Brides of Ireland: A Medieval Historical Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Father used to make you dance for money to feed his gambling habit.” Mara wasn’t listening to her sister’s protests. “And he would leave me outside, on the street, pretending I was an orphan and begging for more money. Do you remember?”

  Micheline refused to answer. Met with silence, Mara turned to her sister. “Do you?” When Micheline nodded weakly, Mara’s expression softened. “That is why you do not want to go to an inn, isn’t it? They hold nothing but bad memories for you.”

  Micheline sighed deeply, avoiding Mara’s knowing stare. “The smell of ale and sweat still makes me vomit,” she murmured, sickened by the painful memories. “The only reason father did not prostitute me was because he knew he could get a better price for a virgin bride.”

  “But in the end, he used you to pay off a gambling debt as if you were a commodity.”

  “To Monroe de Cleveley,” Micheline finished quietly, “as a bride for his only son.”

  Mara observed her sister’s pained expression. She had been young enough not to mind begging, her aggressive nature having served her well. But Micheline, just over the brink of womanhood, had been embarrassed to display herself like a common trollop. Dancing for drunken soldiers, or singing in her piercing soprano for the few coins they would throw. It had been a shameful way to grow up, better left forgotten. But not before Edward le Bec bestowed one final act of humiliation by using his eldest daughter to settle a substantial gambling obligation.

  Mara knew that Micheline’s humiliation ran deep, being likened to hard currency rather than flesh and blood. “Think on it this way, Misha.” She attempted to lighten the heady mood that had settled. “A wealthy husband and the title of baroness. Mayhap Father’s gambling habit will have positive results, after all.”

  Micheline nodded faintly, feeling the first few drops of rain cool her flaming cheeks. “I wonder what he looks like.” She raised her eyes, meeting Mara’s gaze. “My husband, I mean. I have been wondering for two years.”

  Mara smiled. “Dashing, I am sure.”

  Kirk’s bellow echoed in the distance and both ladies turned toward the camp. “As dashing as Sir Kirk?” Micheline asked softly.

  Mara shrugged. “He’s a beast. A misshapen giant.”

  “He’s terribly handsome, Mara. Or hadn’t you noticed through all of your resistance?”

  She had, if she were to admit it. A square jaw, thick dark lashes and a straight nose. And this morning she had even caught a glimpse of dark, shiny hair beneath his hauberk. Before he donned his helm and transformed into an evil fighting machine that took delight in dominating her.

  “I have noticed that he is three times my size.” She turned her nose up stubbornly; there was no way Micheline would be able to wrangle a confession from her. “His fists are as big as my head.”

  “Who cares about his fists?” Micheline smiled, almost seductively. “I was speaking of his face.”

  Mara’s brow furrowed, refusing to agree with her sister’s assessment. Even though she realized she would very much like to. Turning away, she reined her old mare in the direction of the camp.

  “I see they’ve pitched a couple of tents,” she said. “Come along, Misha. It’s been a long day for you.”

  Micheline followed. “I am sorry you have to sleep in a tent, darling. I just… just cannot abide sleeping in an inn.”

  Mara shrugged, far too carelessly. “But I can. And if I feel like going to an inn to enjoy a warm atmosphere and protection from the rain, then I shall. If Kirk Connaught is going to force me to accompany you to Anchorsholme, he’ll have to pay for his decision.”

  Micheline looked shocked. “Why would you do this? The man is only doing his job, Mara. And inns are nothing but dens for gambling and debauchery. You know this to be true.”

  Mara shrugged again, noting the campfire was blazing brightly. “I spent most of my time outside of the inns, Misha. Only you and father went inside. I have always found them to be rather… flavorful.”

  “Flavorful?” Micheline was horrified. “How can you say that?”

  They were nearing the camp perimeter and Mara shushed her sister firmly. “Not to worry, Misha. I would never do anything foolish.”

  “But you are thinking foolish thoughts, little goat.”

  From the corner of her eye, Mara caught sight of Kirk as they entered the camp. Seeing the travel-weary ladies, Kirk left the task of securing a section of tent and made his way toward them. Mara kept her eyes trained on him, the face Micheline thought was so very handsome.

