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

Pushing aside such unaccountably deep thoughts, he looked about him, at the land he had not visited since boyhood. Ireland had left him with ill memories, but he could not deny the beauty of the country. The seemingly endless rolling hills would soon be carpeted in a misty green. Pastures swept with gentle dominance across the land until the trees met the bog in the distance.

Kieran drew in a deep breath of air. There was none of London’s sour smell there, he admitted. Above him, a rook called, spreading its dark, glossy wings across a perfect blue sky. To his left, wetlands abounded, making a lattice of the land and water. Marsh thistle spread their pink spindles about, awakening to the surprisingly warm February day.

Still, he’d near give his right arm to be anywhere else, performing any task but riding to choose a bride among four undoubtedly wretched shrews.

As he urged his mount around the bend of a dusty lane, he spotted two young women in simple garb. The one on the right had golden hair that hung down her back in waves. Her slight curves told him she was still a child, though growing.

’Twas the other woman who snared his gaze. She possessed a small waist, lush lips, and, he’d bet, delightfully long legs as well. Beneath her wimple, tendrils of curls skimmed her neck, shimmering in the afternoon sun, lighting it afire with all shades of red.

Flame-haired women had ever been a weakness for him. They tended to be shy creatures who, when properly coaxed, showed their hidden fire with passion and a flush of desire upon fair, fair skin.

Kieran felt his interest—and something more—rouse.

He had been in this wretched country for two days, been without a woman’s comfort for nigh on a week—certainly a record for him. If he was to be wed to some termagant who would likely spend her days plotting his death, could he not be granted just a bit of ease first?

Slapping on his most charming smile, the one that had kept him much sated at Sheen Palace, he urged his mount closer to the redhead. Anticipation slid through him. Mayhap Ireland did have its finer points.

* * * *

Maeve O’Shea turned at the sound of a horse’s hooves. She found herself staring at an unfamiliar man with the body of a warrior, the eyes of a hunter, and a smile designed to persuade a maiden to part with her clothing posthaste.

The stranger was too handsome by half, she thought as his blue-green gaze focused on her, intent, and his eyes warmed a shade. To her annoyance, she felt a flush creep up her cheeks.

With a glare, she turned away. Her reaction was unacceptable. And why, because of his pretty face? She’d not simper over that.

“Good day to you, ladies,” came his voice, smooth as well-worn leather.

And very English.

Beside Maeve, her youngest sister, Brighid, gasped. With a quiet hiss, she shushed the girl.

This man could be no other than the new earl of Kildare. Word had reached Langmore from Dublin that King Henry had executed the previous earl for treason after he supported Lambert Simnel, a Yorkish pretender to the English throne. In the wake of the plot, the Tudor king had sent this new earl to subdue the seeds of rebellion.

What did these English fear in freedom that they must always conquer and make war? She despised them, all of them, for their haughty voices and silken clothes. And their arrogance. Aye, always that. Behind her sat a prime example of grating English confidence.

Turning again to face the intruder, Maeve pasted on a smile.

“And a good day to you, fine sir.” She curtsied.

Apparently pleased with her response, the Englishman dismounted and sauntered toward her, his eyes ever upon her face. Maeve swallowed against the heat of his stare while ignoring her sister’s gaping expression beside her.

With a sweep of his hand, he took her own in his. Maeve scarce had time to register the strength of his fingers and the texture of his calluses against her palm before his lips touched—and lingered—on the back of her hand.

Against her will, she stared. His features were pleasant, his nose straight and even. The slash of his brown brows a masculine arc over the intriguing bluish eyes. He was clean-shaven, and he wore his hair shorn like his undoubtedly Norman ancestors. Even its color was pleasing. Black would have been too severe on him. Nay, God had blessed him with a shade not too light, not too dark, possessing a hint of auburn. And he was probably rich and smart and annoyingly charming besides.

Suddenly, she dreaded every day he spent at Langmore.

“You are a gem indeed amid such a lovely land,” he murmured. “I beg the pleasure of your name, sweet lady.”

