His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (33 page)

How often had Kieran wished he could do just that? He had taken fewer breaths in his lifetime, he felt sure. Still, he knew Drake’s suggestion was impossible.

“She hates me,” he admitted. “She ordered me gone.”

Drake laughed, then quelled the sound at Kieran’s glare. “Maeve hates you not. She is merely angry.”

Kieran snorted. “Spoken like someone who has never met my wife.”

“Is she not a woman with a woman’s heart?” Drake folded his hands upon the table. “Aye, and she cares. Did she not, ’twould not have mattered to her if you stayed at Langmore. You would have been little more than irritating, hardly worthy of such emotion. Because she cares, and because you hurt her and her pride, she renounced you, demanded you leave, and regretted it moments after you were gone, I would wager.”

Why did Drake make everything sound so simple? So right?

Should he seek out Maeve, try to win her affection? Misery propelled him to think so. He knew not what else to do.

“Kieran,” called Aric as he crossed the room to his friends. “This came for you.”

Aric held out a rolled parchment in his large hands. Kieran looked at him in question. Who could want him? Who knew where to find him? His belly rumbled with apprehension.

“’Tis from Langmore,” Aric said softly.

Kieran took the missive, frowning with trepidation. Rolled within that was another small piece of parchment. Quickly, he scanned the first. The first was from old Patrick at Langmore explaining that his lady wife had disappeared and Flynn O’Shea had escaped. Cold fear tore through his gut. Hands shaking, he forced himself to open the other missive.

Fury and fright roared in his gut as he read the second note. Flynn had written one sentence designed to incite a terror such as Kieran had never known:

Return to Ireland and relinquish Langmore to the rebellion or Maeve dies.

Shaky and cold, Kieran dropped the notes on the table before him with a curse. Drake grabbed them and read quickly, Aric peering over his shoulder. They cursed within moments of each other.

“Dear God, why her?” Kieran whispered, wishing this horror to the realm of nightmare. But naught would change its truth.

“We will rescue her,” Aric said.

“Aye, all of us,” Drake offered.

Shocked and dizzy, Kieran shook his head. “The battle is mine.”

“Any battle of yours is a battle of ours,” Aric said fiercely. “Had you a need to fight at Bosworth Field? Nay, you said you went for Guilford, but I know you entered the bloody battle for me as well.”

Drake nodded. “My fight with my half brother was my own as well. But you and Aric came to help me, to see Averyl safe. Now let us see your wife safe and help you.”

“Never forget we are brothers.” Aric held up his palm, revealing the thin scar where they had sealed their pact in blood nearly twenty years past.

“We are brothers,” Drake repeated, holding up his palm.

Gratitude, relief, fury, terror—all filled Kieran at once. Through it all, he saw that Maeve would have a much better chance of surviving if they all attended to her rescue.

Kieran held up his palm, too, and briefly swiped it across that of the other men. “Thank you, my brothers. Let us ride.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After five hard days of travel, Aric, Drake, and Kieran arrived at Langmore, his squire, Colm, in tow. The June sun cast its full glory on the tall stone structure. Clouds hung in the periphery, dotting the piercing blue sky. Towering trees swayed to the rhythm of the breeze, leaves whispering of age-old tales of love and danger.

Dismounting at the gates, Kieran thought he had never seen a sight so welcome—or so painful—as Langmore. The gentle flow of the River Barrow, the lush hills of green, and the yellow blossoms of the meadow vetchling—all had seeped their way into his blood. He had missed this place.

And he had missed Maeve, fiercely.

“It is a good keep,” Drake commented as he led his mount to the gate. “Sturdy and well placed.”

Beside him, Aric smiled, holding his horse’s reins. “Aye, and that it sits amid such beautiful land does not hurt, eh?”

Kieran looked about him again and satisfaction—belonging even—wound through him like honey. “It is beautiful.”

“So you finally admit it,” Aric shot back. “And you chose to leave all this to brood into your ale at Hartwich?”

“It was a foolish choice,” Kieran conceded, handing his reins to Colm, who trailed behind them.

“Indeed,” Drake concurred.

In silence, they strode through the gate and the garrison, his soldiers greeting him as he passed. The trio wound their way through the lower bailey, the outer buildings, until the middle bailey and the keep came into view.

