by Kris Kennedy
Even so, irritation at her steward rose up more sharply than usual. She wanted to shout No, no, no! at him, like a petulant child. But the familiar inner voice called up, Simply agree with the man.
Her inner voice was extremely sensible.
“You are right, of course,” she said quietly.
They stared at each other. Or rather, he stared, while she looked intently at his eyebrows, since they were so pronounced, and looking directly into his eyes might cause her to do something highly insensible, like grab his ears and yank.
“Now, Walter,” she went on brightly, “we seem to have been caught unawares by Bertrand of Bridge, and I without my good hood.”
He shifted his frown to her blowing hair.
“Might you see to it for me? The green, if you will. And inform the servants of Sir Bertrand’s arrival? So that we might make the proper impression?”
That, of course, was Walter’s weak point, and she aimed for it ruthlessly.
“It would be more proper yet for you to wait indoors and have Sir Bertrand brought to you,” he grumbled but, realizing the futility of arguing, turned and strode off to the keep. Walter had, after all, been her father’s steward before hers, and had seen her at her most improper yet.
He went, clearly resigned to minimizing the damages of Katarina’s improprieties.
She gestured to the door warden standing at the inner bailey gate, and he ducked inside the gatehouse. A moment later, the winches began to turn, and the squeal of iron streaked through the bailey like a cold star. The gate began to lurch upward.
She stood, waiting, letting the wind blow back her cloak. It was no use trying to stop such things. Doors opening, winds blowing, the warrior about to ride through her gates; these sorts of things were unstoppable.
A moment later, hoofs clattered over the cobblestones, and the riders swept into her home.
Chapter Three
SIXTY-FOUR MEN rode through her gates.
Katarina saw one.
Hooded and helmed, riding a pale gray horse, their leader resembled mist taking shape. A simple dark gray woolen cape was draped over his horse’s dappled rump, and silver-gray armor covered his legs and forearms. Under helm and hood, it was impossible to see where he was looking. But Katarina did not need to see. She felt his gaze on her, as if a long, taut cord had been plucked inside her.
Swinging off his horse, he spoke a quiet word to his men, then started toward her with long, confident strides, somewhat like a mountain in motion. It wasn’t that he was so very large, although he was tall. It was more a sense of the space he took up, the certainty of him being in that space, moving aside the air to inhabit it.
But then, “presence” was to be expected when an armed knight strode through one’s bailey, cape tugged back in the steely winds, a heavily armed detachment spreading out behind him like an unsheathed blade.
She did not recall such presence in Bertrand of Bridge.
He reached her side and bent a knee, bowing his head. “My lady.”
It was a simple male rumble, but it sent something entirely unsimple tingling through her limbs. She returned a curtsey and extended her hand.
“You are well met, sir. I am pleased to see you.”
Liar.
He closed his fingers around hers and straightened. They were warm in the winter cold. She could barely make his face out amid the shadows of hood and helm. Indeed, the steel accentuated all the hard, capable things about his face.
The nose, broken no doubt sometime in the past, the hard slash of a mouth, lined with small crescent curves along each side, the rough growth of hair that brushed his cheeks and jaw, but above all, the eyes peering out at her. They were blue-gray, reflecting the steely sky. Hard, perceptive, uncompromising eyes. Just what was needed for the Irish marches.
Mayhap the distant Crown had chosen well this time.
Although she did not recall Bertrand having blue-gray eyes.
“My lady, we must speak at once, on a matter of some urgency.” His voice was pitched low, with a rasping rumble underlying it.
A chill pierced down her spine. “Is it the Irish?”
Slate-blue eyes dropped to hers. “When is it not?”
She nodded but felt honor-bound to add, “When it is the English, my lord.” He ought to be told such things, and who else but Katarina was going to inform him of the shifting realities and immutable truths of life on the marches?
“If we might speak? Alone?” he said quietly.
