His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3)

by Shayla Black

  His Rebel Bride

  Shayla Black

  writing as Shelley Bradley

  His Rebel Bride

  Published by Shelley Bradley LLC

  Copyright © 2000 Shelley Bradley LLC

  eBook ISBN 978-1-936596-27-0

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by an electronic or mechanical means—except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews—without express written permission.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away, as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  The Lady and the Dragon by Shayla Black—Coming Soon!

  An excerpt from His To Take by Shayla Black

  An excerpt from Cherished by Lexi Blake

  About the Author

  Links to My Other Books

  PROLOGUE

  Yorkshire, England

  November 1484

  Kieran Broderick exhaled in the cool, moonlit morn, blood singing as he awaited the battle cry that would come within the hour. Eagerly, his gaze swept across the rugged beauty of the Yorkshire hills surrounding Hartwich Hall.

  Aye, he should have tried to sleep, and his body should be craving rest. Instead, he focused on the hum of excitement that always preceded battle. ’Twas then that men lived and died by their wits, their swords. Only one sensation exceeded the pleasure of such anticipation, and he had no wench with whom to share it now. And after last night, he might not need another for at least…twelve hours.

  Grinning, he dismounted his horse and strode inside the Hall. ’Twas the home of his mentor, Guilford, earl of Rothgate—and the only real home Kieran had ever known.

  As a boy, he had shared Hartwich with Guilford—a shrewd lord and something of a father, as Kieran shunned to remember his own. He had been raised with two other fine warriors, the brothers of his heart, since age eight. He still had the scar on his palm to remind him of the day they had sealed their bond with blood as boys, securing his loyalty to Aric Neville and Drake MacDougall.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he heard their familiar voices coming from a chamber near the top and smiled.

  “The Campbells are below and ready for battle,” said his Scottish friend, Drake MacDougall.

  Aric sighed. “Will the Campbells never cease these petty squabbles with the MacDougalls? They should have understood long ago that your mother’s marriage to your father was not an act of aggression.”

  “Aye, ’twas naught but a mistake.” Drake sighed. “Let us fight them once more.”

  “I’ll be below shortly,” murmured Aric.

  Kieran frowned. Aric’s deep voice lacked its usual vigor. Was he ill? Troubled?

  As he vaulted up the stairs, wearing a frown, he heard Drake ask, “Did you receive word, then?”

  For long moments, Aric did not answer. On both sides of the wall separating them, silence stretched tight.

  “Aye, as I feared, they are dead,” Aric muttered, voice grave. “Suffocated September last in the Tower.”

  Kieran stood in the doorway. Dead? Though he had missed most of the conversation, he feared Aric spoke of England’s young princes, Edward and Richard. The children’s safety had weighed much upon Aric’s mind of late. Had the boys been sacrificed to their uncle’s ambition?

  A clink of well-oiled armor sounded from within the chamber. A moment later, Drake uttered, “’Tis a grievous day, indeed. I am sorry for England’s loss.”

  Silence held for thirty seconds more. Kieran let Aric and Drake have it together. They were ever men of reflection and deep thought—Aric especially. Kieran admired that but could not follow suit. He was a man of action.

  “Kieran arrived last night after we were abed,” Drake said suddenly.

  “How is our Irish friend? As reckless as ever?” Aric tossed out, seeming eager for a new subject.

  “At least,” Kieran quipped, leaning through the doorway.

  Drake and Aric whirled toward the sound of his voice. Though a golden mane framed Aric’s square face and contrasted mightily with Drake’s dark intensity, both men wore identical expressions—welcoming and reproving at once. Kieran restrained the urge to roll his eyes at their parental scowls.

  Sauntering into the room with a jaunty grin, he teased, “Zounds, the pair of you look as happy as mutts that lost their meals. Good to see you, too.”

  “Aye, ’tis good,” Drake replied, voice pointed. “We simply would prefer to keep seeing you in one piece.”

  Kieran opened his mouth to defend his actions, but through the open shutters of the window, he could see the battle beginning to form on the field below, calling to him. The horses pawed the mist-clung earth restlessly, their breaths white against the blue-black of the predawn sky. Troops lined up, over one hundred men unsheathed weapons.

  The restless hunger called to him again, singing a siren’s song of expectancy.

  The trio of knights dashed down the stairs and left the castle to join the impending fray. Aric, known throughout England as the White Lion, looked oddly weary and reluctant for a legendary warrior. Drake, as always, would serve Guilford skillfully, with an abiding sense of duty and affection for his grandfather. And Kieran…well, he always followed the thirst for adventure until it was quenched—at least for the moment.

  Kieran had his squire, Colm, assist him into his armor. Then he climbed onto his gelding and looked out upon their warring Scottish opponents. With a restless gaze, he sought out those among the Clan Campbell who looked big, fast, and skilled. Eagerness to test their mettle against his own chafed him. He tapped his fingers impatiently against his thigh.

  It seemed an eternity before the battle began with a shout in the dark morn. The clash of swords declared the fighting under way.

