by Shayla Black
Maeve clenched her small fists and shot him a direct glare. No fear there. No maidenly uncertainty or pretenses.
“I should rather speak to a rat than one of the devil’s own,” she yelled and tossed two rolled parchments aside.
She was angry at him? She, who had defiled his privacy and denied him her womanly comforts, was brazen enough to show him her ire? Ballocks, many a man beat his wife for such disobedience. Kieran did not believe in doing thus to women. His father had done that too many times to his mother to count.
Pushing the memories away, he reached for Maeve and grasped her shoulders. He was tired of the rain, of Ireland, and the foolish rebellion. Tired of being unable to leave Langmore. Most of all, he was tired of Maeve’s vexing manner.
But at last she spoke to him, a voice within reminded him. Loudly. Openly. ’Twas something to rejoice.
“Rodents scurry away to avoid ill-tempered wenches like you,” he baited. “I have no doubt that if I am one of the devil’s own, you deserve me.”
“Ill-tempered? I am one of the most logical—”
“Spying is logical?” He struggled not to grin.
“Tenderhearted—”
“Calling me a demon and refusing to speak to me makes you tender of heart, does it?” he tossed back.
Her mouth pinched. “Reasonable women—”
“Those are two words that have no business in the same sentence.”
At his retort, she gasped. Fury flooded her cheeks with color. Kieran grasped her shoulders tighter, bracing for the coming storm he sensed. And it gladdened him, for now she had no ice in her eyes. Nay, she was all fire, all red and gold, all anger and emotion.
He could scarce contain his relief.
“Take your hands off me!” she demanded.
When he ignored her, Maeve twisted and writhed. Kieran held tight.
Gritting her teeth in frustration, she shouted, “What would you know of reasonable actions? You leave this bed still warm from our consummation and go kill my betrothed.”
“You cannot be betrothed if you are wed,” he reminded.
“Pretend not that my feelings for Quaid mattered to you. ’Twas the kill you sought, and he, a chained enemy, was easy.”
Kieran’s fingers dug into her arms. Damn, but the woman knew how to anger a man. Still, he resisted his rising ire. ’Twas more important they spoke, not argued.
“I kill in battle. I do not kill for sport. I enjoy the challenge of fending off others, fighting a good and fair fight. I do not take pleasure in sending men to their deaths.”
Maeve stared in disbelief. “And next will you try to convince me you’ve joined the rebellion?”
Kieran glared back. “Tell me again why you believe yourself a reasonable woman.”
“A thickheaded barbarian like you can scarce understand.”
Blood racing, heart pounding, Maeve stared at the husband she despised. She chastised herself for her outburst, her anger. What did his actions matter now? Quaid was dead.
Aye, but she wanted him angered, wanted him to know her sense of betrayal.
Defiantly, she jerked one of her arms from his grasp and reached for the next missive upon the table. Quickly, she unrolled it, though with difficulty given his hold. The swine. She would unroll it with her teeth, if need be, just to show him she was no simpering creature he could smile into submission.
It held naught of import, she determined a moment before Kieran tore it from her grasp and tossed it back on the table.
She gasped. “I am not surprised you should be so rude.”
His stare alone laughed at her, to say naught of his deep, resonant chuckle. “Hmm. Others might find it more rude to read another’s mail without invitation.”
“Such simpkins have never lived with you. A more violent, wretched man I have never had the misfortune to meet.”
Maeve felt her face flush with heat, heard her own harsh breathing as she glared at him. Her outburst stunned her. When had she become so passionate about her loathing? Why?
“Like me that much, do you?”
She stood stiffly, working feverishly to rein in her fury, a need to rail at him she did not comprehend. “I care not at all, if you must know.”
Something hard and unpleasant crossed Kieran’s features at her words. Maeve found herself fiercely glad that her barb had pierced him.
Then suddenly, his face relaxed into a smile again. Dread assailed her.
“You know, Wife, that I could do naught to save your precious Quaid. You want to blame me. ’Tis easier that way. But part of you knows my vote meant little to his fate.”