“Of course.” She gestured to the castle. “Come inside.”
He released her fingers. Behind them, the outer gate lowered with a creaking thud. She slid a sideways glance at his hooded profile as they hurried across the bailey: grim, serious, silent. Intent on the castle doorway.
“Tell me of the defenses, lady.”
“The west wall is weakest, as you may have noted upon your arrival, but it will hold.”
“The garrison? Your outer gate was unmanned.”
“We have been undermanned of late,” she admitted. Miserably so. For years.
“That is unfortunate,” he said. In truth, it sounded as though he’d said that is fortunate, but his voice was pitched so low, the wind must have whipped away his prefix, as it tore away so much else.
As if in answer, a rogue blast of wind roared through the bailey, rattling the castle windows and ripping a section of thatch off one of the outbuildings. It almost tore Katarina’s cape off her shoulders, and she spun to the side to ward it off, catching her hood against the side of her face.
He was there at once, hand on her back, one of his hard legs behind hers, righting her. She lifted her head and stared into the broad expanse of an armored chest, then tilted up further to look into his eyes.
“My thanks, my lord,” she said, rather breathlessly, from inside her billowing hood. The winds did that every so often, took one’s breath away.
Ice-blue eyes looked down at her. “The garrison?”
“Ten in total,” she told him, ignoring the armored leg pressed up against hers. “Armed to the teeth and most bold.”
The hand at her back tightened, and he spun her around to face him. She came to a stop opposite him, their capes snapping in the air between them.
“Ten?” he repeated incredulously. “You hold the barony of Rardove with ten men?”
Winds whipped her hair across her face as she stared into his eyes. “I had to, my lord. I had no more.”
He stared. A knot tightened in Katarina’s stomach. Clearly the queen had not relayed the sad news about the state of Rardove’s garrison. Perhaps because Katarina had neglected to inform the queen of it in any meaningful way. But then, no one had ever asked. Being in Ireland meant being forgotten.
It was one of the things she loved best about it.
So. They were about to witness how Bertrand of Bridge dealt with disappointment.
“That is impossible,” he said slowly. He sounded quite certain of this, even though she had been doing it for years now.
“I have found, sir, that one does not know the limits of possibility until one reaches them.” She pressed a palm to her temple to catch her flying hair. “I have not yet reached mine.”
Something shifted in the shadowed eyes holding hers. “I see. And am impressed.”
A cascade of unfamiliar heat flushed through her belly. She waved her hand dismissively. “For no need. ’Twas more stubbornness than anything.”
“And yet…” His gaze swept the bailey, then came back to hers.
She smiled faintly. “And yet.”
His smile in reply, though small, was rather devastating.
“But be assured, sir, my men are most brave, and have had occasion upon which to prove it.”
“And so they shall have to again,” he said, and quite grimly too, as only a wise soldier would. That was hopeful. One did not want a braggart with a sword out beyond the Pale.
No, Katarina most certainly did not recall Bertrand of Bridge having s
uch restraint of manner, nor such piercingly pale blue eyes. But then, she’d only seen him twice, once from a distant of several hundred yards, the other from a much closer distance—far too close—but then, it had been dark.
Far too dark.
Perhaps Bertrand had changed, she thought hopefully. People did. It was known to happen. On occasion. Very rarely.
They started toward the castle. He kept a hand at her back in case any more gusts of wind bore down on them, but he did not take hold of her elbow to assist with the ruts. He thought her capable of ruts. More hopeful yet.
Being a wise woman, she would take help with the wind wherever it appeared.
Hay blew past, and hard bits of snow began swirling around them as they hurried toward the keep, and somehow, she realized, he’d put his arm behind her back. The grim intensity of him grew, expanding like a breath being taken. He was closer to her now, moving her across the bailey, propelling her faster and faster. She felt pressed upon. They took the stairs two at a time. The door squealed as he pushed it open and ushered her inside.
