by Shayla Black
’Twas a good point, Kieran conceded. Gwenyth had ever been full of fire, from her sharp tongue to her brave ways.
“True,” he conceded. “But after losing the last—”
“Gwenyth will not lose this babe,” Aric said, his voice a vow. “This one grows strong.”
Sensing the issue disturbed Aric, Kieran asked, “What news have you of Guilford? Does he recover from his fever?”
“Aye. Drake and Averyl arrived a fortnight ago at Hartwich and sent word just yestereve that Guilford appears to be recovering, thank the Lord.”
Knowing Aric and Drake shared his great fondness for the old earl, he nodded. “’Tis good news indeed.”
“Drake also says Averyl expects another babe come summer.”
Gratified, Kieran nodded. “Ah, more cause for celebration.”
He cared much for fair Averyl. Her soft heart had done his friend Drake well, and the babes, this now the third, seemed to delight his Scottish friend much.
Aric’s and Drake’s happiness pleased him, as did all the children he could tickle and tease. Drake’s eldest son, Lochlan, grew more daring each day for a wee lad of three. Their daughter, Nessa, had learned to walk this past Michaelmas. And with God’s help, Aric and Gwenyth would add a son or daughter to the close-knit association Guilford held together with his gruff affection.
He couldn’t be more pleased for his friends. They had overcome political strife, false accusations, near death, and much anguish, but love was now theirs. Still, Kieran had no intention of following suit, ever. Love and marriage did not seem worth such trouble and effort.
Tomorrow he would leave for Spain and his profitable journeys as a mercenary. Today he would enjoy the comforts that castles and ladies afforded him. Now that Guilford was recovering from his illness and Aric had returned to Sheen Palace, Kieran had no need to stay and see to his mentor’s business any longer.
Except that another glance at Aric proved he looked like a man on a mission, a man with something on his mind.
And judging from his careful expression, Kieran did not imagine he would like what his old friend had to say.
“Out with it,” he barked.
Aric did not pretend to misunderstand. “’Tis your antics, my friend.”
Kieran paused, trying to sort it through. “Zounds, that could mean anything.”
He soothed a hand across knuckles sore from boxing a particularly vexing swain yesterday and flexed thighs stiff from pleasuring a woman most of last night.
“You keep the ladies aflutter with your…shifting attentions—”
“Do you expect me to take but one?”
Clearly exasperated, Aric sighed. “’Twas not expected you would plough through most of them within half the month!”
Kieran shrugged. “’Twas harmless fun. And good times were had by all.”
“The men complain,” Aric went on as if Kieran had not spoken. “You make war freely and do not observe court rituals.”
Discarding the sheet and pulling on his braies, Kieran stood. “They are fops and coxcombs. Slop jars have more brains.”
With growing impatience, Aric sighed. “King Henry maintains a very sober court.”
At that, Kieran rolled his eyes. “You’ve no need to tell me thus. How can you spend so much time here? ’Tis lucky I am the boredom has not yet killed me.”
“I doubt you’ve had much time to be bored,” countered Aric. “And King Henry has had enough of your ways.”
“I’ll be gone by sunrise tomorrow.” He grabbed his tunic from the cold wooden floor. “I am expected back in Spain—”
“King Henry is sending you to Ireland.”
Ireland? The tunic in Kieran’s hand fell from limp fingers back to the floor. Nay, he had not heard that properly.
Had he?
“Did you say—”
“Aye, Ireland,” Aric answered. “Henry thinks to keep you out of mischief there, as well as perform a favor for the crown.”
Memories better left forgotten flashed in his mind. He frowned as he pushed them away. “I’ve no need to do King Henry a favor.”
“’Tis not for Henry but for Guilford.”
“What mean you?” Kieran asked, reaching again for his tunic, his stomach clenched with tension.
“You know King Henry seeks to rebuild his treasury and regain control over the nobles by ‘borrowing’ funds from them. He’s borrowed a fair amount from me, but apparently fears Guilford’s political influence with others, as he’s borrowed much more. Guilford can scarce afford to ‘lend’ any more or he may lose Hartwich.”
