Brides of Ireland: A Medieval Historical Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Fortunately, the sea wasn’t particularly deep. The woman struggled to find her footing and her head broke the surface as she gasped for breath. Coughing, she labored against the strong sea and wind to make her way to the rocky shore. She could see it several feet away, trying to keep away from the surging boat. It was pitching violently and she was sure she would be crushed if she drew near it. So she scrambled across the rocky sea floor, drawing on every last ounce of strength she had to reach the shore. She fell at some point, cutting her knees on the sharp rocks, and the salt water stung the open wounds. Just as she reached ankle-deep water, she was grabbed from behind.

  Exhausted and terrified, she hadn’t lost her fight. She began to kick ferociously, swinging her fists until her abductor managed to grab her arms and pin them. He made his way onto the shore, staggering when she kicked at his knees, but he maintained his grip. The woman was shrieking now, struggling to break his hold on her as he carried her off. She could only imagine what horrors awaited her and she was determined to fight for her life. No Irish bastard was going to rob her of her innocence, perhaps her very life, and expect an easy target. She was going to give him hell.

  He trudged off the shore and into the land beyond. There was so much rain and wind from the storm that she couldn’t see where he was taking her. Water was in her eyes, lashing her, and her hair was now sticking in great wet clumps across her face. She couldn’t see through the soaked hair and bad weather, but she could smell the dark Irish earth and the scent of wet grass with a hint of mold. The salty smell of the sea was mingled with the storm.

  The man slugged across muddy ground and eventually, they were moving up a hill; she could feel the change in elevation, in the angle of the ground as he struggled to gain traction. Although she was growing increasingly weary, she drew deep on her inherent strength and began to fight him in a new round of struggles. It was like a lamb fighting against a bull, the pathetic struggle of a weary woman against a bear of an Irishman.

  The terrain leveled out. The man’s grip slipped a bit and he ended up lifting her up and slinging her over his shoulder. She fought and kicked, her vigor renewed, as he carried her roughly. The woman pounded on his back and tried to kick him, but he slapped her on her arse, hard, momentarily stunning her. Although her hair was hanging in her face, she could see the rocky ground as he moved quickly. As she twisted and pounded, she began to see stone beneath his feet, then wood. Warmth hit her in the face and the smell of dirty, sweaty bodies.

  Men were shouting all around her and the harsh smell of smoke filled her nostrils. There were dogs barking but she couldn’t see much from the way he was holding her and the hair hanging in her face. Suddenly, the man threw her off his shoulder and she stumbled as she hit the ground, falling to her arse. Frightened, she scrambled to get away as men around her roared with laughter.

  Hands were grabbing at her, yanking at the wet tunic she wore, pulling at her legs. Someone yanked a leather shoe off and she screamed, slapping at the hands that were grabbing at her. She brushed the wet hair out of her eyes, seeing that she was in a smoky and cavernous great hall, an enormous fire burning in the hearth and smoke belching into the room.

  Big men with big weapons were all around her, blocking out the light from the hearth, crowded around her, laughing and grabbing at her. More men were pouring in to the room, shouting about victory and glorious death. Dogs yipped. The woman screamed again as someone made another swipe for one of her legs, pulling at the woolen leggings.

  She cowered against the wall, looking desperately for an exit but she couldn’t see any way out. The walls were solid stone and men were everywhere. But she did spy a great and heavy banqueting table, cluttered with weapons and remnants of food. When someone else thrust another hand at her, she kicked the hand away and skittered like a spider across the floor, disappearing beneath the giant table. Hidden by table legs and benches, she huddled in fear.

  The Irish barbarians thought it a great game to grab at her and try to chase her from underneath the table. She would dodge from side to side, avoiding hands and swords they were poking at her. One sword tore her hose and scratched her leg. Weeping, she kicked in terror at the men grabbing for her and promised God she would never do anything so foolish again if he would only allow her to make it out of this situation alive. She had her doubts.

