His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (7 page)

“What news have you, my lord?” she asked as if she knew naught.

He speared her with a stare that quickly turned contemplative. “Where is your brother?”

She shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Oft times, he visits a wench in a neighboring village.”

“Which one?”

“I know not. Why would he share this with me?”

Kildare looked at her skeptically but said naught more. Maeve thought she might go mad with curiosity.

“Has aught happened, my lord?”

“I suspect you know this, but during the night, Malahide Castle was attacked by unknown members of the rebellion.”

Maeve tried to suppress her relief and glee. Flynn had not been caught!

Instead, she gasped, trying to sound appropriately surprised. “And what happened?”

“Little, really. But they managed to damage the keep, including the dungeon.”

They had reached the heart of the castle, found a way inside, and entered the dungeon. Dare she hope Flynn had been able to free—

“No one escaped, thankfully.”

Maeve could not help the sinking disappointment that slid a thick path to her stomach, taking her spirits with it.

“The missive lists the names of several prisoners the rebellion seems to covet. Among them is one Quaid O’Toole. Is he your…betrothed?”

Silently, she nodded. She wanted to scream or cry in frustration, in fear. To do so before Kildare would reveal too much. Instead, she decided silence was her safest course.

“If you and your brother thought to free him and wed you off safely before I could decide who to take to wife, I will be much displeased.”

Displeased? As if she wasn’t sick with bitter disappointment, utterly disheartened? “My goal remains to wed the man of my choosing. If someone freed him from English clutches, I would applaud them.”

Kildare’s face turned hard and warring. No hint of that seductive smile lingered. “Are you disappointed Flynn failed?”

“Flynn had naught to do with last night. As I said, he is with a woman—”

“If Flynn wanted a wench to warm his bed, ’tis doubtful he would have to leave Langmore for such. From what I have seen, there are many women at Langmore worthy of a tumble.”

Maeve forced herself to meet Kildare’s hot gaze. “That may be, but there is not a woman here who wants a place in your bed.”

She meant the words as a slur. Maeve saw instantly that Kildare took them as a challenge.

He stood then, staring, ever watchful, as if taking her measure. Maeve resisted the urge to shiver. Kildare was the enemy, no matter how well he caught her attention.

The rousing smile she knew as his returned, along with a healthy dose of determination. “Mayhap I should prove you wrong, sweet Maeve.”

“You cannot make me want you.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Maeve realized that as Kildare’s smile widened and he sauntered toward her. She looked around the great hall for help. No one stood about. ’Twas empty, from the freshly beaten tapestries covering the high stone wall on her left, to the huge blaze heating the room in the hearth at her right.

Kildare’s smile was rich with purpose. “Tsk, sweet Maeve. How can you dislike something before you try it?”

Maeve stood firm against his slow advance and glared at him. “I already know I would find any such contact with an ogre displeasing.”

He grinned yet wider. “Well, if you are certain, let us test it, shall we?”

Before she could protest or place a hand between them, Kildare seized her around the waist and dragged her close, against the hard wall of his chest. For an infinite moment, their gazes locked, his heated and determined.

Against her will, Maeve felt her awareness of his solid body rising, felt her face flushing, her belly tightening with what she could only call anticipation. Nay, she should feel this for Quaid, had always wanted to. Why should she feel this with an enemy who would soon destroy her home and make her or one of her sisters an unwilling bride?

But as Kildare stood against her, his gaze probed hers as if to peer deep inside her and see her longings so he might fulfill them, ’twas hard to remember he was the enemy.

Perspiration broke out between her breasts. She parted her lips to say something, to take in more air.

Kildare leaned in and took her mouth with a gentle sweep, surrounding her lips and plying them farther apart with an insistent caress.

The contact jolted her all the way to her tingling toes. Maeve’s breath left her. She drowned in sensation. The rasp of his morning beard, the sound of his harsh breath in her ear, the feel of his iron arms about her, keeping her prisoner to his kiss—she noted all with her flushed, fluttering senses. He enticed with his lips, teasing and coaxing her surrender.

She weakened to the pleasure, then demanded more. Kildare knew how to master a mouth, how to make a woman crave more in an instant.

