His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3)

by Shayla Black

  “Maeve, do not be frightened. If that stubborn son of mine does not come within a day or two…well, Flynn is good with a blade. ’Twill not hurt very much.”

  Maeve held in a scream of fear. Flynn, Desmond, the rest of the rebellion—had they all lost their senses? No rebellion was worth so much pain and death. ’Twas true the English presence here had been unwelcome and uncomfortable. Losing one’s freedom chafed.

  But this pain and death… The rebels had wrought those with their fervency and impatience. No rebellion could possibly be worth so much blood, so many lives. Aye, she wanted freedom, but not at the expense of innocents and people she held dear.

  Maeve knew she could do naught to stop it, for she and her blood tie to her brother held no sway over him. Her short life loomed in the middle of her thoughts, exploding all her hopes that would never come true, her dreams destined to remain unfilled. She anguished that she would go to her grave, taking with her a babe who had never had the opportunity to experience life.

  But Flynn was right in one thing: she was a coward. She had never told Kieran how deeply he moved her, how much she loved him.

  That she regretted more than anything as she faced the coming dawn and the death that lay close at hand—and a warning of the desperate, deadly plan she had heard Flynn and Desmond discussing that would die with her.

  * * * *

  Kneeling behind the wild growth of brambles, Kieran watched as dusk fell dank and gray on the black walls of Balcorthy’s shell. Today, the pathetic shell of the keep was alive with activity. Flynn started a fire in what had once been the garrison. The drawbridge had decayed with age, now rotting on the ground, lying open in dangerous invitation. Close by stood Kieran’s father as he spoke with several of the rebels. Soldiers in poor tunics, lacking hose or shoes, patrolled the walls about Balcorthy.

  And Maeve sat in a corner beside Flynn’s fire looking bedraggled, confused, and furious.

  Kieran felt violence pumping through him at the thought of anyone, especially her own brother, hurting his wife.

  Aric approached from behind and squatted down beside him. “What make you of this?”

  “There are fifteen at most. Flynn surrounds himself with rebel soldiers. There”—he pointed to the burned-out garrison—“he keeps Maeve behind him. She will be hard to reach.”

  Clapping a hand on his shoulder, Aric reassured, “We will do it, my friend.”

  Aye, Kieran would gladly give every bit of his heart, muscle, and soul to save her. As long as he drew a breath, no one would harm her, not even her own brother. Still, naught would change even if he managed to free Maeve. His wife would go on hating him. And if her brother should find death this day… Her hate would then be irrevocable and boundless.

  And well Kieran knew Flynn was not likely to abandon his cause—and the captive who could further it—before death claimed him. But with Flynn gone to Hell, at least Maeve would be alive, even if ’twas to hate him.

  He spit out a long curse.

  “Kieran, stay calm.” Aric frowned, clearly confused by his behavior. And why not, Kieran asked himself. He was no less confused by his own actions. Truly, he was lovesick.

  “Drake is helping Colm secure our mounts,” Aric went on. “Langmore’s army will stay with them. We have but to signal and they will come running.”

  What Aric said was true, Kieran knew. But still he feared. “Flynn is so close to Maeve. He could kill her thrice before I could reach her undetected. That mountain at their backs makes surprising them from there impossible.”

  “We need no surprise,” Aric soothed. “Flynn wants to hear what you have to say. He will listen before he raises a hand to Maeve. Negotiate with him. Mayhap he will then let his guard down. We will fight our way out when the time is right.”

  “I cannot simply give him Langmore,” Kieran argued. “The consequences to you and Guildford… Besides, I am not convinced relinquishing Langmore will convince him to release Maeve. He will think of some other rebellious need, I’m sure.”

  “I know.” Aric laid a calming hand on his arm. “Flynn has only to believe you for a few minutes, long enough to see Maeve freed.”

  Shaking with urgency, with apprehension, Kieran nodded. “Let us go.”

  The sun fell another inch as Kieran and Aric topped the hill and stepped into the gray shadows. Flynn spotted them right away and gathered five of his soldiers to his side. As the small group approached, Kieran glanced at Maeve long enough to see her stand and return his long stare, surprise in her wide eyes.