  Most of the Irish eventually grew tired of the game as more men poured in from outside. A couple of the men, especially the one who had captured her, were still trying to chase her out from underneath the table but shouts eventually caught their attention. A group of heavily armed men had just entered the hall, shouting war cries of victory, and the entire room took up the cry.

  As the woman huddled and softly wept, the Irish of the dank and smoky castle lauded their victory over the English invaders. On this dark and stormy night on the Ides of March, the Earl of Kildare’s English forces had been defeated and their ships either burned or confiscated. It was an Irish victory in a long line of them against the English as of late.

  As the men celebrated, they seemed to have forgotten about their quarry trapped beneath the table. The woman stilled her frightened tears, watching the dozens of legs moving around the table, listening to the men speak in the harsh Irish tongue. She didn’t understand their language. No one seemed to be paying her any mind and her fear eased as her courage was fed. She could see the open doorway of the hall and she could smell the wet air from outside. It told her that the entry door was close. She knew she had to run or die trying.

  But there were too many men surrounding the table, blocking her path. The last thing she wanted to do was have obstacles in her way. So she huddled in the center of the table, listening to the men laugh and drink, eyeing the big dogs that drifted too close to her, sniffing. She was watching the entry of the hall so intently that she never noticed one of the dogs coming up behind her, sitting down politely. She was startled when she felt the heat from the dog’s body, turning to see big brown doggy eyes looking back at her. She went to shove the dog away but realized he was furry and warm. She was wet and freezing. She scooted next to the dog to have some of his heat and the dog didn’t seem to mind. He lay down against her.

  The night wore on. The heat from the hearth was intense, even under the table. More men had entered the hall, all shouting and happy. By this time, the woman was becoming drowsy with heat and exhaustion, struggling to stay awake, fearful of what would happen if she fell asleep. But her exhausted state also lowered her guard and she was unprepared when a hand shot underneath the table again and grabbed her firmly around the ankle.

  Someone pulled her free of her protective little prison. Shrieking, the woman found herself surrounded by enormous Irishmen, all leering down at her. In a panic, she scrambled to run but the man who initially captured her grabbed her around the waist and carried her over to the far end of the table where a small group of men were gathered. Roughly, he tossed her to the ground.

  The men laughed when she sprawled on the floor. Terrified, the woman picked herself up and, on her knees, pushed her hair from her eyes to see what was happening. Her gaze fell on a massive man seated at the head of the table, partially illuminated by the light from the flickering hearth. She couldn’t see him very well, but she could tell he was looking at her.

  “What is this?” he flicked a finger at the woman, his Irish brogue deep and rattling.

  The man who had captured the prize beamed with satisfaction. “I am not entirely sure, m’lord,” he said. “I found her on board one of the ships. I do not think she is one of the usual crew.”

  “So you bring her to me?”

  “A gift, m’lord. A reward after your decisive victory.”

  The men around them cheered and the woman shuddered in fear, pulling her wet tunic more tightly about her slender body as if it could protect her from the enemy. The enormous man at the head of the table was watching her steadily and she inspected him in return; even in the dim light, she could see that he dressed
in a well-made leather tunic and pieces of mail. He sat upon a very big chair, like a throne, and a dark bird of prey perched ominously on the high back of the chair. The man’s hand, gripping the wooden cup, was as big as her head.

  He had milky-pale skin and a big red mustache that blended into a neatly bearded chin. The rest of his pale face was shaved and smooth. He wasn’t old, nor was he particularly young, but seemed to have that wise and ageless countenance. When he shifted in the firelight, she could see his chiseled and handsome face. He didn’t look like the rest of the filthy barbarians around him. The eyes, glittering, stared at her.

  “Who are you, lass?” he rumbled, as if he had no patience for such a thing.

  The woman met his gaze nervously, defiantly. “I will not tell you.”

