His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (26 page)

“Lie down for me, sweet Maeve.”

Lie down?
Slowly, she registered the command. A protest formed in her mind. He drowned it out with pleasure when he caressed the tops of her breasts with the back of his hand. His knuckles brushed down, until he toyed with the taut crests of her breasts through her dress.

She gasped, writhing, afloat in a haze of need. Inside, she began to ache, deep in her core.

Nay. ’Twas madness.

Kieran bent, his hands freeing her breasts from the confines of her dress. Then his lips and teeth worked the distended tip with a ginger bite, a suckle, until Maeve felt aflame.

“Lie down,” he whispered again.

Quivering, Maeve sat on the bed beside him and lay back, her gaze never leaving his face. She needed this—him—the connection she felt when they shared a bed. This was what she sought, what she could not refuse, the feeling of belonging, of utter rightness. The thought had no logic, but she could not deny her feeling.

Kieran followed her to the mattress and lifted her skirts about her hips. Maeve could see naught but his face and shoulders. His eyes smoldered, hungered.

Then his palm cupped her center, fingers dipping into her moist heat. Already she swelled for him. Heat pierced her.

“Do you want this touch?” He brushed a fingertip back and forth over her sensitive center.

“Aye,” she groaned, arching up to him.

Why, in his arms, was she so wanton? So needful?

“Show me,” he whispered.

Show him? Why did he simply not fill her, possess her?

“Show me,” he repeated.

Frustrated, she reached for his face and brought it down for a kiss. She brushed her tongue along the seam of his lips, and he opened to her, sweeping inside as if he belonged there.

In the next instant, he lay at her side, grasped her about the waist, and brought her above to straddle him. His length, sheathed in hose, pulsed beneath her. She ached.

With a sensual grin, he lifted her hips with his hands, then reached down to make quick work of his hose and braies.

When his hands returned to her hips to pull her down, he entered her, filling her, stretching her tight. Maeve threw her head back at the exquisite sensation. In this position, he went deeper than before, deeper than she thought possible.

“If you want this, show me.” His whisper was a groan.

His fingers tightened about her hips and lifted her until he nearly withdrew. Her body had its own will and thrust herself down onto him once more. At the friction, she moaned.

Again, she raised herself and lowered to him. Then again.

“Aye, sweet Maeve. You kill me with pleasure.”

She killed herself as well.

Soon, Maeve found herself greedy for more. She quickened the pace. Her breath grew ragged. Her mind ceased. Beneath her, Kieran grew tense, his groans more frequent. She felt the heady rush of his rapture, of her own, melding, thickening in the air, until pressure and sharp need blended to splinter into a million pieces.

As her sheath tightened around his body, convulsing, Kieran’s shoulders turned harder than stone beneath her hands. He cried out her name in ecstasy.

Satisfaction melted her in hot, slow sweeps. She collapsed against him, too tired to move, to breathe, to think. That could all come later.

Then there would be time to wonder why she had given in to this need—and how she could purge herself of it.

* * * *

Two uneasy weeks slid by. Though Kieran had assumed at first their latest—foolish—romp in his bed had cured the ails of their marriage, she had quickly relieved him of that notion. They had scarce spoken since. Maeve still could not discern if the anger she harbored was more for Kieran and his conniving, charming ways or for her own weak will where he was concerned.

Then the rumor of the rebellion army forming for fight took Kieran away from Langmore. Lord Belford, his tall English friend, went with him. Flynn wrote to her to assure her of his well-being. Maeve felt as if she might breathe in peace.

At least until Flynn sent one of his men, Ulick McConnell, to tell her of his terrifying plans and beg her assistance.

At least until she began feeling unwell.

Shifting her position on the bench in the solar, Maeve focused on her needlework but was so tired ’twas as if she had not slept in days. Quite the opposite was true. For a week now, she had slept deep and long, even napping despite her fear of the rebellion’s bloody plot.

Squinting against the needle piercing the canvas, her arm felt leaden. Giving up, she set her mending aside.

Across the room, Jana watched her. “Still unwell?”

Maeve nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. But the familiar action crushed tender breasts, and she flinched against the discomfort.