He lied. He lied! Maeve buried her face in her hands. Certainly Kieran could have done something to save her childhood friend.
What? a pesky voice asked within her. If others had voted against him, his word would have swayed them little. Even if he was governor of the Pale, the other swines in the parliament would expect him to see to the king’s business with an iron will, allow no tolerance. The king himself would demand it.
Still, he might have tried to save Quaid, she argued with herself.
To what end? asked that insidious voice again.
Maeve stared harshly at Kieran. Perhaps he spoke true, that he could have done naught to save Quaid. But she would be damned to eternal hell before she absolved him with her words.
“And ’twas wrong of me…” he said, voice low, somehow soft, “’twas wrong of me to take you to my bed before I had told you the truth. I deserve your anger for that, true.”
Kieran apologizing?
“At least you realize such,” she snapped.
Where was her elation? Kieran had admitted his fault, certainly a first. Why, then, did she not feel triumph?
“I had no intent to deceive you,” he vowed.
Then he reached up to grab both her arms again. Suddenly, Maeve felt surrounded by his heat, a sudden purpose in his eyes. She watched him warily.
“To hurt you was not my goal. Remember the way I touched you with gentle hands,” he murmured, voice compelling.
Images of the soft glide of his hands over her belly, enveloping her breasts, assailed her. Remembrances of his intent gaze, as if she were the only woman in the world, came rushing back.
“You still hurt me,” she accused.
“Mayhap,” he conceded. “But not of a purpose. And not enough to deserve a month of silence.”
An instant defense rose up in her. Did he not understand how deeply she ached for him that morn? Nay, what could he know of a woman’s feelings—not that her feelings were for him.
“I think,” he said, drawing her closer, “that what disturbed you most was your own eagerness in our marriage bed.”
Mouth dropping, Maeve stared. That pig-bellied brute! Eager to share his— He should wish for such an event! She had not been eager for his hands upon her, for the pleasure he gave, for the sweep of his tongue in her mouth…and elsewhere.
Heat coiled in her belly. Confusion followed. Then came refusal. She would not believe such a mad allegation.
“Eagerness? That is arrogant, my lord. Think you I would ever be eager for a moment in your bed? Huh!”
That wicked grin came again, transforming harsh lines of his face into something more dangerous, irresistible.
“Aye. Did I not find you asleep in my bed that morn?”
“So I might learn of your business in Dublin the moment you returned,” she shot back smugly. “Not because I am a swooning idiot at the thought of your kiss.”
“So ’twas some other redheaded Irishwoman who lay in my bed that morn, curled her arms about me, and told me she missed me?”
Blast him for remembering! She would like to forget herself.
“You do not understand!” she insisted. “You—you twist my every word until it no longer resembles my thought. And I will not allow you to use your wily ways to dissuade me from the fact you are a knave!”
Kieran gripped her tighter. “You know I could not save Quaid.
You cannot admit thus yet, but you also know I did not bed you to hurt or deceive you that morn. What you despise is that you respond to me. You respond to my touch.”
Maeve shook her head, willing the words away. But the truth was there, certain, strong, immovable. She recalled cursing her own brazenness in his arms.
’Twould be easier to hate him if he taunted her. But he stated his belief in honest tones. Damn him!
How could this man rouse her ire, her passions, her very emotion, more than any other of her acquaintance? ’Twas as if her brain ceased rational thought when he took her mouth with his. Why? He had the soul of an Englishman, the heart of a warrior, the manners of a rascal, and the mind of a miscreant.
Why, then, did she seem unable to stay away from him? Why did he, of all men, stir her so?
Casting her gaze to Kieran’s familiar face, she looked at him with fury, confusion. Denial and truth raged. But one question would not be silenced: why could she not maintain her distance, her coolness, when he came near? She yearned to exchange words with him—even unkind ones—just to hear him.
Foolish!
“Have you naught to say?” he prodded.
