His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3)

by Shayla Black

  “Perhaps I but take note of your displeasure, Wife.”

  Maeve shuddered to hear that word on the tongue of a man so cocksure, so arrogant. Why could she not be wed to steadfast Quaid? She ground her teeth together and held in her slurs. They would only fuel Kildare to spar with her, and that, she understood now, he greatly enjoyed.

  “I think naught at all. I merely wished a bit of air before the feast began in earnest.” She stepped away from the window, past her modest bed, toward the chamber door. “Now that I have accomplished such, we should—”

  He stopped her with a sure grip on her arm and used it to pull her body against his.

  As her betraying heart picked up pace at his nearness, she felt every firm inch of his chest and belly against her own. His arms curled around her waist, holding her close—so close. His blue-green eyes sparkled with life, a promise of pleasure she feared.

  She swallowed nervously. “We should return to the feast, my lord. ’Tis rude to keep our guests waiting.”

  “I instructed them to start without us.”

  Of all the overbearing assumptions! That he could simply walk up the stairs and take her. That is what all and sundry would think. Aye, the Church and their vows gave him that right, but only a rogue would insist upon bedding his wife before they had even broken bread together.

  “It is still ill-mannered, my lord.”

  “Kieran,” he demanded. “It is my name, Maeve. I would hear you say it.”

  She would rather eat her own tongue first. “I do not think it wise to have our guests believe so quickly that we cannot finish a meal without arguing. Appearing below in harmony will do much to quiet dissension.”

  He considered her thoughtfully for a moment, before that smile she had come to know so well broke across his face. “Why think you they will assume we fight? That is not what most newly married couples do on the night they wed. Remaining here for some hours will portend better for the union and the peace than gorging on well-prepared foods with your kin.”

  Biting the inside of her lip, Maeve realized Kildare was right. Everyone below would assume some happy connection if she stayed here alone with him for some hours. The O’Sheas had long known she was promised to Quaid, so for her to closet herself away with her new husband willingly, everyone would likely think her pleased with the match.

  So here, sharing this small chamber, laced now with his spicy earth and wood scent, would be wise for her cause. But staying alone with her new husband and his roguish grin, the one that suggested things she had never before felt, worried her. Being held against the breadth of his chest, his hands splayed upon her back, with his gaze probing hers, such would not be…comfortable, either.

  “As you wish. Could I ask to you release me, please?”

  Kildare frowned, as if he disliked her polite tone. “You could ask.”

  Maeve bit her tongue to keep a lashing retort from release. “And how would you reply?”

  “Without words, sweet Maeve.”

  Before she understood his meaning, his arms left her waist and his lips captured hers.

  Desire jolted her in the next breath, her response even quicker and stronger than before. When he angled his mouth over hers to deepen the kiss, Maeve found herself opening beneath him, giving his tongue the admittance it sought.

  Maeve knew only the taste of him then, like ale and man, as well as the wild quality that sent her head spinning. Her senses reeled with his nearness, their chests pressed together, the heat and breadth of him surrounding her.

  She felt her breaths coming in short gasps and he kissed a trail to her ear.

  “This is how I would speak to you all night long.” His teeth nipped at her lobe, his warm whisper sending shivers of heat along the back of her neck. “And well into the morn.”

  Then he pressed his mouth to the curve between her neck and shoulder. Breasts taut and heavy, Maeve pressed against him, unconsciously seeking ease.

  No doubt, Kildare was good at seduction. Aye, ’twas likely he’d practiced it many times over. She was no match for his skill, his charm. ’Twas best to end this havoc he inflicted upon her senses now. If she let him touch her mouth more, she would be lost.

  Why he had this effect upon her, she did not know. She did not love him. By the saints, she did not even like him.

  But he could kiss like sin personified, enticing her with all the temptations of the flesh.

  Maeve stepped back. ’Twas only then she realized Kildare’s arms hung at his sides. He held her not. His kiss alone had kept her in the embrace, coupled with the sinuous slide of their heated bodies against one another.

