Brides of Ireland: A Medieval Historical Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Then what do you want?” he asked. “Do you want me to marry you? Would it be better to be the wife of a rebel than the whore of one?”

  Emllyn froze in the midst of her tears, her eyes wide with astonishment at his suggestion. After a pause of epic proportions, she squealed with fury and was off on another crying jag, this one louder than before. She was so angry that she stamped her feet as she turned her back to him, evidently having a full-fledged tantrum right before his eyes.

  Devlin wasn’t sure what more to say. Anything he said seemed to make it worse. Uneasily, he sat down on the bed, far away from Emllyn and her fit, and pondered his next move. She didn’t want to be a whore, a concubine, or a wife. But what she wanted was of little matter; he would do what he had to do. He would not apologize for anything he had said or done, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hold his tongue. He didn’t like upsetting her, although it truthfully shouldn’t matter to him if she was upset or not. But it did. In confused silence, he left the chamber.

  With the object of her frustration gone, Emllyn eventually calmed her weeping and stamping. Exhausted both emotionally and physically, she sat morosely, cursing the day she decided that stowing away on a ship bound for battle had been a wise decision. She had placed herself in this predicament and now there was no escape. She would have to face her mistakes and live with the consequences. Perhaps the reality was that being a concubine now was the best she could hope for. It was a sickening realization.

  Depressed over a future filled with nothing she had imagined for herself, Emllyn eyed the old woman sitting by the fire, puffing on his shite pipe that now seemed to be running out of fuel. Was this to be the rest of her life now, being protected by a crazy old woman and bearing children for a man who viewed her as his whore? A day ago, the situation did not seem real, but as of this evening, circumstances were beginning to settle. Reality was upon her.

  Aye, now this was her future. Even if she discovered that Trevor was still alive in Black Sword’s dungeons, he certainly would not want her now. She was destined to stay with de Bermingham forever because the man had indeed marked her. She belonged to him and no other. Sadly, she sighed.

  “I do not want to be here, Eefha,” she muttered. “Can you not understand? I want to know if Trevor is alive and then I want to go home. I do not want to be a concubine of an Irish rebel.”

  The old woman continued to puff and Emllyn knew her words were falling on deaf ears. Pulling the robe she wore more tightly around her to ward off the cold evening temperature, she gazed out of the lancet window and up to the stars on a surprisingly clear night. It was beautiful outside, crisp now that the storms had blown away. As she sat and gazed into the blanket of stars, the door to the chamber lurched open.

  Devlin entered with Enda and Nessa behind him. The women were bearing great trays of food and Devlin was carrying a clay pitcher and a pair of pewter cups. He directed the women to set the food over on the table and they did, with Nessa giving Emllyn a shy smile. Emllyn smiled back, somewhat startled when the girl pressed something cold into her hand before fleeing the room. Emllyn kept her hand in her lap, glancing down to see what Nessa had given her, as Devlin pulled up the second chair up to the table.

  “I thought you might feel better if you ate,” he said as he began pulling apart of big, thick-crusted loaf of bread. “We have bread, cheese, boiled onions with mustard, roast fowl, figs, and walnuts. Help yourself, my lady.”

  Emllyn was looking at the trinket that Nessa had slipped into her hand; it was a hair comb made of nickel or tin; it was hard to tell. Someone had rather skillfully worked it into the shape of a butterfly, and it was evidently well-used as it was bent a bit, but it was a very sweet little comb.

  Emllyn fought off a smile as she gazed down at the gift from an Irish lass she’d never said more than two words to. It was a very nice gesture, surprising since she thought all of the Irish in this Godforsaken castle hated her. She would make sure to thank her next time she saw her.

  But the smell of the food on the table was distracting her. The scent was divine and Emllyn’s dark mood began to lift as she tore off a leg of the roast bird and began to eat. The meat was succulent and juicy and in little time, she was competing with Devlin for who could eat the most and not vomit it all up. The feast had her attention at the moment and for a few minutes she could actually forget about everything. At the moment, there was no captivity or concubine; it was simply the food and that was all she focused on.