  No shrieking, no trembling. Always shrewd and calm—that was Maeve. And that was only one of the many things he loved about her.

  “Take their swords,” Flynn ordered his soldiers.

  Kieran placed a hand over his. A quick glance beside him proved Aric did the same.

  “Nay,” Kieran said. “You offered me my wife in exchange for Langmore. I’ll not give you my weapon so you can slaughter me like a pig before a festival.”

  Flynn hesitated.

  Desmond approached, wearing his best smile. Kieran did not trust or believe his father for a moment.

  “Your point is well taken, Son,” Desmond said, then turned to Flynn. “Such would not be the first negotiation done in arms, right?”

  Scowling, Flynn nodded tersely, then directed his attention back to Kieran. “By coming, I assume you are willing to surrender Langmore.”

  “Perhaps. I must first see my wife well and unharmed.”

  Stepping back, Flynn gestured to his sister, still standing in Balcorthy’s ruins. “There you see her.”

  “Nay, I would speak with her first, be certain no hurt has befallen her.”

  Flynn sighed with impatience. “You cannot imagine I am eager to see my own sister harmed. While I would enjoy the opportunity to vex you, I would not have some common soldier raping her for the petty purpose of spiting you.”

  “Yet you are willing to kill her?” The O’Shea man’s logic completely baffled Kieran.

  “For the higher purpose of freedom! Exalted ventures often have high costs. I dislike such, but I accept it. Besides, I can make her passing painless, and that gives me comfort.”

  Maeve’s brother clearly possessed a twisted mind. Stifling an urge to point Flynn’s ill logic out to him, he shrugged instead. “Let Maeve approach and stand beside you. She need come no closer than that for my satisfaction.”

  Flynn gritted his teeth. Desmond prodded his ribs with an elbow.

  “Bring yourself here, Maeve,” Kieran’s nemesis called over his shoulder.

  Cautiously, Maeve made her way toward the small gathering, her gaze darting between Kieran and her brother. When she reached Flynn’s side, he gripped her arm, halting her progress.

  Up close, Kieran saw she looked both weary and wary. Her red-gold curls tumbled in tangles over her shoulders. Her gown was both torn and stained. Dirt smudged one lightly freckled cheek. But she was alive.

  “Tell Kieran you have not suffered,” he instructed.

  Maeve looked away from her brother and fixed her gaze upon him. “I have been fed, given a place to rest, and not been…disturbed.”

  She did not say she was afraid, but Kieran read that fact in her golden eyes. He wanted badly to hold her, tell her he would see her free this very hour. He could do neither without jeopardizing his plan.

  Kieran nodded instead. “As you say.”

  “Does this satisfy you?”

  “Enough to talk,” Kieran answered with caution.

  “Good.” He prodded Maeve back to her corner of the burned-out castle, then turned back to Kieran. “You will ride back to Langmore, remove yourself and your belongings, along with your army from the area by dusk tomorrow. By nightfall, I will arrive with Maeve. If all is to my satisfaction, I will bring her back here the following day and release her unto your keeping.”

  Immediately, Kieran disliked the plan. Flynn had built in many ways to cheat him out of releasing Maeve. By his side, he saw Aric give a slig
ht shake of his head. Though Kieran never ignored his battle instincts, it gave him ease to have them confirmed.

  “Nay. Too fraught with…problems. I anticipated you would wish Langmore’s army gone, so I dismissed them already.”

  “I have no proof of this,” Flynn snapped.

  “I disagree.”

  He sent out a sharp whistle. It hung in the darkening silence until the soldiers topped the rise, aclatter with swords and heavy footfall, Drake leading them.

  O’Shea gaped, then turned to Desmond with a nervous stare. The older man gave him a brief nod, but Flynn was not soothed.

  “Who is he?” Flynn demanded, pointing at Drake.

  “A friend.”

  Flynn snarled. “I am not liking your army here.”

  Kieran raised a cool brow. “You would prefer to see them back at Langmore?”

  “Nay,” Flynn muttered. “So if you dislike my plan, what will you be agreeing to?”

  Shrugging in feigned apathy, Kieran stepped closer. “You could give me my wife now and ride for Langmore whilst my army is with me.”

  Flynn squinted in the dark to see the soldiers. “I am thinking you brought not every man who bears arms for you.”