Guilford had risked his life many times over Hartwich Hall. ’Twas in his blood, as it was in Kieran’s own. He could not let the old man lose his home, not after all Guilford and Hartwich had done for him, meant to him.
But Ireland?
Sighing, Kieran said, “Tell me.”
“I…I negotiated a compromise.”
Kieran knew he wasn’t going to like it. “Well?”
“Since King Henry wanted you gone and Guilford could ill afford to give more money…”
“Aye, so you agreed to send me to Ireland?” Kieran prompted.
“King Henry is having a bit of trouble in the Pale,” Aric admitted.
“The Pale?”
“Aye, that area about Dublin he has managed to keep English control over—”
“I know what the Pale is.”
Did he ever. His mother had married a virtual barbarian trying to protect it for England. He had no interest in defending it himself.
“What I cannot understand,” said Kieran, “is how it affects me.”
Aric paused as if weighing his words. Kieran stared, hands on hips, feeling none too patient. The longer Aric remained mute, Kieran knew, the less he would like the answer.
“I grow gray waiting.”
“The good word is that King Henry has made you an earl. The earl of Kildare, to be precise.”
“What? Moments ago, did you not say he disapproved of me? So King Henry must expect something.” Kieran’s eyes narrowed. “Or rather, you promised some service on my behalf.”
Slowly, Aric nodded. “In return for your absence and this new title, King Henry decrees that you go to Ireland. Actually, to Kildare and a certain Langmore Castle. ’Tis home to the O’Shea family.”
Kieran shook his head, still not comprehending. “What have I to do with them? I know them not.”
“Well, nay, not…yet. The O’Sheas make much rebellion inside the Pale and seek to incite the other leaders to insurrection. King Henry has not the funds or the army to see to the task, so he is sending you to organize what remains of the army, suppress the rebellion, and enforce peace.”
“Me, enforce peace?” Kieran might have laughed at the notion if he did not loathe the thought of seeing to Ireland and this duty.
Aric nodded, as if conceding the absurdity of that. “Apparently.”
“So, I’m to travel to Kildare and knock a few heads together until they behave like good little subjects once more?”
“Not…exactly,” said Aric.
Kieran felt his stomach tense further. “What exactly, then?”
If anything, Aric’s expression turned grimmer. “King Henry wants someone to wed and breed them to English ways, starting with the unruly O’Sheas.”
“Wed? As in take one to wife?”
Kieran refused to believe his ears. He still did not want to believe it when Aric began to nod.
“There are four O’Shea sisters,” Aric began. “Take one of your choosing.”
As if he would willingly choose one!
“Once she breeds,” Aric went on, “you are free to return with your babe to raise him English, then send him back to Langmore when he is a man grown. ’Tis simple.”
Simple? Nay, ’twas terrible. No sane Englishman would marry a heathen Irish girl. ’Twas even forbidden by law.
At that realization, he brightened. “The Statute of Kilkenney forbids the En
glish from wedding anyone Irish.”
Aric grimaced. “Aye. ’Tis why you, my half-Irish friend, were chosen.”
“But I have lived here since I was a boy.”
“Still, you cannot deny your Irish blood, not to King Henry. Not to yourself.”
Kieran’s throat tightened. Aric spoke true, no matter how badly he wished to deny thus.
Damn his O’Neill father. Damn his love for Hartwich and Guilford.
Damn Ireland.
* * * *
A fortnight later, Kieran inched his horse along—ever closer to his doom.
Wed? He shook his head. Somehow he had never imagined the word would describe him. Aye, Aric and Drake were excellent examples of marital bliss. But such had not always been the case, and they had sacrificed much to realize those loves. Kieran could imagine not how ’twas worth such.
Besides, he expected naught but contempt to come of his union with an Irish O’Shea wench. Most like as not, each of them would be crafty hags, deeply buried in rebellion. Every time he took his wife abed, he’d probably have to search her and the bedclothes for daggers first.