  With a nudge to his horse’s flanks, Kieran urged Lancelot into the melee, his sword at the ready.

  Opponents came at him one after the other, sometimes in pairs. He felt a surge of achievement as he sliced into one man. Surprise crossed the Scot’s face—just before death did. Kieran let loose a battle cry as he ducked to avoid a Campbell blade on his left, only to see it enter one of the Scottish men on his right.

  Feint. Thrust. Parry. Kill.

  Lunge. Slice. Plunge. Defeat.

  The battle was like a rhythm in his head, one he could understand and dance to. One to which he was addicted.

  The motions were automatic and rewarding, as were the results—his challengers lost.

  The metallic scent of blood tinged the air, along with the smells of damp earth and dewed grass. The thud of metal upon bone mixed with the cries of defeat as the battle whirled all around the revelry at its zenith. Still, the sun hid slyly behind the winter-bare hills, as if to add an intriguing dimension to this game of life
and death.

  True, Kieran could not exactly recall what squabbles the Campbells now had with Guilford. Years past, the Scots had become the earl’s foes when his daughter, Drake’s mother, had wed Drake’s father, an enemy MacDougall. Apparently, the union, though long over, still angered and threatened the Campbells.

  He shrugged. Their reasons hardly mattered. Here was a battle to be fought. And he would not back away.

  With a whoosh of his broadsword and a whoop of excitement, Kieran rode to Drake’s side.

  His Scottish friend smiled back wryly. “How fare you?”

  “The battle is near finished and no one has killed me yet. That makes for a good morn thus far. And you?”

  Drake’s expression turned grim. “Ready to end this farce with the bloody Campbells.”

  At the sight of a charging foe, Drake tossed down his claidmor, then retrieved the longbow from his back. He fired an arrow, felling the man. Beside him, Kieran repeated the process when another man approached behind the first.

  Kieran laughed. “Lord, ’tis an excitement, besting your enemies, pitting your skills against mighty warriors.”

  “Killing is never fun,” Drake said harshly.

  Did neither Aric nor Drake feel the excitement of testing their skills anymore? What had happened to the warriors he had always known? Kieran frowned.

  “Battle is the stuff of men and life,” Kieran protested.

  “Aye, but not of amusement.” Drake grunted. “Do you find nothing else pleasurable these days?”

  With a rogue grin, Kieran replied, “How well you have forgotten me since I last saw you!”

  “’Tis right you are,” his Scottish friend said dryly. “You always enjoy a good wench.”

  “At least one,” he shot back.

  Shaking his head, Drake retrieved his sword and whirled away to discover another attacking Campbell. Kieran leaped in front of him and severed the warrior’s head from his body. Then he let loose a battle cry and rode for another opponent.

  Kieran whirled to the hiss of flames and discovered that someone had set fire to the cottages of Guilford’s crofters. He angled his mount away from the heat—and the distant memory of flames on the wood stones of Balcorthy Castle, burning across Irish soil. Men howled, and Kieran recalled the sounds from many years past…

  Shaking his head, Kieran cleared it. He never thought about the past, about his childhood. Such reminiscing served no purpose. He could not change what had happened.

  Shrugging, Kieran turned to dispatch a new opponent. A moment later, fresh blood adorned his sword as he whirled to find another foe, to lose himself in the familiar dance of battle.

  Within minutes, the Campbells were outnumbered and retreating.

  Kieran hollered in triumph. Another day’s work well done. More liquid excitement ran through his veins, slowly being replaced by a languid satisfaction.

  Behind him, Aric tiredly dismounted, looking about. Kieran followed the Englishman’s gaze. At the top of the next rise, he spotted Drake nearly surrounded by his fellow MacDougalls as he knelt with bloody hands next to a fallen man. Frowning, Kieran peered out at the bloodied warrior lying upon the earth.

  Was that Lochlan, Drake’s father?

  “Traitor! Murderer!” he heard one of the Scotsmen yell at Drake as he stood protectively over Lochlan’s body.

  What? Do they believe Drake killed his own father?

  Stunned by the exchange of accusations and protestations of innocence, Kieran charged toward the group. Aric followed beside him.

  He rushed to his friend’s side, his quick gaze assessing the scene and the blame upon the faces of Drake’s kin.

  “Drake is innocent,” Aric vowed. “His love for his sire is well known by you all.”

  His words affected none of the Clan MacDougall. Hunger for blood was running high among the men now that the cowardly Campbells had thwarted everyone’s feast by retreating. Fury pelted Kieran as a pair of men grabbed Drake and shoved him roughly to his feet.

  “Pea-witted fools, Drake would never kill Lochlan! This you know,” Kieran added with fervor.

  The Scotsmen still paid no heed.

  Suddenly, the crowd parted to admit the old earl, Guilford. His white hair was a shock against the dark sky. “I demand you release him. Drake murdered no one, least of all his own father.”

  Still, a Scotsman Kieran vaguely remembered as Duff refused. “The Clan MacDougall maun judge him now.”

