The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  The man merely nodded and went off to tend his chores.

  Siobhàn met her husband's gaze, then crossed to him, offering him the rag looped in her apron. "You seek to ruin my pots and kettles?"

  Gaelan smiled. By the Gods, she was a combative female, he thought, stepping closer, loving the way she cocked her head as she awaited an answer, adored her hands on her hip and her tapping foot.

  "'Tis all we could find."

  "Had you asked I would have shown you the tar vats in the herb house."

  "Using them to brew potions, were you?"

  "Aye, you'll find that Englishmen make a fine stew," she bit back. "The vats are useless for aught else, since 'tis difficult to get tar to fill them. Tigheran wanted a castle better than any in France and England. Unfortunately"—she glanced at the ill-placed buildings and gates—"he knew naught about building one."

  "Ahh, but I do."

  Her gaze thinned a bit. "Only because you know how to find their weak spots and tear through them."

  His look was sultry, a reminder that he'd found his way beyond her defenses two nights past.

  "Do not speak of it," she warned with a finger in his face. He grinned, wiping the sweat from his chest, and Siobhàn's gaze unwilling followed the path of the cloth, aching to touch his sun-bronzed skin.

  "If an enemy penetrates the strong, Siobhàn, what do you think he can do to the weak? They must be prepared."

  "We are not totally inept, sir. Know you how to throw a javelin? I would wager even I could manage farther than your finest bow man."

  "Is that a challenge?"

  "If you feel the need for one, aye."

  Damn but she was spoiling for a fight, he thought, smothering a grin she would not like. Standing this close to her, he could feel the energy running through her, heightening her color, making him eager to feel it explode on him in ways other than anger. Obliging her, he called out a man, ordering a javelin brought forth. The Irishman cast him a guarded look, his gaze flicking to Siobhàn. Discreetly, she nodded, and Gaelan sighed, realizing that lord or nay, when she was near, airing her defiance, her authority undermined his. Working as one, as true partners in this marriage instead of circling adversaries, was not just theirs but her people's only hope of survival. Yet short of beating the lot of them into submission, he recognized that wedding the princess of Donegal gained him naught but a mutinous wife and an unsatisfied ache in his groin. And it was time to change that.

  The clash of swords drew her attention and Siobhàn turned. Near the stables, knights were instructing several Irishmen on swordplay, a huge tree stump the target. Beyond them, the gamekeeper, the cooper and their assistants worked to lift a wooden horse to a track. A quintain. Her castle was quickly turning into a training field.

  "My folk have duties, PenDragon. Use your own men for such tasks."

  His eyes narrowed and he leaned close to whisper, "They are our folk, and for a woman who was rather compliant in the garden"—she inhaled and blushed prettily for him—"you are in a most difficult mood."

  Siobhàn's gaze flew to his. "Hush." Her gaze darted to DeClare not but a few feet away.

  "I think you need to be kissed."

  "Nay." That was the last thing she needed.

  "Thoroughly. All over," he growled explicitly.

  "Husband!"

  His look told her he would get her to say his name any way he could, and Lord above, tension and heat filled her with just the thought of his wondrous torture. She could scarcely look him in the eye without thinking of the ecstasy she'd experienced under his practiced touch, and it seemed like an eternity since he'd held her against him last. Bedding with Tigheran had held little pleasure, for he'd ignored her needs, yet that night her pleasure was her husband's only concern. It weakened her to the very roots of her soul. Sweet believer, her knees shook with the memory of his plying her with her own passion, yet the worst was, she knew there was more; for if his mouth could bring her to such heights, joining with him would surely ease this thickening desire she craved to explore. And Siobhàn was more than a bit irritated that she'd put herself in such a corner, for her body fairly screamed for this man's touch. And to add to it, he knew it.

  "Nay?" He swept his arm around her waist and pulled her flush against his bare chest. "You would deny me even a kiss after I tasted your sweet—"

  She slapped a hand over his mouth, her eyes warning him, his dancing with mischief.