Pushing aside such unaccountably deep thoughts, he looked about him, at the land he had not visited since boyhood. Ireland had left him with ill memories, but he could not deny the beauty of the country. The seemingly endless rolling hills would soon be carpeted in a misty green. Pastures swept with gentle dominance across the land until the trees met the bog in the distance.
Kieran drew in a deep breath of air. There was none of London’s sour smell there, he admitted. Above him, a rook called, spreading its dark, glossy wings across a perfect blue sky. To his left, wetlands abounded, making a lattice of the land and water. Marsh thistle spread their pink spindles about, awakening to the surprisingly warm February day.
Still, he’d near give his right arm to be anywhere else, performing any task but riding to choose a bride among four undoubtedly wretched shrews.
As he urged his mount around the bend of a dusty lane, he spotted two young women in simple garb. The one on the right had golden hair that hung down her back in waves. Her slight curves told him she was still a child, though growing.
’Twas the other woman who snared his gaze. She possessed a small waist, lush lips, and, he’d bet, delightfully long legs as well. Beneath her wimple, tendrils of curls skimmed her neck, shimmering in the afternoon sun, lighting it afire with all shades of red.
Flame-haired women had ever been a weakness for him. They tended to be shy creatures who, when properly coaxed, showed their hidden fire with passion and a flush of desire upon fair, fair skin.
Kieran felt his interest—and something more—rouse.
He had been in this wretched country for two days, been without a woman’s comfort for nigh on a week—certainly a record for him. If he was to be wed to some termagant who would likely spend her days plotting his death, could he not be granted just a bit of ease first?
Slapping on his most charming smile, the one that had kept him much sated at Sheen Palace, he urged his mount closer to the redhead. Anticipation slid through him. Mayhap Ireland did have its finer points.
* * * *
Maeve O’Shea turned at the sound of a horse’s hooves. She found herself staring at an unfamiliar man with the body of a warrior, the eyes of a hunter, and a smile designed to persuade a maiden to part with her clothing posthaste.
The stranger was too handsome by half, she thought as his blue-green gaze focused on her, intent, and his eyes warmed a shade. To her annoyance, she felt a flush creep up her cheeks.
With a glare, she turned away. Her reaction was unacceptable. And why, because of his pretty face? She’d not simper over that.
“Good day to you, ladies,” came his voice, smooth as well-worn leather.
And very English.
Beside Maeve, her youngest sister, Brighid, gasped. With a quiet hiss, she shushed the girl.
This man could be no other than the new earl of Kildare. Word had reached Langmore from Dublin that King Henry had executed the previous earl for treason after he supported Lambert Simnel, a Yorkish pretender to the English throne. In the wake of the plot, the Tudor king had sent this new earl to subdue the seeds of rebellion.
What did these English fear in freedom that they must always conquer and make war? She despised them, all of them, for their haughty voices and silken clothes. And their arrogance. Aye, always that. Behind her sat a prime example of grating English confidence.
Turning again to face the intruder, Maeve pasted on a smile.
“And a good day to you, fine sir.” She curtsied.
Apparently pleased with her response, the Englishman dismounted and sauntered toward her, his eyes ever upon her face. Maeve swallowed against the heat of his stare while ignoring her sister’s gaping expression beside her.
With a sweep of his hand, he took her own in his. Maeve scarce had time to register the strength of his fingers and the texture of his calluses against her palm before his lips touched—and lingered—on the back of her hand.
Against her will, she stared. His features were pleasant, his nose straight and even. The slash of his brown brows a masculine arc over the intriguing bluish eyes. He was clean-shaven, and he wore his hair shorn like his undoubtedly Norman ancestors. Even its color was pleasing. Black would have been too severe on him. Nay, God had blessed him with a shade not too light, not too dark, possessing a hint of auburn. And he was probably rich and smart and annoyingly charming besides.
Suddenly, she dreaded every day he spent at Langmore.
“You are a gem indeed amid such a lovely land,” he murmured. “I beg the pleasure of your name, sweet lady.”
