His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (35 page)

Blood streamed out of O’Shea’s throat in a red metallic ooze, his artery severed. Flynn sank to the ground.

The sickly sweet tinge of blood scented the air, running freely down Flynn’s tunic, then into the earth.

Kieran grabbed Flynn’s wrist and felt for his pulse. It was weak and fast. And with a wound such as his, ’twould be no more than a matter of minutes before he died.

Maeve screamed and knelt to her brother, shock dominating her pale, pale face. Saint Peter above! He had just wounded his wife’s brother, most likely mortally.

He looked away, toward Aric. “We must stop the blood.”

Aric shook his head. “’Tis too late.”

“We must try! I have seen worse. Maeve—”

Kneeling, Drake felt Flynn’s pulse, then shook his head.

Silence fell. Kieran felt as if his heart had stopped, as if time had stopped. He stared, motionless, stunned at his unmoving nemesis.

“He is gone,” Drake murmured, taking Kieran by the arm.

He shrugged off Drake’s touch and knelt to Flynn. Blood seeped from the man’s open wound slowly now that his heart no longer pumped.

Swallowing against the maelstrom of feeling—confusion, anger, shock—he merely stared. Dear God, how much would Maeve hate him now? He closed his eyes, dread pelting him like a violent, unrelenting storm.

Aric and Drake each came to stand by Kieran’s side and took one of his arms, hoisting him to his feet.

“Your father is dead as well,” whispered Drake.

A stone’s throw away, Kieran saw Desmond on his back, a blade protruding from his belly. Sighing, Kieran closed his eyes for a moment, finding a tangle of regret for the death of the sire who had never been a father to him.

He could not mourn the loss of the father he’d never had.

“We have dead and wounded to tend. You have a grieving wife.” Aric nodded toward the ruins.

Maeve.
Pain lanced Kieran as he swerved his gaze to his wife, sobbing silently as she knelt by her brother.

Heated feeling came in another blast. Kieran closed his eyes, wishing he could sink to the ground and find a moment’s oblivion, for he could not face Maeve’s blame and loathing, sure to come.

Refusing to succumb to such weakness, Kieran took slow steps toward his wife until he reached her side. “I am sorry. I never wanted—never meant—”

Maeve suddenly rose and threw herself into his embrace. Kieran knew not what to say. Her slight body molded itself to him, and he sensed her tears in her trembling, knew the confusion and fear, so evident in her fierce grip.

“I never meant to see it end this way.” His voice was a low vow, willing her to believe him.

Still, he knew ’twas unlikely she would ever take him back.

Maeve released her grip on him and stepped away. She answered with a brisk nod, her chin trembling as she held in tears.

“How fare you?” asked Aric as he approached Maeve with a concerned touch to her shoulder.

Kieran watched closely as Maeve gave his friend a shaky nod. But he was not fooled. She had yet to really understand what happened this night. Once she did, Maeve would despise him always.

“Maeve, I am Drake,” said his other friend as he approached his wife with the blanket from his saddle. “Get you warm, lass.” He looked at Kieran. “We need to be away. Colm is hurt, as are you.”

Casting his gaze down, Kieran found the shallow gash across his chest that was already beginning to clot. He had no concern there. But what of Colm? A moment later, he found his young squire clutching a jagged wound in his shoulder. ’Twas deep and would need stitches and a poultice quickly if he was to keep the arm. Damnation! What was he to do? He could stitch wounds if he must but had no needle and thread. And poultices, he knew precious little about them.

“Ismenia back at Langmore could help,” said Maeve.

Kieran nodded. “Let us be gone then.”

He directed a handful of the other soldiers to stay and bury the dead. The few Irish soldiers still alive surrendered with peace, and Aric tied them behind his mount. Kieran took a last glance at his father and Maeve’s brother, wondering why they had been so foolishly willing to die for their violent cause.

Tearing himself away from the scene, he turned to Maeve only to find Drake had already taken her to the waiting horses. And though he knew in his gut she would likely never have any more to do with him after this night, he wanted to feel her against him one last time, tell her once more how sorry he was for the manner in which she had lost her brother.