  It was a rather oddly silent meal, Devlin was thinking as he watched Emllyn stuff food in her mouth. He knew she was distracted, and saddened, but at least she wasn’t hysterical any longer. He was grateful for that. After taking Eefha a bird leg, he returned to the table and sat heavily as he collected his cup of wine.

  “We shall be leaving for de Cleveley’s settlement on the morrow,” he told her as he poured more wine. “We will have to travel lightly; practically nothing at all since we are supposed to be prisoners escaped from Black Sword’s dungeon. Think carefully about what you will take with you because even then, it may be too much. You must think of what only a prisoner would be allowed to possess or would be able to steal.”

  Emllyn looked at him in mid-chew. “I am a prisoner,” she said flatly. “I will take the clothes on my back and nothing else. What more do I have? And what do you mean by we are supposed to be prisoners?”

  He took a long drink of wine before looking at her. “I am going with you.”

  She cocked her head curiously. “To escort me as you said you would?”

  He drained his cup. “I am going with you into the belly of the beast,” he said, realizing she had no knowledge of the plans he’d discussed with Shain and the others. “You see, lady, I do not want you going in there alone. I fear that they will never let you go if you do. Therefore, I will go with you. We are to pose as two escaped prisoners from Black Sword’s dungeons, you being Fitzgerald’s fine sister and me being a warrior from an enemy clann. We will tell them I am mute because in that respect, they may trust me more and of course you will validate my presence. You will tell them that I helped you escape and that I have been your mute protector ever since. If you trust me, they will trust me. Then we shall discover what we can and flee. Is this in any way unclear?”

  Emllyn was looking at him with wide, astonished eyes. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course,” he said. Then, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, his iron grip conveying a thousand silent words of intimidation and foreboding. “If you do not do everything in your power to convince them I am no threat to them, or if you betray me, know that I have given orders to have every one of the English captives killed. Their lives depend upon your behavior.”

  By this time, she was pale with apprehension and fury. “Why do you threaten me?” she asked hoarsely.

  Devlin’s jaw ticked. “I tell you the truth. Betray me and everyone dies. Obey me and mayhap you shall discover that your lover is indeed still alive. Are we agreed?”

  Emllyn thought about yanking her hand free from his grasp but stopped short. He was holding her so tightly that she would probably snap her wrist in the attempt. His grip was heated, too, and her mind inadvertently turned to those very big hands and how they had touched her body. His big fingers had penetrated her, making her experience things she had never known to exist. Shuddering, she forced away those thoughts and lowered her head. Back came thoughts of Trevor, of the English captives, and of the Irish rebels to whom she was at the mercy of. For God’s sake, now is the time to be totally compliant!

  “I will not betray you,” she muttered.

  “Swear it on the Blessed Virgin.”

  “I swear.”

  “Then I believe you.”

  “Let go of me now.”

  A flicker of humor crossed Devlin’s expression. “Why?”

  “Because I have asked you to.”

  “And if I do not?”

  Emllyn turned her head away. “It would be n
othing new.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She tried to pull away. “When have you ever done anything I asked?”

  Devlin was feeling his alcohol. He’d had most of the pitcher and could feel the warmth in his veins. When have you ever done anything I asked? He had never done anything she’d asked. But, then again, it wasn’t her place to ask anything of him. She was the captive and he was her conqueror. The sooner her proud English soul recognized that, the better for them all. God, he could feel his lust for her flushing his veins like a wildfire as he watched her squirm. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman in his life.

  Swiftly, he stood up and yanked her to her feet. Emllyn let out a startled cry as he scooped her into his arms and, in three long strides, tossed her onto the bed. Emllyn barely had time to scream before he was on her, his soft lips and bristly beard covering her mouth. His enormous arms wrapped around her body as his mouth suckled her with all shades of lust and glory.

