His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3)

by Shayla Black

  “We make for the village, my lord.”

  “I see. Can you tell me how might I find Langmore, then?” he asked, his voice ripe and unbroken with charm. “I would appreciate your kind guidance, my sweet.”

  His sweet, was she? Her betrothed, Quaid, would indeed be disturbed by that. So was she, for that matter.

  And she was eager for Flynn to give Kildare the lumps he deserved. Neither Ireland—nor its ladies—would surrender to his dubious English charm without considerable fight.

  For now, she must plan, must find a way to warn Flynn of Kildare’s arrival, before the actual event.

  “Langmore, ’tis easy to find from here, my lord,” said Brighid at her side.

  When the girl turned toward the pasture-lined lane that led straight to the keep, Maeve knew she must stop her sister.

  “Aye, but you must travel on the path through yon bog,” she said, pointing to the nearby wetlands and hills.

  “The road does not lead to the castle?” he asked.

  “It does,” answered Brighid, frowning.

  “But the bridge over the River Barrow is down,” Maeve cut in. “Gone with a flood last spring. And the river’s bank is too steep for your mount, so the bog it must be.”

  Brighid stared at her as if vexed. “But—”

  “This way you will reach Langmore soon, so that you might meet Flynn, the leader of the O’Shea Fein.”

  Kildare frowned. Aye, he was surely disturbed by her use of the Gaelic, something the English always hated. Certainly he did not know the word’s meaning. What could he know if Irish kin-groups?

  As if reminded of his duty, the new earl looked toward the keep’s stone towers, rising to gray splendor against the blue sky, and nodded, suddenly sober.

  “You have my thanks, sweet Maeve. Brighid. ’Tis my hope we meet again soon.” With a courtly bow and a smile, he mounted and urged his roan toward the bog.

  Once Kildare had disappeared into the trees, Brighid asked, “Why did you lie to him about the bridge?”

  “To give us time to plan. We must warn Flynn. We’ll not be invaded by the English again, particularly not one who thinks overmuch of himself and has a penchant with the ladies.”

  * * * *

  Whistling a merry tune, Kieran guided his horse toward the bog. Aye, mayhap life at Langmore Castle would not be as disagreeable as he had once thought. The lovely peasant Maeve would be a most pleasing diversion after he had chosen a wife from among the four long-toothed O’Shea sisters.

  All in all, he was glad both that he had been a tad lost and that he’d worn one of his best tunics. He was not usually one for much decoration, but in this case, he suspected the gold braiding and rich fabric had been worth the extra expense.

  Sighing, he urged his mount up a hill, searching for the path. When he found none, he descended into the valley below, hooves skimming through the cold stream. Bogbean grew up from the soil beneath the water, crowned with tiny white blossoms. And the gentle trickle of water over mossy rock somehow soothed him, despite his upcoming task.

  Odd, he could still find no path, despite the fact that Langmore’s visitors had used this for nearly a year. He frowned. Mayhap the castle received few visitors.

  Shrugging, he pressed on, making a path of his own. Of a sudden, the water began swirling higher and higher, until it nearly reached his horse’s chest. Lancelot neighed in protest, whether from the cold or rising water, Kieran knew not.

  But the stubborn animal made one thing very clear: he would not take another step.

  Heaving an angry sigh, Kieran dismounted. A February day had turned the water to something scant warmer than freezing. It rushed about his waist, sank into his boots, and thoroughly soaked his hose and braies.

  “Addle-pated beast!”

  If the animal heard his curse, he cared not. Instead, he stared at the water, eyes wide, and shook his long head in agitation.

  “Stubborn horse,” he said again through gritted teeth as he began to lead Lancelot forward.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the stallion took a ginger step toward the opposite bank. Kieran damned the cold water and wondered if his feet would see the land upon yon bank before he froze to death.

  They took another step forward, and the water rushed up around Kieran’s chest, dousing his emerald tunic. “Ballocks!”

  Though he had no real wish to meet the O’Shea wenches, he wanted to do so looking every inch their lord. He would be hard-pressed to appear an authority whilst looking like a rat half drowned in a vat of ale.

