His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (8 page)

And though he thought Flynn a coxcomb, he had not imagined the maggot would be so shandy-minded as to say such a thing to his young sister.

“But that is not all men seek in a wife,” he answered.

At that, her shoulders fell in a dejected slump. “Aye, I hear Flynn say a man wants a wench who can kiss as well. But I ask you, where am I to get such practice? Every man who looks my way, Flynn scares to the devil!”

Kieran believed that. “’Tis not important now, little one. In a few years’ time—”

“But how else will I learn so I might be a good wife?” She bit her lip, and before Kieran could respond, her face brightened. “Of course! You might teach me. Even though you are more English than Irish, as Jana says, you are fierce handsome.” She blushed again. “And since we might soon be wed—”

“I have made no decision, Brighid. We might not be wed.”

The idea of kissing the girl—much less bedding her—made him flinch. Why? He had no such compunction about her sister.

True, Maeve was older. But Brighid was simply sweet and unfettered, unlike maddening Maeve. He suspected Brighid would be great fun to laugh with, which he always enjoyed in a female. He would bet her inhibitions were few.

But the girl was merely a child.

“I shall be ten and three in April. If not now, when?”

Ten and three? As he had imagined, she was too young.

“Not much longer. Two or three years.”

Brighid’s mouth dropped open when she looked at him with an indignant glare. “Two or three years! I will near be a spinster by then, I tell you.”

He laughed, and for that, the girl kicked him beneath the table.

“Do not chortle so at me! It’s very unkind, you ass.”

Kieran bent to rub his offended leg and bit his lip to hold in another chuckle. No doubt, the girl had spirit.

“You smile still!” she complained. “I asked you for a kiss, which you should have requested from me, and I am but mocked?”

“Sir? I-I mean, my lord?” came Colm’s query from the entrance to the hall, saving Kieran from a reply.

Kieran turned to regard his young squire. Colm’s gaze met his gaze, then strayed to Brighid before meeting his own once more. A familiar expression lit Colm’s dark gaze—one of interest.

His squire and young Brighid?

He smiled. “Aye, Colm. Come, sit.”

Eyeing him warily, Colm did as he was bid, sitting on Kieran’s left. Again, the young man’s gaze flitted past him and landed on Brighid. He turned to his right and found the youngest of the O’Shea sisters turning even pinker under his squire’s regard.

Colm was himself but ten and five. Possibilities lay there… His squire was a kind soul, too gentle to be trained for battle. But Kieran liked the boy.

“My lord, those remaining of the last earl’s army are outside, awaiting you.”

“Thank you. I will see to them soon. Have you met this fair maid?” he asked his squire.

“N-nay, my lord.”

The boy looked as if he were about to turn red and sweat, and Kieran smiled again. “This lovely lass is Brighid O’Shea.” He turned to the girl, then finished the introduction. “Little one, Colm Colinford. He is my squire.”

Silence reigned for a full ten seconds. Colm finally broke the quiet.

“Gre-greetings, mistress.”

Brighid turned from pink to red and seemed to find sudden fascination with the hands folded in her lap. “And to you, good sir.”

Again, silence. Furtive glances were exchanged by both. Kieran saw in his awkward hesitance that Colm had little experience with females. He sighed when he realized he’d been neglecting such an important part of the boy’s education.

And now he fancied Colm and Brighid might be good for one another.

Wearing a broad grin, he rose from the bench, leaving an empty space between them. They both looked at him in question.

Kieran gave Colm a friendly pat on the back, then teased, “Brighid is looking for a man to kiss her. Mayhap you could teach her whilst I go start with the men.”

Smiling, he walked away from a pair of identical stunned expressions and left the great hall. Around the corner and down the stairs, he strode.

No sooner had he begun down the stairs when he saw Maeve.

She climbed up in the opposite direction, taper in one hand, balancing a book in the other, with wooden spectacles perched upon her small, round-tipped nose. Her lips moved a bit as she read. She appeared not to see him.

Watching her, Kieran thought she looked learned—something he had
never
fancied in a woman. It reeked of deep thought and an aversion to action. Aye, she could kiss sweetly, but he could not imagine her romping in the rain nor enjoying a good hunt. She belonged indoors, a book close to her face, mayhap with a hound at her feet.