  Emllyn tried to avoid his seeking lips, to turn her head, but he would have no part of it. She pounding on his shoulders as he kissed her lustily, sucking the air right out of her.

  “Nay,” she breathed when she managed to pull away. “You will not do this! You will not, I say!”

  He ignored her as his hands began to roam, tugging at belts and tossing them aside. Emllyn’s panic increased.

  “Nay!” she cried. “Not in front of… your aunt is in the room! Please, for the love of God, not in front of her!”

  His mouth was forging a blazing trail across her jaw. “She is asleep,” he said breathlessly. “Can’t you hear her snoring?”

  Emllyn had no idea if she could hear the woman snoring or not. All she knew was that Devlin intended to take her in front of an audience. She was more horrified than she had ever been in her life, now of something she had no control over. As she opened her mouth to protest, he clamped his lips down over hers and kissed her so hard that she nearly lost consciousness.

  She couldn’t breathe. She could hardly think. Devlin’s mouth finally released her and she got a hand free, slapping him across the face. He caught her hand as another came at him, barely missing his eye. Collecting the belt he’d pulled off her waist, the one she had repaired that afternoon, he managed to capture both flailing hands and using the belt, he tied them together snuggly. Then he took the tail end of the belt and lashed it to the head of the bed.

  Emllyn’s arms were effectively trapped but she didn’t give up the fight. She tried to kick him in the groin when he shifted and she barely missed. Devlin pushed himself off of her, rolling over to sit at the edge of the bed. He put out a hand and shook Eefha gently.

  “Aintín?” he said gently, waking her. “Go to bed, now. I will see you on the morrow.”

  Eefha snorted and shifted on the stool, puffing furiously on the now-cold pipe as a reflexive action of being awoken out of a stone-cold sleep. She grunted and waved Devlin off, standing up wearily and making her way to the door. She never once looked at the bed or noticed Emllyn. The old woman shut the door behind her and Devlin bolted it.

  When the door was secured, he turned to his captive on the bed. She was in a perfect position for him to have his way with her but he didn’t; something was holding him back although he wasn’t sure what. Perhaps it was the fact that she’d asked him not to ravage her anymore. As much as he hated to admit it, perhaps he was actually bending to her request.

  Emllyn gazed back at him with an expression between fear and outrage.

  “Untie my hands,” she demanded.

  He put his hands on his hips. “I will not because you will only strike me again.”

  “I strike you to defend myself,” she fired back.

  He continued to face her, fists on his hips, and an odd expression on his face. Emllyn kept waiting for him to pounce on her but he remained standing. She watched him warily because he seemed rather pensive. After several long moments, he broke his stance and shifted towards the bed.

  “Tomorrow we embark on a journey that, in order to be successful, must see some measure of trust between us,” he said quietly. “You and I are not comrades. We are not family nor are we even remotely kin. You are the sister of my enemy, a man I am rebelling against because he claims my lands as his own and holds my people as slaves. Did it ever occur to you that I am treating you the way your brother treats my people?”

  He was being somewhat deliberate and calm in his delivery, a far cry from the lustful man from moments before. It was difficult not to take him seriously because his expression and words were sincere. Emllyn gazed back at him as she pondered the different responses she could give him. She settled on one.

  “My brother does not force himself upon women as you do,” she said, trying not to sound angry or accusing. “I fail to see the similarities.”

  Devlin cocked his head thoughtfully. “Your family has raped Irish lands for decades,” he said. “Our women have been taken back to England as concubines or worse. You know this to be true because you have Irish women working for you at Llansteffan.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “There is a great deal I know.”

  He was, in fact, correct. Emllyn watched him a moment, studying his handsome face, before relaxing somewhat. The conversation was strangely civil and her terror from moments earlier was gone. “I asked you this once before,” she said. “Are you to punish me for the sins of my brother and father, and all of my male relatives before them that have staked a claim in Ireland?”

