His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3)

by Shayla Black

  Maeve opened her mouth again. “But—”

  “And no arguing, no threatening, no frightened nor curious females.” He gave each of them a hard stare. “None at all.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The following morn dawned gray and rainy. Though Kieran’s young squire, Colm, and a few of his trusted men had arrived during the night, with the weather as it was today, they could not venture out of doors. Such idleness chafed him. Kieran wanted to be outside these thick stone walls, training the castle’s army, assessing the lands, meeting its people, finding the root of rebellion. Remaining trapped with the four shrewish sisters irritated him beyond measure.

  Then further unsettling news reached him upon first wakening: Flynn had left Langmore during the night and had not returned. He had no doubt the man could find the rebellion and join them, should he put his mind to such a task.

  But he would bother with Flynn when the man returned. Now he had a bride to choose, despite the fact he would rather take a long trip to purgatory if it meant he might avoid taking a wife.

  After breaking his fast, Kieran toured the small keep. It had been built more for defense than comfort. Its walls were thick and its luxuries—and bedchambers—were few. Still, it was a sturdy keep, and only that would matter if the Irish rebels attacked.

  Knowing he could no longer put off the inevitable, Kieran returned to the great hall and reluctantly summoned Jana to his side. Since the pregnant woman had spent a good portion of the night insisting she would have the babe within hours, Kieran figured he ought not to waste any time in speaking with her, lest she actually birth the mite soon.

  The dark-headed sister appeared in the great hall a few minutes after the appointed time. After clearing the room of all others, he sat beside her. Her fatigued face drew a moment’s pity for some unknown reason, and he hoped she found a restful night’s sleep soon.

  “So I’m to spend the day with you, am I?” she said, but even the contempt in her voice emerged as little more than weariness.

  “Aye. I would ask you a few questions, hear about you, about Langmore. You may ask questions as you wish.”

  She stared into a cup of goat’s milk. “You know all that is important. I grew up here in Langmore. I was wed here. ’Tis a fine castle built near a hundred years past, but she stands strong. I have no doubt ’tis why you English beasts want it.”

  Kieran chose not to comment on that gibe now. ’Twould only lead to an argument that would sap her of more energy.

  “What do you enjoy, Jana?”

  “Enjoy?” She frowned, clearly surprised by such a question. “Do my interests matter?”

  Aye, they did. His parents had failed at marriage so badly because they shared naught but a son. Since Drake and his lovely wife, Averyl, both shared a love of books, Kieran thought to find a wife with whom he could share something. Such might cut down on the death and mayhem.

  Mayhap…and mayhap not.

  “I have been far too busy readying for this birth of late to be concerned with interests.”

  “What of your interests before your marriage?” he prompted.

  Her faded mouth thinned into a pressed line. “I am tired and recall little before I wed. Now my only interest is in birthing a healthy babe, as Geralt would have wished.”

  When Kieran saw a glossy sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, he nodded. “You will make him proud.”

  “Not if I take an enemy as my husband. I want no part of this absurdity.”

  “So you’ve said. I want no part of marriage, either, but—”

  “You did not lose the one you loved a mere two months past,” she said, rising from the bench as her voice rose in volume. “You will not have to look at your innocent babe and try to explain why he has no father. You will not have to tell him that the English killed his father but his mother married one of the butcher’s kind anyway!”

  Tears began down Jana’s face, and she crumpled back to the bench in a sobbing heap.

  Kieran flinched as she wailed beside him and rested her face in her hands. Her noisy tears echoed in the great hall, disturbing even the resting hounds. Frowning, he stared at the grieving woman. Her pain was no pretense, and he found himself shifting in his seat with discomfort.

  “They k-killed him! And for doing naught m-more than what he believed was right. Freedom… ’Twas all he sought. W-why did he have to die to gain something he had been born with?”

  Kieran had no answer for that. That was simply war. Some won. Others lost—and paid the ultimate price. Always he had accepted thus.

