by Kris Kennedy
“It was not so difficult. Firstly, the Irish do not know I only have ten men.”
“Neither do the English.”
“My marchlands, my defense, my purse,” she said firmly. “The queen sends nothing to support the defense of her realm, and—” She stopped short. It did not do to complain of the queen to a rebel. “One does what one can.”
“Indeed. Such as build meadows of mud.”
“Encourage them,” she clarified, and was rewarded with one of his half smiles. “And then, of course, I do not go about antagonizing people,” she added significantly.
“Ah. Fascinating approach.”
“I could recommend it to some.”
“Who?”
The lazy drawl brought a reluctant smile to her mouth. She hesitated, then added, “Additionally, my men are ever brave.”
“And ever loyal.”
The compliment surprised her. “I serve them a great deal of meat.”
He pushed to his feet. “That is not what their loyalty feeds on.” The larger logs caught and flames began licking up all around.
He passed within inches of her, ignoring her completely as he strode to the items stacked against the walls, the crates and sacks and bundles, all sitting atop the huge, oak table. He stared at the collection a moment, then moved everything off with a powerful sweep of his arm and grabbed a corner of the table.
She stepped forward. “Oh, ’tis too heavy, you cannot—”
He hauled the end away from the wall, stepped behind it, and bending at the hips, set his palms against the edge and shoved the table across the room, squealing all the way, until it stood directly in front of the fire that was now crackling merrily.
Well.
“Then you’ll not be pleased to know your clerk has told them to stand down?” he said.
Her gaze shot to his. “What? No. That is impossible. You are mistaken.”
“You may have a point.” He went back for a chair. “I am unfamiliar with your steward. He said, ‘I shall stand down the men.’” He peered at her curiously. “What do you think he meant?”
She scowled at him and began pacing. “Why would he have done such a thing?”
He picked up the chair and carried it over. “He seems to believe you are in danger.”
She stopped so short, her skirts foamed around her ankles. “But I am not, am I?”
“That depends entirely on you, my lady.” He shrugged, as if the matter was out of his hands. She felt her face growing hot, and he made a sympathetic sound. “Aye, it doesn’t look good for you, does it?”
She ignored the veiled threat, and eyed him thoughtfully as he carried the other chair over and positioned it by the fire. “But they did not do it, did they? My men, they did not stand down.”
“Sadly, they did not. Again, they seem to wish to hear directly from you on the matter.” She smiled, but he shook his head slowly. “’Tis as unwise now as it was before, lass.”
“Oh yes, I know,” she agreed happily. Even a minor resistance, when one was hard-pressed for victory, was most satisfying. “Somewhat like you taking Rardove.”
“Aye, we’re quite a pair,” he agreed, setting trays of food on the table. “You should marry me.”
The urge to smile came again. She resisted it.
Arching a brow, he gestured toward the table. Covered with trays of food and pitchers of drink and several chests that had been carried in by the servants, it resembled a stall at a merchant’s fair. “Do you want anything?”
“My liberty,” she said tartly. “Peace from the incessant raids of the MacDaniels clan, a hot bath, and a great large salmon.”
That earned a quirk of his handsome mouth. “Well, Katarina, some of those things are easier to secure than others, and one is entirely in your keeping.”
“Nothing, then,” she said staunchly, then hesitated. “Perhaps…some wine?” Your exquisite wine.
“The wine, we can manage.” He turned to pour.
She watched the silky red folds of liquid splash into a large cup, then he set it on the table and waved his hand toward the rest of the items that did not bear closer inspection, for what other treasures might the Irish warlord have, beyond a map of the world and wine? Certainly, the silent message of his hand was clear: Look at all you can have when you are mine.
She sniffed at it, but did take the wine. “May my page visit?”
“Little one, so high?” He held his hand at about his waist. She frowned. Dickon was taller than that. Although admittedly, he was quite small for his age. “Indeed he may. The moment we locate him. He has thus far eluded detection.”
“Has he?” That was encouraging, wasn’t it? “He is quite nimble,” she allowed, smiling out the window.
“He will get himself hurt, my lady. If my men stumble upon him at the wrong moment, and perceive the wrong thing…”
His words drifted off but the warning was clear and genuine; these were battle-hardened men in the midst of a rebellion. They would not brook much, certes not a young renegade, be he intent on matters of espionage, or simply hungry.
Taking her goblet, she stepped away and circled the room, entirely ignoring the chests—of what?—that sat on the table. The lid of one had been lifted slightly and beckoned like a siren. Which was no doubt the point, the arrogant devil.
Still, the longer she paced, the higher the flames in the fire licked, the louder the rumbles of thunder outside grew, the more difficult it became to ignore them, because they did, after all, look a great deal like treasure chests. Anything could be inside.
Only slowly did she become aware of what Aodh was doing as she paced. He was shuffling…playing cards.
She turned incredulously. “Cards?”
He glanced up. “Why, can you not play?”
Her lips parted in surprise. “Of course I can play. But…you cannot expect me to sit and play cards?”
He raked his gaze down the front of her gown. “You may stand.” He went back to his cards. “But no peeking.”
Her jaw, already at half-mast, fell entirely. “No peeking?”
