Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws)

by Kris Kennedy

  His mouth was entirely swollen on one side, as was one eye. Four days’ growth of facial hair lessened the evidence of his battering, but even through the dark fuzz, green and blue bruises could be seen. One side of his brow was out farther than the other.

  “Oh, Aodh.” She touched his face with her fingertips.

  He leaned down and brushed his cheek by hers. “Kissing will have to wait.”

  “Kissing? Of course it must wait… All this,” she waved at her body and tried to struggle up, “must wait. You need rest. You cannot be ready for such…exertions.”

  He held her down with a gentle pressure on her belly, his smile lopsided and lumpy. “I am quite ready for exertions, Katy. Have you not learned, ’tis a mistake to wait? If a thing matters, and it is there, you take it.” His words grew more intent as their eyes met, and his hands flattened on her belly, stroking her lightly. “That is how we shall do it.”

  She let herself be drawn back down, her arms going around his neck. “If you insist.”

  He lowered his head under the cloak again. She tipped her head back and curled her fingers, very gently, into his hair. He shifted about, laid his chest between her thighs, and pushed her leg to the side with an elbow.

  “Och, maybe a little kissing is in order.”

  She closed her eyes.

  The morning, if morning it was, passed slowly, languidly, pale daylight rolling timeless and golden around the corner of the cave, casting just enough light for Katarina to see everything Aodh was doing to her.

  *

  THEY SLEPT again. Aodh was awakened by the sound of boots at the cave entrance.

  Aodh swung to his feet, sword in hand, grimacing in silent pain, his muscles taut and screaming. He swayed slightly as three caped figures rounded the corner of the cave and loomed blackly amid the sunlight pouring down the tunnel entrance, all height and width, no depth.

  Behind him, Katy got to her feet as well. He heard the low hiss of her sword being drawn.

  Och, he did love this woman.

  “Jesus God, you look like hell,” said Ré softly, and a hot breath of relief rushed out of Aodh. He lowered his sword and limped toward them.

  “Did I not tell you to stay in the keep, son?” he said hoarsely when he saw Bran. cupping the back of his squire’s neck and shaking gently. Bran’s eyes were red and wet, so he could not answer.

  “I made him come,” Katarina explained quietly. “He fought me tooth and nail, but I insisted.”

  Aodh squeezed the back of Bran’s head. “Well, then, you’ve learned an important lesson: always listen to the ladies.”

  “Unless it’s the queen,” Bran quipped, his eyes still red but a smile cracking the tension of the last few days, now that his champion was returned to him.

  Aodh’s hand fell away. “Ah. Well, there you bring us to the matter at hand,” he said as Ré clasped his arm swiftly and tightly. One could have been forgiven for thinking it was a perfunctory thing, if one had not seen how tightly it was done, or how tautly Ré’s jaw was clenched, or how he blinked repeatedly as he stepped back.

  Cormac gave Aodh a hearty embrace that made him groan in pain, then the Scotsman stepped back with a grin.

  “Well, where are we off to now?”

  Aodh inhaled. “I’m going to Windsor, to see the queen.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  THE OCCUPANTS OF THE CAVE erupted into various sounds of emotion: outrage from Cormac; confusion from Bran; resignation and a muttered, “I knew it,” from Ré; and outright horror from Katy.

  Her jaw fell and her face grew paler than it had been the first day he’d seen her, when he’d retaken the castle of his ancestral homeland and realized that inside, he still felt colder than a winter waterfall. Until Katarina had touched him—in actuality, punched him—and thereby relit the fire in his heart that had been extinguished half a lifetime earlier.

  So, her concern here was worth something.

  But he would not be swayed.

  Not that she did not try. Cormac, as well.

  “Well, for the love of Christ,” the Scot said, throwing his hands up in the air. “What the hell did we go get you for, if you’re just going to throw yourself at her feet again?”

  “Because you are a brave and hearty crew.” Aodh included Katarina in the compliment by way of a smile and nod, but she was entirely underwhelmed; her jaw was still dropped. He swept her cloak up off the gritty cave floor and, giving it a hearty, chivalrous shake, handed it back to her.

