"Fianna Eirinn would not do such a thing," Rhi insisted.
"To keep the English out, I think they would."
"They are too few."
"Small armies have been known to tip the scales of war." Siobhàn knew her sister was hiding more than she spoke and she wished she could see into the soul as Rhiannon could. "And PenDragon's army is more than enough to put any rebels down."
"Then you must make certain he does not war on the Fenians."
"Impossible."
"I saw you kiss. You can sway him for our people."
Her knowing smile irritated Siobhàn. "Becoming a whore for Ireland is not a choice I choose to make!" Siobhàn snapped. "These raiders are outlaws. They are killing Irish and English alike."
Rhiannon reddened with shame. "I am sorry, but you will share a bed; why not use the advantage?"
"For the love of Patrick, you are asking me to betray him!" Siobhàn gripped her arms, giving her a quick shake. "Hold your tongue, for if he hears such talk, you will find yourself wed to DeClare and sent back to MacMurrough castle."
Rhiannon paled. "I would rather die."
"That could be within his power, too." Siobhàn let her go.
Rhiannon licked her lips nervously. "Siobhàn, you know my heart lies elsewhere."
Arms akimbo, Siobhàn leveled her an exasperated look. "Your heart lies with a man who will never return. These past years should have widened your closed eyes." Rhiannon looked away, her mouth in a flat, rebellious line. "Find a future, as I have, in what is availed to you." Siobhàn didn't add the comments lingering on her tongue and turned away, heading to her chamber alone.
She paused at the sound of laughter, looking down into the hall from the squints.
Evidently his men had started the toasting without him, for they were weaving pitifully, and a tinge of resentment rose as she noticed Driscoll and Brody were in the thick of it, with half the men still able to lift a cup without dumping it on themselves. To the rhythm of his knights pounding on the tables, PenDragon drained the mug, swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and, amid the cheers, tipped the tankard in salute to her. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, not wanting to see him fall so deep into his cups that they had to pour him into her bed.
Her breath skipped suddenly.
Her bed.
Regardless if he kept his promise this night, she would share a bed, bare their bodies and slip beneath the bedclothes. The thought drove a fresh blade of tension over her skin and she looked back at him, her gaze lingering over his broad shoulders, his magnificent chest. Siobhàn admitted their kisses were exciting, his interest in her giving her back something she'd long ago lost beneath duty and her place in this clan—her femininity and the power behind it.
Still, did he think because she offered herself in a single kiss, that she would join her body with his this night? It would be just like a man, she thought, to see more than was there and take more than she wanted to give.
More than Rhiannon's attitude grated on her frayed nerves, and although her maid, Meghan, had seen to the fire, food and honeyed wine, Siobhàn loathed the darkness and went about the room furiously lighting candles. She could not believe her sister asked her to sway him with her body. Did she think the man was stupid to not see through such a ruse? With angry moves, she pulled the bells from her hair, wincing at the hair leaving her head by the roots, then tossed them on the commode table. Kicking off her slippers, she was halfway off with her gown and shift when her forgotten circlet of silver clattered to the floor. With a gasp, she scooped it up, placing the crown of her heritage carefully in the chest. No longer a princess of Ireland, she thought with a tired sigh, but Lady Donegal. She lifted out a pair of thin spiral bracelets, the swirling knots and curves so delicate they reflected lace. They were rumored to have been created by a Druid. Her fingers whispered over the markings, her eyes burning for the women who wore it centuries before her, for the loss of her quest to keep Donegal as it had been for decades, and for the purity of her Celtic blood that would one day run with English.
She tipped her head back, too practical to allow the tears to fall, to overwhelm her. Those ancestors gave her strength, her belief that she was right in fighting PenDragon, remaining true to her soul, just as wedding him was the only way to spare lives and make certain her brethren were treated well. 'Tis all his in the King's eyes, and she was thankful PenDragon had not burned everything. At least now she had something to offer Connal when he came of age and took a bride.