’Twas doubtful with his charm he begged for much. No doubt women simply gave the man whatever he asked, all for a mere moment in his strong arms and the touch of his full mouth upon theirs. And while Maeve liked the company of her own sex, they could be such fools when a charming man sniffed about their skirts.

Ignoring the fact her hand tingled where his mouth had been, Maeve gently broke the contact and cast her gaze away as if timid.

“What would you be knowing of this fine land, sir?”

At that, his grin turned wry. Aye, he was self-possessed and strong and a warrior to the core, but he could smile. The flash of white teeth, the engaging stare, the warm interest in his lively eyes made him unlike the other Englishmen she had known. Mischief hung about him as surely as a cloak. No doubt, he had led many a maid astray.

The fact he would remain at Langmore as their lord annoyed and flustered her at once. Would he continue to focus his charm upon her, despite her betrothal to Quaid?

“I know little of the land, ’tis true,” he answered, saving her from foolish thoughts. “But its beauty is clear for all to see.”

Again, his gaze caressed her, roaming her cheeks, brushing her mouth, then meeting her eyes once more. Oddly, Maeve felt her heart pick up its pace again. Why, she had no idea. He was a rogue—and an English one at that—seemingly intent upon trifling with her. He cared naught for the Irish people. Like the others, he would reap the land’s profits, use them to line his coffers, impregnate his kitchen maids, and jail the men.

The fact she could do naught to stop him made her want to scream in frustration. Somehow, she had to stall him, make plans for Langmore’s defense. They were unprepared, for this new Kildare had not been expected until next week!

“’Tis a lovely bit of land we have,” she agreed, smiling with deceptive sweetness. “What brings a fine man like you here?”

At that, his smile faltered. His eyes did not seem quite so lively. “I am the new earl of Kildare, lady.”

“My lord,” she cooed, pretending away—and gritting her teeth.

A furrow wrinkled his brow, and Maeve was surprised to find he did not like her show of deference.

Then the smile returned, as if it had never disappeared. “For you, lovely lass, I am Kieran. And you are…?”

She frowned. Odd, his name. It sounded more Irish than English. In fact, ’twas a Gaelic word for dark. More like than not, ’twas a comment on his soul.

And since he had likely come to subdue her family, she would wait to confess her O’Shea heritage just a bit. He would learn that soon enough.

“I am Maeve. This,” she said, putting her arm around her little sister, “is Brighid.”

The new earl—she refused the intimacy of thinking of him as Kieran—nodded to the young girl. Maeve noticed then that her sister stared at the Englishman with blushing approval.

“Do you steal kisses from maidens?” Brighid asked in an uncertain whisper.

Hellfire! The girl’s questions about men were already too much to take. She knew this audacious knave would only fuel more, and nearly groaned at the realization.

“As often as possible,” he said, grinning. “Twice if she will let me.”

The earl winked at her, and Brighid flushed another shade of pink, blue eyes sparkling with wonderment.

Maeve sighed.

“Do you call this area home?” the earl of Kildare asked, shifting his attention back to herself.

She saw no point in lying…nor in telling the complete truth. “Aye, within Langmore’s walls.”

His smile brightened as he reached for her hand again. “As I am headed there myself, we will likely meet again, sweet Maeve.”

“It seems certain.” She forced a smile to hide her vexation. How dare the man use her Christian name so familiarly, speak it as if he could caress her with the sound.

When he reached Langmore, no doubt her brother, Flynn, would adjust Kildare’s confidence a bit—and possibly his face, as well.

At that, Maeve cringed. She abhorred fighting. Watching grown men beat upon one another like unruly children always aggravated her. And of late, Flynn had been always ready for a nasty fight.

In this case, Maeve could see the purpose.

Prying her hand loose from Kildare’s grip under the pretense of adjusting her wimple, she smiled.

Unfortunately for her, he grinned back, something wicked and lopsided and full of waywardness. Against her better sense, her stomach fluttered.

“Shall I follow you to Langmore, since I find myself lost?” he asked, voice smooth.

“We make for the village, my lord.”

“I see. Can you tell me how might I find Langmore, then?” he asked, his voice ripe and unbroken with charm. “I would appreciate your kind guidance, my sweet.”

His sweet, was she? Her betrothed, Quaid, would indeed be disturbed by that. So was she, for that matter.