  “’Twas all the men who wished to come. The rest rode for their homes,” he lied.

  “Again, I have no proof.”

  Kieran smiled. “Nay, you do not.”

  Scowling, Flynn growled. “I do not like your demeanor.”

  “A mutual sentiment, you must allow. Do you agree to my plan or no?”

  “I do not!” he shouted. “Give way to my plans or pray to your Maker now, for you meet Him this eve.”

  “I have never been much for prayer,” said Kieran with deceptive coolness.

  As Flynn busied himself with a glare, Kieran quickly drew his blade. Realizing he had been slow, Flynn backed away, toward the firelight, and unsheathed his sword. Kieran pursued, unrepentant in his stalking.

  Any man who threatened to kill his own sister for any cause deserved death.

  Flynn watched him with widening eyes. “Men!” he shouted, panic in his voice. “Fight!”

  Within moments, battle erupted. Aric engaged a solder near Flynn. Drake and Langmore’s army charged the group, eventually engaging Desmond and the other Irishmen in warfare.

  The constant clash of blade obliterated the night sounds. Dusk cloaked them further, as if hiding the evils of war from sunlight.

  Beyond Flynn, Maeve looked on in horror as an Irish soldier fell to the ground, dead by Drake’s claymore to his belly. Another fell to Aric’s sword moments later.

  She shuddered when one of Langmore’s soldiers took a blade across his hand, severing all of his fingers. The man’s weapon fell to the ground, and the Irish soldier ran the injured man through moments later.

  Before him, Flynn lunged again, and Kieran forced his attention away from his wife. Concentration pursed O’Shea’s mouth. Flynn grunted as he thrust his blade for Kieran, who sidestepped the blow just before it could do him harm. Though he was conscious of his father close, he prayed the battle would not force him to take up arms against his own sire.

  Then, in a move he’d been trained to perform nigh on twenty years, he moved back into stance and swiped his blade at Flynn, scratching his tip upon the man’s neck.

  Blood began a slow leak down the Irishman’s neck.

  Kieran glanced up at Maeve, to find shock on her pale face. He held in a curse. Aye, she would not want him to slay her brother, but what else could he do? Let the fiend kill her? Allow the fiend to kill him?

  “Kieran!” Aric shouted.

  He turned his gaze to Flynn once more.

  And found the man’s blade headed straight for his chest.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Flynn roared with triumph as he charged closer. Shocked he had been so stupid, so careless, Kieran raised his sword to defend himself, but he feared ’twas too late. Death drew near, sizzled in his blood, pounded in his heart.

  Slicing his sword in an arc toward Flynn, Kieran hunched back, away from Flynn’s blade, all the while bracing himself to feel the blade violate his flesh, to feel his life’s blood pour from his body.

  Fire seared across his chest moments later, nearly from shoulder to shoulder. He hissed against the pain, eyes slammed shut to block out the agony.

  A clink of blades alerted Kieran the fight was not over. He opened his eyes to find Drake had intervened and was even now slicing his way through with tireless parries toward Flynn.

  Grunting, he rose to his feet and advanced. He raised his arm, despite the fire and pain. Maeve. He must save Maeve.

  Struggling to fend off the bigger, stronger Drake, Flynn’s dark eyes widened with horror when Kieran approached, blade in hand, fury in his heart. The rebel glanced about for help but quickly saw his soldiers were either occupied—or dead.

  “You’ll not win!” Flynn vowed. “Ireland will not surrender to a traitor like you!”

  Kieran opened his mouth to remind Flynn he was rapidly losing the battle. The man turned and ran.

  Straight for his sister.

  Wide-eyed, Maeve watched Flynn approach.

  “Run!” Kieran shouted.

  Apparently sensing danger, she already had. Flynn pursued; Kieran followed with Drake by his side, blade at the ready.

  Green hills and blue sky whirled by, unheeded. His gaze, his entire being, focused on his wife, now running for her life. With every ounce of his energy, Kieran gave chase, but Flynn was too close to Maeve for her to escape.

  A moment later, the wild rebel grabbed her by the hair and, with it, yanked her against his chest.