She opened beneath Kildare and stood on tiptoes to meet him as a craving imprisoned her. With a sound of approval, Kildare deepened the kiss again, this time sweeping his tongue about her own, taunting her, until she felt breathless, until, weak-kneed, she clutched him for support.

Kildare lifted his head, burning her with a heated smile.

Sweet Mary, what had she done?

“Cease!” she said, backing away.

Kildare reached for her. “Why, sweet Maeve? Was that not pleasant?”

“Nay.”

“Nay?” He pretended confusion. “I do not recall a protest from you. Did you issue one?”

“Swine,” she muttered, flushing with heat.

Kildare merely flashed her an insufferable grin.

She kicked him in the shin. “Do not kiss me again.”

Her reaction was childish, she knew. But he roused her ire, blast him.

He laughed as she left the room with her head held high.

* * * *

The following morn, Kieran found himself in a familiar place, in the great hall, awaiting an O’Shea sister.

Today, ’twas Fiona’s turn to spend the day with him. He did not relish the hours ahead. In fact, he found his thoughts disturbed by thoughts of her surly brother, who had returned last night well into his cups. He also could not forget her redheaded sister.

Aye, his blood heated at the thought of kissing sweet Maeve. He had not expected her to react with such abandon. Nor had he been prepared for the force of his own want.

Such only increased his curiosity more. But his curiosity was temporary and must not be given free rein. Passion meant naught in marriages born of politics. Today, he would speak with Fiona, see if she might make him a suitable wife.

“Good morn, my lord.” Fiona stood before him suddenly, her approach so silent he had scarce heard it.

As usual, she looked lovely, dressed in a soft blue that accented her eyes, pinkened her cheeks, and outlined the curves of her ripe bosom. But she still wore that feigned smile and pressed her hands so tightly together he felt sure she could hold water without a single drop falling.

“Good morn, Fiona. The rain has now stopped, so we might journey to the garden for a stroll.”

Fiona flinched, skin paling. If possible, her body seemed to grow more tense.

“You do not like the out of doors?” he asked, much curious.

“I-I do,” she stammered. “I… ’Tis cold this morn.”

Kieran frowned. He had been out earlier this morn, questioning a defiantly silent Flynn about the rebellion after suffering a strangely sleepless night. At the end of the fruitless inquisition that made him more suspicious of what he could not prove, Kieran had sought solace out of doors. He had thought the dawning day warm for February.

With a shrug, he gestured her to the bench beside him. “As you wish, good lady. Sit here.”

“Thank you.”

Her voice was so quiet in the huge room the sound of it was near lost. She reminded him of a wary kitten, all wide eyes and furtive movement.

“Tell me what you enjoy.”

She frowned, but even that was no more than a gentle furrow of her delicate brow. “My lord?”

Did these O’Shea women not understand the meaning of enjoyment? Did they naught but…whatever these Irish folk did? And why did they do it, if not for fun?

“I am Kieran, not my lord, please,” he corrected. “What makes you smile, Fiona?”

“Mass, my—Kieran.”

Mass? So Fiona would smile in the Lord’s home. Would she ever smile in any bed he might want to share with her? And what was
he
to do with a woman who would not?

“Aught else? Perhaps you enjoy festivals?”

“Nay, too many people about.”

“Music? I find there is little more fun than a rousing tune and a good dance.”

She shrugged and looked away. “I enjoy thoughtful music, but not dance.”

What woman disliked dancing? He had yet to meet one who didn’t enjoy kicking up her heels until she fair lost her breath from the rhythm and the laughter. Odd, indeed.

“Have you traveled any?”

Fiona wrung her hands. “Traveled, my lord? Where to?”

“Anywhere.” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Dublin? London?”

“Nay.”

Simply
nay
. Not
nay, but I should like that.
Not
nay, and I wish you to perdition
. Just one word. How was he to hold a conversation like that? Much less learn about her?

“Tell me of your parents,” he said, switching to another question, which she could not answer with one word.

“They are dead.”

Her whisper distracted him silly. Her brevity near drove him to madness.

“Aye, Fiona. That I know. What I asked is, what manner of people were they?”