  Such had been enough to make her heart race, her stomach dance, her breasts tighten, and her woman’s place… She did not want to consider its reaction to his touch. Such was dangerous, indeed.

  Keeping that realization in mind, Maeve took another step back. Kildare looked at her then, his gaze knowing, predatory, dancing with mischief. He was granting her a reprieve but believed she could not long withstand his seduction.

  Maeve prayed to God he was wrong.

  She seized upon the one subject designed to cool his ardor. “Our marriage need not be a regular one, my lord.”

  “Kieran,” he corrected automatically. “Regular in what manner, sweet Maeve? It seems much regular thus far.”

  “I would tell you first,” she said, hoping her voice did not shake, “that I have every intent to help you keep peace here at Langmore and in the Pale.”

  He nodded, suddenly serious. “’Tis one reason I chose you. The people here listen to you. They respect you.”

  “Then we have a common goal,” she said, vastly relieved. “But I would have you understand that we need not make this marriage a real one in every way.”

  Kildare took her meaning immediately and looked at her as if she had lost all the apples from her cart. “Why think you I would let this marriage go unconsummated?”

  Knowing ’twas important to appear casual, she said, “Well, I know you have no feelings for me.”

  “Oh, I have feeling.” He grinned like a large cat.

  She cleared her throat. “And I love another.”

  The smile faded. “Quaid.”

  It wasn’t a question. She replied with a nod.

  “Aye, since we were to be wed soon, I pledged him my troth.”

  “You are not bound by marriage vows to him.”

  “We bound ourselves in spirit.”

  He made a sound of vague contempt and stared as if her words meant naught.

  Finally, she told him all. “We bound ourselves with our bodies as well. We shared a bed.”

  At that confession, Kildare tensed. Anything that had ever resembled a smile disappeared, replaced with a watchful stillness that reminded her of a hunter.

  “You are not innocent?”

  His words were sharp. Maeve resisted the urge to tell him her lack of maidenhood would never be his concern. But he would no doubt see that as a challenge. Oh, but she yearned to fling a stinging retort in his face.

  “As I have said, I am not,” she answered instead, using her calmest voice.

  Kildare stood quietly for very nearly a minute. And he stared, his gaze roving her face, staring into her eyes. His expression hardened from displeasure to anger.

  Finally, he looked away. “It is of no consequence. We are wed, and I will expect you to perform all the duties of a wife. I cannot afford to disappoint King Henry.”

  Maeve resisted the urge to shut her eyes and block out the forthright expression on his face. Damn his practical hide! Why could he not be incensed or revolted at the fact his new bride had lain with another? Why did he have no qualms about bedding the enemy?

  She had told him her most shocking secret. And it seemed to matter little to him, other than a moment’s annoyance. Maeve knew not what to do now. She was ill prepared to share a bed with him tonight. She could not share sheets with an Englishman, let Kildare overrun her senses, muddy her mind with passion
until she forsook the rebellion and Quaid.

  Such was unthinkable.

  Her only choice now was to stall for as long as possible until some other plan presented itself.

  “Of course you do not want to disappoint your king,” she said, trying not to speak through gritted teeth. “I must humbly ask you to give me some time to adjust to the idea of wedding and bedding a man other than the one promised me for some years.”

  “How long?” he quizzed.

  Maeve floundered. A few days was too little time to ask, a month assuredly too much. “Perhaps a fortnight…or so.”

  Again, he remained silent for long moments. Her request seemed as uncomfortable to him as a gash in his flesh.

  “A fortnight and no more,” he barked finally.

  Holding in her relief, she nodded. “Thank you, my lord, for your understanding.”

  “It is Kieran,” he corrected. “As my wife, I expect you to use my name.”

  “Of course,” she assured, vowing hell would see snow first. “Shall we join the feast? I find that I hunger now.”

  Maeve prayed her lie would sway him to leave her chamber and join the celebration—anything to avoid the possibility he might seduce her now and be done with their agreement to wait.