  “For me, these thoughts are not so foolish,” she murmured. “They are perfectly normal.”

  “As I said,” Micheline closed her eyes in silent prayer, “foolish.”

  Mara waited until the camp was quiet before making her move. The clouds had returned, as had the rain, and she made sure Micheline was asleep before stirring from her bed. The soft glow from the dying fire cast long shadows as she peered from the tent, watching the sentries pace the encampment. Waiting for the last pair of soldiers to disappear into the bramble, she slipped from the shelter and into the trees.

  The village was visible about a mile down the road. Mud splashed on her worn shoes as she trudged down the thoroughfare, but Mara was unconcerned with the discomfort. She was determined to make it to town, to beg a few coins off a rich soldier as she had done so ably when she was young, and then indulge herself in a fine goblet of mead to toast her victory against Kirk.

  Ormskirk was a smelly, dirty town. As Mara skipped along the road, dodging horses and men, her gaze fell on a large hostel by the edge of town. Looking through the window, she could see the laughing people and smell the smelly warmth. It was inviting and she quickly decided to become a part of it. Slipping in behind a group of well-dressed knights, she lost herself in the crowd.

  No one noticed the tiny woman skirting the edge of the room, gazing curiously at what she had described to her sister as ‘flavor’. Soldiers gnawing on bloodied meat, wenches with painted faces seated on their lap. There was song and gaiety and the stench of close-packed bodies filling the air. As Mara made her way to the blazing hearth, she thought all of it to be rather exciting.

  The fire was scorching. Warming her hands before the blaze, the smell of beef was making her hungry. Face partially shielded by the wet hood, Mara’s gaze scanned the room in search of a potential benefactor.

  In the corner of the room sat a fat merchant, dining alone on a stew of turnips and mutton. Mara watched the man for a moment, sensing he was kind and hoping her instincts were right. Squaring her shoulders, she went to his table.

  The man was a loud eater. Trying to appear as pathetic as possible, Mara clasped her hands against her breast.

  “Kind sir,” she said dramatically. “Could you find it within your heart to spare a poor widow a few coins with which to eat?”

  The man paused in mid-chew, his gaze moving the length of her dripping cloak. Swallowing hard, he coughed loudly and struggled not to choke.

  “A widow?” He coughed again. Then, he looked annoyed. “Go away, lass. Can you not see that I am eating?”

  Mara would not be dissuaded. “But – sir! I have not eaten in days, and my children….”

  “Children?”

  She nodded eagerly. “Nine of them. They have not eaten, either.”

  The merchant raised his eyebrows. “You have nine children?” he repeated. “You’re hardly more than a child yourself.”

  Mara drew herself up, proudly. “I am a woman grown, sir. And I would thank you kindly for helping to feed my children.”

  “All nine of them.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The man took a bite of bread, chewing slowly. “You’re not a very good liar, lass.”

  Mara looked innocent. “Sir?”

  He took another bite of bread. “Who are you begging for? Your husband? Father, mayhap?”

  Mara shook her head. “Myself, sir. Myself and….”

  He put up a hand. “I know, I know. And yo
ur nine children.”

  “Aye, sir.” Mara thought she could sense some amusement in his expression. “Will you help us?”

  He continued to gaze at her, chewing on his bread. “How old are you?”

  Mara thought quickly. “Twenty-two, sir.”

  “Twenty-two, eh?” He put the bread down, collecting his wooden cup. “You must have bore your first child at ten years of age.”

  She refused to recant her story. Once he had her confession, she was certain he would refuse to give her any coin. “Thirteen, sir. I… I was a very young bride.”

  “Indeed.” He drank deeply of his watered ale. A dog came around looking for hand-outs and Mara shooed it away as it sniffed her skirt.

  “Well?” she almost demanded. “Can you spare a few coins, sir? Or must I beg elsewhere?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Demanding little wench, aren’t you? There is a fine line between robbing and begging.”

  Mara sighed. “I do apologize. ’Tis just that my children are starving and….”