His blue eyes came back up. “Is that going to be difficult for you, Katy? You’re not the sort who goes about peeking at other people’s cards, are you?”
She pursed her lips tight together to combat the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to smile. “I will restrain myself.”
“Good.” He began dealing. “Putt?”
She hesitated, then said, “One of my favorite games,” and took her seat.
Chapter Seventeen
AODH SAT BACK as she picked up her cards. Carefully now.
The thought was a caution, a reminder of how quickly she could be gone, in heart and body. And as he’d spent the entire day in a state of constant erection, making even the simple task of bending over a painful chore, he had every intention of slaking the lust that hammered through him, tonight. In Katy.
She did feel something for him, something powerful, notwithstanding her rejection of him. It was simply buried very deep inside. Coals banked beneath ash. Aodh knew well the suffocating power of ash; it should be a fifth element, as powerful as fire or air, if only to extinguish.
So, carefully now, he counseled himself again, or she will be gone. Into the ash.
“Shall we wager?” he asked.
Her gaze drifted up from her downturned face. “Is that a taunt? I have nothing.”
“Aye, you do. Open the chest.” He nodded toward the chest beside her.
She cast a doubtful glance at the wooden box banded in thick iron, then flipped open its lid and drew in a sharp breath.
“Oh, Aodh.” It was a whisper, a breathy, feminine exhalation.
He shook his head in resignation as his cock swelled hard. Again.
She dipped her fingertips into the chest, sweeping through the piles of coin that lay inside. They glittered dully and clinked. He held his cards up, watching her warily over their tops. Sooth, he’d been unsure how she would respond to a chest of coins. S
he might be pleased or she might be…furious. It could happen. Women existed in a state of mystery.
Her head came up, her fingertips still dipped beneath the top layer of coin. “You mean to buy me?”
Ah, there it was. She was angry. This coin, purchased with much toil and pain and one dead man—Rudolph, the idiot—had been reduced to a simple insult. It wasn’t unexpected. To his surprise, though, he felt the bite of anger.
“I’m not buying you, lass. They are gifts. Or, do you prefer, negotiations. Rardove needs coin, aye?” He nodded toward the chest. “There is coin.”
She slid the gold between her fingers with a little clinking, then sat back, wrist still over the lip of the chest, watching him. Like a Roman queen. Like an army commander in her tent. “Very well, Aodh Mac Con. What shall we wager?”
He smiled slowly. “I can think of several things.”
“Say, an angel, to start?”
“Fine.”
She lifted out a handful of coins and laid them in a pile before him, then, very deliberately, took a single gold coin out of the chest and laid it on the table between them. He did the same from the pile she’d given him. They nodded at each other and sat back.
For a moment, they were silent, looking over their cards and preparing their respective attacks. Outside, another low rumble of thunder sounded. He cast a surreptitious glance across the table. Katarina’s head was bent. A few strands of hair lifted away from the confining braid she’d twisted her hair into, which hung down her back in a thick russet plait, under a pale green veil.
“How goes the rebellion?” she asked as she set down a card.
“Apace,” he replied absently, looking at it. “We’re building alliances.”
“With whom?”
“The MacMahon have sent someone, as did the O’Reilly tribe.” He set down a card. “Dalton rode in this morning. He is one of ours now.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “He was always one of yours. He has no love of Elizabeth.”
They each tossed in another coin. “I will be visiting the town soon.”
This earned a dark look from under her brows. “My town?”
“I’ll send your regards.”
“Who else?”
“Bermingham sent word.” He laid down a knave.
Her gaze, aimed at the card, flung back up. “Bermingham? He is more a snake than a man. I would not trust him in a rainstorm if he said I would get wet.”
“Sooth?”
“Sooth. If he requested a meeting, do not go.” She laid down a card as firmly as she spoke. “It is surely trickery, black and foul.”
He swept the pile up. “Interesting, for Walter seemed to believe it might be a beneficial alliance.”
“Walter? Walter said that?” She nibbled on her lower lip. “I would caution you on this matter.”
“Well now,” he murmured, throwing in another coin. “Your purposes are a mystery to me.”
“You think I would lie?”
“Think?”
A reluctant smile touched her mouth. “Well, I might. But I am not. These are things you will learn soon enough, and I would not see Rardove suffer for a few reckless deeds.”
“Such as yours?”
She arched a brow. “Mine are stubborn deeds. Yours are reckless.”
“Och, lass, you’ve been a bit reckless.”
A flush rose up her cheeks. “Yes, well, the hazard of being a marcher lord. It quite goes with the territory.”
“And you enjoy it,” he accused softly.
Startled, she widened her eyes, then another faint smile touched her mouth, lifting her cheeks. “I do,” she said fondly.
Outside a bright streak of lightning lit the sky, then a rumble of thunder followed almost at once. The storm was coming nearer. A few splatters of rain fell through the open window.
Aodh strode over and shut the outer shutters, latching them tight. Then he folded in the hinged glass windows too, battening them inside. As he strode back to the table, Katarina reclined in her seat, pulling the cards in toward her chest.
“No peeking,” she admonished.
He retook his seat with a smile.