  Cursing again, Kieran bolted around the horse from side to front, certain he would persuade the beast to move on before his teeth chattered any more.

  He stepped on a rock hidden beneath the water, slick with slippery moss.

  Before he could catch his balance, he fell beneath the water’s surface, the icy river closing over his head, sluicing down the skin of his back. His buttocks landed squarely on the offending rock with a jarring thud.

  “Damnation!”

  Kieran moved to rise, but Lancelot pranced nervously around him, rearing up. He saw the beast’s hooves looming above his midsection and tried to roll out of the way, but the horse was faster. Closer those hooves came to his stomach—and lower.

  “Nay!” he shouted, his voice echoing in his ears.

  Scrambling away from the descending hooves, Kieran felt alarm tear through him. He had little time to ponder the fact that he was about to become a eunuch, courtesy of a four-legged beast.

  He stared at the horse in horror.

  The animal’s foot landed just between his thighs, a safe enough distance away from harming the part that made him male.

  Kieran sighed, relief thick in his blood. His mind slowed with it, registered that he was unharmed.

  With that came anger.

  He came out of the water, sputtering curses.

  “You old codswallop!” he shouted, staring into the stallion’s face.

  In response, Lancelot lowered his head for a drink, thoroughly ignoring Kieran’s dressing down.

  Which only served to irritate him more.

  Without fail, his first act as Lord Kildare would be to repair the bridge. He would also carve another path to Langmore’s door around the bog, in case the bridge should become impassible again. If he had to make such a road with his bare hands, he would do it.

  Ridiculous backward people, not fixing a vital bridge. ’Twas as if they wanted to keep visitors away, or simply cared not for their guests’ discomfort.

  Again, he frowned. Why would anyone want to discourage peddlers, traveling priests, or family?

  Cursing, he smacked Lancelot’s rear. The horse scurried out of the water and up the next hill. Kieran mounted after the next rise, much annoyed.

  A few minutes later, shivering in the winter wind, he found himself nearly beside Langmore’s walls. To his right stretched a well-worn path dusty from frequent use. Down the wide lane he looked, all the way to the river.

  He spotted a bridge, one very much intact.

  The path disappeared around the bend after that, no doubt leading to the road on which he had been traveling when he spotted sweet Maeve.

  By Saint Peter’s toes, that little redheaded imp had duped him! She had completely lied with those lush red lips and smiled while doing it.

  Shivering with cold, tunic ruined, Kieran vowed he would repay her tenfold—at least.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A minute later, Kieran arrived in front of Langmore’s gatehouse. He stared up at the massive gray stone structure, passing glad it stood strong and intact. The crenellated towers looked to be at least eight feet thick, though the curtain wall was not as tall as he might have liked. Still, ’twas a sturdy place. That he could be glad for.

  After he got his hands about that wench Maeve’s neck.

  The drawbridge lay lowered, yet no sentries stood in sight. Eyes narrowed, Kieran dismounted and stamped onto the drawbridge. Did these lax Irishmen never fear invasi
on, siege, war? Such made no sense.

  Resolved to fortify the more human aspect of castle defense at the first opportunity, he barely noticed the noise—a scrape of metal upon wood. ’Twas the sound he did not quite recognize as that of a pin being withdrawn from the drawbridge.

  At least not until he began falling.

  With a curse, Kieran lost his hold on Lancelot’s bridle and plummeted down, down.

  Finally, he landed with a thump, sinking into knee-deep mud. It oozed coldly into his already quaggy-wet boots. He cursed roundly.

  Using a tense hand, Kieran raked damp hair from his eyes and looked about. ’Twas a dark pit, one that towered many feet above his head. He looked at the nearly black walls for any way he might crawl out.

  He was not surprised to find none.

  Foolish! His mind had been so engaged on the peasant Maeve, he had thought little of the dangers in coming to a hostile keep, knowing his own men to be but a day or two behind him. Aye, he was lord here, but the O’Sheas had not yet accepted him. He would do well to remember that.

  If he got out of here alive.