  "You are an insufferable creature, PenDragon." His tongue toyed with her palm. "'Twas difficult enough to withstand the looks and whispers during the morning meal—"

  He peeled her hand off and kissed the damp center, his gaze hot and velvety on hers. "What occurs in our chamber is not anyone's business."

  "Still they talk. And bedding me does not make you my husband true," she said, repeating the words from previous nights.

  "And joining does not make a marriage, Siobhàn. Trust does."

  "I have little reason to trust an Englishman." Her eyes clouded briefly and her gaze faltered. "But I am trying," she said in a small voice, so unlike her own, and Gaelan crumbled a little inside. She was over four years alone, carrying the burdens of a leader and trying to hold her clans together, and though he suspected she wanted to trust him enough to share more than the defense of the castle, war and England had taken too much from her.

  "Then I can only wait," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead and wondering when he'd find the will to reveal his part in those changes.

  Someone cleared his throat and they looked.

  "The javelin, my princess." Her smithy offered the sharpened spear.

  Siobhàn glanced at her husband, a little deviltry in her eyes as she scooted out of his embrace and took the javelin, propping it on her shoulder and walking toward the gates. Gaelan followed, unaware of the audience gathering behind them. Siobhàn took little time to prepare, yet lifted her skirts and tucked the hem in her girdle.

  "Siobhàn!"

  Pulling his shirt over his head, Gaelan gaped at her legs, bare to the knees.

  She smiled, wondering what he'd think if he saw her in the braies she often wore on a hunt. "My target is that tuft of grass," she told him, then faced forward.

  "A wager on this?"

  She met his gaze, tipping her head thoughtfully, and when he sent her a slow smile and a glance down her body, she recognized the vein of his thoughts and warned, "Do not push me this day, husband, I am in no mood."

  "Luncheon with me over there." He pointed to a cluster of trees and shrubs near the creek.

  "And if I win?"

  He bowed regally. "Your heart's desire."

  Her gaze swept him briefly and before her imagination went amuck, she focused on the target. She arched back, the javelin near her cheek, then took three quick steps and with a heave, hurled it into the sky. Gaelan, Raymond at his side, watched the spear glide through the air, far beyond the camp to plunge into the grass cluster. The Irish cheered as the pole quivered. Siobhàn freed her skirts and curtsied to the crowd.

  "Another," she called, and Irishmen raced to do her bidding. She handed the spear to PenDragon, arching a brow in challenge.

  He did not bother to call his bowmen, focused on the target, then hurled the spear. Though it sailed higher, it missed the target by yards. Gaelan blinked, then looked at her. With a great flourish, he bowed.

  "I am humbled afore your skill."

  "Hah! Naught humbles you, my lord."

  She did, he thought. "Your desire?"

  She folded her arms over her middle, looked first at the keep, then the glen. Siobhàn was terribly irritated with her son, and her sister, for her constant disappearances lately, and needed a reprieve. "A private swim in the creek."

  His brows shot high. "'Tis freezing, woman."

  "I did not say you had to join me, did I now?" She unfolded her arms and stepped closer as Raymond ordered the people back to work.

  "'Tis dangerous to be so far from the keep."

  "You
cannot protect me?" She patted his bulging biceps significantly, then lowered her voice. "Then I will give you your lesson, aye?"

  He merely smiled, pleased to have his way.

  "But you must feed me, too."

  His eyes darkened. "I had planned to do more than feed you."

  Siobhàn's entire body lit with the sweetest of tremors. "Ahh, but I only asked for a guard and a swim." She stepped back and motioned him. "Be about it, my lord."

  Chuckling at her impudence, Gaelan twisted and shouted for his page. In moments young Jace struggled with a fat basket, Reese not far behind him with his sword and his mount.

  Siobhàn blinked. Well, the little sneak, she thought, and wondered if he threw the contest. Donning his sword, he checked the saddle's repaired girth, glancing wryly at her, then swinging onto the beast's back. He held out his hand. Grasping it, she hoisted her leg onto his instep and he pulled her onto the saddle before him.

  He took the basket from Jace and tucked it to her, and she wiggled into the curve of his body. Gaelan groaned at the sweet agony of it.