  “See that Katarina has new clothes,” he told Ré as he reached down to grab his own cape.

  That launched her out of her stupor. “New clothes… Clothes? What are you saying?” She reached for his arm, stayed him when he would have reached down for one of the water skins. “Aodh, what are you planning?”

  “You four are sailing off, for a port we agree upon, where I can send word. I am going to see the queen about Rardove.”

  “That is madness.”

  “Aye, well, no reason to stop now,” he said brightly and planted a jaunty, rather painful, kiss on her mouth. He tried not to show that it was painful, for she already looked so worried. Then he leaned over and picked up the skin and held it under one of the rivulets of clear, clean water coursing down the walls of the cave.

  She took a step toward him. “Cormac is right. Why did you come away with us, if you intended to go to the queen anyhow?” Katarina demanded. “Why not just let them take you?”

  “I had to get you safely away.”

  She made an inarticulate sound. “You let me rescue you, in order to rescue me?”

  “Aye.”

  And finally, Ré grinned. Cormac laughed, and Bran smiled. Katarina held her hands to her head and stared between them, then flung them down. “I do not know what to say,” she announced, and it seemed true. For the next few moments, the only sound was water trickling down the walls. A bright bank of sunlight washed up the main cave entrance.

  “He has a point, lady,” Ré said softly. “All this was done in pursuit of Rardove. To leave it now…”

  “Just as things get the least bit difficult,” Aodh agreed, stuffing the skin into one of the packs and grabbing another.

  “The least bit…” Her incredulous echo faded off.

  He planted his hand against the wall and began refilling the next skin. Bran came silently forward and took the other two. “Your rescue of me was indeed a rescue,” he said, “for it was imperative that I got away, so I could return on my own terms.”

  She stared.

  He shrugged. “’Tis far better to go to Elizabeth standing up, of my own volition, rather than bound and dragged behind Bertrand of Bridge.”

  Cormac made a concurring sound, his brow furrowed in seriousness. “You’ve a point, Aodh. She likes a strong man, the queen does. You walk in, spread out your arms, and say ‘I’m here, as you commanded,’ well, she might just be charmed. You did it once before.” Cormac’s brow smoothed under the power of the new insight, and he began to grin. “Aye, you’re a madman, Aodh, and it just might work.”

  Katarina’s jaw fell for the third time. “Why, you are all as mad as he.”

  Re glanced at Aodh, who was stuffing the now-filled skin into another pack. Their eyes met, then Ré said casually, “I do not wish to be morbid, but….”

  Katy spun to him, clearly frightened by what could be more morbid than what had already been discussed.

  “If we leave, now, lady, we’re all but giving Rardove to Bertrand.”

  A soft gasp reverberated against the walls of the cave. Clearly, Katarina had not considered this outcome.

  Crouched over the pack, Aodh gave Ré the smallest of smiles. Ré nodded back, just as infinitesimally.

  Cormac’s nod was more noticeable. “You speak true. And God knows but that that Bertrand arse will bring Walter back into the fold, too. Bleedin’ snake,” he muttered.

  Katy paced in a little circle, clearly at her wits end. “I did not act like a whore simply t
o see you turn around and march straight back to—”

  The water overflowed the skin as Aodh snapped his gaze over his shoulder. “You did what?”

  She stopped pacing. “’Twas a ruse.”

  “A right fine one,” Cormac assured him.

  “And entirely unnecessary,” she added. “For you appear determined to get yourself killed or otherwise maimed—”

  He snapped his hand out, handing the dripping wet skin to Cormac. “A word?” he said to Katy, and led her further into the shadows of the cave, where their voices made sibilant whispery echoes as their heated conversation bounced off the wet stone walls. They stopped a dozen paces in, and Aodh turned her to face him.

  “Katy, did you not tell me Ireland is your air? That it fills your lungs and heart?