  The men snickered as the big brute who had captured her lashed out a hand and slapped her, hard, across the side of the head. She yelped and fell over. The man was going in for another strike but the enormous man in the chair stopped him.

  “Hit her again and you shall answer to me,” he rumbled, watching the man back off before refocusing on the woman. “I asked you a question. Who are you?”

  The woman pushed herself off the floor, meeting his gaze. Resistance was written all over her. He could see it in her expression as well as her manner. After a moment, she simply turned away and closed her eyes. A lone tear trickled down her face but she made no move to wipe it away.

  The enormous man stared at her without making any move to punish her for her insolence. She was a little thing, no doubt, with ashen and creamy skin. Her features, from what he could see through the mussed hair, were fine and clear. Certainly not the features of a whore or servant.

  After a moment, he set the cup down and stood up, moving to where she was huddled on the floor. He loomed over her, carefully inspecting her. He was, if nothing else, an extremely observant man and the five words out of her mouth and the accent that delivered them told him something of her background and breeding. He eventually crouched beside her, snatching one of her hands to him. As she yelped and tried to pull away, he examined her palm.

  “Not a mark on her flesh,” he said, looking at the very fine flesh of her tender arms. “This woman has not accomplished a day of work in her life.”

  By this time, the woman was shrinking from him, quivering from fear. Their eyes met and he lifted his free hand, brushing back the damp hair from her face. She tried to pull away from the hand near her cheek but he was undeterred. He seemed rather passive about the whole thing. Sapphire-blue eyes studied her fine features.

  “Tell me your name,” he asked quietly.

  She looked at him with eyes the color of the sea. They were pure and crystal clear, an unnatural shade of bluish green under delicately arched eyebrows. Her nose was pert, straight, and her lips were lusciously full and pale. She was, upon close inspection, absolutely exquisite. He’d never seen such soft and delicate beauty. He was in the process of lingering on her flawlessly pale complexion when she shook her head.

  “I will not,” she whispered.

  His eyes found their way back to hers. “Why not?”

  She didn’t like how close he was to her, the heat from his big body scorching her tender flesh. She tried to pull away. “Because I will not tell you Irish hounds anything. You are all animals; filthy, barbaric animals!”

  The calm expression on his face faded and he stood up, yanking her off the floor and throwing her over his shoulder. As his men cheered his brutal move, he hauled his squirming, fighting quarry out of the great hall and into a very narrow stairwell near the entry. With his considerable size, it was difficult to maneuver, made even more difficult with her struggling. At one point, he turned sharply and she hit her head, causing her fighting to wane as she saw stars dance before her eyes. But the lull in her twitching allowed him to take the top of the stairs without dropping her, moving into the only chamber on the floor and slamming the rotting door behind him.

  She was still dazed when he threw her down onto a mattress, stuffed stiff with old and smelly straw. Realizing he had put her on a bed, she began to scratch and kick, knowing he meant to violate her and frantic to get away from him. It was cold, wet and dark in the room, her fearful grunting mingling with the sounds of the storm outside the open lancet windows.

  He easily trapped her flailing arms with one massive hand, using the other to pull at her tunic. When she violently twisted away from him in an effort to dislodge his hold, he simply threw his body down to trap her. Ensnaring her with a body that was nearly three times her size, he ripped the wet tunic down the front, exposing a soft linen sheath beneath. With the tunic peeled away, he yanked at the sheath and tore that as well. Soft skin and full, rounded breasts were revealed, but he made no move to touch her. He was more intent on removing her from her clothing. The damp woolen hose were the last thing to be removed but not without a great deal of struggle.

  When the hose lay in a heap next to the bed and her naked body sufficiently pinned beneath his big one, the woman stopped trying to fight him. She knew it was of no use. She was horrified, exposed, and frightened beyond measure. She resorted to the only tactic she had yet to employ; she began to beg.

  “Please,” she pleaded. “Please… I beseech you. Do not do this. Do not….”