  She looked back over her shoulder. "A run, my lord, please?" Her eager smile pierced his heart.

  If she would only smile at him like that every day, he thought, and heeled the horse. Grayfalk bolted. They rode, the cool wind biting and pungent with newborn grass, her dark red hair spreading across his chest like a warrior's shield. To lengthen the ride, he made a wide berth, skirting the outer edge of the barracks under construction, the small camps of soldiers. Her laughter spilled like crystal water from a fall, showering him, and she glanced back, her bright smile carving a hole in his heart. Gaelan tightened his hold around her waist and let Grayfalk have his head. The black destrier plunged over the low hills, climbed the mounds of turf, and his master guided him around to the west slope where the creek ran clear, the rare sun glowing over a dale with trees and wild stubby bushes.

  With the castle still in sight, he slowed the mount. Before he stopped completely, she slid from the horse's back and raced to the creek, dropping the basket under the trees and kicking off her slippers. Yanking off her hose and flinging them aside, she dipped her toes in the water, then lifted her skirts, gathering them in her girdle.

  Gaelan dismounted, ground tethering his horse and walking toward her. She looked like the wild girl he'd met in the forest, bare-kneed, holding her hair back, searching the stream for fish. Once she shoved her hand into the water for one, then cursed. Gaelan leaned back against the tree, simply enjoying the sight of her.

  "You do not have to forage, Siobhàn; I have food here."

  She looked up, holding her hair from the water. "Ahh, but 'tis the skill I must hone."

  "I hunt for Donegal now."

  She studied the fish moving under the water. "Want you a wife who cannot take care of herself? And you will not always be here, husband."

  He pushed away from the tree and came to the water's edge. "I know you can take care of this fief, but can you not see that the burden is no longer yours alone to carry?"

  "I know this, PenDragon."

  "Nay, you do not." She met his gaze, straightening. "Not well enough to show your people. Think you I do not see that they obey me only at your discretion? Would you like to see them beaten for defiance?"

  "Of course not!"

  "Then you must cease airing your … prejudice afore the folk."

  "I want them treated fairly."

  "Name me once when they were not."

  She was stumped completely and her shoulders sagged. He was no longer the mercenary, his purpose so obvious in the construction he ordered on the castle, the coin she knew he would pay for the labor and supplies. She was suddenly terribly ashamed of keeping him at arm's length when he tried so hard to please her, bending to her, but…

  "I do not trust you … completely."

  His heart grabbed onto her hesitation and longed for more. "I know," came sadly.

  "I do not know when I will." She left the creek, stopping on the soft bank before him.

  "'Twill come in time, Siobhàn. And by then, mayhaps, I might trust your motives as not a part of our bargain," he said with obvious distaste. "We have come by this alliance through much hardship to you, but you must understand that unless I am called by the king, I will not leave." His voice lowered to a husky pitch. "Donegal is my home now too."

  'Twas his tone that snagged her, lonely and rarely heard.

  "My only home ever, Siobhàn."

  Her throat constricted. "Ha—have I not made you feel welcome?"

  "You have made a place in your chamber, aye."

  Her brow furrowed. "But not in my bed."

  "Our bed."

  It hit her then, the division she'd marked without realizing how it affected him. Hadn't she pitied his solitary existence before they'd wed? Yet she'd denied him the chance to alter his situation by keeping him from her bed, by battling with him, when he'd conceded all he could in his power.

  "You cannot expect me to believe you have changed from war maker to settled lord in a sennight's time, husband."

  "Nay, I am a warrior, Siobhàn, yet—" He looked off to the side. "I am learning, this I swear to you. But…" He shifted from foot to foot, his voice barely audible, almost shy. "I need your … help."

  Something broke inside her then, slicing through the resistance. The moment offered a glimpse of his life, how difficult being inside the keep instead of burning it down must be for him. And she had done naught but keep him on the other side of the wall, sheltering her heart at his expense and denying the life he obviously craved, the life he'd earned for saving the king's.

  "Oh, my lord husband," she whispered, fingering his hair off his brow, and his gaze snapped to hers. His features were brittle and carved with anxiety. "Forgive me."