  Her eyes, wide and dark, stared up at him.

  “Then why are you so eager to leave it behind?”

  “I—” She seemed frozen by the question.

  “For that is the choice now before us. Leave, and go…where? Make no mistake, lass, fugitives we shall be, and that limits our choices considerably. Consider that well.” He held her arms, setting out the future in cold, bare lines. “Sailing from port to port, never knowing which will be open to us. Always on the lookout for an English ship, or an English man. Knowing that at any moment, you might be spotted, and taken. Have you any notion how extensive is the queen’s network of spies?”

  “No—”

  “I do.”

  “But all your friends…all over the lands…”

  “I have many friends, over many lands. None of them are Ireland. And that is where we are meant to be. Ireland. Together, you and I.”

  For a moment, hunger filled the gaze pinned on his, then she turned to the front of the cave, where Cormac stood, stick in hand, drawing pictures in the sand that covered the entrance of the cave, while Ré crouched beside him and Bran lounged against the wall.

  Aodh stepped up behind her, put his arms around her and folded his hands low across her belly. “And them, Katy? It will be their fate too, if we flee now. After all they’ve done for me, to give them that?”

  She inhaled and shook her head. “I don’t want to make this choice.”

  “But you must.”

  “Why must I choose my worst fear?” Her words were so soft they almost disappeared under the tiny streams of water rushing down the cave walls.

  “Then do not view it in such a manner.”

  “What other manner is there?”

  He put his mouth beside her ear. “Choosing your greatest hope.”

  She blew out a breath and turned to him, her face shadowed in the dim light, but backlit by the bright sun. “So, I must choose. We flee, as fugitives, or stay and try for Rardove. The chances of which are so small as to be almost non-existent.”

  He smiled. “I’m feeling persuasive today, lass.”

  She skimmed his jaw with her palm. “You look as if hell sat on your face.”

  He gathered her closer. “I must do this thing.”

  She closed her eyes. “I know.”

  He examined her face a moment then said, with ruthless aim, “And what would you have me do, Katy, in such a situation, if our roles were reversed?”

  Her lids lifted and her dark eyes locked on his. “What can I do to help?” she said firmly.

  He smiled, just a little, for smiling hurt, and their kiss was the gentlest brush of lips, barely breath.

  Then Aodh brushed his knuckles down the side of her face. “I do love you,” he said, then took her by the hand and turned to the others at the front of the cave.

  “I’m for the queen,” he announced, a bit triumphantly. Cormac turned and the others got to their feet.

  “You mean we are for the queen,” she corrected gently.

  He stopped short. “We’re not starting this again, now, are we?”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  AODH CREPT up the secret back staircase at Windsor, an entryway known only to a select few, which he’d gained entry to by contacting the stable master’s assistant, who used to be a bit of a gambling partner, and who was engaged, quite amorously and secretively, with the laundress, who snuck him in and up the stairs.

  Voices from the downstairs rooms rose up a twist of stairs and coursed down the long corridor that led to the queen’s chambers. The throng below was, as usual, celebrating their wealth, or fighting not to lose it, and were determinedly riotous in the effort. The queen would be among them. He would wait, hiding in the shadows.

  The only threat lay in being seen by one of her ladies- or maids-in-waiting. This was a distinct possibility, but a negligible threat. Aodh had known the queen’s entourage well, and been well liked, for he brought gifts and knew how to compliment without flattering, how to arouse without touching, or at least not much, and they would say nothing if they saw him. Or at least, nothing that would get his head cut off.

  The queen, on the other hand, would be very much inclined to cut his head off.

  Perils of the adventurer.

  He ran into one of the younger maids the moment he stepped out of the back passageway. Sitting outside the queen’s chambers, head bent over embroidery, she gave a start when he appeared, then got to her feet in shock.

  “’Tis I, Liz,” he said softly.

  She gave a little gasp, and her eyes flew wide.

  “Not a word, now.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, sir,” she whispered, staring at his face. “What happened? We heard you were taken, then escaped. And now here you are.”