The brittle winds ceased abruptly. Cavernous and stone walled, the great hall opened below them, a vast expanse fifty feet long and arching overhead to a stony cathedral ceiling. It was filled with half-erected trestle tables and low fires burning, but empty of souls. The servants would be in the kitchens and storerooms, frantically trying to prepare for the extra mouths to feed.
His body was an inch behind hers. She stopped short. Behind him, the door, heavy and rusted, stood open. She could see the cold, sharp blue sky and the way his men were spreading out along the walls.
Uneasiness crept down her spine. “Ought I not call for my men, apprise them…?” she asked, turning.
“Your men are being apprised of the circumstances as we speak.”
Confusion swirled in her belly, then fear crept up behind on cold, pricking spider legs.
Circumstances?
He peered over her shoulder down into the great hall. “’Tis larger,” he murmured.
“Larger than what, my lord?” she replied more sharply than intended, then began to push past him, back outside. “Good, my lord, I shall call for my men—”
His gaze snapped down to her. “Stay.”
Something in it chilled her from her breasts to the back of her spine. Dim, sharp shouts pierced in through the open doorway. The shouts of soldiers.
She took a step backward. “What news, my lord? You said the Irish…?”
“Oh, aye,” he said, very low. “It is the Irish.”
“What have they done this time?”
“Taken Rardove Keep.”
Seconds ticked away as her heart beat harder, as she stared into his fire-ice eyes, his Irish eyes, as she finally discerned the faint Irish lilt to his softly spoken words.
“What did you say?” she whispered dumbly.
He slid off his helm, revealing a handsome face and partially shaved head. Shocking, barbaric, illegal. The pricks of fear became a cold wash of it, a river through her skull, so she could not even hear herself think.
He brought those steel-blue eyes very close to hers and bent the granite of his jaw into a smile.
“The Irish have taken Rardove Keep, my lady. My thanks for opening the gate.”
Chapter Four
AODH LOOKED DOWN at Katarina, the woman known as the Beauty of Rardove. She was, indeed, beautiful.
She was also, quite literally, standing in his way.
He was prepared for anything—screaming, running, fainting, begging—which rendered him entirely unprepared for nothing. The dark feminine eyes locked on his burned with an entire mountain range of emotions, but everything about her remained calm, motionless, almost serene.
Her cheeks, though, did grow slightly more pale.
At least that was something.
“You’ll not be harmed if you do as I say, my lady,” he sought to reassure her. Although she did not appear to be particularly in need of reassurance.
In fact, she did not appear to be listening.
Her gaze flicked over his shoulder, to the open door, through which cold air and the sounds of his men taking over the castle rushed. She moved nothing else. Nothing at all, nothing but her nostrils, which flared slightly as she inhaled. She was all but motionless. Perhaps stunned.
“Where is Bertrand of Bridge?” she asked finally.
He reflected a moment. “Wandering on a hill somewhere in Northumbria, one hopes.”
Her gaze slid back. “Who are you?” Her voice was low, throaty.
“Aodh Mac Con.”
No need to mention the “Rardove” part just yet. Or ever. It would only complicate things. Ship her out, and get on with the rebellion.
More motionless regard. She seemed to be working that out. The early spring winds had succeeded in tearing free a copious number of strands of hair from the threadbare hood enclosing her head. They hung like dark russet ink strokes beside her mouth.
“Aodh, son of the Hound.” She anglicized his name in a low, throaty voice.
He gave a small bow.
“That is unfortunate.”
“I will endeavor to make it less so, lady.” He extended an arm toward the stairs behind her. “If you would but—”
“I meant unfortunate for you, Aodh Mac Con.”
He stopped, arm in the air.
Her face was extremely pale but fixed and determined. “You have defied the Queen of England, sir. You will be cut down like a sapling.”
He smiled faintly. “Ah, but we are beyond the Pale, are we not, my lady, where wild things hold sway more than queens?”
