Brides of Ireland: A Medieval Historical Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “You’re a virgin?” He moved his finger again and she cried out in fear. Sighing raggedly, his gaze raked her pale face. “I can feel your maidenhood resisting me. Oh, sweetling, what a pleasure this will be.”

  His mouth tried to claim her again, but she turned her head away, sobbing. The knight, however, was unable to progress any further; the chamber door suddenly exploded in a hail of splinters and Mara saw a flash of steel and armor. The knight rolled off her, scrambling for his weapon as the intruder entered the room.

  Kirk brought the blade down against the man’s neck, going no further than to imply the obvious. The knight froze and dropped his weapon as stone-gray eyes glittered with unnatural fury.

  “I am weaponless, my lord,” he said calmly.

  Kirk did not reply. His eyes remained trained on the defenseless knight as he spoke to Mara.

  “Did he deflower you, Mara?”

  Mara was standing by the end of the bed on quaking legs. She had no idea how she got there. “Nay, my lord,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But… but he tried.”

  Kirk’s blade remained poised at the man’s neck a moment longer before removing it with amazing speed. “Then I will spare him,” he growled. “Vacate this room immediately before I change my mind.”

  The knight rose, collecting his armor and weapons. Kirk continued to stare at the man as he quit the room, unmoving until he heard the boot falls fade away. Then, he turned to Mara.

  “What happened?”

  She was shaking so terribly that she had to sit down. She could hardly look him in the eye. “I wanted to sleep in a warm, dry inn,” she said weakly. “The knight thought I was a whore. How did you find me?”

  Kirk sheathed his sword and suddenly, he was looming over her. “By thinking like an idiot,” he said, a flash of anger coming through. “Christ, woman, what on earth possessed you to do something like this?”

  She was staring at her bloodied hand. “I… I wanted to sleep at the inn,” she repeated, feeling exhausted and ashamed. “Micheline does not like taverns, so I….”

  “So you went regardless of the fact that had I denied you, simply to spite me,” he finished for her, his anger piqued. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he had been quite so angry. Or, for the second time in as many days, frightened. Working into a righteous rage, he noticed Mara’s bloody hand and felt himself weaken. “Did he do that?”

  She shook her head. Kirk watched as a single tear fell, bathing the bloodied flesh. “I did it whilst attempting to defend myself.”

  He sighed heavily, his fury fading in spite of the effort to maintain it. Glancing about, he spied a square of linen by the basin and snatched it, kneeling beside Mara and silently wrapping her hand. He was nearly finished when he glanced up to find bright blue eyes staring at him.

  “This is twice in two days that you have saved me.”

  The vortex of her eyes was enough to erase all fury. Christ, she was so very lovely, so fragile. And so terribly headstrong. Wrestling against a same unfamiliar tenderness that had swamped him yesterday, he tore his gaze away.

  “And who was there to save you before I arrived?” he asked, gruffly, to mask his emotions. “I cannot imagine that I have seen your first attempts at foolishness.”

  She did not say anything for a moment and Kirk forced himself to look at her. It was the first time since they had met that she appeared emotionally vulnerable. Away from all of the fire and resistance, he could see the soft little lady beneath.

  “There was no one to save me,” she murmured. “I did as I pleased.”

  He wasn’t strong enough to tear his gaze away this time. The urge to give into the strange emotions was overwhelming. “Those days are gone, lady.”

  She continued to stare at him, without the usual hostility. “My sister calls me a hellion.”

  “And my men call me the Master. Who do you suppose will be the first to surrender to the other?”

  “’Twill not be me.”

  “It had better be. Or I will do what I should have done yesterday.”

  “What is that?”

  He rose, the stone-gray eyes intense. “Take my hand to your backside. One more infraction and I shall.”

  She lowered her gaze, giving a careless shrug. “My father threatened me all the time but never once carried through.”

  “Then you do not fear my threat?”

  The bright gaze fixed on him again. He swore he saw a flicker of a smile. “I believe you.”

  “That is not what I asked.”