“Every bit is impressive,” said Drake. “’Tis clean and efficient. Has it always been thus?”

He nodded. “Maeve is a fine chatelaine.”

At the mention of her name, Kieran tried to push back the rise of fear threatening to seize his heart and shred his guts. He forced it down.

“We will save her,” Aric assured him in the stilted silence.

Nodding, he looked about the familiar walls as they made their way to the great hall. Still, Kieran found himself watching for his redheaded minx, foolishly hoping she might appear at any moment.

But he knew such would not happen. He only prayed now he could save her from the rebels’ fervor.

“Kieran, thank God you’ve arrived!” cried Jana, bustling in with little Geralt in her arms. “Thank you for coming as well, Lord Belford.” She nodded at Drake. “Good sir.”

Aric nodded. “I am here to help in whatever way I can.”

“As am I,” said his Scottish friend.

Fiona and Brighid followed, and the youngest sister grabbed Kieran’s hands earnestly.

“You will save her?” Brighid questioned.

He squeezed her hands, moved by the concern in all her sisters’ eyes. “I will.”

“We will,” murmured Colm as he entered the room, staring at Brighid with the look of a hungry man, not a wishful boy.

The girl flashed his squire an answering gaze, flushed a becoming pink, and looked away.

In the silence, Kieran introduced Drake to the remaining O’Shea sisters, then moved to the question most on his mind. “What happened? How did Flynn get free? Where did he take Maeve?”

“We received word that Lord Butler traveled to Langmore to search our dungeons for Flynn,” Jana supplied.

Damnation! “He knew I had imprisoned Flynn there?”

She shook her head. “Nay, but he suspected. So Maeve and I concocted a plan to free Flynn. We could not simply let our brother die, and Maeve did not wish to see those greedy Palesmen accuse you of treason. ’Twas the only way.”

As much as Kieran hated to admit thus, Jana was right.

“Maeve told me she planned to speak to Flynn about his violence in this rebellion,” the eldest O’Shea sister added.

“And…?”

“We know not,” Fiona answered quietly. “Jana created a diversion with one of the rebels. All the guards ran to save her from the soldier’s mock assault.”

When the young woman cast her gaze downward, Kieran felt certain Fiona remembered her own attack and the two men who had destroyed the innocence of this sweet girl. Without thought, he squeezed her hand and nearly smiled when she did not flinch.

“So you discovered Maeve gone after that?” he prompted.

Brighid nodded. “We knew not what to do. Jana screamed, Fiona cried, I looked and looked and looked all about the keep but could find naught. Finally, old Patrick found signs of footsteps and a scuffle near the curtain wall. We knew Flynn would race for a horse the rebel messenger left for him in the woods. When we searched for the horse and found it gone, we felt certain Flynn had taken Maeve and we knew not why.”

“Then Desmond O’Neill came,” said Jana.

Kieran closed his eyes and held in a curse.

“Your father?” asked Drake.

Slowly, he nodded. “What did he want?”

“At first, we were uncertain,” said Brighid, her face the picture of fury beneath her blond curls. “He said only to tell you when you returned to Langmore that you would know where to find him.”

Saint Peter’s balls!
Kieran had no time or inclination to deal with his father now, especially since the location Desmond referred to could only be Balcorthy.

“He said Maeve and Flynn are with him,” added Fiona. “Then he gave us Flynn’s note, which we sent to you.”

Even worse.
He’d always known that Flynn and Desmond together were more combustible than a raging blaze. That Maeve was in their power frightened him more than anything in his life ever had.

“What plan have you?” Jana demanded. “Do you know of their lair?”

He nodded. “The ruins of my boyhood home, Balcorthy. ’Tis in the Wicklow Mountains. We will leave come morn.”

Jana nodded. “’Tis glad I am you have returned to save Maeve. She…she needs you.”

Kieran swallowed against the lump of emotion that threatened to choke him. Never had he felt thus, as if his heart had overruled his logic. But today, it did. “I need her, too.”

Jana smiled brightly at that, as if she approved of him, of their union. Gladness would have overtaken him then had he not been so stunned and worried.