  “Are you the Englishman who thinks he’s come to run Langmore?” demanded a hostile Irishman above him.

  Peering up, Kieran was nearly blinded by the sun until the man’s big body blocked the light.

  He encountered the most determined dark eyes he had ever seen. The black Irish eyes spit hatred and promised a fight.

  Kieran felt no shock when he saw the man lift a bow from the ground and draw an arrow through it. The grim mouth smiled with glee when he pointed the arrow at Kieran’s chest.

  “’Tis nothing but a bloody leech you are, thinkin’ you can come to Langmore and dominate us. ’Twill be my pleasure to split your English hide in half.”

  Anger speared Kieran. ’Twas like an Irishman to fight unfairly without honor. His own father had done such. Apparently naught had changed.

  “Would you kill me, you craven coward, without a fair challenge?” needled Kieran. “Do you fear a well-trained Englishman so much you would resort to murder?”

  The man drew the bow back farther. “Why should I be fearin’ any Englishman, I ask you? You’re all naught but—”

  A soft gasp interrupted the man’s haranguing. Kieran then saw a familiar blond head peek over the top of the hole. Young Brighid gaped, her pink mouth as wide as her blue eyes.

  “Flynn! Your plan worked. He is trapped!”

  So this was Flynn O’Shea, already protecting what was no longer his. Kieran frowned. He should have guessed such.

  The O’Shea man scowled at the young maiden. “Of course it did. ’Twill be a fine day when you learn some faith in me.”

  “She will learn faith, Flynn, when you think a plan through.”

  Though he could not see her, he recognized Maeve’s sweet, lying voice as it made a dulcet path to his ears.

  “And what do you mean by thinking a plan through?” Flynn directed a scowl over his shoulder.

  “If you kill him, Henry Tudor will simply send another, possibly with a large army.”

  Flynn’s scowl mutated into a thoughtful frown. Apparently the simpkin had not considered that. Whether ’twas true or not, Kieran decided to seize upon it.

  “Aye. Even now King Henry awaits my word…or lack of it before he sends his real warriors.”

  Kieran looked from Flynn to Brighid, still hovering about the imprisoning hole. Suddenly the girl smiled. “’Twould be a shame to kill him. He is more than passing handsome.”

  Splendid. Though he never wanted a female barely beyond childhood to think him fine-looking, now was a particularly bad time, for Flynn O’Shea looked enraged by the comment.

  “Is he kind?” asked another woman, her whispered voice one he did not recognize.

  Over the top of the hole appeared another blond head, this one belonging to a young woman of perhaps sixteen years. She was lovely, with golden pale cheeks and an ample bosom. At least the women at Langmore were easy to look at. Such might make his time here more bearable.

  “Kind, Fiona?” Flynn gaped at the woman as if she were shandy. “He is English. Why should you be carin’ if he is kind?”

  At Flynn’s bark, the delicate creature looked as if she were going to tremble or cry—mayhap both. Kieran scowled.

  Maeve’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Perhaps we should consider why it would be better to accept a kind Englishman in our midst, rather than try to fight a mean one or any of them.”

  “Aye, and ’twould be such a shame to kill a man with so magnificent a face and form,” added the youngest girl.

  “Brighid! ’Tis the English who ruin our lives, kill our men, take over our homes,” said yet another woman.

  The latest addition waddled up beside Brighid, dark hair glistening in the sun, but she did not spare him a glance as she chastised the girl. He could see little of this woman’s face from the deep hole, but ’twas clear she was well rounded with child.

  “Mayhap he is different, Jana,” Brighid defended, then offered, “He likes to kiss women, sometimes twice even. He said so.”

  Jana struck back. “I should kill myself before I let an Englishman kiss me, as should you.”

  “I want no kiss, but…if he is kind,” interjected Fiona, “mayhap he would not make war.”

  At this point, Kieran would have gladly kissed an eel to earn passage from this cold mud pit and see the end of this odd argument, rather than watch with vexation.

  Kieran opened his mouth to speak—just what, he was not certain. He never had a chance.