  “I know what you asked.” She stood from the bed, deliberately avoiding his gaze and he saw the smile broaden. “I choose to give you a pleasing answer rather than the reply you truly seek.”

  He sighed heavily. If he had any sense, he would spank her this minute and be done with it. Even so, he couldn’t seem to muster the will and his impotency confused him. Knowing only that this lack of sense had something to do with the odd warmth this little hellion seemed to provoke. Emotions he had no intention of exploring.

  “We shall arrive at Anchorsholme come the morrow,” he muttered. “I suggest for your own sake that you behave yourself, whether or not you give credence to my threat. Do you comprehend?”

  Mara nodded faintly. But Kirk did not like the gleam to her eye; nay, he did not like it at all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The following morning dawned amazingly bright considering the rain that had pounded for most of the night. The camp was quickly disassembled and a simple meal of bread and cheese provided. Before the sun burst free of the eastern horizon, the escort party was on the road, nearing home with the prize of their lord’s betrothed.

  At the first sight of Anchorsholme Castle, Micheline’s jaw dropped and she burst into tears. Riding beside her sister under clear skies and a brisk sea breeze, Mara tried to comfort the weeping woman. A halting explanation revealed that Micheline felt herself unworthy to preside over such splendor. All anticipation of her new marriage aside, the very real fact remained that the woman was terrified to meet her destiny.

  Up until the moment Micheline dissolved into tears, the air between the sisters had been strained. Kirk had remained tactfully silent, allowing Mara to explain to her sister what had happened the previous eve. She did not mention the near-rape or Kirk’s heroic appearance, only the brief story about the fat merchant and nine children. Had Micheline not been so angry with her sister’s show of rebellion, she would have laughed at her play-acting. For all she knew, Mara had been seized by Kirk at the inn and escorted back to camp.

  With the subject gracefully skirted, it had been a long ride to Anchorsholme. The Lancashire castle was a magnificent Norman structure near the sea with an inner and outer wall to protect the mighty three storied keep. As a pair of hawks shrieked overhead, the escort party was greeted by a host of well-formed ranks. Taking a good look at their fine tunics and armor, Micheline began to weep all over again.

  “Welcome to The Darkland, ladies.” Corwin was riding slightly behind them, the impressive structure reflecting in his soft brown eyes.

  Mara, in the midst of calming her sister, turned to the knight. “Why do you call it The Darkland?”

  Over the top of Mara’s head, Corwin caught Niles’ negative expression. Clearing his throat, he shrugged faintly.

  “Lord Edmund’s Irish subjects gave it the name, I suppose, because they consider their English overlord to be the Devil himself.” A very simple version of the disturbing truth.

  Mara frowned, her gaze raking the structure. “It doesn’t look dark to me.”

  Niles interrupted before Corwin could say any more. “A figure of speech, my lady.”

  Mara continued to stare at the castle, a single stone tower reaching for the sky. It was such a beautiful place that she could hardly justify her reluctance to come.

  “I did not know Lord Edmund had lands in Ireland.” She turned her inquisitive gaze to Corwin. “Where is the property?”

  “Wicklow, my lady, sou
th of Dublin,” he replied. “The lands were part of his grandmother’s dowry. A very large, very profitable piece of land.”

  “Profitable?”

  “Sheep,” Corwin explained. “Fine wool and Irish whisky, to name a few.”

  Mara nodded in understanding, noting that Micheline’s hysteria had calmed. Plain blue eyes studied the structure as the woman hastened to dry her tears. She was sight enough for her prospective bridegroom without the added distraction of red-rimmed eyes.

  “Sir Kirk is from Ireland,” she sniffled. “Is he from Wicklow?”

  Corwin spurred his horse forward, next to Mara as he answered. “Kirk’s grandfather was a great warlord. He served Lord Edmund’s grandfather for many years as adjutant for the Wicklow properties. Kirk’s father assumed the position after his father’s death, while Kirk came to Anchorsholme to personally serve the House of de Cleveley.”

  Mara’s gaze was lingering on the massive knight at the head of the column, his armor reflecting the weak sunlight. “Will Kirk go back to Ireland to assume the position at his father’s passing?”