  His eyes were on her, his face an inch or two from her own. “Do not do what?” he asked quietly, although he had to admit, he was not feeling as calm as his voice sounded. The little witch had his blood burning. “You will not tell me who you are. I can only assume you were on the ship to satisfy the men’s needs. Now you will satisfy mine, English whore.”

  “I am not a whore,” she snapped, the tears coming.

  “Then who are you?”

  Her little jaw worked furiously as she struggled not to weep. He could tell that part of her wanted to tell him, but the defiant English part of her, the stubbornness, would not allow it. He shifted, wedging his legs between her slender white ones, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. The other, a massive mitt, was free to roam. The first thing he did was peel back the torn tunic and shift, fully exposing her luscious little body. A big palm closed over her left breast and squeezed.

  She yelped, bursting into loud sobs at the shocking intrusion. He could see how truly terrified she was, torn between mild remorse for his actions and the lust that was growing.

  “Nay,” she wept. “Please… please stop….”

  He squeezed again and she sobbed. Then, he dipped his head low and took a rosy nipple in his mouth, suckling gently. She gasped and bucked, a scream peeling from her lips.

  “Tell me,” he breathed against her nipple. “Tell me and I may show mercy.”

  She was weeping loudly by now, embarrassed and terrified. But in spite of her fear, she kept her mouth shut. He watched her face, the tightly closed eyes and rivers of tears, before moving to the other breast and suckling firmly, hard enough to cause pin pricks of pain. She bucked again, struggling to dislodge him from her breasts.

  “Nay,” she begged tearfully. “Please stop. Sweet Jesus, have you no sense of decency?”

  He lifted his head from her sweet breast. “Nay,” he said flatly. “I am an animal, remember?”

  She opened her eyes, looking at him. “I… I did not mean it,” she whispered urgently. “Please forgive me. I did not mean it at all.”

  He lifted a red eyebrow at her, his mouth hovering above a swollen nipple. “I forgive you,” he said. “But you will tell me your name.”

  She was back to weeping again, closing her eyes tightly and turning away. His response was to drag his tongue over her nipples, her breasts, nursing hungrily and feeling her buck and squirm beneath him. Truth be told, it excited him terribly. She was soft and sweet, much more than any woman he had ever known. The hand that was on her breasts moved down her slender torso, fingering the tight curls between her spread-open legs.

  She began to howl when he stroked the thick outer lips of her woman’s center, his mo
uth now on her tender neck. She was gasping, shrieking, begging for him to stop but he wasn’t listening. He had only started the game to coax forth her name, but now the game had overtaken him and he was lost in a haze of the most powerful lust he had ever known. He stopped fingering her long enough to lower his breeches, releasing his great manhood that was now engorged and pulsing, demanding relief.

  “Tell me your name and I will stop,” he breathed, his voice quivering with desire. “I want to know who you are and why you are here.”

  She gazed up at him, so utterly terrified she could hardly speak. But she would not allow her stubbornness and pride to be the cause of her downfall. It was time to push that all aside to save herself from this terrible folly.

  “Please,” she begged softly. “Do not hurt me.”

  “I will not if you tell me your name.”

  “I am the Lady Emllyn Nesta Isabella Fitzgerald,” she whispered after a moment’s hesitation. “My brother is the Earl of Kildare and it is his fleet that the Irish destroyed this night.”

  He gazed down at her, believing every word. She was far too fine and beautiful to be anything other than a noblewoman. Still, his lust had the better of him and he shifted, rubbing the tip of his phallus against her virginal lips. He could feel her stiffen with terror beneath him.

  “Your brother is the Earl of Kildare?” he whispered.

  “Aye.”

  “I find it difficult to believe that your brother would allow you to sail, considering this is a battle fleet.”

  Emllyn was struggling to get away from the stiff, foreign object touching her most private core. It was terrifying and alien. “He did not allow me to sail,” she was starting to weep again because she couldn’t seem to move away from him. “I… I came without his permission.”

  His brow furrowed. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”