  "I could forgive you aught but your hatred of the man I am." His hands hovered over her shoulders, then settled there with a gentle weight and his tired sigh. "I cannot help my past, Siobhàn. 'Twas all I had until now." He swallowed heavily, staring deep into her eyes. "That man is fading, yet if I anger you with orders, 'tis because I've known no other way. But now I have more than a bastard has a right to possess and I find I want more."

  "What else is left that you do not have, my lord?"

  "You."

  Her brow furrowed. "But we are wed—"

  He touched his fingertip to her lips, silencing her. "The other night in our chamber I felt truly wed to you, but the morn brings the terms of our bargain to light. I am weary of living on the outside of real lives—your life, Siobhàn—when I belong on the inside." He neared, his body brushing hers, and Gaelan scented her like a stag scents its mate, hungering with a fierceness that robbed him of his will, his pride. "Donegal and her lands were the reason I wed you, Siobhàn." The slight narrowing of her eyes made him want to shout. "But you alone are the reason I wanted Donegal."

  You alone.

  "For the sake of a passion," she gasped, wetting her lips and searching his dark eyes. "You have relinquished your freedom?" She could hardly believe it.

  "For my want of you, Siobhàn. Of the woman who challenged me like a warrior even when her life was at risk. And for a place to belong as you belong here."

  Over her head, he sketched the verdant land, and in that instant, Siobhàn recognized how deep his longing ran, brimming with the fierce determination to be a part of Ireland, a part of something more than war. The unguarded moments of the past week filled her mind, the turbulence in his eyes when he asked for a marriage under Christian law, when he found his possessions in her chamber, the tub made for him; when he asked her to teach him to read and begged that none be aware of his shortcomings. He was a man struggling with a new life, a new people and a position he hadn't needed from the start, and that he wanted to be a real part of her life unfolded hope inside her, the hope she'd had but could not share.

  How many times had she dreamed of having such a mate? How often had she wished that she and Tigheran could have made more of their marr
iage? She was a bride of peace with the chance for so much more, and aye, she admitted, she liked this man very much, ached for him in ways she never thought existed. He'd carved a spot in her heart for himself that day in the field, and he was pushing his bulk inside with his bold teasing and the incredible tenderness hidden beneath his grand power.

  She was losing her heart to him, and it left her vulnerable, pitifully so when he looked at her as he was now, with expectation and want and hunger.

  He lifted his hand from her shoulder, let it hover near her jaw, and she slid her hand over his, pressing it to her skin. His dark eyes softened, and he whispered her name, reverent on the breeze.

  "I did not know."

  "I did not want you to."

  "Why?"

  "I am weak for you, Siobhàn. You did not need another wound to pluck open."

  She need not ask if it was a weakness of the flesh, for she understood well there was more to this man than bedding, more she'd yet to discover.

  "I can only promise to honor you well, PenDragon. And if I vent my feelings, 'tis because they have been smothered for so long." His features tightened a fraction. "I know not how to share them, for to show them was to appear feeble afore the people, and they needed my strength."

  "You can yield them to me, wife, and I will not see you weak." He sighed and slid his fingers into the hair at her nape, tipping her head and brushing his mouth over hers. "I will keep them private, Siobhàn, for I cherish the sharing."

  His confession touched her heart, piercing it with the strength of an arrow. A whimper worked in her throat, tears burning behind her eyes as he took more of her lips with each passing moment. He wet them, tasted and licked and kissed, and her heart escalated with the warmth of her body.

  "Oh, husband," she gasped, her voice fracturing. "Hold me."

  Gaelan slid his arms around her, a slow motion, as if afraid she would run from him and what he was experiencing was naught but a dream. He felt new ground beneath his feet, his walking into her arms a step into her mysterious soul. His guilt faded under the heat of their kiss, the pain that would come hovering beneath her spell, and with her mouth moving over his, she came into his arms, pressing her softness to his hard length and leaving him trembling. He'd tried to win her with gifts and deeds and it was the baring of his soul that brought her here. So simple. Yet there was naught simple about this woman.