In a moment of weakness she sank to the floor, murmuring an ancient prayer over the old bracelets and slipping them on, pushing them high on her arms. She rose, naked, and moved to her bone comb, working through the snarls, and was searching for her robe beneath the piles of bridal booty PenDragon thought to soften her with, when the door rattled with a fierce pounding.
Siobhàn snatched up a length of russet velvet and had scarcely covered her nakedness when the door flung wide, banging against the wall. Gaelan stumbled in, DeClare and his remaining knights, the ones who were not facedown in the rushes, staggered in behind him. They froze, gaping at her.
"My God, Gaelan." DeClare's gaze raked her bare shoulders, the cloud of deep red hair falling over the velvet. "I envy you this moment."
"Me too, my lord," another knight slurred.
Gaelan swallowed, his mouth gone dry. The red-brown velvet clutched to her breasts, she stood near the bed, the fire's glow bending the hue of the expensive fabric with the shade of her hair. His gaze swept her hurriedly, from the swell of her breasts against her fist, the silver snaking her upper arms, to the dainty toes peeking out from the uneven hem.
"My velvet becomes you."
Siobhàn stared. For the love of Saint Andrew. He was stripped down to his braies and boots, the leather thongs wrapping his powerful thighs and accenting the bulge between. A bulge no woman could ignore. Heat flamed through her blood. The men continued to gape at her as if she'd grown new breasts, likely waiting to witness the bedding, an English custom she loathed. She'd no intention of joining with PenDragon this night, especially since he was drunk. But regardless of his promises to remain celibate, an argument of strength with him would be no contest.
She met his gaze and did not know what possessed her as she teased, "You may have it, if you wish." She loosened the fabric a fraction, exposing skin to her nipple. His eyes widened. An instant later, he turned, shoving the others out and closing the door.
Relief swept through her.
Gaelan pressed his head to the wood door, praying for patience and willing the thickness in his groin to subside. But her tart threats earlier, that he had land and a castle but not his bride, still stung, and he knew he would not have drunk so much if he wasn't feeling so inept at this marriage thing. The problem was, strong drink had done little to dull his desire and he could scarcely keep his thoughts from possessing her completely. But Gaelan knew, if he wanted this woman willingly, he must grow some patience.
Facing her, he bent and untied the thongs, toeing off his boots, then padded barefoot to the table, pouring wine and taking up a bite of cheese. He stared at her, munching, offering her a goblet. Siobhàn nodded, moving near and accepting it. She drained the wine, a drop dripping from the corner of her mouth. Gaelan watched her tongue snake out to catch it before she thrust the goblet into his hand and turned her back on him. Moving to the foot of the bed, she stared at the pile of bedclothes, her shoulder on the bedpost, and he wondered what was running through her quick mind.
His gaze slid over her. "You are very beautiful, Siobhàn."
"I am well past—"
"You are beautiful, Siobhàn. And it matters only to me."
She rolled around the post to look at him. It had been a long time since anyone had complimented her on aught but her efficiency. "My thanks, husband."
He scowled, truly irritated that she would not call him by his name. "I've made a fair amount of bargains and promises in this marriage…"
"As have I."
He went on as if she hadn't spoken, ticking off his justices to her. "Not to bed you until you desire it, to remain faithful, not to kill your precious Maguire," he said, his tone tight with jealousy. "I think you could at least look upon me without fear."
"'Tis distrust, m'lord."
"Ahh, that I know. But 'tis there, the fear. I see it." And the distaste he wanted to banish.
"You are too drunk to know the difference." She was not afraid of him, yet she feared her unmistakable need to be touched and petted and kissed by this giant of a man who'd come into her life and stolen everything she held precious.
Gaelan walked toward her, and to drive his point home, Siobhàn stepped back, her grip on the velvet tightening.
He paused, arching a brow, withholding comment. "Now," he began in an uninvolved tone, "in the morn you must look thoroughly ravished or they will suspect we have not consummated this marriage rightly."