Something flashed in her eyes. “You do not know your history, sir.”
“I know some,” he said grimly. The bloody, betrayal-thick, grave-laden parts.
“Then you know Rardove holds for England.” Her brown eyes held his steadily as she mouthed such idiocies.
“Not always,” he replied, and even he could hear the steel in his voice.
Her face paled slightly more, but her chin also lifted to the same degree. Fear and defiance, then, in equal measure.
“I am Rardove, sir,” she said boldly, quietly, and foolishly. “And I hold for England.”
He tipped closer. “That has just become a matter for negotiation, my lady. From here on, let us say England shall have to earn Rardove’s loyalty.”
She stepped back, her lips parting. He’d shocked her. The realization caused a small, strange tinge of disappointment in him, that a woman who’d held an English castle beyond the Pale with only ten men would be shocked by such a thing. It seemed somehow…diminishing. But then, Aodh had a taste for rebellion today, and nothing but more of the same would serve.
Still.
A movement at the far end of the hall caught his attention. One of his captains, Cormac, poked his head through a door, caught his eye and nodded, then ducked back out. Good. They’d made it to the north side, which meant they’d secured the entire castle. Rardove was his.
And so where was the hot satisfaction of conquest? The rush of triumph? Where was…everything?
Lying at the bottom of the same cold pit that had marked his life for too many years to count, no doubt. Intrigues, battle, courtly maneuvers, it was all the same: naught.
Apparently even coups of castles did not rise to the level of interest anymore.
He turned his attention back to Katarina. “My lady, if you will—”
All he saw was a blur of green silk, then her small, bunched fist smashed into his face.
The impact, hard and square, landed directly on his jaw.
Caught utterly unaware—as he’d never been before, never, not even when his father had had his head cut off—Aodh reeled sideways. The retreat gave enough room for her to launch herself forward and slam her shoulder directly into his ribs so hard and fast, he grunted and stumbled backward and hit the ground, her on top, twisting like a hellcat.
She jammed a knee into his bollocks, and he doubled over protect
ively, at which point she grabbed one of his fingers and twisted it back almost to breaking, while her other hand—so sinuous and slender it was all but ungrippable—snaked between their writhing bodies and tugged his accursed dagger out of its sheath.
Disappointed, indeed.
With a roar, he lunged up off the ground, lifting her with him, and backed her to the wall. Predictably—dimly, he noted he was already predicting things about her—she wrestled like a firebrand. Whirling hair, arms, legs. Kicking, biting, punching, swiping with the knife.
First things first.
He caught hold of the feminine fist snaked around the hilt of his blade and slammed it to the wall above her head, gripping her wrist so hard she cried out, but she did not, of note, stop fighting. He finally had to pin her to the wall with his entire body, her toes dangling half a foot in the air, their faces pressed together, cheek to cheek, until he stilled everything that was writhing and flailing and kicking on her curving, rampant, berserker body.
Fire burned in his veins, urging him to smash and destroy. He reached over with his other hand and wrenched the blade out of her grip, then tossed it onto the ground behind him.
He inhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm. They stood like this for a moment, her body pinned between Aodh and the wall. He supposed she could still kick his shins, but she’d impact against his greaves, and it would hurt her far more than him.
She seemed to agree. At least, she didn’t move.
He pulled back a few inches, let her feet drop to the ground, and peered down at her. Breathing fast, she flung her head, spraying hair across her face. It was pale and beautiful, with slim, dark brows arcing over what appeared to be intelligent brown eyes. A shocking discovery.
“If you were a man, I would kill you right now,” he said in a low voice.
He waited for her response—everything now was a test, every moment a potential tipping point. Would she recoil? Be wise and retreat, apologize, surrender, run scared?
Would she be like everyone else?
She shifted the only thing he didn’t have restrained, her left hand, and laid what turned out to be the cold edge of a blade against the side of his throat.