’Twas doubtful with his charm he begged for much. No doubt women simply gave the man whatever he asked, all for a mere moment in his strong arms and the touch of his full mouth upon theirs. And while Maeve liked the company of her own sex, they could be such fools when a charming man sniffed about their skirts.
Ignoring the fact her hand tingled where his mouth had been, Maeve gently broke the contact and cast her gaze away as if timid.
“What would you be knowing of this fine land, sir?”
At that, his grin turned wry. Aye, he was self-possessed and strong and a warrior to the core, but he could smile. The flash of white teeth, the engaging stare, the warm interest in his lively eyes made him unlike the other Englishmen she had known. Mischief hung about him as surely as a cloak. No doubt, he had led many a maid astray.
The fact he would remain at Langmore as their lord annoyed and flustered her at once. Would he continue to focus his charm upon her, despite her betrothal to Quaid?
“I know little of the land, ’tis true,” he answered, saving her from foolish thoughts. “But its beauty is clear for all to see.”
Again, his gaze caressed her, roaming her cheeks, brushing her mouth, then meeting her eyes once more. Oddly, Maeve felt her heart pick up its pace again. Why, she had no idea. He was a rogue—and an English one at that—seemingly intent upon trifling with her. He cared naught for the Irish people. Like the others, he would reap the land’s profits, use them to line his coffers, impregnate his kitchen maids, and jail the men.
The fact she could do naught to stop him made her want to scream in frustration. Somehow, she had to stall him, make plans for Langmore’s defense. They were unprepared, for this new Kildare had not been expected until next week!
“’Tis a lovely bit of land we have,” she agreed, smiling with deceptive sweetness. “What brings a fine man like you here?”
At that, his smile faltered. His eyes did not seem quite so lively. “I am the new earl of Kildare, lady.”
“My lord,” she cooed, pretending away—and gritting her teeth.
A furrow wrinkled his brow, and Maeve was surprised to find he did not like her show of deference.
Then the smile returned, as if it had never disappeared. “For you, lovely lass, I am Kieran. And you are…?”
She frowned. Odd,
his name. It sounded more Irish than English. In fact, ’twas a Gaelic word for dark. More like than not, ’twas a comment on his soul.
And since he had likely come to subdue her family, she would wait to confess her O’Shea heritage just a bit. He would learn that soon enough.
“I am Maeve. This,” she said, putting her arm around her little sister, “is Brighid.”
The new earl—she refused the intimacy of thinking of him as Kieran—nodded to the young girl. Maeve noticed then that her sister stared at the Englishman with blushing approval.
“Do you steal kisses from maidens?” Brighid asked in an uncertain whisper.
Hellfire! The girl’s questions about men were already too much to take. She knew this audacious knave would only fuel more, and nearly groaned at the realization.
“As often as possible,” he said, grinning. “Twice if she will let me.”
The earl winked at her, and Brighid flushed another shade of pink, blue eyes sparkling with wonderment.
Maeve sighed.
“Do you call this area home?” the earl of Kildare asked, shifting his attention back to herself.
She saw no point in lying…nor in telling the complete truth. “Aye, within Langmore’s walls.”
His smile brightened as he reached for her hand again. “As I am headed there myself, we will likely meet again, sweet Maeve.”
“It seems certain.” She forced a smile to hide her vexation. How dare the man use her Christian name so familiarly, speak it as if he could caress her with the sound.
When he reached Langmore, no doubt her brother, Flynn, would adjust Kildare’s confidence a bit—and possibly his face, as well.
At that, Maeve cringed. She abhorred fighting. Watching grown men beat upon one another like unruly children always aggravated her. And of late, Flynn had been always ready for a nasty fight.
In this case, Maeve could see the purpose.
Prying her hand loose from Kildare’s grip under the pretense of adjusting her wimple, she smiled.
Unfortunately for her, he grinned back, something wicked and lopsided and full of waywardness. Against her better sense, her stomach fluttered.
“Shall I follow you to Langmore, since I find myself lost?” he asked, voice smooth.