  Today, watching Jana shake her own body—and her babe’s—with the force of her tears, he felt…tense.

  “Jana,” he said softly. “Your Geralt did what he thought right, true. But he defied the law—”

  “English law!” she cut in angrily, lifting her head from the table.

  Misery had turned her cheeks pink, her nose red, and her eyes puffy. Grief sat stiffly in each line of her oval face, in each inch of her downturned mouth.

  For once, Kieran knew not what to say.

  “Why should the English make laws for Ireland? They rape our land and our women. They kill our men, then expect obedience.” She laughed bitterly. “Why should we give it?”

  Though Kieran knew Jana believed such, she could not see the truth: war, by its nature, decreed that those who fell would be subjugated by those who conquered. ’Twas no right or wrong in that. It simply was.

  Still, he could not help an unwelcome pang of sympathy for her loss and that of her babe. He had grown to manhood without much of his own father. He knew how great that loss could be.

  “Shhh, good lady. You will upset the babe.” He reached out to place a soothing hand upon her own.

  She yanked it away. “Touch me not, you swine! And be assured that if you are so foolish as to force me to wife, I will do all that I can to make your life hell and see you dead. That, you English miscreant, would have made my Geralt happy!”

  Jana pushed away from the bench and lumbered away from the table. Kieran made no move to stop her.

  Aye, he could force her to wed, if he wished it. ’Twas clear Jana could breed, which would ensure he could leave Ireland, but she spent more time in anger or grief than in the running of Langmore or the care of her family. She would soon have a babe to birth and raise, so ’twould be some time before he could get another on her himself and leave this miserable place. Would he not be best served to leave her be? Aye.

  Kieran denied his decision not to wed her had aught to do with the enmity his parents had sharpened to lethal hatred—a fate he feared would be his own if he wed a woman who despised him. But he felt sure Aric and Drake would both have chastised him for such a denial.

  Shaking his head, he tossed back the rest of his ale and rose to leave the great hall. Behind him, small, angry footsteps approached.

  Kieran whirled, hand beside the dagger at his waist, ready. He saw only Maeve and felt his mind relax.

  Smiling, he watched her come near. This morn, she wore her hair loose, a cascade of red-gold glory that fell to her waist. The green dress she wore contrasted with the rich, creamy underdress beneath, spilling a ripple of a sleeve down her arm. The gown fit snugly to her small waist, and though he could not see her legs, he could imagine the long and firm appendages and sighed.

  A light quip sat upon his tongue, one he hoped would charm her. He bit it back when he saw the fury flushing her face and tightening her fists.

  “’Tis so like an English bully to seek out the weak and hurt them,” she hissed.

  “Hurt? Who—”

  “Who?” Maeve barked back. “Now you say that you are simple-minded as well as mean? Jana cries upon her bed great rivers of tears after less than a quarter hour’s conversation with you. Leave her be! Her shattered heart can take no more.”

  Maeve was a warrioress protecting one of her own. He did not think her tendencies ran violent, but had no trouble believing she would sink a knife into any man’s b
ack who dared to hurt one of her kin. He admired that about her, though such could be a meddlesome penchant he must not give free rein.

  “You will not take her to wife,” Maeve insisted, leaning closer, jaw clenched with fury.

  With her spring-scented nearness and her flushed face, Kieran’s mind wandered down dark paths where an eager Maeve accepted his kiss hungrily, with open-mouthed fervor. What would she taste like?

  She exploded, fists clenched. “Do you listen to me? That lewd smirk says not.”

  Her shout chased the thought away. Aye, he wanted her near, but not so he could hear her haranguing him.

  “Aye, I hear you. You wish me not to wed Jana.”

  Somewhat mollified, Maeve stepped back a bit and unclenched her fists. “Aye.”

  “Who would you have me wed then?” he asked.