“Speak no more to me! I will not hear your babble—”
“We have no need to speak at all the rest of this night.” Kieran drew her closer, his eyes now predatory.
Maeve felt her heart pound. He looked at her mouth, and it began to tingle. Her belly tightened. Her breasts followed. All over, she felt heat coiling, insidious desire washing through her. Good Mary help her.
“Do not touch me.”
Her words, intended to be a command, were instead a breathy plea. She closed her eyes, blocking the unavoidable lure of his blue-green eyes. An urge to cry hit her. She did not cry, not around others. Never in front of a man who would use her tears to weaken her further.
“I want to touch you in every way I can.”
Kieran’s voice pierced her storm of feeling. Her body responded to the dark tone, to the challenge of his words. His musk washed through her senses, even as the whisper of cloth told her he moved closer.
His breath fanned her cheek. Maeve’s knees buckled; anticipation slid thick and hot through the whole of her body. Why did he affect her thus?”
Warm, male lips touched her cool cheek, then traveled down in a slow brush, dangerously close to her lips. Her heart picked up its pace, until it beat with the speed of a dozen galloping horses.
Pulling her even closer, Kieran’s mouth hovered above her own, so near their lips almost touched. The fact they did not, thrust a hot wave of frustration through her. Some thoughtless part of her craved the chance to fuse their lips together. Now. Her mind resisted the urge.
Impossibly, he came even closer, his scent, his heady warmth overwhelming her. And still he did not kiss her. Trembling fingers dug into his forearms. She would not close that inch between them and kiss him. She would not go to him like a whore.
It mattered not. For when he claimed her mouth in the next heartbeat, desire surged, battered her resistance. She clung to him, opening to him, wrapping her arms around him, utterly lost.
At her surrender, Kieran wrapped his arms about her, binding her to him. He stood close, so close every inch of his hard warrior’s body imprinted itself in her mind, her soul. And still, ’twas not close enough. Need and demand rose up together, urging her to embrace him, mate her tongue with his.
Kieran encouraged her with another blistering kiss—a press of lips, an aroused groan. The need to take on more pleasure, and give more, overrode the feeble protests of her mind. How could a man with a kiss this thrilling possibly be evil?
Then he was pulling at his shirt, lifting it over his head to reveal the sculpted ridges of his abdomen, his chest. In the waning daylight, he was magnificent. Breathlessness clutched at her throat.
“Lie down for me, sweet Maeve.”
Lie down? Slowly, she registered the command. A protest formed in her mind. He drowned it out with pleasure when he caressed the tops of her breasts with the back of his hand. His knuckles brushed down, until he toyed with the taut crests of her breasts through her dress.
She gasped, writhing, afloat in a haze of need. Inside, she began to ache, deep in her core.
Nay. ’Twas madness.
Kieran bent, his hands freeing her breasts from the confines of her dress. Then his lips and teeth worked the distended tip with a ginger bite, a suckle, until Maeve felt aflame.
“Lie down,” he whispered again.
Quivering, Maeve sat on the bed beside him and lay back, her gaze never leaving his face. She needed this—him—the connection she felt when they shared a bed. This was what she sought, what she could not refuse, the feeling of belonging, of utter rightness. The thought had no logic, but she could not deny her feeling.
Kieran followed her to the mattress and lifted her skirts about her hips. Maeve could see naught but his face and shoulders. His eyes smoldered, hungered.
Then his palm cupped her center, fingers dipping into her moist heat. Already she swelled for him. Heat pierced her.
“Do you want this touch?” He brushed a fingertip back and forth over her sensitive center.
“Aye,” she groaned, arching up to him.
Why, in his arms, was she so wanton? So needful?
“Show me,” he whispered.
Show him? Why did he simply not fill her, possess her?
“Show me,” he repeated.
Frustrated, she reached for his face and brought it down for a kiss. She brushed her tongue along the seam of his lips, and he opened to her, sweeping inside as if he belonged there.