  Flynn arced the deadly blade in his hand up to her throat and began to press in. Maeve’s scream tore at Kieran’s guts.

  Only a heartbeat away now, he growled and tossed aside his sword, drew out a dagger from his belt, and leaped upon Flynn. Then, without hesitation, Kieran plunged the wickedly sharp blade into Flynn’s neck and yanked on it with all his might.

  Blood streamed out of O’Shea’s throat in a red metallic ooze, his artery severed. Flynn sank to the ground.

  The sickly sweet tinge of blood scented the air, running freely down Flynn’s tunic, then into the earth.

  Kieran grabbed Flynn’s wrist and felt for his pulse. It was weak and fast. And with a wound such as his, ’twould be no more than a matter of minutes before he died.

  Maeve screamed and knelt to her brother, shock dominating her pale, pale face. Saint Peter above! He had just wounded his wife’s brother, most likely mortally.

  He looked away, toward Aric. “We must stop the blood.”

  Aric shook his head. “’Tis too late.”

  “We must try! I have seen worse. Maeve—”

  Kneeling, Drake felt Flynn’s pulse, then shook his head.

  Silence fell. Kieran felt as if his heart had stopped, as if time had stopped. He stared, motionless, stunned at his unmoving nemesis.

  “He is gone,” Drake murmured, taking Kieran by the arm.

  He shrugged off Drake’s touch and knelt to Flynn. Blood seeped from the man’s open wound slowly now that his heart no longer pumped.

  Swallowing against the maelstrom of feeling—confusion, anger, shock—he merely stared. Dear God, how much would Maeve hate him now? He closed his eyes, dread pelting him like a violent, unrelenting storm.

  Aric and Drake each came to stand by Kieran’s side and took one of his arms, hoisting him to his feet.

  “Your father is dead as well,” whispered Drake.

  A stone’s throw away, Kieran saw Desmond on his back, a blade protruding from his belly. Sighing, Kieran closed his eyes for a moment, finding a tangle of regret for the death of the sire who had never been a father to him.

  He could not mourn the loss of the father he’d never had.

  “We have dead and wounded to tend. You have a grieving wife.” Aric nodded toward the ruins.

  Maeve. Pain lanced Kieran as he swerved his gaze to his wif
e, sobbing silently as she knelt by her brother.

  Heated feeling came in another blast. Kieran closed his eyes, wishing he could sink to the ground and find a moment’s oblivion, for he could not face Maeve’s blame and loathing, sure to come.

  Refusing to succumb to such weakness, Kieran took slow steps toward his wife until he reached her side. “I am sorry. I never wanted—never meant—”

  Maeve suddenly rose and threw herself into his embrace. Kieran knew not what to say. Her slight body molded itself to him, and he sensed her tears in her trembling, knew the confusion and fear, so evident in her fierce grip.

  “I never meant to see it end this way.” His voice was a low vow, willing her to believe him.

  Still, he knew ’twas unlikely she would ever take him back.

  Maeve released her grip on him and stepped away. She answered with a brisk nod, her chin trembling as she held in tears.

  “How fare you?” asked Aric as he approached Maeve with a concerned touch to her shoulder.

  Kieran watched closely as Maeve gave his friend a shaky nod. But he was not fooled. She had yet to really understand what happened this night. Once she did, Maeve would despise him always.

  “Maeve, I am Drake,” said his other friend as he approached his wife with the blanket from his saddle. “Get you warm, lass.” He looked at Kieran. “We need to be away. Colm is hurt, as are you.”

  Casting his gaze down, Kieran found the shallow gash across his chest that was already beginning to clot. He had no concern there. But what of Colm? A moment later, he found his young squire clutching a jagged wound in his shoulder. ’Twas deep and would need stitches and a poultice quickly if he was to keep the arm. Damnation! What was he to do? He could stitch wounds if he must but had no needle and thread. And poultices, he knew precious little about them.

  “Ismenia back at Langmore could help,” said Maeve.

  Kieran nodded. “Let us be gone then.”

  He directed a handful of the other soldiers to stay and bury the dead. The few Irish soldiers still alive surrendered with peace, and Aric tied them behind his mount. Kieran took a last glance at his father and Maeve’s brother, wondering why they had been so foolishly willing to die for their violent cause.