  The notion seemed particularly possible as his rapacious gaze remained on her, unwavering, intense.

  “I hunger as well, but we shall join the celebration instead,” he murmured.

  In an instant, Maeve took his meaning and blushed.

  “But first, I have a few…rules.”

  “Oh?” Maeve feared he could mean anything, everything.

  “No more lying to me about bridges and such.”

  Despite his scowl, she nodded, relieved. With a man as wicked as Kildare, she expected far worse.

  “No ill-run keep. Seeing to this deplorable army will take much of each day. I have no time for matters of household.”

  He would leave her to run the keep? Even better. Much of the rebellion communicated within these walls. Mayhap Kildare would present less impediment to the rebellion than she feared. If so, it would reduce the chances for bloodshed at Langmore.

  “I understand.” Eyes downcast, she presented a demure façade.

  Kildare’s hand tightened about her arm. “And each night for the next fortnight, you will spend one hour in my chamber, alone with me.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, Maeve’s mind raced with possibilities, most of which roused both heat and anxiety. Each night?

  How could she thwart this request?

  How could she resist his seduction?

  “You vowed not to touch me for a fortnight,” she reminded.

  “Nay,” he corrected, a smile playing about his full mouth. “I agreed not to bed you. You said naught of touching.”

  By the spirits, he was right. Oh, goodness. She took a deep breath, wondering what she would do.

  Maeve pretended to misunderstand him. “We should become acquainted, I suppose. We could use the time to talk.”

  A wayward glint danced in his eyes that made Maeve instantly nervous. “We will divide the hour into halves. You may spend yours talking, if you wish.”

  And his half hour he would spend touching her. And she could not stop him.

  Her body heated thinking of it.

  “My lord—”

  “Kieran,” he corrected, his voice hinting at irritation.

  She ignored him. “Touching will lead to…more.”

  Kildare shrugged as if that concerned him not. Maeve wanted to scream with anxiety. Certainly the man wasn’t so thickheaded he did not understand.

  Nay, he understood, she realized. He simply did not care.

  “I want no touching,” Maeve demanded.

  His face hardened with resistance. “I have given much, Maeve. A wise person knows when to cease.”

  True, but she could not afford to be wise. She also could ill afford to become a challenge. Breathing deeply, Maeve forced herself to calm.

  “Perhaps we can compromise,” she suggested.

  “Perhaps,” he replied, then said naught for silent moments, his face full of possibilities.

  Maeve wondered what outlandish ideas he was mulling over.

  Finally he spoke. “We will compromise. I will not touch you with more than this hand”—he held up his right—“and my mouth.”

  Maeve hesitated. Logic told her he could not make love to her with his mouth and one hand. How seductive could that be? Yet his suggestion scared her in an elemental way she scarce understood.

  “Take the compromise, Maeve. ’Tis the best I will offer.”

  Certain Kildare spoke true, she nodded. But deep down, she feared she had just struck a devil’s bargain she would regret.

  * * * *

  She was not innocent.

  Kieran pondered Maeve’s admission all through the wedding feast, which was about as cheerful as a funeral, as well as the long, solitary night that followed.

  As he tossed in his cold bed, he wondered why her lack of maidenhood bothered him. He had long avoided virgins, preferring instead a woman who knew what to expect in a tryst—and what not to expect, like undying devotion. He wanted a woman who would not be tense or rigid with a maiden’s fears, a woman who knew sex could be both serious and fun. So why had he been disappointed to learn Maeve had shared another’s bed?

  Because they were wed, he supposed. While a man wanted some experience in a lover, he wanted a wife to come to him pure. But why? So he might make her truly his? Such a sentiment had never appealed to him for the permanency it implied.

  With a frown, Kieran rose. What was done was done. Maeve would come to his bed experienced in another man’s caresses. ’Twas up to him to put Quaid from Maeve’s mind and establish himself as her husband. He should be thankful there would be no blood, likely no tears or fainting.