"Ravished?" came in a squeak as she dropped to the bed. "But—"
He was near, grasping her arms and pulling her to her feet. She struggled to cover her breasts as he bent, rubbing his bristled cheek across hers, then looked at his handiwork. "Almost." He repeated the process, working his way down to her throat.
"What are you doing?"
"Marking you for the eyes of the keep," he said against her skin, the hum of words driving gooseflesh down to her nipples.
"Oh."
Gaelan smiled against flesh, his mouth trailing over her slender throat. He liked keeping this woman off balance, he thought as he licked and suckled her skin, scored her delicate shoulders with his teeth. Her breath panted softly over his hair, her head lolling as his mouth plucked, his beard leaving a blushing path. Ahh, she was damned sweet, he thought, trying to remember his purpose.
Siobhàn caught her lip between her teeth, tipping her head back as he rubbed his face back and forth, nudging the covers lower. Without thought to what she was doing, she let the fabric slide downward. His tongue arched the skin above her nipple, then dipped, flicking it. Her entire body clenched at the flash of heat snapping through her. He seemed to ignore it, then lowered to his knee, parting the velvet and scraping his teeth over the flare of her hip, his hands splayed over her belly and back as he sampled the curve of her buttock.
She leaned into his touch and Gaelan smothered a smile as he rose and took her mouth beneath his. His arms slid slowly around her, the coverlet between them, her hands fisted there, yet the weight of her bosom, her nipples brushed his chest, building the fire burning inside him. He wanted her. Now. Her restless motions, her little whimpers tested him, his fingers flexing on her back, itching to slip between her thighs and stroke her, feel the gush of her desire, taste it beneath his lips. His restraint nearly snapped when she arched a fraction, her hips pushing against his, his arousal heavy and filling the space between. The velvet did little to shield the incredible heat of her skin from his thickening groin, yet instead, he called himself honorable and valiant as he drew back, examining her face with a critical eye as her lashes swept up. The liquid glaze in her eyes nearly undid him.
"That should suffice until you are seen again," he said and let her go.
Siobhàn stumbled back, clutching the velvet, feeling bereft and hungry for more, and realized that if he had played her a bit longer, she would have lain beneath him quite willingly. Jager me, she would have demanded it. Numbly she crawled onto the bed and under the covers, cursing her feeble effort to resist. Her body humming with something akin to pain, she warred between spreading herself for his touch and conking him on the head with a chamber pot for making her feel as if she were cheating herself out of something glorious.
Gaelan smiled to himself as she slapped the velvet on the floor, then huddled under the bedclothes as he moved to the table. He poured another goblet full of wine and dropped into the stuffed chair near the fire, nibbling on a crust of bread. He shifted in the seat, his soft groan of discomfort carving the silence. She rolled over, meeting his gaze.
"Go to sleep, wife."
"You do not come to bed?" For pity sake, was she mad for tempting him?
He spared her an indifferent glance he wasn't feeling. "Nay." He did not trust himself. Not with so much wine in his belly, for her beauty struck him with a mortal blow, her hair a river of deep red against the white sheets, the silver armbands intriguing him, lending her an air of seduction, especially since it was all she wore. He looked away from temptation and stared at the heavy fabric draping the grand bed, thoughts of her husband bedding her, of her crying out for his touch and crying over his death torturing him. His stomach clenched, threatening the stability of the wine laying there.
He'd pushed the memory of O'Rourke's death out of his mind, not wanting to address the ramifications once she found out, yet crossing the room and lying next to the man's wife brought home how much Gaelan had altered Siobhàn's life. And she his. If not for her and his unaccustomed feelings, he would be riding to the shore and England right now. If not for Henry, and the threat of war, she might have married the Maguire. Between the two chieftains and their need to champion his wife, it was enough to leave him burning with morbid suspicion and distrust.
What ghosts would he battle to win his own bride?
His gaze slipped to her, so lovely in sleep. She shifted, the coverlet slipping to expose the swells of her breasts. He swilled back more wine, images of her rolling on the bed, naked and hot for the Irishman, drove an unaccustomed jealousy up his spine. Curse the Maguire, she was his wife now. His.