Before Drake could see her mounted on his horse, Kieran made his way to the pair and grasped Maeve by the arm, leading her to his own mount. Drake smiled. Maeve cast him a wary glare before allowing him to hand her up into the saddle.

Moments later, Drake brought Colm to his mount and the party left the scene of Balcorthy, more haunted now for the tragedy that had taken place there. Yet he knew it was like a grave—now it would be left to rest in peace.

Finally, Kieran mounted behind Maeve, and the small party was on its way. He placed his arm about her waist, knowing as she leaned against him that she did so only out of weariness. Still, he relished the opportunity to touch her, fearing it would be his last. He could detect only the slightest thickening of her middle, but still, knowing he would always share the bond of the child with her, the remembrance of the happiest moments he’d ever spent in a woman’s arms, pleased him.

“I understand it not,” Drake said, breaking into the weighty silence. “What did the rebels intend to do with Langmore if Kieran surrendered it? All this blood, and for what? To regain his home?”

“I know not,” said Kieran sadly.

“I know,” Maeve said suddenly, looking at Drake, then Aric just beyond him. “You must warn your king that Margaret of Burgundy has found a new pretender, a boy named Perkin, I think. She and her followers plan to bring him here to Ireland within the week, put an army behind him, pass him off to the English people as Richard, the missing Duke of York. Langmore was to be the base of their operation.”

Kieran, Aric, and Drake all exchanged alarmed glances. They knew full well that the young prince Richard, Duke of York, had been murdered by his late uncle, Richard III. And though Henry Tudor shared their knowledge of the tragedy, no one could produce the corpse of the young boy, and his elder brother, Edward, to convince the English people that no male descendants of the House of York still lived.

And until they could, the new Tudor throne would always be vulnerable to these pretenders. This Perkin was not the first Ireland had supported.

War was ever a threat.

“I suppose if this boy came to power, he agreed he would then pull the soldiers from Ireland and let you rule yourselves?” Kieran asked.

Maeve nodded. “As I understood Flynn, aye.”

“Thank you,” Aric said. “Once we reach Langmore, I will find a fresh horse and ride for London.”

“I will journey with you,” Drake offered.

Aric nodded his thanks, then turned his attention back to Maeve. “I know that cannot have been easy for you, telling an Englishman of such a plot that may gain Ireland freedom.”

“And cost what in lives?” asked Maeve. “I could not live with the knowledge that such a secret would be the death of innocents.”

“You are an extraordinary woman, sweet Maeve,” Kieran whispered in her ear.

“I am a woman weary of death,” she corrected.

Kieran had no illusions that she spoke of her brother’s demise and would give him the full force of her tongue-lashing once they were alone.

He sighed. She would probably cast him out again. But this time, before he went, he would tell her he loved her. If she still wished him gone then…he would ride to London with Aric and Drake. God knew what he would do with his life after that. He yearned to stay at Langmore, by Maeve’s side. Yet he feared nothing he said or did would convince her to open her heart to him—ever.

* * * *

The weary group rode through the night in silence. Maeve did what she could to curb Colm’s bleeding when they stopped for a brief rest and a meal.

Dawn began to streak across the sky in vivid oranges and purples when Langmore rose into their view. As they approached the bridge over the river and trekked down the dirt path, he remembered his first day here. Lord, how badly he had wanted to leave then, to turn away and ride from his fate.

Now he could think of no fate he would like more than to stay at Langmore with his bride for the rest of his days.

Given that Maeve had said next to naught during their long ride home, he had lost all hope she would wish to share that fate. Aye, not only had he killed Flynn, though to save Maeve, but he had taken part in the confrontation, engaged in the war his wife despised. That was plenty of reason for Maeve to hate him always.

Finally, they stopped their mounts in the lower bailey. The soldiers Kieran had left behind to guard the castle swarmed the small party, begging for details of its outcome.

“Are ye badly hurt, milord?”

“Did ye win the battle?”

“Where be Flynn?”

The questions came in an endless stream. Their enthusiasm gladdened him, for he recalled the days when they wished him nothing but gone and felt sure they would stick a blade in his back upon their first opportunity. To see them now so loyal made him proud.

Still, he had not come to celebrate now. He must speak with Maeve.

