His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (31 page)

He feared that, if he followed his heart’s impulse and returned to Langmore, it would become much like Balcorthy someday, its spirit dying, walls filled with hate, until ’twas abandoned. He also feared its people would suffer the same fate, and he could not do that to Maeve.

If he returned, Maeve’s hate for him would surely only grow. As he loved her, Kieran knew he could not endure that.

In return, he would have the cold consolation of knowing he had done the best he could to see her happiness—and miss her always.

* * * *

A week later, quiet reigned at Langmore, except for the occasional cries made by little Geralt.

Each night, Maeve muffled the sound of her tears in her pillow and hoped Fiona, with whom she still shared a chamber, could not hear in the silence.

Another dawn burst over the spring-laden land. Maeve woke but did not open her tired eyes. Those, along with her aching heart and roiling stomach, were all intimate reminders of Kieran, of the husband she could never forget.

’Twould be easy if she could bring herself to hate him as she had told him she did. But her heart would not be merciful in this, and it pined for him, yearned to see his wicked smile, feel his tender touch again. It remembered the happy moments, the occasional teasing, the help he gave her sisters, the care with which he’d made love to her.

Only her mind recalled his ugly bargain, considered all the ways in which he had probably deceived her with any number of glib lies. With Kieran’s charm, ’twas likely he knew well how to seduce women, tell them what they craved hearing, whilst keeping his heart to himself, untouched. She’d known upon first meeting Kieran that was his game. Maeve knew he had ensnared her in his smile until she forgot the truth. And she was more the fool for it.

“Are you coming to break your fast, Maeve?” asked Jana suddenly from the door.

She looked across the room, to Fiona’s bed, and found it empty. It must be late indeed.

She sighed. “Nay, food holds no appeal.”

“You must keep your strength for this babe,” she admonished. “You’ll want him strong for you and for Ireland.”

Maeve nodded. Deep in her heart, she knew Jana spoke true, but her spirit felt so battered by Kieran’s departure and her unrequited love, she could scarce think about much beyond surviving this day.

Jana frowned, then crossed the room to Maeve’s side suddenly. “You miss him?”

Biting her lip, Maeve did her best not to cry. Kieran deserved no more of her tears. Aye, he was capable of an occasional kindness if it suited him. But he could not return her love, could never put her wishes at equal with his, could not be honest if it meant revealing his motives or explaining himself. A man like that was not worthy of her sorrow.

So why could she not contain it?

“Maeve, I know not what happened between you, but I—”

“Then say naught. I will deal with this.”

“I think he cared for you very much. The manner in which he looked at you… ’Twas more than lust, Sister. He saved Flynn and even now keeps our brother’s presence secret in Langmore’s dungeon. He has allowed us all to visit him. The last earl would not have done so much.”

Her own sister defended the enemy? Must she endure rebellion within her own family?

“I was not wed to the last earl!” Maeve cried. “I cared not if the last earl lied to me. Kieran stood in silence and watched Quaid die. He made a bargain with the king to destroy the rebellion and conceive a babe so he might have his freedom, and did not tell me thus! Why should I want a man like that?”

Jana sat on the edge of the bed beside her sister. “Did he leave before you dismissed him from Langmore?”

Maeve hesitated. “Nay, but—”

“I think, Sister, that you turned him away before he could leave you. I think, once you heard of his bargain, you feared the man you loved would leave you forever, and you cast him out first. Did you think ’twould hurt less that way?”

Maeve paused, still now. Had she done what Jana accused?

A fresh wave of despair rushed up to claim her. Anger followed. “Why did he leave?” she cried. “Not because I ordered him to, I know. He ne’er listened to me of his own will.”

“Maybe ’twas your will he followed. I think he cared for you, Maeve, and did not want your contempt and distrust. He left, rather than upset you more.”

“Why do you defend him?” Maeve demanded. “He is English and he came here to subjugate us, enslave us to the English ways.”

“If that were true, he would have seen most of us dead or reduced to servants, imprisoned, or starved us. Instead, he wed you, cared for Langmore, cared for you, helped with little Geralt’s birth, and saved Flynn’s life. His bargain with the king was made long before he met you.”