“Promise you will do your best to save her, and I will have a maid show you and your friends to your chambers.”

Standing, Kieran regarded Maeve’s eldest sister. Her dark eyes were wise with loss and love and all that life brought. And brotherly affection—for him, even more evident when she leaned forward to place a kiss on his cheek.

“Promise?” she whispered.

“Aye. That is a promise I freely make.”

I only hope ’tis a promise I can make real
, he thought silently, hoping his worst fears—fears of his wife’s murder—would not come to pass.

* * * *

Huddled in the castle’s ruins, chilled by the falling mist, Maeve stared out into the open night, then glanced back at Flynn and Desmond O’Neill. Her brother had imbibed so much ale this night it seemed likely he would soon find oblivion. And Desmond was no longer a young man. He had fallen asleep an hour past. A dozen rebel guards wandered around the perimeter of the ruins, true.

Still, Maeve had to believe she would escape.

Flynn’s chilling words rushed back to her as he’d calmly informed her of the “painless” sacrifice he intended she make for the rebellion, should Kieran not come to her rescue and agree to surrender Langmore.

And after the manner in which she had thrown the man out of his own home, she doubted very much that he would come.

Nay, she was on her own—and now seemed the time to escape.

With slow movements, Maeve pushed aside the thin blanket her brother had provided, and inched toward a large hole in the ruin’s walls, her backside dampening with dirt and rain as she crept. Her heart hammered so fast in her chest the sound pounded in her ears like a frantic drumbeat.

As she reached the thigh-high gap in the wall, she eased over the side and stood to run.

“Maeve!” she heard Flynn scream from behind.

A look over her shoulder proved her worst nightmare a reality as her brother, Desmond, and all the rebels began to give chase.

Maeve forced herself onward, through trees, down a hill, splashing through the cold waters of a shallow loch, praying desperately to reach the other side and find freedom.

Behind her, she heard more splashing. A terrified glance backward proved Flynn and his henchmen were gaining.

Determined not to be their victim, Maeve put all her energy into sprinting away. Mist ran into her eyes, and her heart and lungs felt ready to explode. Her thighs trembled with effort. In her mad dash, her tresses fell free of their confines and streamed behind her like a red beacon in the dark. Knowing such made her much too easy to find in the dark, she grabbed at it, clawing at her head to reel it in.

Before she could, Flynn grabbed her hair from behind and gave it a vicious yank, tumbling Maeve to her backside.

“I begin to think you do not support our cause, Sister,” he ground out, wrapping his palm in her hair and giving another cruel tug.

Maeve gasped. Her eyes watered both in pain and fear. “I-I want a free Ireland. I vow.” Her voice trembled, and she cursed her fear, for Flynn would only feed on it. “But I have long said I want no bloodshed, least of all my own.”

He grunted impatiently. “Your head is filled with ideals that lie nowhere near reality. War means blood, Maeve.”

Sighing, Flynn released her hair, grasped her arm, and jerked her to her feet. He sneered into her face. “You are a coward, and I am ashamed. Do you think Geralt or Quaid were afraid to give their lives for the noble cause of freedom? Nay, they gave freely, and here you sit sniveling.”

“There are other ways to achieve freedom,” she argued.

“Not if we want it now. Too long we have watched them pillage our land, rob us of coin whilst calling it one tax or another. They rape our women and steal our property. No more, I tell you now! The English in Ireland must die, every man, woman, and child!

“Each I would stretch on a rack myself until they near broke apart, then gut them as they watched, as they felt the very blood leave their body toward death.”

Maeve shuddered at the horror of his words, his wishes. That he would wish such a terrible end upon anyone startled her. That he would even inflict such a death upon a woman—or worse, a child—terrified her.

The realization that the child growing inside her was part English filled her with a fear unlike she any had ever known. For if Flynn learned she had conceived, he would kill her that moment and be pleased with his work, no doubt.

“Flynn,” she tried to reason with him, despite her shaking voice. “Kieran will not come for me. He cares not about me.”

And Maeve feared she had no one but herself to blame for that sad fact. Long ago, she should have followed her heart, found some way to build a family, despite their divided loyalties.

“He is smitten with you. And why not? You are a beautiful lass and an O’Shea. Nay, he will come, and soon.”