In the next instant, he lay at her side, grasped her about the waist, and brought her above to straddle him. His length, sheathed in hose, pulsed beneath her. She ached.
With a sensual grin, he lifted her hips with his hands, then reached down to make quick work of his hose and braies.
When his hands returned to her hips to pull her down, he entered her, filling her, stretching her tight. Maeve threw her head back at the exquisite sensation. In this position, he went deeper than before, deeper than she thought possible.
“If you want this, show me.” His whisper was a groan.
His fingers tightened about her hips and lifted her until he nearly withdrew. Her body had its own will and thrust herself down onto him once more. At the friction, she moaned.
Again, she raised herself and lowered to him. Then again.
“Aye, sweet Maeve. You kill me with pleasure.”
She killed herself as well.
Soon, Maeve found herself greedy for more. She quickened the pace. Her breath grew ragged. Her mind ceased. Beneath her, Kieran grew tense, his groans more frequent. She felt the heady rush of his rapture, of her own, melding, thickening in the air, until pressure and sharp need blended to splinter into a million pieces.
As her sheath tightened around his body, convulsing, Kieran’s shoulders turned harder than stone beneath her hands. He cried out her name in ecstasy.
Satisfaction melted her in hot, slow sweeps. She collapsed against him, too tired to move, to breathe, to think. That could all come later.
Then there would be time to wonder why she had given in to this need—and how she could purge herself of it.
* * * *
Two uneasy weeks slid by. Though Kieran had assumed at first their latest—foolish—romp in his bed had cured the ails of their marriage, she had quickly relieved him of that notion. They had scarce spoken since. Maeve still could not discern if the anger she harbored was more for Kieran and his conniving, charming ways or for her own weak will where he was concerned.
Then the rumor of the rebellion army forming for fight took Kieran away from Langmore. Lord Belford, his tall English friend, went with him. Flynn wrote to her to assure her of his well-being. Maeve felt as if she might breathe in peace.
At least until Flynn sent one of his men, Ulick McConnell, to tell her of his terrifying plans and beg her assistance.
At least until she began feeling unwell.
Shifting her position on the bench in the solar, Maeve focused on her needlework but was so tired ’twas as if she had not slept in days. Quite the opposite was true. For a week now, she had slept deep and long, even napping despite her fear of the rebellion’s bloody plot.
Squinting against the needle piercing the canvas, her arm felt leaden. Giving up, she set her mending aside.
Across the room, Jana watched her. “Still unwell?”
Maeve nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. But the familiar action crushed tender breasts, and she flinched against the discomfort.
Jana set her needle to the silk in her lap and threaded it through. “Has your stomach been ill these past weeks?”
“Once, but it soon passed.”
Nodding, her sister watched her with curiosity. “You have lain with your husband. When was your last flow?”
Over two months past. Maeve knew thus in her mind. Still, she denied the obvious answer to her ailment.
“Perhaps I have a fever, some ill-humor.”
“Know you of an ill-humor that robs a woman of her flow and causes her to need sleep, other than bearing a babe?”
Maeve closed her eyes against Jana’s words. Deep down, she knew them to be true, had suspected as much herself. Still, she could not accept thus.
A babe? Now? So soon? Pregnancy was a matter of much gravity. It took her further from the life she had once planned, thrust her deeper into Kieran’s path. Their marriage seemed inexorable, more binding.
Sweet Mary, help her. Was she ready to forever be joined to a warrior, an Englishman? To the infuriating Kieran?
Nature had apparently left her little choice.
What would she tell her husband? Ought she say a word? Perhaps Jana was wrong. Even if she spoke true, Maeve was not ready to tell Kieran. Their marriage was so fragile. He, Ireland’s enemy, had some hold on her she could not comprehend. A child would only complicate her feelings, her life.
Suddenly, Jana stood at her side. “You look pale, sister. Perhaps you should lie down again.”
Maeve nodded. Before she could quit the room, a clatter on the stairs drew her notice. Sword sheathed at his side, Kieran approached the door, looking weary from his travels.