Jana set her needle to the silk in her lap and threaded it through. “Has your stomach been ill these past weeks?”

“Once, but it soon passed.”

Nodding, her sister watched her with curiosity. “You have lain with your husband. When was your last flow?”

Over two months past.
Maeve knew thus in her mind. Still, she denied the obvious answer to her ailment.

“Perhaps I have a fever, some ill-humor.”

“Know you of an ill-humor that robs a woman of her flow and causes her to need sleep, other than bearing a babe?”

Maeve closed her eyes against Jana’s words. Deep down, she knew them to be true, had suspected as much herself. Still, she could not accept thus.

A babe? Now? So soon? Pregnancy was a matter of much gravity. It took her further from the life she had once planned, thrust her deeper into Kieran’s path. Their marriage seemed inexorable, more binding.

Sweet Mary, help her. Was she ready to forever be joined to a warrior, an Englishman? To the infuriating Kieran?

Nature had apparently left her little choice.

What would she tell her husband? Ought she say a word? Perhaps Jana was wrong. Even if she spoke true, Maeve was not ready to tell Kieran. Their marriage was so fragile. He, Ireland’s enemy, had some hold on her she could not comprehend. A child would only complicate her feelings, her life.

Suddenly, Jana stood at her side. “You look pale, sister. Perhaps you should lie down again.”

Maeve nodded. Before she could quit the room, a clatter on the stairs drew her notice. Sword sheathed at his side, Kieran approached the door, looking weary from his travels.

He barked down the stairs for a bath, then turned to Jana. “Good tidings, Jana. How fares little Geralt?”

She nodded coolly. “He is all health, my lord.”

“Excellent. Will you leave us, please?” He cast his sharp gaze to Maeve.

Sitting on the edge of a chair, Kieran removed his boots with a groan and let them fall to the floor. His weapon followed, then his tunic. He moved slowly, tiredly. Maeve found herself staring at her bare-chested husband, wondering why the sight of him should affect her heartbeat even now.

“There will be a rebellion soon,” he said suddenly, gaze holding hers tightly. “I smell it. I feel it. They are out there, hiding, desperate, willing to do anything for their cause.” He scowled. “My father is in the center. The whispers I hear tell me his plan is pure madness.”

Maeve returned Kieran’s stare, her heart now beating with fear. Ulick’s messages from Flynn had mentioned Desmond O’Neill. They had told her of his dangerous ploy.

She hated it almost as much as the role he’d asked her to play.

“I fear people, many of them, will die if your brother and my father succeed. Maeve, I know our marriage has not been an easy one. I know you disagree with my support of King Henry. But you and I are united in our wish to save innocent lives. Help me,” he implored. “Tell me what you know.”

Maeve looked away. If she helped him, she would betray her brother, perhaps condemn him to Quaid’s fate. And for all of Flynn’s faults, he had protected the O’Shea sisters since their parents’ deaths. He was blood. She loved him.

But if she refused Kieran’s request, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of innocent people could well die. Fathers, brothers, sons, some mere children, would follow Flynn’s vision for an Ireland born in bloody rebellion, having no notion of the awful price they would pay in deaths for an uncertain future. Did none of them see that only freedom, borne of peaceful negotiations with the English, would be lasting?

“Maeve.” He reached for her hands and took them in his. “I know what I ask of you is great. I know you have little reason to believe I want this war to end in peace. But I do.”

She desperately wanted peace, so Jana might raise little Geralt without fear, so Fiona’s memories of her horror might fade, so she could birth her own child in a land not oppressed.

But how could she entrust Ireland’s future to the hands of a man whose very soul resounded with English loyalties? He
believed
the Irish should be under English rule.

Sweet Mary, her mind understood what her traitorous body did not: she could not place her brother’s fate in the hands of a warrior who had done naught to save her betrothed from execution. Aye, mayhap Kieran had not the power to save Quaid, but had Quaid not been a rival, he might have tried at least. ’Twas no secret her husband and her brother felt much dislike for each other. Would there be no harmony at Langmore until one of them left…or died? Maeve shivered at the thought.

“Maeve?” He squeezed her hands.