“I am unharmed. Aye, we won the battle. And Flynn is dead,” he answered in a rapid stream.

With that, he thrust Lancelot in the direction of a soldier. “Care for him.”

Then he looked around for Maeve, only to see the last swish of her skirts as she disappeared inside the keep, an injured Colm beside her.

He sighed. Colm needed care now. His conversation with his wife could wait a few moments. But it chafed him. He did not regard her silence as a good one, and the idea of never hearing Maeve’s sweet voice address him again—even in anger—chilled him.

“We leave now,” Drake said from behind him.

Kieran whirled to find his friends standing beside fresh mounts, bags and blankets already attached. “That was quick.”

“Time is of the essence,” Aric explained. “We must warn King Henry of this Perkin boy. He cannot be allowed to sway the country into believing him the rightful heir. The wars in England are over. Peace and prosperity are beginning to settle over the land. Henry is a good if stern king. ’Tis important all stays such.”

Kieran nodded. “I wish you well, then. Both of you.”

“As we wish you, brother,” Aric said, then mounted. “Go to your wife.”

Drake paused. “You hesitate at that notion. Go to her and share what is in your heart.”

Casting his gaze down, Kieran wondered how, why, loving Maeve had changed him so much. “She has no wish for what is in my heart. Much as I yearn to share your fate and Aric’s, wedded bliss will not be mine.” He sighed. “But I will tell her anyway.”

“She embraced you after the battle,” Drake pointed out.

“She was frightened and confused.” Aye, and Maeve had pulled herself from his arms quickly enough.

With a hearty clap on the shoulder, Drake smiled. “She may surprise you. How many women can resist a man’s confession of undying love and devotion?”

Kieran shrugged as he watched Drake mount. He exchanged waves with his friends—so like brothers to him—as they rode again out of sight.

Drake’s words lingered. ’Twas true that few women could resist deep professions of love and loyalty.

But he felt sure Maeve was the kind of woman who could.

* * * *

When Maeve entered the chamber she still shared with Fiona that afternoon for a much-needed nap, she was weary from the long night’s ride, as well as the grueling task of assisting Ismenia in stitching Colm’s arm and seeing him comfortable.

She was also stunned to see Kieran sitting on her bed, his gaze fastened upon her, holding her in place as surely as shackles.

Why was he still here?

Her heart picked up speed, racing in her chest as if anticipating his embrace.

Foolish, it was! Pining for a man who had never wanted her, could never love her, nor settle into a simple life with her in the country he resented. By the saints, how she wished she knew why he felt thus. Perhaps then she could combat his dislikes…

Nay, if he wanted so badly to leave her and Ireland that he would lie and manipulate his way into her bed, then she would grant him the freedom he needed. They would only be miserable—both of them—if she tried to make him stay.

Wondering if knowing of her love would make a difference in Kieran’s mind was killing her, but she stifled the words. He wanted her not. And that was that.

“My lord,” she greeted finally. “I had thought you would leave with your friends.”

“Not until I spoke a word alone with you, Wife. Come.” He took her hand.

Maeve did not resist, chastising herself for enjoying the feel of his warm, rough palm against her own, enveloping, making her feel so secure.

He led her to his chamber, the room they had briefly shared, where they had made love—and conceived their child. For what purpose did he bring her here now?

He sat her at the small desk against the wall, then faced her, looming above her. His furrowed brow and taut jaw bespoke his turmoil. Maeve frowned in concern.

“Kieran?”

He nodded, then sighed. She saw the fists clenched at his sides, and her concern mounted.

“I wanted to tell you again how very sorry I am about your brother. I did not wish him dead, truly. Please believe—”

“You
saved
me. I know thus.” She bit her lip. “Absolve yourself of guilt on that score.”

“You do not hate me for it?” He sounded shocked.

Maeve swung her gaze to him again. Clearly he
had
believed she would hate him for the deed. At one time, she would have.

“Nay,” she said, then touched his arm in a comforting gesture, though she knew it to be unwise. “Flynn was not the same brother of my youth. The—the war…it had…
changed
him until he was someone I feared. I will miss the boy he used to be and mourn the man he might have been. I will not mourn him. He would have killed me, killed many, for his cause.”