And he would be damned if he'd let her forget it.
"Bargains or nay, joining our bodies does not make a marriage, Siobhàn. Never forget who possesses you—will always possess you," he warned to the sleeping woman. "Never."
Silence stretched, the fire popping and hissing with the burn of peat and wood. Her lashes swept up and across the room, she met his gaze. Her soft voice startled him, sounding wounded and more forlorn that he'd ever imagined.
"Vows or nay, having my body does not make you my true husband, m'lord."
With that, she rolled over and fell asleep, leaving Gaelan to wonder why he tested calm waters and that she wanted just that, for him to be her true husband. Now, if only he knew what that meant.
* * *
Chapter 14
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Ian Maguire stared at the fine glass he'd brought from Dublin, watching the dark liquid coat the sides, the firelight flicker off the cuts in the crystal. She would have loved it, he thought, would have told him he should not waste his coin on something so fragile. But she'd have loved it anyway. A wedding gift to his betrothed.
Now she lies beneath the enemy—again.
His stomach rolled at the thought of her submitting to PenDragon, of the bastard mercenary taking her beautiful body, planting his seed in her. Ian groaned, an agonized sound. He feared for her life, that the new lord of Donegal would beat her or worse, for her tart mouth tested the best of men.
She could have fled with him if not for her people, and Ian knew that if the PenDragon wanted them dead, naught she could do would stop him. Damn her for being so righteous, he thought, and brought the glass to his lips, tossing back the whiskey in one swallow. The warm liquid seared to his belly, seeped through his limbs, doing naught to ease the torment of losing the one woman he loved more than his life. Siobhàn always did what was expected for the good of the whole, a human sacrifice for peace. It made her a great leader, he admitted.
Ahh, Siobhàn, my love, Ian thought. What happened that you would not accept me after his death? What did Tigheran do to you to make you shut out the love we had? He refused to believe she never loved him. Hadn't she kissed him once whilst she was wed to Tigheran? And what a fiery sweet kiss it was. Ian did not want to remember how she had scolded him for taking it, did not want to hear her tell him she was wed to Tigheran and that was that. Why, when she had the chance to leave the PenDragon's clutches, did she not come to him for help or leave with
him?
Why couldn't she think of him first, instead of the clan? The thought shamed, but he was in a selfish mood and brought the glass to his lips, found it empty and hurled the precious glass into the hearth with the other four he'd destroyed. The crash didn't bring any attention, the servants staying away from the solar unless summoned. Ian slumped in the chair, elbow on the arm, shielding his eyes with his hand.
He could not go on like this, he thought, his days unending, his nights filled with drink and pounding into women who were faceless vessels for his pain. He had to find a way to bring her back to him, to destroy the English lord and free her.
* * *
Siobhàn stirred awake, abrupt and sharp, and shifted to her side. Her gaze searched the darkened chamber, lighting on the man in the chair, then the empty goblet rolling over the floor. Throwing back the coverlet, the blast of cold did not affect her, her skin always unnaturally warm, yet she reached for the velvet, wishing she knew under which pile of treasure her robe lay. Wrapping herself, she padded to him, bending for the goblet. Setting it aside, she stirred the fire, adding peat and logs to warm him, then glanced back over her shoulder. Sleep did little to soften his features, his jaw square and strong, his bones chiseled as if by a masoner's hand. But still so very handsome.
He shivered, shifting in the chair, and she considered waking him, coaxing him to the warmth of the bed, then decided that would come soon enough and took up a blanket, covering him. She smoothed the edges over his scarred shoulders, marveling again at the size of him and the power she tested so regularly of late. 'Twas exhausting, this battling, and Siobhàn knew she could have done worse for herself. He could have warts and little hair and smell as unappealing as an overripe turnip, she thought with a small smile. Or a cruel beast like Tigheran. Instead she had a strong husband, brave and commanding, and she did not doubt he could protect Donegal. He could have taken her defiance once and burned the castle to the ground, yet he did not.
The Irish Princess Page 16