  He put up a hand, snorting into his cup. “No more, lass. I shall give you a few pence and be gone with you.”

  Mara held out her hand and he deposited five coins into her palm. Flashing him a brilliant smile, she clutched the money to her breast and made her way across the room. Just as she neared an empty table against the wall, a large hand suddenly reached out to grab her.

  Mara shrieked as she plopped into an armored lap. “Let me go!”

  Loud male laughter filled the stale air. “Relax, sweetling. I won’t hurt you.”

  She twisted violently, her hood coming off in the process. Silky black hair cascaded down her back, drawing a sigh of appreciation from the table’s occupants.

  “Ah, what have we here?” The knight gripped her with both hands, studying her beauty. “A fine, fine catch, I’d say.”

  She struggled to be free, smelling the liquor on his breath. “I demand you release me immediately!”

  “But why?” He shifted his grip, touching her face with a thick finger. “Christ, you’re a lovely one. Name your price.”

  Grimacing with exertion, Mara shoved an elbow into his throat, managing to dislodge his hold. But no sooner had she bound to her feet than another knight grabbed her.

  “Hold, lady,” he growled. “Not so fast. He asked you to name your price.”

  Mara knew what they meant. She’s spent too much time exposed to the atmosphere taverns to interpret any other meaning. Her indignation was joined by a healthy measure of fear as she struggled to free herself from yet another accoster.

  “No price,” she hissed. “Let me alone!”

  The knight was strong. He and his three companions were enjoying her torment, drunk with too much food and alcohol.

  “I shall give you five gold pieces, lass.” The first knight who had grabbed her, an older man, was searching for his purse in spite of the fact that she had shoved her elbow into his neck.

  “I told you,” she grunted, succeeding in freeing one hand. “I am not for sale. Find your pleasure with another.”

  “The whole world’s for sale, at the right price.” The knight who held her captive received a slap on the chin for his troubles. “Come on, love. We shall be gentle, we promise.”

  With a grunt, Mara yanked herself free and stumbled over a chair, struggling to get away. The knights laughed, the older man rising to his feet in pursuit. Mara managed to get around the chair, planning to duck out through the kitchens when a powerful arm grasped her around the waist.

  She could smell the ale on his breath, making her gag as his lips pressed against her ear. “Come along, sweetling. It’s been a long time since I have tasted flesh as sweet as yours.”

  Mara’s feet were dangling off the ground, her slight weight nothing against his strength. For the first time in her life, she knew what it was to sense panic. And she had a load of it. Kicking and twisting, she refused to let him take her without a fight.

  Wondering, as he struggled to get her up the stairs to his rented room, if the price of her spite against Kirk Connaught would be too high.

  It was exceedingly late. The rains had lessened again, the highs and lows of harsh winter weather, leaving the landscape wet and miserable. The only light was from the fire or the torches men carried as they went about their rounds, protecting the camp perimeter and the ladies it housed.

  Kirk had been tending Corwin’s charger, the animal having pulled a tendon during the journey. Leaving the charger with a wrap on its leg and a worried master, he made his way through the wet foliage and into the hub of the smoky encampment.

  He passed Niles, sound asleep in a make-shift tent. The sound of the man’s snoring was enough to wake the dead and Kirk kicked the knight’s exposed foot as he passed by. The man rolled to his side and the obnoxious sound quieted.

  The ladies tent was set away from the others purely for privacy’s sake. Kirk was almost to his tent when he paused, thinking to check on the women before he turned in for the night. Wondering if the little she-devil had managed to fall asleep in spite of the fact that the drooping structure wasn’t her precious inn.

  He paused outside of the tent, listening. It was completely silent. Carefully, he lifted the edge of the flap, peering inside; Lady Micheline was sleeping soundly, curled on Edmund’s furs. But the bed next to her was empty and Kirk threw back the covering, his stone-gray eyes blazing.

  “Lady Micheline,” he hissed. “Micheline!”

  Micheline jolted awake. “M-My lord?”

  “Where is your sister?”

  Micheline blinked, looking at the bedding beside her. Touching it, as if to make sure it was truly empty, she shook her head.