True, all of it. But something inside Maeve still fought back. “But he never told me of his odious deal!”

“If he had, what would have changed?” Jana prompted, touching a soft hand to Maeve’s shoulder. “Would you have been able to resist him forever? Nay. You would have loved him, only fearing sooner that he would leave you.”

Maeve closed her weary eyes. ’Twas ugly, but she feared Jana had the right of it. Her elder sister had no reason to defend a man so aligned to the English cause. Could it be Jana saw what she herself did not?

“I know not what to do,” she whispered, feeling fresh tears sting her eyes.

Jana drew her into a sisterly embrace. “It will come to you, Maeve. Just listen to your heart.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

April blurred into May, which quickly passed to the first of June. Kieran gripped his mug of ale and tried not to remember that forty-eight days had passed since he’d last held Maeve, had last wanted to smile. ’Twas hard to forget with so many reminders haunting the keep of Harwich Hall.

“Averyl, love,” Drake cajoled his breeding wife, whilst holding their two-year-old daughter, Nessa. “You cannot mean to spend the day riding about to visit the villagers and Gwenyth. You are fragile now—”

Gwenyth snorted at that as she came down the stairs and entered the room. “She has twice been through a breeding, you mutton-head. I will watch over her. She will not break.”

The women shared indulgent grins. Maeve would fit in well here, Kieran thought. Or she would if she didn’t hate him.

But she did, and he knew naught would change that.

The thought came with pain. He pushed it away and watched his friends with dispassionate eyes.

Drake threw a mock glower at Gwenyth. “And why should I trust you? You ever lead my wife astray, you English hoyden.”

The Scotsman’s teasing tone had Gwenyth laughing.

“I like that quality in my wife,” Aric called as he stepped down the stairs behind Gwenyth, holding the bundle of their infant daughter.

“Besides,” Averyl murmured, grinning at her husband, “’Tis you who leads me astray, and I will soon have a babe to prove it.”

Standing in a small circle, the foursome laughed. Drake kissed his daughter, who squirmed for release. As he let her down to join her three-year-old brother in the nearby garden, he wore a contented grin, the likes of which, a few short years ago, Kieran had not believed his Scottish friend would ever display again.

Drake caressed his wife’s shoulder in a tender gesture, then flashed her a grin. “And I thank God you let me lead you astray often.”

More laughter ensued. Kieran took another swig of his ale and cursed beneath his breath when he found the tankard dry.

Their happiness should gladden him. His best friends, the brothers of his heart, had found such joy in life and in marriage. ’Twas plain to see.

But jealousy festered like a canker in his heart. He wanted their contentment, the bliss so evident on their warrior faces. And, God help him, he wanted it with Maeve. Such wishes were foolish and impossible, but he could not stop them.

“What say you, Kieran?” Drake called. “Is it not Gwenyth’s wayward manner that has led Averyl astray?”

He tried to smile. “Blame Gwenyth not for your sins.”

“Ah ha!” she said in triumph. “Kieran sees the truth.”

Drake groaned. “But you give my sweet wife such rebellious ideas.”

Averyl faced her husband with a saucy smile. “How do you know the ideas are hers?”

Aric clapped Drake on the back. “She has you beat there, my friend. Poor Averyl has been wed to you now for nigh on four years. Certainly, you must blame your influence on her.”

“Me?” Drake pointed to himself in mock insult. “I am all that is innocent and pure of thought.”

Laughing, Averyl faced her husband. “Now we all know your ability to lie. Take you off to the chapel. Such a falsehood cries out for confession!”

“You are supposed to take my side, love,” Drake whispered.

“When you are so outrageously false? Never.”

At Averyl’s giggle, Drake wrapped his arms around her and brushed a kiss on her lips. To their left, Aric cast Gwenyth a tender gaze.

Kieran turned away, knowing he could take no more.

Their happiness burned in his gut, dangled before his eyes like a prize just out of reach.

Springing up from his bench, uncaring that its scraping sound disrupted the joy in the room, he rose and left, fists clenched at his sides.

“Poor Kieran…” he heard Averyl say.

He strode faster to block out their pitying conversation, destined to follow.