  Crows circled above, calling into the morn. Kieran watched the scene in apprehension. For if the powerful earl of Rothgate could not help Drake, he feared no one could.

  He would not lose a blood brother this day!

  Drake struggled, but the MacDougall soldiers contained him. Kieran drew his sword from his scabbard, ready to fight. Guilford stayed him with a firm hand until the Scotsmen disappeared.

  All too quickly, Drake was taken away.

  He turned to Guilford, his glance demanding an explanation.

  “Let the firebrands work this foolishness out of their blood,” the earl advised. “They will soon see their words as senseless and release him.”

  “I would rather fight!” Kieran objected.

  “Of that, I have no doubt,” Guilford answered wryly.

  “They cannot imprison an innocent man so unjustly!”

  “And so they shall not, Kieran. Leave this to me. You, too, Aric.” The aging man shot his blond hulk of a friend a sharp gaze.

  “Aye,” Aric replied after a moment’s hesitation, though he clearly liked it not.

  The crowd began to disperse as morning finally burst its way over the craggy Yorkshire hills. Men pilfered through the fresh corpses on the battlefield, gathering valuable weapons, armor, and boots for later use. Aric turned away as if disgusted.

  Kieran frowned. His friend did not seem…himself.

  “Aric?” he questioned, unusually concerned. Beside him, Guilford looked on.

  Aric did not answer. He looked instead as if life, as if his very soul, had deserted him.

  A moment later, Aric gripped his broadsword in his hands. He looked at Kieran, then at Guilford, then glared at the heavy sword he held.

  Then, with a mighty thrust, Aric cast his sword into the dark, yielding earth and strode from the battlefield without a backward glance.

  Baffled, Kieran watched his friend disappear.

  “Aric?” he called.

  No reply.

  He took two steps toward the victorious yet oddly defeated man. “Aric!”

  Nothing still.

  Guilford laid a calming hand upon his arm. “Aric requires time alone, to think, after receiving the news of the princes’ deaths. Drake I will see to. You, however, I must speak with.”

  “Now? Drake has been accused of murdering his sire by his own kin, and Aric— What happened to my friend, the warrior? ’Tis as if some brooding monk has overtaken him.”

  “True, and I will deal with both soon. But this matter concerns you, and you have been in Spain for far too long.” Guilford peered up at him with sharp blue eyes. “Do you recall Hugh O’Neill from your boyhood?”

  Kieran recoiled. The name itself brought back memories of his youth in Ireland. Memories of the past—the shouting, the fire—flashed in his mind. He pushed them away.

  “Aye.” Kieran crossed his arms over his chest.

  “He’s written me a letter, several actually, looking for you. Your kin has worried since your mother took you away as a lad. They inquire as to your well-being and hint at land that belongs to you. I think ’twould be wise to reply.”

  Denial raged as Kieran shook his head. There was no purpose. His cousin Hugh was a part of his distant past—a past he had no wish to revisit.

  And Ireland was not a place he sought to set foot upon ever again.

  “Tell Hugh I will never return and he can gladly have what remains of Balcorthy. I have no use for it.”

  Guilford gave him a disapproving scowl he’d much hated as a child. “Ki
eran, I—”

  “Nay,” he insisted. “No more!”

  At that, he made haste for his chamber within Hartwich’s walls, wanting to believe he had heard the last from Guilford about Ireland.

  But he knew Guilford too well to believe the earl would stay silent for long.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sheen Palace, London

  Mid-January 1490

  After a pleasurable night in a warm bed, Kieran finally settled into his own chamber for some much-needed sleep as dawn rose over the Thames.

  Stretching his naked length out upon the mattress, he turned onto his stomach and curled into the pillow with a sigh—only to be interrupted by heavy footsteps approaching his door and the sound of someone barging in.

  Kieran whirled for his knife on the floor and sat up, fist clenched around the hilt.

  Aric greeted him with a blond brow raised in question. “Planning to stab me?”

  “Try knocking next time,” Kieran grumbled, rubbing gritty, tired eyes.

  “Who would have thought you would still be abed at this hour?”

  Irritated, Kieran gestured to half-open shutters covering the window on the far side of his chamber. “The sun has scarce made an appearance as of yet. Why should I?”

  Aric frowned. “You’ve a west-facing window. The sun has been up in the east for quite near two hours, as have I.”

  Sighing, Kieran regarded his friend of near twenty years. Aric, as oldest, had always thought he knew more, had a right to guide the actions of his younger comrades.

  “My goal in life is not to rise with the sun. I seek rest, and if you had enjoyed the night I had…” He grinned.

  “With a wife as saucy as Gwenyth, what makes you think my night was restful?” Aric queried as if daring him to reply.

  Kieran found himself scowling. “But she expects a babe within the month.”

  The robust laughter rumbling from Aric’s chest conveyed great amusement. “Such hardly makes Gwenyth dead.”

  “But her delicate condition—”

  “When have you ever known Gwenyth to be delicate?” he challenged.