  Corwin nodded. “Aye. Nearly half of County Wicklow belongs to the House of de Cleveley. Kirk’s father commands over four hundred English troops to protect and enforce the holdings.”

  Mara continued to observe the distant knight, swaying in rhythm to his horse; in spite of the fact that he had become both her mortal enemy and her savior, Corwin’s impressive tales about the man and his genealogy piqued her curiosity.

  “Where did Sir Kirk foster?”

  “Kenilworth, my lady. Lord Edmund’s father pledge him to the royal household to train.”

  “Why?”

  Corwin smiled, a lop-sided gesture. “Because when Kirk was seven years of age, he was as tall as you are and several pounds heavier. The man is a product of centuries of Celt lineage and Monroe De Cleveley recognized the natural warrior in him. Better to train him properly with strong loyalty to England than to leave him in the land of his forefathers where he can wreak havoc against the House of Tudor.”

  Mara pondered Kirk’s pedigree, agreeing inwardly that it was somewhat respectable. But considering her lineage was also powerful in spite of her father’s drain on the family funds, she continued to act as if nothing about Kirk was impressive.

  “He’s an Irish barbarian, no matter what his lineage,” she snorted, turning away to observe the lush lands around her. Wanting off the subject of Kirk Connaught, she gestured to the landscape. “I still do not understand why Anchorsholme Castle is called The Darkland. These lands are anything but dark.”

  Niles was riding in front of the women, hearing every word of the conversation although he pretended otherwise. When Mara returned the subject to the dismal reference, he leapt into the dialogue.

  “Lord Edmund has a sister, the Lady Johanne,” he said, veering the focus away from Anchorsholme’s reputation. “She is a little older than yourself, Lady Micheline. She has been very excited for your arrival.”

  Eyes dried, Micheline looked pleased. “She has?” She turned to smile at Mara, who returned the gesture. But when her sister returned her focus to Niles, Mara’s rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue; that was what she thought of Lady Johanne’s excitement. “How wonderful,” Micheline said, oblivious to her sister’s mocking expressions. “I had no idea my betrothed even had a sister.”

  Niles caught Mara’s gesture, shocked until he realized that giggles were very close to the surface. Unlike most finely bred ladies, the girl made no secrets of her thoughts. Aye, she was bold and spoiled and after what Kirk told him had transpired last eve, foolish too. But if he were to ignore her negative characteristics, she was also the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

  “Lady Johanne enjoys painting and poetry.” He tried not to look at Mara as she continued to make faces. “I would assume you are accomplished in both?”

  Micheline nodded. “I love to paint, although my knowledge of poetry is somewhat limited.”

  “That should not be a problem.” Corwin was still in the conversation. “My wife writes poetry. She would love to indulge you.”

  “Your wife?” Micheline turned to the knight. “I did not know you were married, Sir Corwin.”

  He nodded. “Three years now. My wife, Lady Valdine, and her sister, Lady Wanda, reside at Anchorsholme.”

  “Are you married, Sir Niles?” Mara stopped grimacing long enough to focus on Kirk’s tall associate.

  The knight shook his head. “Nay, lady, I am not. Do I detect your interest?”

  A smile played on Mara’s lips even though she was doing her best to scowl. “Never!”

  Niles sensed the game, smiling coyly as she turned away. “Come now, my lady. There is no need for modesty. Simply declare your interest and I shall consider you.”

  Mara shook her head firmly, the black hair gleaming like silk as she moved. “I am not interested and I never shall be.”

  Niles managed to rein his horse in front of her, his smile wicked. “I am crushed. Why not?”

  Mara tried not to look at him. “Because you’re too old, Sir Niles. Moreover, I do not want a husband.”

  “I am only twenty-six. And why do you not want a husband?”

  She shrugged, watching Corwin smirk from the corner of her eye. “Because I do not. I do not need one, nor do I want one. Besides, who would be foolish enough tolerate my lively nature?”

  Corwin and Niles looked at each other. “She has a point,” Niles conceded. Sighing dramatically, he returned his gaze to Anchorsholme. “Lady Mara, I have decided to reject your suit. You will understand, of course. I am far too feeble a man for your bold nature.”