  “I d-do not know, my lord,” she said truthfully. “Mayhap she is in the bramble… relieving herself, as it were.”

  “She’s not in the bramble. I have sentries all over this camp and someone would have told me.”

  Micheline struggled to clear the cobwebs of sleep from her mind, thinking. “She was perturbed that you refused to take us to an inn. Mayhap she…”

  That was all Kirk needed to hear. He was half-way across the encampment, heading for the tethered chargers before Micheline realized what was happening. Plain blue eyes wide with fright, she hovered at the edge of the tent, watching as Kirk thundered from camp astride his great red beast. Dazed and apprehensive, she had little choice but to return to the huddle of Edmund’s furs.

  But she did not sleep.

  Oh, Mara… what have you done now?

  The broken pitcher had cut her hand when she smashed it on his shoulder. Bleeding and sobbing, Mara remained under the bed where the knight couldn’t reach her. He stomped about, issuing violent threats as she continued to resist him, refusing to sate his lust.

  In hindsight, it hadn’t been the wisest decision to leave camp. She should have remained, by Micheline’s side, safe and sound as Lord Edmund’s men watched over her. Even Kirk. He had saved her from falling to her death yesterday, but she doubted he could save her from what was about to happen. The results of her own stupidity.

  But that was the problem with Mara. Always regretting her hasty actions, allowing her impulsive nature to rule her common sense. Micheline attributed her foolishness to her youthful years; Mara hoped she was right. She hoped that with age would come sensible maturity. And as the knight continued to rage and drink, Mara prayed she would live that long.

  As fearful as she was, she grew even more fearful when the shouting finally stopped. She could hear footfalls pacing about the room and just when she thought, mayhap, the knight had given up, she was startled when a massive hand reached under the bed. Unable to move away fast enough, the knight had her by the skirts and pulled her out in a flash.

  “There you are, sweetling.” He threw her on the bed, his heavy body landing atop her. Mara swallowed the bile in her throat as he tried to kiss her. “You were a naughty girl, hiding from me. Now is your chance to make amends.”

  Mara twisted, tur
ning her head and struggling not to vomit. He was heavy, crushing her slight body into the mattress. The knight’s slobbering lips were on her cheek, her chin, moving down her neck. As Mara gasped and fought, he brought both of her hands up and pinned them above her head.

  With one free hand he could do a good deal of damage. Starting at her round breasts, he squeezed them roughly and Mara screamed. The minute she opened her mouth, he put his tongue in it.

  She spit and twisted, weeping as he laughed. The hand moved down her torso, fumbling with her skirts, and Mara’s struggles increased. A calloused hand ran the length of her leg and she lashed out, managing to kick him as his attention focused on the unfurled flower between her legs. The knight grunted, using a knee to spread her legs as his hand moved to her bare buttocks.

  Sharply, he slapped her white bottom. “Cease!” he growled. “Since I have no intention of releasing you, I would suggest you learn to enjoy it.”

  Mara ignored him, still twisting and bucking. If she wasn’t enjoying the encounter, then she would make sure he did not either. She simply couldn’t believe her foolishness had led her to this point, her innocence about to be taken by a drunken knight. The only thing of personal value she possessed was about to be stolen and she vowed at the moment that if God would allow her to come through intact, she would never do anything so stupid again.

  But her prayers were cut short as the knight’s hand moved to the black ringlets between her legs. Mara screamed again, trying desperately to avoid his probing fingers. He grinned lewdly, stroking the dry folds.

  “Give me a bit of dew, sweetling,” he muttered, his breath coming in heavy gasps. “’Twill make it easier on you.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about, panic filling her. A thick finger wormed its way inside her and she screamed again.

  “Just a little bit,” he rasped against her cheek. “Just a little and I shall end your torment.”

  There was a knock at the door. The knight turned his head away from Mara long enough to bellow at the interruption.

  “Leave us!”

  His finger was moving inside her, uncomfortable and foreign. Mara whimpered, tears trailing down her temples, as the knight’s wriggling finger suddenly stopped. His eyes widened as he stared at her.