He shuddered, for he could not imagine a life so…settled. His boyhood had been anything but, and today that suited him well.

“Good morn,” he said an instant before she would have collided with him.

Maeve tore her gaze from the pages before her to his face. When she caught sight of him, she eyed him warily.

“Good morn,” she replied, then frowned. “I thought you were to spend the day with Brighid.”

“Aye.”

Maeve waited, as if expecting more of an answer. Kieran smiled, happy to let her wait. Vexation crossed her lovely features, giving them more color, more expression.

“And so where is she now?”

“In the great hall above.”

“Breaking her fast?” she asked, closing the book she held.

“Kissing my squire, I presume.”

Though he but teased her, Kieran couldn’t stop his grin when ire overtook Maeve’s golden gaze.

“Kissing?”

More fresh color lit her luminous skin, and for some reason, Kieran wished her remembrances of their kiss, not her anger, had caused such. After all, had that kiss not kept him awake last night, tempting him? Making him wonder if Maeve would be his best choice of a wife, even though he had not spoken with her and all her sisters?

“Brighid has no need to be kissing anyone,” protested Maeve, “much less some English fool of a squire. Likely he will trifle with her an-and leave her with child—”

Kieran erupted in laughter. “’Tis unlikely Colm yet knows how to trifle with himself, much less a female.”

With a wink, he walked past Maeve as she attempted to sputter a retort. It pleased him to render her near speechless, and he whistled all the way outside.

* * * *

Kieran had scarce worked with the last earl’s soldiers for a quarter hour before he decided they were a pitiful lot.

Standing on the grassy plain in front of Langmore, he looked over the “army” once more. ’Twas an abysmally small group. Out of the two dozen
galloglasses
, permanently employed soldiers who had stayed since the last earl left, four men looked as if they spent all their days gorging from dawn to dusk—and beyond—another three looked as if a stiff wind would blow them to their arses. Several others, with their grayed hair, showed they were much closer to the grave than the cradle. Fully a dozen had no real knowledge of wielding a broadsword, an ax, or a mace. Who in Hades had trained them? The rest were Irishmen, the
kern
, only there for the coin, and such showed in their defiant demeanors.

’Twould be a long road before he could make warriors out of this motley lot.

With a disgusted sigh, he turned away. Clearly, he would need to best the men well and often for most to listen or respect his ability.

He had not the time for this. Taking a wife and getting her with child so he might leave—that should be his focus. Except the wife hunt had not gone well. Jana was too lost in grief to make a suitable bride. Fiona seemed trapped in some nervous silence that made him want to find the nearest cup of ale. Brighid was fun…but terribly young.

Damnation! He wanted no wife. But Guilford needed him. And now he had no O’Shea sister to consider but Maeve.

He felt trapped, as if the walls at Langmore were closing about him, squeezing him off from air and light. He shuddered, wanting it to stop, wanting to be free.

Holding in a curse, he turned to one of his own captains, who had arrived in Ireland with Colm, and bade him to continue instructing the deplorable castle soldiers.

He needed to be away!

In minutes, Kieran sat atop Lancelot, aimlessly heading east as if for the sea and England, or anywhere else that might bring freedom.

The sun’s zenith came. He passed the River Slaney, pausing only to sip from its cold waters as it babbled across mossy green rocks.

As he traveled on, the landscape turned mountainous. The sun began a sharp descent from the sky. Rock-strewn glens and bogs abounded, covered with dormant heather of muted purple. And green everywhere, budding shades of it, beginning to come alive with the coming spring and cover the hilly land.

And the land looked hauntingly familiar, like land he had not seen since the days after he had turned eight.

In the explosion of a colorful dusk, he dismounted before a
lough
and followed the water’s edge around a gentle slope of a hill.

He encountered a waterfall, one that looked much like one that had been his favorite place to play as a boy. Chilly water cascaded over craggy granite, seemingly locked together in nature’s hold.

And suddenly he felt quite certain that beyond the next rise lay the remnants of Balcorthy.

Nay. He would not see the ruins of his boyhood home. He had no need.