  “Here I am,” he agreed cheerfully.

  She smiled, but it was troubled. She glanced over her shoulder. “They are at feast. You should leave.”

  “I mean the queen no harm.”

  “I know,” she assured him swiftly. “You have ever been the queen’s good friend, and I do not believe a word they have said about you.”

  He wasn’t sure if this meant she didn’t believe the part about him having taken over a castle, but decided this wasn’t the time to inquire.

  “But if they find you here, Sir Irish,” the little maid went on, using their name for him, “you will be the one harmed.”

  “I need to see her.”

  His calm earnestness seemed to do the trick. Her brow furrowed, her eyes darted to and fro, then, with a swift glance, she nodded and glided to the door. “Come.”

  She let him into the queen’s antechamber and swiftly shut the door. He made his way across the room, a room he’d been in hundreds of times, for quiet games of chess and cards, and turned the handle to the inner chamber, intending to wait.

  But there would be no waiting. The queen was already inside.

  She sat on a small bench at her writing table, her head bent as she scribbled away. Back in the corner sat one of her ladies. When the door swung open, the queen looked up, startled, then got to her feet, pen in hand.

  “God have mercy,” she whispered, then her lean, painted face flushed with color under the white paint. Her gaze swept over his bruised face and her hand reached out, as if to touch him, then retreated again, like a butterfly folding its wings. She rested her open hand over her heart and gave a soft laugh.

  “But why am I surprised? Ever have you been my charming rogue. But I cannot be charmed, Aodh. Not anymore.”

  He sat down at once in the nearest chair, to present as little threat as possible, and also, to a smaller degree, to ensure he did not topple over; perhaps he was the smallest bit weak.

  The queen’s gaze drifted to the door. “How…where…”

  “I vow I pose you no danger, my lady,” he assured her. “I wish only to talk.”

  “Talk?” She laughed. “Oh, yes, the Irish are very good at talking. At lying. We had years to talk, and you never, ever told me you planned treachery.”

  “I did not plan it, my lady. It sprang itself on me quite suddenly, when you refused what you had long promised.”

  Her gaze hardened. “You were informed, quite clearly,
of the reason for my decision.”

  “Bertrand is able; the proceeds from the ironmongers are quite lucrative; you needed me close to hand.” His casual recitation of the reasons made her hand tighten. “Aye, I heard them all most clearly.”

  “And none were good enough for you.”

  “None were.”

  Her gaze slid to his head as he pushed back his hood and she gave a little gasp. “Your hair. What have you done?”

  He said nothing. It was clear what he’d done, in half shaving it; he’d claimed Ireland.

  She made a sound of impatience, then glanced at the lady-in-waiting who stood, shocked, in the background. “Leave us, Catherine.”

  Catherine bent her head and hurried to the door. She cast Aodh a glance under lowered lids as she passed. Either in support, or because she was going to get the guards, he had no idea which.

  Nothing for it now; it was all in Bess’s hands.

  “And not a word,” the queen ordered sharply as Catherine opened the door.

  She nodded, and as she passed out, she smiled at Aodh.

  For a moment, the queen and he sat in silence. “How did you get away?” she finally asked.

  “Friends.”

  “Your Englishman?” said the queen. “And your Scotsman?”

  He ducked his head. No need to mention Katarina.

  Bess looked down at the pen still clutched in her hand. She turned it over in her fingers. “And the lady?” she said, her voice pitched to an idle tone.

  “Katarina? What of her?”

  “You are cleaved to her?”

  “Entirely.”

  “So swiftly.”

  “From the moment I saw her. As it was the moment I saw you, my lady.”

  “Do not flatter me,” she said shortly. “I well recall our first meeting. You were dripping in seaweed and laid your sword at my feet, silencing a crowd of nattering courtiers and self-important nobleman and the Spanish ambassador.”

  “That it did,” he said, smiling faintly. Smiling hurt, so he stopped.

  “Hm.” She made a little sound. “Then your meeting with her must have been quite a thing.”