“You give me much importance in the eyes of the rebellion, where no such faith exists, my lord,” she began.

Betraying her brother, possibly condemning him to execution, was unthinkable. She could only hope to give Kieran hint enough to stop the worst of the rebel plan without sacrificing her brother’s location.

“I know you have information, Maeve,” Kieran stated. “You have conveyed missives from rebel to rebel over the past year.”

How had he learned that? Panic seized her. Maeve breathed in and looked away, lest he see the truth in her eyes.

“Think you the rebels would trust a woman with such an important task?”

“They would trust an Irishwoman whom the English would not suspect. They trust you, Maeve.”

She shrugged, not meeting his gaze. “I hear but whispers, like you, my lord.”

“What whispers have you heard?” he asked sharply.

Maeve tried to think of details that would not expose her brother. She thought of several, then thrust them aside as too dangerous before saying, “Malahide is but one English fortification the rebels would like back in their possession.”

Kieran’s gaze drilled into her. “Do you say their ambitions are to reclaim the whole Pale at once?”

“Such would not surprise me if the idea was met with favor.”

“With but two hundred men, how can they think to do this?”

Maeve disentangled her hands, relieved when Kieran let her pace the chamber to retrieve some blank parchment. “I believe they have found weapons in household necessities.”

With that, she tossed the parchment onto the fire. It flared, with the sudden kindling, burning orange and hot, flickering and gyrating with power and hunger.

Kieran watched with dawning horror, his face ashen.

Satisfied he understood what he must, Maeve quietly left.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“So what will you do now?” Aric asked late that night.

Kieran looked across the empty great hall with a shrug and clutched his tankard of ale. He had spent the evening writing missives to other Palesmen, warning them of a massive attack, one he knew would happen within days. He plotted a scheme to defend Langmore using its army. With the divided loyalties of the soldiers, he could only wonder on which side they would fight and pray ’twas his.

Those tasks completed, he’d sat with Aric for the past hour, telling him all he knew of the rebellion—all Maeve had hinted at. Exhaustion ate at him. Still, he felt the need for Aric’s counsel without rebel ears nearby.

“Do?” Kieran raked a hand through his shaggy hair. “I must wait. I know not where to find Flynn or my father. Maeve would not tell me as much.” He paused. “She trusts me not.”

“You represent her enemy, a threat to her family. In time, she will accept you.”

Kieran laughed bitterly. “You are full of hope. More than I.” He shook his head. “Maeve will not come. She may be a quiet creature, more inclined to books than battle, but she will fight accepting me until her last breath.”

“That disturbs you.”

’Twas not a question. As always, Aric’s gray gaze seemed to see his every thought.

Both relieved and resentful, Kieran nodded.

Aric’s gaze questioned. “Why do you suppose your feelings are thus?”

Kieran pictured Maeve, mouth pinched in anger, head thrown back in rapture, wearing one of her teasing smiles, her hair a fiery wreath about her face. Something in her quiet manner drew him in, always had. Yet beneath her surface beat the heart of a passionate, brave woman, a woman of intellect, capable of great caring for those around her. When he was with her, she confused him. Yet through her eyes, he saw life as he’d never seen it—with a hope of peace, of promise for something beyond the next battle. He saw a life of joy.

“Because…” He sighed, paused, then realized his terrible dilemma. “Because I love the wench.”

Setting aside his tankard, Kieran buried his head in his hands. Did he truly love Maeve? Aye, he did. When? Why her?

Beside him, Aric laughed. “Welcome to the fate Drake and I share. ’Tis pitiful to love a woman so that she twists your mind, but there is no escape, I’m sorry to say.”

The fact his friend was clearly not distressed made Kieran rise with a frown.

“’Tis easy for you to say. Your wife returns your regard.”

“And so will Maeve, and soon, I believe.”

A heady thought that filled Kieran with a bright wish, but an impossible one.

“Nay. Because of Quaid, Flynn, and the rebellion—Ireland itself—she will never trust me, never cleave to me.”

Aric smiled. “You have ways of coaxing her to you.”

“Even if I coax her now and again, her silence and resentment will run deeper each time I do. I begin to wonder if the pleasure is worth the price.”