  She paused in consideration, then, with a false smile, offered, “My brother’s hunting bitch is in heat.”

  Kieran laughed. No one could deny the woman had spirit. She did not speak much, not like Aric’s Gwenyth. But when she did choose to comment, ’twas clear she spoke her mind.

  “As much as I must have a wife, a dog will not do, sweet Maeve.”

  “I am not your sweet anything.” She glared at him.

  “Perhaps I will change that.” He gave her the grin that melted many a heart—or at least a dress away from the owner’s body.

  “You cannot, I assure you.”

  Maeve seemed so sure of herself, so certain she could resist whatever temptation he might throw her way. But she knew naught of his determination if he set his mind to something. And mayhap he would set his mind to having her, if she proved to be the wife he needed.

  In response to her declaration, he merely smiled. “If you wish me to cease considering Jana as a wife, I will do so.”

  Maeve’s golden eyes narrowed. “You would do such a thing simply because I asked it?”

  “Nay. I do such a thing because I had reached much the same conclusion. Jana will remain unwed until she finds a man of her choice and my approval.”

  The suspicious glare on Maeve’s face softened to a mere frown. “Truly?”

  “Good lady, please stop looking for some trickery on my part. I will not marry Jana, and that is all.”

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

  He nodded, then watched her turn away.

  But the devil inside him made him call out to her. “I have made no such decision about you, sweet Maeve.”

  * * * *

  A roll of parchment arrived the following morn from Dublin. Breath held, Maeve waited for Kildare to read it. How successful had the rebellion been? Had Flynn been able to free Quaid?

  She yearned to see her betrothed now, before she forgot his face, before she spent any more time pondering the mocking English smile that had kept her awake last night.

  Beside the great hall’s hearth, the earl straddled a bench. His wide shoulders and long legs, honed by countless hours of training and war, bunched and rippled with every move. As he read the missive, his unusual blue-green gaze made its way over the paper. She watched, swallowed, her stomach fluttering.

  ’Twas fear, she told herself fiercely. Only fear for her brother and her betrothed, neither big men, neither much of fighting men. Kildare could kill them both if he chose. The day of his arrival had proven that plainly. The flutter in her belly had naught to do with the hawkish, handsome face, his watchful eyes, or that strong body.

  Finally, he lifted his head, rolled up the parchment once more, and cursed. Clearly the news within did not make Kildare want to celebrate. Good!

  “What news have you, my lord?” she asked as if she knew naught.

  He speared her with a stare that quickly turned contemplative. “Where is your brother?”

  She shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Oft times, he visits a wench in a neighboring village.”

  “Which one?”

  “I know not. Why would he share this with me?”

  Kildare looked at her skeptically but said naught more. Maeve thought she might go mad with curiosity.

  “Has aught happened, my lord?”

  “I suspect you know this, but during the night, Malahide Castle was attacked by unknown members of the rebellion.”

  Maeve tried to suppress her relief and glee. Flynn had not been caught!

  Instead, she gasped, trying to sound appropriately surprised. “And what happened?”

  “Little, really. But they managed to damage the keep, including the dungeon.”

  They had reached the heart of the castle, found a way inside, and entered the dungeon. Dare she hope Flynn had been able to free—

  “No one escaped, thankfully.”

  Maeve could not help the sinking disappointment that slid a thick path to her stomach, taking her spirits with it.

  “The missive lists the names of several prisoners the rebellion seems to covet. Among them is one Quaid O’Toole. Is he your…betrothed?”

  Silently, she nodded. She wanted to scream or cry in frustration, in fear. To do so before Kildare would reveal too much. Instead, she decided silence was her safest course.

  “If you and your brother thought to free him and wed you off safely before I could decide who to take to wife, I will be much displeased.”

  Displeased? As if she wasn’t sick with bitter disappointment, utterly disheartened? “My goal remains to wed the man of my choosing. If someone freed him from English clutches, I would applaud them.”