  Devlin shook his head. “Punish you; nay,” he replied. “But I have made it clear that you belong to me. I will never, ever return you to your brother and it is my intention to breed strong sons from you. If this is distasteful, then I am sorry for you. But it is the way of things.”

  Emllyn could feel the familiar sting of tears but she resisted. It would do no good to cry, anyway. She had learned that much about him.

  “What would you have me say to all of that?” she whispered. “There is nothing I can say and nothing I can do. But you and I have a bargain and I will hold you to it; you want to discover what de Cleveley’s plans are for you. I want to know if Trevor is among the captured. I told you that I would discover what I can and I have no intention of going back on my word. You have mentioned that there must be some trust between us; my word is my bond and I would assume the same with you, as a knight. You told me I could see the English captives once our task is finished. I am trusting your word just as you are trusting mine. What more do you want?”

  Devlin listened to her reasonable words; she made sense. After a moment, he shook his head. “I told you I believed you when you swore not to betray me,” he said. “I still believe you. That has not changed. But… but I do not want to be fighting with you the entire time. We must have some level of cooperation or I fear we will fail, and that will mean death for us both.”

  Emllyn tried not to give him an expression of total disbelief. “It is a simple thing to gain cooperation if that is what you truly want,” she said. “Untie my hands and stop ravaging me. Treat me with respect and you shall gain mine in return. Mayhap it is foolish to tell the man who viciously stole my innocence that I will show him a measure of respect, but I sense in you a man of honor, Devlin de Bermingham. I am not sure how or why, but I can see it in you. You are indeed a paradox; brutal and barbaric one moment and then civil and intelligent the next. I should hate you with every corner of my being but I cannot seem to manage it because if I admit it to myself, you indeed have a grievance. I cannot say I would not behave the same way if a family that had no right to my lands or property claimed it for their own. But what you’ve done to me… I had nothing to do with my brother or father or grandfather’s claim in Ireland, yet you brutalized me to punish me for their sins. The barbarian in you ruined me but the warrior in you… he is a different man, one whom is trying to save his people. I can understand that. But the barbarian… I hate him as much as he hates me.”

  Devlin
was stunned by her words. But along with that sensation came a sense of regret and guilt so powerful that he actually had to lower his gaze. He couldn’t look her in the eye. He had sworn all along that he would not be sorry for what he had done to her but at this moment, he was. He deeply was. Odd how this one moment in time and the lady’s gentle statement had turned the tides in his heart. His remorse was overwhelming, but not enough to let her go completely. She was still his and he intended to keep her. Without a word, he went to the bed and untied the belt, letting her hands go free.

  Emllyn sat up, rubbing her wrists and watching him as he went to the hearth and stoked the fire, throwing a few chunks of peat on it. He seemed very subdued and she wondered if her words had any impact on him. With de Bermingham, it was difficult to tell. She couldn’t read the man’s moods by any means.

  “We will leave early on the morrow so I would suggest you pull together what possessions you plan to bring,” he said, giving the fire a final poke before rising. “When I leave this chamber, bolt the door behind me but know I will return.”

  Emllyn simply nodded, watching the man make his way to the door, catching a glimpse of his big hands as he moved past her and thinking those same heated thoughts she’d had once before; hands that had made her feel things she had never felt in her life, sensations of such pleasure that even the mere thought of them was enough to cause her breathing to quicken. She was almost sorry that he was leaving. Part of her wanted him to stay, part of her wanted him to go. It was a very strange conflict.

  Devlin quit the room and Emllyn got up out of the bed to throw the bolt behind him. There was such an odd mood between them, something she pondered deeply as she went in search of her meager possessions as Devlin had instructed. Even as she packed, she thought of him, of their conversation, and how he had seemed rather vulnerable at times.

  She knew there was a sensitive man beneath the warrior façade; she could sense it. A barbarian with a poet’s soul, a brute with a soft heart he kept hidden. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. As she finished tying off her possessions that she had wrapped up in one of the hides, she lifted her hands to smell them. She could smell Devlin’s scent upon them from where she had fought with him.