To his surprise, Kieran looked up and found himself in the chapel. Ordinarily, the House of God had little appeal for him. Battle and war left little time for commune with a higher being and reflection on the soul.

Today, it sounded perfect.

He knelt on one knee and crossed himself before rising to his feet again. What should he do next? Kneel again? Stand here and pray? He sighed. And what would he pray for besides a miracle? Surely naught less would bring Maeve back to him.

To his right, Kieran heard a sigh, then saw Guilford struggling to his feet. Rushing to his mentor, he clasped a hand around the old man’s arm and helped him upright.

Guilford shot him an irritated glance. “’Tis slow I am, not infirm.”

“I am sorry,” Kieran said, releasing the old man.

“What brings you here?”

Kieran shrugged. “Quiet, I suppose.”

Guilford stared in disbelief. “Never have I known you to seek quiet, lad. Your wife trouble weighs upon you.”

The old man’s perception ruffled him. He had not been so obvious, had he? Aye, he supposed he had. Still, he did not want to be reminded of thus, and he did not want to discuss it.

“It will pass.”

“I think not.” Guilford frowned. “Aric and Drake at least had the sense to bring their brides here whilst sorting through the difficulties of their lives. You left your Maeve in Ireland. How am I to meet her then?”

Sleeplessness and melancholy ruled his life until he hardly knew himself, and Guilford worried over meeting Maeve?

“I will give you directions to Langmore,” he snapped, then hesitated. “And do not be deceived should anyone tell you that you must trek through the bog because the bridge is down.”

Guilford chuckled. “Maeve’s doing?”

With a sad, self-deprecating smile, he nodded.

“Ah, boy, ’tis clear you love her. You’ve scarce smiled since arriving. You have not looked at any of the wenches you used to fancy, and you even snarled at one you used to find more than passing pleasing, as I recall.”

Ballocks, Kieran had been aware of that himself. “I need no reminders of my recent history, old man.”

Kieran tried not to look glum, but he felt thus, and was all but certain it showed on his face. Why else would Guilford smile so smugly?

“Leave me in peace,” he said. “Aric and Drake do well with your guidance. They are men of reflection.”

“And you have been a man of action these past days, aye. Staring into your ale, refusing opportunities to return to Spain or join the battle in France, glowering at all and sundry. Aye, it must be difficult to think much with so grueling a schedule.”

Kieran glared at the old man’s sarcasm. Then he realized Guilford was right, as always. Naught pleased him anymore but the thought of returning to Maeve. Naught hurt him more than knowing she would never take him back.

Kieran sighed. Bleak days stretched out before him, and he had no notion of what to do, how to rebuild his life without Maeve. Why should it be that the very freedom he sought before he wed her was now the freedom that would likely kill him?

“Did you tell her you love her?” Guilford asked simply.

“Nay.” He had been too certain she would never return the sentiment. He’d been too afraid that baring his heart would only make their inevitable parting more painful when politics and their beliefs clashed again.

“Mayhap ’tis time you did,” Guilford offered. “With a woman, ofttimes a true apology and a few tender words will melt the anger from her heart.”

“Think you I’ve never known a woman, old man?”

Guilford’s blue eyes turned serious. “I think you’ve known plenty of women, but never stayed long enough to know their hearts.”

The words took Kieran aback with their simple truth. Aye, he had ever known how to coax a woman into bed. What had he known of keeping her ardor after? Naught, for he had never wanted such.

“Of you three, I feared you, Kieran, would find making an attachment most difficult. Your parents did not love.”

Kieran fought a grimace. He had been thinking about Desmond and Jocelyn’s dismal marriage too much of late. Certainly, he had no wish to discuss it, either.

“Kieran, do you hear me?”

“I cannot help but hear you.” He sighed. “Aye, my parents did not love.”

“But if Maeve disagreed with you in silence, would you have beat her for it, as your father did to your mother? If she turned to the Bible to ignore you, would you do your best to force your attentions upon her?”

The very idea repelled him. “Nay!”

“And would Maeve destroy everything in her path for the simple purpose of hurting you?”

Kieran frowned at the foolish image. “Maeve seeks peace.”

“Hmm. There you have it.”

“I have naught! Just because we would not seek the other’s pain does not mean we will love. Too much divides us.”