  Mara fought off a smile, giggling when Micheline whispered something in her ear. Ahead, Kirk suddenly reined his horse around and lifted a massive arm, sending the escort dividing into two long rows. Niles and Corwin, their exchange with Mara forgotten, lowered their visors and took position in front of the ladies.

  Mara and Micheline watched as the great gates of Anchorsholme Castle slowly opened, the grinding of wood and rope echoing off the stone. A color guard waited on the battlements, the yellow and gray standards of the House of De Cleveley waving in the brisk wind. The sisters drank it all in, the awe of the spectacle outweighing the anxiety of their destiny.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was difficult to describe the smell of their lovemaking; somewhere between animal fat and a rotting corpse. When the heavy breathing subsided and the sweat cooled, it always smelled the same. It was a foul stench, emitting from the foul depths of their warped relationship.

  A woman stood by one of three lancet windows offering weak illumination into the richly-appointed chamber. The heavy oilcloth was pulled back, a cool breeze caressing her naked body as her lover languished on the massive bed behind her.

  “They’ve finally arrived,” she said faintly. Perhaps a bit ominously.

  The man on the damp, dirty sheets stirred a bit, eventually rising. He went to stand beside the woman, their gazes lingering on the activity in the bailey below.

  “They are late,” the man said, turning away in search of his clothes.

  The lady remained focused on the scene, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman she knew to be in the party. A woman she hadn’t yet decided to love or hate.

  “This marriage, Edmund.” She turned from the bright day, watching the man secure his hose. “You promised me that it would be in name only. Isn’t that what you said, dear brother?”

  He nodded, scratching his scalp before collecting his fine tunic. “Father accepted the pledge on behalf of a gambling debt, darling. I had no choice but to agree and well you know it.”

  The woman’s naked body crossed the floor, a thin woman with tiny breasts. Even as her brother put his tunic on, she rubbed against him like a cat in heat. “You must consummate the marriage.”

  “I am bound to.” He collected his gold-link belt. “For breeding purposes, of course. Once she’s pregnant, I shall forget I even
have a wife.”

  The woman smiled, rubbing her Venus Mound on his thigh and leaving a damp streak. “And return to me, where you belong,” she purred. “Into the arms of your beloved Johanne.”

  Edmund raised an eyebrow at his younger sister. The sister he had acquired when his father had married the wealthy widow Seymour those years ago, but his sister nonetheless. Blood or marriage was of little difference to him. “You would not be my beloved Johanne if Kirk were to show interest in you,” he said, slapping her on the buttocks. When she yelped and moved away, he sat on the mattress to put on his boots. “He is the man of your dreams; not me.”

  She continued to smile at him, rubbing her bum where he had smacked her. “’Tis you who loves me best, Edmund. You always have. Teaching me the ways of men and woman so my flesh would not be polluted by the touch of an outsider. When Kirk finally comes to his senses, he’ll be pleased with the skills you have taught me. Won’t he, Edmund? Just like you said?”

  Last boot in place, Edmund de Cleveley, Baron Bowland, rose from the bed and fixed his step-sister in the eye. “He shall be pleased. As pleased as I have been since you were eleven years old.”

  Johanne’s smile broadened, rubbing herself against the canopy post and imagining it was Kirk. “And what of your new wife, Edmund? Will she be as pleasurable as me?”

  “I am sure not. She’s a virgin; it’s guaranteed in the marriage contract. Silly, useless wench.”

  Johanne’s smile faded, her unbalanced mind evident in the dull green eyes. “Can I wish her away if she displeases us both?”

  “And how would she do that?”

  “By disapproving of our relationship, of course. If she cannot be made to understand, might I wish her away like I have the others?”

  Edmund paused by the door, studying the woman he couldn’t seem to be without. It wasn’t as if he loved her; but, truly, he had never been without her. The need to have her, to dominate her, had always been a part of his psyche. To do without her would be like relinquishing a limb; so very necessary if he wanted to remain in control.