  “Can you not see his just being here tells us he will make war, I ask you?” That from Flynn, who again pointed his bow down at Kieran’s chest.

  “Aye.” Dark-haired Jana looked at him finally, her brown eyes narrowed with hate in a pale, tired face. “He looks a war-making man. Naught but English arrogance.”

  “But he winked at me!” defended Brighid. “An enemy never does that.”

  “You are too trusting,” scolded Jana.

  “You must be careful with trust,” added Fiona.

  “Even Fiona agrees,” Jana said with some triumph.

  “But we know next to naught about him. What if he is kind and not here to make war at all?” said Fiona again.

  Flynn tossed another dark look over his shoulder. “’Tis all the English do is make war, I tell you. Are you listening?”

  “Well…” she hedged, softly spoken. “I had hoped that you were, perhaps, wrong.

  “Wrong?” Flynn thundered.

  “It has been known to happen more than once,” Jana snapped.

  “See, he might well be kind.” Fiona’s voice trembled.

  “Kind men give kisses,” Brighid confirmed.

  Kieran shook his head to clear it. Their logic completely baffled him. He wanted naught more than to make his way from this pit, which grew colder by the moment, and throttle the lot of them.

  “Flynn, it might be best if you put the bow down,” said Maeve calmly. “Now, if Kildare was here to make war right away, I think he would have come with his army. Since he did not, we must believe he has some peace in mind. As for whether he is kind or kisses the lasses, neither matters as long as we keep the roof over our head, our people alive, and our crops left to us. We may not like the earl’s presence among us, but we have little say in the matter at this moment, unless we would like to risk the wrath of the English king.”

  Maeve’s logic impressed Kieran. The rest of the group seemed addle-pated and mad. His clever peasant apparently had a swift, sharp mind.

  “She does have the right of it,” Jana conceded with a resentful curse.

  “Of course Maeve is right!” declared Brighid with a toss of blond curls over her shoulder. “She is always right.”

  “Aye. Mayhap we should simply pray for peace. I want no more of war,” said a small-voiced Fiona.

  “Peace?” barked Flynn. “Let the Tudor bastard make war, I say.”

  “Why?” quizzed Maeve. �
�You cannot possibly fight him and win. We have not the men, the weapons, the—”

  “There will be no peace! I’d sooner cozy up with a swine, I tell you. I care not for the wrath of the English king.”

  Maeve sighed. “You will care very much when he sends an army trouncing to Langmore to tear it down and kill us all.”

  “He would not dare,” growled Flynn.

  “The fact he executed Geralt and plans to see Quaid dead, along with others we know, should tell you different.”

  Kieran cared not who Geralt or Quaid were since Flynn actually seemed to be considering Maeve’s words. She was amazingly calm in the face of her overwrought brethren.

  “King Henry seems determined to hold the Pale,” continued Maeve. “I see no reason not to believe him. Flynn, instead of fighting him in open war, we must choose the battles we can win. Besides, if you kill this earl, ’twill be less than a month before they send another. And that one will be less likely to show mercy.”

  The dark-eyed man glared at Kieran, then glanced at Maeve again. Briefly, Kieran wondered at the relationship between all of these people. Was Maeve even a peasant at all? Flynn had once been master here, and Kieran did not believe the man would ever allow someone so lowly to speak to him thus.

  He frowned. Was Maeve his wife?

  Shuddering at that thought, Kieran turned his gaze up again. Jana rubbed a hand across her pregnant belly. Brighid toyed with her hair. Fiona clasped her hands nervously while Flynn gritted his teeth and held his bow. Only Maeve projected an unruffled visage, as if she were correct and merely waiting for everyone to understand that.

  Finally, Flynn cursed, the ripe expletive hanging in the air, before he threw down his bow and arrow.

  “Pull him out, then. I will not kill him…yet.”

  With a dark glare, Flynn turned away.

  The four women stood around for a moment. Kieran felt more mud seep into his boots and wished someone would do something to help him find a way out now.

  “How do we free him?” Fiona asked hesitantly.

  “I know not,” admitted Brighid. “Usually we just wait for them to die and bury them in the hole.”