  The thought merely gave him the urge to pummel Quaid O’Toole’s face instead.

  The thought of waiting even a few nights to claim his bride only frustrated him more.

  Aye, he had agreed to wait a fortnight to set her at ease. He had been through enough negotiations in war to know the tactics well. She wanted a concession, wanted to believe she had power. Kieran had granted it, but had no reason to doubt Maeve would share his bed—happily—in less than a fortnight. Seduction worked on other women; he had no reason to expect Maeve would not follow in kind. She was, after all, his wife.

  He had no doubt the castlefolk—and Flynn—laughed about the fact Maeve shared a room this night with her sister, instead of her husband. But that would be short-lived, and soon the people at Langmore would know Kieran no longer slept alone.

  Grumbling, he threw on his clothes. All this brooding was not good for his mood or his character. He left these black ponderings to Drake, who had been especially good at them. Even Aric had his dark moments. Not him. Life had too much to offer to waste the precious moments thinking in gloom.

  Instead, he would seek the outdoors, gather the army, continue the training, and be grateful for their slight improvement.

  Suddenly, thunder rumbled. Kieran turned to see lightning illuminate the dawn-tinged sky. Then rain began to fall like water poured from a bucket.

  Simply wonderful. Now he would be trapped inside for the morning at least. And if this rain was anything like the last, he might be caged in the keep all day.

  Would nothing go right?

  The storm reminded him how much he hated this infernal country, despite its beauty. Besides the fact it rained too much, Ireland held more than its share of mutiny, and now his wife would come to him with carnal knowledge of a damned rebel.

  Before he could stoop to unhappy thoughts again, Kieran thrust on his boots and headed out his chamber door, toward the great hall.

  Once there, he spied Jana, who sat in a chair, rubbing her belly, crying again and staring at a baby cradle.

  Something inside him turned annoyingly soft as he approached her.

  �
��Are you unwell? Has the time come?”

  “It is near,” she said between sobs. “And Geralt n-never had a chance t-to finish the babe’s cradle.”

  Kieran looked at Jana’s flushed, tear-ravaged face, then the cradle itself. ’Twas nearly complete, its framework of good workmanship. He thought it a nice enough cradle, not that he had seen many. But the one Drake had made for his children with Averyl seemed similar. The one Aric had made and would soon fill was elaborate enough for a royal babe.

  “What is not complete?” he asked.

  Jana looked at him as if he had not the sense of a swine. “It does not rock.”

  When she pointed to the bottom of the cradle, Kieran noticed two thick wooden slabs, one at each end. The head had been carved with rounded ends so that, when pushed gently, the cradle would rock. The other end still possessed square corners.

  “I see,” he murmured.

  Jana only began to sob harder. “What kind of life will my babe have? His father is dead, his mother is alone, and he has not a suitable bed.”

  Kieran watched the woman’s shoulders shake with sorrow. He knew little of breeding women, but he could not imagine such upset was good for her or the child. Nor were all these tears good for his disposition, sour as it was already.

  The thunder crashed in the sky again, and Kieran realized he had naught better to do.

  “He will have a bed. I will fix the cradle,” he offered softly, wishing he had Aric’s expertise with a knife and wood. Still, he could finish the job well enough.

  Jana ceased sobbing and fixed him with a suspicious stare. “You will? Why?”

  “Have you anyone else to fix it?”

  “Nay. I waited, hoping…” Her tears began in earnest once more. “I hoped ’twas a mistake, that Geralt w-would come back to m-me, that he had not been t-taken from me…from our babe.”

  Kieran repressed the urge to comfort the woman. She would not welcome it. Nor did he want to become too involved in her sorrow. Still, he could not abandon the woman. ’Twas clear she grieved. And still she had this babe to birth. Jana needed his help, even if she did not wish it.

  “Let me finish the cradle,” he offered in a low voice. “You lie down. Such tumult cannot be good for the child.”