  Kildare’s face turned hard and warring. No hint of that seductive smile lingered. “Are you disappointed Flynn failed?”

  “Flynn had naught to do with last night. As I said, he is with a woman—”

  “If Flynn wanted a wench to warm his bed, ’tis doubtful he would have to leave Langmore for such. From what I have seen, there are many women at Langmore worthy of a tumble.”

  Maeve forced herself to meet Kildare’s hot gaze. “That may be, but there is not a woman here who wants a place in your bed.”

  She meant the words as a slur. Maeve saw instantly that Kildare took them as a challenge.

  He stood then, staring, ever watchful, as if taking her measure. Maeve resisted the urge to shiver. Kildare was the enemy, no matter how well he caught her attention.

  The rousing smile she knew as his returned, along with a healthy dose of determination. “Mayhap I should prove you wrong, sweet Maeve.”

  “You cannot make me want you.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Maeve realized that as Kildare’s smile widened and he sauntered toward her. She looked around the great hall for help. No one stood about. ’Twas empty, from the freshly beaten tapestries covering the high stone wall on her left, to the huge blaze heating the room in the hearth at her right.

  Kildare’s smile was rich with purpose. “Tsk, sweet Maeve. How can you dislike something before you try it?”

  Maeve stood firm against his slow advance and glared at him. “I already know I would find any such contact with an ogre displeasing.”

  He grinned yet wider. “Well, if you are certain, let us test it, shall we?”

  Before she could protest or place a hand between them, Kildare seized her around the waist and dragged her close, against the hard wall of his chest. For an infinite moment, their gazes locked, his heated and determined.

  Against her will, Maeve felt her awareness of his solid body rising, felt her face flushing, her belly tightening with what she could only call anticipation. Nay, she should feel this for Quaid, had always wanted to. Why should she feel this with an enemy who would soon destroy her home and make her or one of her sisters an unwilling bride?

  But as Kildare stood against her, his gaze probed hers as if to peer deep inside her and see her longings so he might fulfill them, ’twas hard to remember he was the enemy.

  Perspiration broke out between her breasts. She parted her lips to say something, to take in more air.

  Kildare leaned in and took her mouth with a gentle sweep,
surrounding her lips and plying them farther apart with an insistent caress.

  The contact jolted her all the way to her tingling toes. Maeve’s breath left her. She drowned in sensation. The rasp of his morning beard, the sound of his harsh breath in her ear, the feel of his iron arms about her, keeping her prisoner to his kiss—she noted all with her flushed, fluttering senses. He enticed with his lips, teasing and coaxing her surrender.

  She weakened to the pleasure, then demanded more. Kildare knew how to master a mouth, how to make a woman crave more in an instant.

  She opened beneath Kildare and stood on tiptoes to meet him as a craving imprisoned her. With a sound of approval, Kildare deepened the kiss again, this time sweeping his tongue about her own, taunting her, until she felt breathless, until, weak-kneed, she clutched him for support.

  Kildare lifted his head, burning her with a heated smile.

  Sweet Mary, what had she done?

  “Cease!” she said, backing away.

  Kildare reached for her. “Why, sweet Maeve? Was that not pleasant?”

  “Nay.”

  “Nay?” He pretended confusion. “I do not recall a protest from you. Did you issue one?”

  “Swine,” she muttered, flushing with heat.

  Kildare merely flashed her an insufferable grin.

  She kicked him in the shin. “Do not kiss me again.”

  Her reaction was childish, she knew. But he roused her ire, blast him.

  He laughed as she left the room with her head held high.

  * * * *

  The following morn, Kieran found himself in a familiar place, in the great hall, awaiting an O’Shea sister.

  Today, ’twas Fiona’s turn to spend the day with him. He did not relish the hours ahead. In fact, he found his thoughts disturbed by thoughts of her surly brother, who had returned last night well into his cups. He also could not forget her redheaded sister.