And she was eager for Flynn to give Kildare the lumps he deserved. Neither Ireland—nor its ladies—would surrender to his dubious English charm without considerable fight.

For now, she must plan, must find a way to warn Flynn of Kildare’s arrival, before the actual event.

“Langmore, ’tis easy to find from here, my lord,” said Brighid at her side.

When the girl turned toward the pasture-lined lane that led straight to the keep, Maeve knew she must stop her sister.

“Aye, but you must travel on the path through yon bog,” she said, pointing to the nearby wetlands and hills.

“The road does not lead to the castle?” he asked.

“It does,” answered Brighid, frowning.

“But the bridge over the River Barrow is down,” Maeve cut in. “Gone with a flood last spring. And the river’s bank is too steep for your mount, so the bog it must be.”

Brighid stared at her as if vexed. “But—”

“This way you will reach Langmore soon, so that you might meet Flynn, the leader of the O’Shea
Fein
.”

Kildare frowned. Aye, he was surely disturbed by her use of the Gaelic, something the English always hated. Certainly he did not know the word’s meaning. What could he know if Irish kin-groups?

As if reminded of his duty, the new earl looked toward the keep’s stone towers, rising to gray splendor against the blue sky, and nodded, suddenly sober.

“You have my thanks, sweet Maeve. Brighid. ’Tis my hope we meet again soon.” With a courtly bow and a smile, he mounted and urged his roan toward the bog.

Once Kildare had disappeared into the trees, Brighid asked, “Why did you lie to him about the bridge?”

“To give us time to plan. We must warn Flynn. We’ll not be invaded by the English again, particularly not one who thinks overmuch of himself and has a penchant with the ladies.”

* * * *

Whistling a merry tune, Kieran guided his horse toward the bog. Aye, mayhap life at Langmore Castle would not be as disagreeable as he had once thought. The lovely peasant Maeve would be a most pleasing diversion after he had chosen a wife from among the four long-toothed O’Shea sisters.

All in all, he was glad both that he had been a tad lost and that he’d worn one of his best tunics. He was not usually one for much decoration, but in this case, he suspected the gold braiding and rich fabric had been worth the extra expense.

Sighing, he urged his mount up a hill, searching for the path. When he found none, he descended into the valley below, hooves skimming through the cold stream. Bogbean grew up from the soil beneath the water, crowned with tiny white blossoms. And the gentle trickle of water over mossy rock somehow soothed him, despite his upcoming task.

Odd, he could still find no path, despite the fact that Langmore’s visitors had used this for nearly a year. He frowned. Mayhap the castle received few visitors.

Shrugging, he pressed on, making a path of his own. Of a sudden, the water began swirling higher and higher, until it nearly reached his horse’s chest. Lancelot neighed in protest, whether from the cold or rising water, Kieran knew not.

But the stubborn animal made one thing very clear: he would not take another step.

Heaving an angry sigh, Kieran dismounted. A February day had turned the water to something scant warmer than freezing. It rushed about his waist, sank into his boots, and thoroughly soaked his hose and braies.

“Addle-pated beast!”

If the animal heard his curse, he cared not. Instead, he stared at the water, eyes wide, and shook his long head in agitation.

“Stubborn horse,” he said again through gritted teeth as he began to lead Lancelot forward.

After a moment’s hesitation, the stallion took a ginger step toward the opposite bank. Kieran damned the cold water and wondered if his feet would see the land upon yon bank before he froze to death.

They took another step forward, and the water rushed up around Kieran’s chest, dousing his emerald tunic. “Ballocks!”

Though he had no real wish to meet the O’Shea wenches, he wanted to do so looking every inch their lord. He would be hard-pressed to appear an authority whilst looking like a rat half drowned in a vat of ale.

Cursing again, Kieran bolted around the horse from side to front, certain he would persuade the beast to move on before his teeth chattered any more.

He stepped on a rock hidden beneath the water, slick with slippery moss.

Before he could catch his balance, he fell beneath the water’s surface, the icy river closing over his head, sluicing down the skin of his back. His buttocks landed squarely on the offending rock with a jarring thud.