Settling again on Lancelot’s back, he decided to make his way back to Langmore, to face the task of taking a bride and seeing her birth a babe.

Instead, he found himself urging Lancelot forward, to climb the next ridge.

Moments before the sun disappeared behind him, Kieran looked over the pasture. The ruins of Balcorthy sat in stately neglect, utterly abandoned.

Fire had turned the stone black in places. Battle and disregard had caused some of the walls to tumble down. He would even bet some of the nearby townsfolk had taken blocks from the once-imposing keep and used them to build their own homes with more security.

Whatever the cause, Balcorthy looked naught like the important, bustling castle he recalled. A sadder monument to the hate with which a husband and wife could hurt each other did not exist, he felt certain.

’Twas merely another reason to return to Langmore and complete his duty. He would assess his options, take a damned bride, and be done with the mess. The sooner he left Ireland, the happier a man would he be.

* * * *

The following night, Kieran sat in the middle of the raised dais for supper. Jana sat stiffly to his left. Maeve, doing her best to ignore him, sat to his right. ’Twould be a long evening, no doubt.

As the servants brought in the meal, Kieran glanced at Fiona, who sat at the next table, close beside his. Flynn rested beside her, looking bruised and malcontented. No doubt the man had taken part in the recent rebellion, but he had not accomplished a thing, particularly not the release of Maeve’s seditious betrothed, Quaid O’Toole. But ’twas no matter, Kieran planned to punish the O’Shea man very soon.

Looking away from Flynn, Kieran glanced toward Brighid and Colm, smiling shyly at one another, as they sat a bit farther away. Perhaps Colm had taught Brighid to kiss, after all.

Everyone ate in silence. Kieran was aware of Maeve beside him, smelling faintly of this afternoon’s damp rain. She kept her gaze in the trencher they shared, barely eating.

He speared a bit of garlic-spiced mutton with his knife. Their arms brushed, sleeves warmed by their bodies. Maeve tensed. So she
was
aware of him. Kieran felt his blood stir.

He tossed a bite of meat into his mouth. Maeve reached for her cider and took a small sip. When she finished, her berry lips looked glossy-wet and luscious. Enticing. Edible.

Then she mopped up the apple-spiced alcohol with her tongue. Kieran knew he stared, knew that Maeve was aware when she stared back, frozen. Her tongue stilled across her upper lip as her eyes flared wide. The feminine flutter of her pulse pounded at her throat. Kieran felt lust flood his loins.

Even when she looked away, he pictured her thus, tongue upon upper lips, golden eyes wary and wanting at once.

He had never been good at denying his wants. And he could not deny Maeve topped his list of desires at the moment. He wanted to kiss her again, to feel her heat and hear her mewl in his arms once more. He wanted to share the delights of the bedchamber with her.

Why, he knew not. Too oft, he found her now with a book in her lap and those blasted spectacles upon her face. She strolled in the garden occasionally but never raced outdoors for the fun of it. In fact, never did anything for the sheer joy of it that he could see.

How could he want such a woman?

Yet when he looked at her, flowing red-gold hair, firm jaw, gracefully sloped neck, breasts he could not forget if he lived to be one hundred, he wondered how any man could not want her.

“So, I see you’ve settled into Langmore as if you’ve owned the place all your life, you ratty Englishman. But I wouldn’t be getting too comfortable now, I tell you.”

Kieran jerked his gaze from Maeve to Flynn. “Do you think to threaten me?”

Flynn shrugged. “’Twould be unwise to think too little of an Irishman’s mettle.”

“Tell him, Flynn!” cried Jana.

Kieran ignored her. “It would be unwise to think too little of a trained warrior’s skill. Have you already forgotten?”

“Forgotten? ’Tis not likely I am to forget a bastard who attacks another man when his back is turned. But that is the way you English like to fight.”

“Odd, Flynn, for I recall seeing your eyes wide with fear when I first punched you.”

A few feet away, Brighid gasped and Colm chuckled. Fiona looked warily between him and her brother.

Flynn turned a deep rose, which mutated into a red that soon became mottled and glowing. Kieran smiled.

“But if you think me mistaken,” he continued, “I can be persuaded to go outside so we might fix the puzzling matter once and for all.”