped toward his friend. They embraced heartily. Maeve watched on in curiosity. Never had she seen Kildare’s smile so genuine or his affections so clear.

’Twas obvious he thought this fellow warrior a brother. Her sisters and the castlefolk looked on with curiosity.

“How fares Gwenyth?” asked her husband.

If anything, Aric’s grin widened. “Very well. Days after you left Sheen Palace, she birthed a beautiful girl. We’ve called her Blythe. Gwenyth already plans to wed her to Drake and Averyl’s oldest son, little Lochan.”

Kildare laughed, a rich, happy sound, then clapped his friend on the back. “I am happy for you, my friend. And Drake, how do he and Averyl fare?”

“Quite well. Drake is bringing order to Dunollie and the Clan MacDougall again. Every day, he grows happier, thank God. And Averyl is a fine wife and mother, as you know, and this third pregnancy progresses similarly to the first two.”

Smiling, Kildare slapped Aric on the back. “Excellent. And Guilford? Has he fully recovered?”

Aric scoffed. “The old goat will likely outlive us all.”

“King Henry has not ‘borrowed’ further funds from him?”

Grimacing, Aric replied, “Nay, thanks to your help, our fine king is much assured of Guilford’s loyalty.”

Kildare nodded, clearly relieved, until Aric’s expression turned chastising.

“But you failed to write us of your fate, friend,” he pointed out. “Have you taken a wife? Gwenyth and Averyl will have my hides if I do not ease their curiosity.”

Kildare’s smile turned uneasy as he cast a glance Maeve’s way. His arm curled around her waist, and Maeve stiffened. Aric’s gaze could not possibly miss the gesture—and her reaction.

“This is Maeve, the second O’Shea sister. We’ve been wed not yet a month.”

Maeve sensed Kildare wanted Aric to think them happy in their nuptials. By her husband’s accounts, his friends were fortunate to have found extraordinary love in their unions.

Aric did not look a daft sort of man. He would see quickly, no doubt, that Kildare had not found the same good tidings.

“Maeve,” Kildare said, facing her with a tight smile, “this is Aric Neville, earl of Belford.”

“My lord.” She nodded and stepped away from her husband.

Aric took her hand and lifted it politely. His cool gray eyes assessed her. “I take great pleasure in meeting Kieran’s bride.”

She swallowed nervously “’Tis pleased I am to meet you.”

An awkward silence fell. Most of the watchful castlefolk shuffled away. Maeve briefly introduced Fiona, Brighid, and Jana to the large Englishman.

Jana gave him a cool nod and departed. Fiona, wide-eyed, mumbled a few polite phrases and followed her sister. Brighid stared with obvious interest. Maeve sent the young girl scampering off with a warning glance.

Another moment of silence fell over the trio. Maeve felt Aric’s regard, his taking of her measure. She opened her mouth to excuse herself when Aric spoke instead.