“And what of The O’Fail?” she asked idly, tossing in another coin and setting down a king.
Half-bent to yank in the chair, he levered up his gaze. “Brian O’Fail is loyal to the queen,” he said slowly as he retook his seat, “a thousand years old, and hung with leeches most days. He has not ventured out for battle in two decades, and his sons from half a dozen wives have torn the clan limb from limb. The O’Fail has no central power anymore. They do naught but war, allying for minutes at a time to oust a common enemy, then falling upon each other again like a pack of wolves.”
She pursed her lips at the assessment. “Ah.”
“What do you know?” he asked grimly.
“More than you.”
In truth, he knew a good deal about the O’Fail tribe, for they’d once been the closest of friends and allies to the Rardove clan, surrogate families and foster fathers.
They were also disloyal, dishonorable cowards who’d not honored an alliance when it mattered most. Sixteen years ago, neither Brian the Elder nor his sons, nor any of the smaller tribes they claimed suzerainty over, came to the fight in Munster, and as a result, the Irish tribes had been wickedly outnumbered, and viciously defeated. Aodh’s cousins and uncles had died on that battlefield, his father and grandfather captured, condemned to die later as traitors.
Aodh would never call upon the O’Fail. Past betrayals aside, they could not be trusted.
But Katarina, it seemed, knew some things too.
“The O’Fail princelings did indeed battle for years,” she said, examining her cards, “and the land was torn to bloody pieces, but a year or so ago, one of their number took hold of all the warring pups and assumed command.”
“Who?”
“Keegan. He is now The O’Fail. He keeps to himself, occupied mostly with preventing his brothers and cousins from killing each other off.”
Aodh smiled grimly. Keegan. Clever, powerful, dishonorable Keegan. Just coming into his own sixteen years ago, he’d been twenty-five years old and intent on safeguarding whatever he could for himself. He’d been his father’s chief councilor, the chief voice urging the O’Fail not to fight, not to send troops, not to honor old alliances.
Aodh had not heard Keegan had taken control of the tribe. The queen surely did not know it either. She believed the old man Brian was still their feeble leader, and dissention among the historically rebellious O’Fail ranks served her well.
“I am surprised you do not know this,” Katarina said.
His gaze met hers slowly. “Did Rardove treat with him?”
“Never,” she assured him, swift and certain, the swiftest and most certain she’d been thus far except when she was telling him ‘no.’
He smiled. “Now, why do I not believe you?”
A flush spread across her face. “Perhaps because you have me locked in a tower, and feel I cannot be trusted?”
“That would be why.” He flipped a card down, which won the game, and swept up the coins, leaving one behind to begin the new trick. “Deal.”
She reached at once for the pile and shuffled, then dealt. He immediately set down a nine. “Katarina?”
“Yes?” she murmured in distraction.
“How long are you going to hold out?”
She looked up slowly and their eyes met across the table. She examined her cards, plucked one out, and set it down. A ten. “Aodh, I have seen the queen’s wrath.”
“When?” he said, moving the cards they’d laid down to the side, making a little pile. Her win pile.
She laid down a knave with a snap. “When I was a child. Unleashed on my father. And mother.”
He countered with a two. “Tell me.”
She swept the cards to the side—a pile for him—and he immediately laid down his last card, a king. She stared at it for a second, then laid d
own her last card, a two, with a smile.
“Take it, Katarina,” he murmured. “And tell me what happened.”
She scooped the coins into a pile before her, dipped her hand into the chest, removed one more, and they both laid down their wagers. He dealt.
“My mother and father had a great searing passion,” she told him, fanning the cards in her hand. “It quite burned through them. The love of a lifetime, which was just as well, for it was the death of them. My father been sent to subdue the Irish, and found himself quite subdued. The queen sent for him when she heard he’d had a liaison with my mother, and when she discovered they’d actually wed, her wrath carried us all across the water.” She looked up at him. “Your turn.”
He set down a nine. “Go on.”
She glanced at her cards. “My father was locked up for a multitude of reasons, then executed for them. Treason, conspiring with the Irish, making the queen angry. I suppose congress with an Irish princess constituted all three. As for my mother…When we first arrived in England, and things seemed most hopeful for my father, she was quite happy to be away from Ireland, whereas I felt I could not quite breathe.”
Her fingers fluttered over a card, then pulled back. “You and my mother had something in common, Aodh: Irish folk who are not so fond of Ireland.”
“’Tisn’t Ireland, lass,” he said quietly. “’Tis the dying or being subsumed.”
Her gaze swung up, dark and penetrating. “Yes. Of course. I understand.”
It was a low murmur, but she might as well have shouted at him; he felt pushed back by her words.
She set down a king. “In any event, when my father died on the block, my mother died of a broken heart. Or perhaps was frightened into death by the queen’s wrath. One can hardly blame her. I was eight.”
Eight. Aodh had a sudden vision of her, her beloved parents gone, alone in the world, with a vengeful queen hovering like a wasp.
“Your turn.”
The gentle prompt jarred him, and he laid down a card without thinking.
“I’m surprised you do not know this history, Aodh,” she said quietly. “It is Rardove’s.”