There. Now ’twas doubtful she could answer with a mere word. He nearly dared her to try.

“Caring.”

By damned, she had done it.

He sighed. “Caring? Did they sit you upon their knee? Did your father buy you ribbons for your hair? Did they dote upon you?”

“Aye.”

To all the questions, she said but one word. And she could not even look at him when doing such! If the wench could not meet his gaze when talking, he could only imagine how far into the distance she would gaze if he tried to share a marriage bed with her so that he might get a babe upon her and leave this accursed country.

True, he had never wanted a woman who chattered a great deal. A woman like that was not being kissed enough, to his way of thinking. Kieran frowned. Although Aric’s wife, Gwenyth, was the exception. They kissed frequently, but naught had curbed that woman’s sharp tongue, which Aric needed to keep him in line.

But this lack of conversation with Fiona… Kieran knew he was here for the next year or so, long enough to take a wife and get her with child. But he could scarce imagine sitting beside Fiona each meal, lying beside her each night, with no words exchanged, no glances met for that year.

He had met dying soldiers with more to say.

True, that made her biddable. ’Twas unlikely she would argue with him about Langmore, about the rebellion…about aught.

Somehow the thought of a wife that docile seemed tiresome.

“Fiona, would you excuse me? I need to see my squire for a bit.”

Relief lit the woman’s face in an instant. So much for the unfailing charm Aric had accused him repeatedly of possessing.

She rose from the bench and began backing out of the room. “Of course, my lord. ’Tis certain I am you are busy.”

With those two sentences, she was gone. Hellfire, the woman had not said that much to him all morn. Kieran supposed he ought to be grateful.

Instead, he felt surly.

For now, his choices in bride were but two: a budding girl-child…and an irksome wench with a kiss like fire.

CHAPTER FOUR

Another morn, another O’Shea sister.

Kieran sighed tiredly as Brighid appeared in the great hall directly after Sunday’s Mass celebrating the beginning of Shrovetide. She wore a high-waisted dress of bright green, with patterned sleeves. The shining mass of her golden hair lay about her shoulders. Atop her head rested a decorative headdress of gold that was wider than the whole of her head. Kieran stared.

Brighid had dressed with all care, and he had no doubt the garments she wore were her finest and newest.

Unfortunately, such elaborate garb made her look all the more youthful, as if she were a young child who had chosen to filch her mother’s clothes.

Trying to hide his grimace, Kieran reminded himself that he had chosen to speak with Brighid today for a purpose. If she would make a suitable bride, pliable and tolerable, able to be a helpmate here, he would consider wedding her. After all, of the four sisters, she was the friendliest—and the least likely to bring a blade to their bed. Kieran could not deny he disliked the idea of a child bride, but he knew he must be careful. With Jana and Fiona eliminated as potential wives, his choices were fast dwindling.

And he must do his duty by Guilford. He owed the man too much to allow him to lose Hartwich Hall to King Henry’s nervous machinations. The old man had taken him in and fostered him after he had been ripped from Ireland by a distant mother, then abandoned for his unruly ways.

He focused on Brighid, clearing his mind of the past.

“A good morn to you, my lord.” She curtsied prettily.

“Good morn, Brighid. Will you sit and break your fast?”

She bowed her head and sat beside him on the bench, bringing her closer into view. A flush lit her skin from the top of her low, square bodice, all the way to her pointed hairline.

He squirmed in his chair and turned his attention to the warm cider in his cup, aware of Brighid sipping likewise beside him.

Uncertain what he should ask her, he took a sip of the fermented liquid.

“What are you wantin’ in a wife, my lord? A woman who will enjoy you ridin’ her each night?”

Kieran choked at her question and nearly spit out his cider. Aye, such a woman sounded pleasurable, but how would this girl know of that? “What?”

Her bony little shoulders rose in a shrug. “Flynn says all men want such a bride.”

Most did, and though Kieran knew many girls her age who were already wed, he had never thought the practice a wise one. His thought on the matter was, if a woman had not yet developed a bosom to please a man’s eye, she had not the bosom to suckle a babe. Until she appeared a woman, she could not possibly be one.