by Shayla Black
Aye, his blood heated at the thought of kissing sweet Maeve. He had not expected her to react with such abandon. Nor had he been prepared for the force of his own want.
Such only increased his curiosity more. But his curiosity was temporary and must not be given free rein. Passion meant naught in marriages born of politics. Today, he would speak with Fiona, see if she might make him a suitable wife.
“Good morn, my lord.” Fiona stood before him suddenly, her approach so silent he had scarce heard it.
As usual, she looked lovely, dressed in a soft blue that accented her eyes, pinkened her cheeks, and outlined the curves of her ripe bosom. But she still wore that feigned smile and pressed her hands so tightly together he felt sure she could hold water without a single drop falling.
“Good morn, Fiona. The rain has now stopped, so we might journey to the garden for a stroll.”
Fiona flinched, skin paling. If possible, her body seemed to grow more tense.
“You do not like the out of doors?” he asked, much curious.
“I-I do,” she stammered. “I… ’Tis cold this morn.”
Kieran frowned. He had been out earlier this morn, questioning a defiantly silent Flynn about the rebellion after suffering a strangely sleepless night. At the end of the fruitless inquisition that made him more suspicious of what he could not prove, Kieran had sought solace out of doors. He had thought the dawning day warm for February.
With a shrug, he gestured her to the bench beside him. “As you wish, good lady. Sit here.”
“Thank you.”
Her voice was so quiet in the huge room the sound of it was near lost. She reminded him of a wary kitten, all wide eyes and furtive movement.
“Tell me what you enjoy.”
She frowned, but even that was no more than a gentle furrow of her delicate brow. “My lord?”
Did these O’Shea women not understand the meaning of enjoyment? Did they naught but…whatever these Irish folk did? And why did they do it, if not for fun?
“I am Kieran, not my lord, please,” he corrected. “What makes you smile, Fiona?”
“Mass, my—Kieran.”
Mass? So Fiona would smile in the Lord’s home. Would she ever smile in any bed he might want to share with her? And what was he to do with a woman who would not?
“Aught else? Perhaps you enjoy festivals?”
“Nay, too many people about.”
“Music? I find there is little more fun than a rousing tune and a good dance.”
She shrugged and looked away. “I enjoy thoughtful music, but not dance.”
What woman disliked dancing? He had yet to meet one who didn’t enjoy kicking up her heels until she fair lost her breath from the rhythm and the laughter. Odd, indeed.
“Have you traveled any?”
Fiona wrung her hands. “Traveled, my lord? Where to?”
“Anywhere.” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Dublin? London?”
“Nay.”
Simply nay. Not nay, but I should like that. Not nay, and I wish you to perdition. Just one word. How was he to hold a conversation like that? Much less learn about her?
“Tell me of your parents,” he said, switching to another question, which she could not answer with one word.
“They are dead.”
Her whisper distracted him silly. Her brevity near drove him to madness.
“Aye, Fiona. That I know. What I asked is, what manner of people were they?”
There. Now ’twas doubtful she could answer with a mere word. He nearly dared her to try.
“Caring.”
By damned, she had done it.
He sighed. “Caring? Did they sit you upon their knee? Did your father buy you ribbons for your hair? Did they dote upon you?”
“Aye.”
To all the questions, she said but one word. And she could not even look at him when doing such! If the wench could not meet his gaze when talking, he could only imagine how far into the distance she would gaze if he tried to share a marriage bed with her so that he might get a babe upon her and leave this accursed country.
True, he had never wanted a woman who chattered a great deal. A woman like that was not being kissed enough, to his way of thinking. Kieran frowned. Although Aric’s wife, Gwenyth, was the exception. They kissed frequently, but naught had curbed that woman’s sharp tongue, which Aric needed to keep him in line.
But this lack of conversation with Fiona… Kieran knew he was here for the next year or so, long enough to take a wife and get her with child. But he could scarce imagine sitting beside Fiona each meal, lying beside her each night, with no words exchanged, no glances met for that year.
He had met dying soldiers with more to say.
True, that made her biddable. ’Twas unlikely she would argue with him about Langmore, about the rebellion…about aught.
Somehow the thought of a wife that docile seemed tiresome.
“Fiona, would you excuse me? I need to see my squire for a bit.”
Relief lit the woman’s face in an instant. So much for the unfailing charm Aric had accused him repeatedly of possessing.
She rose from the bench and began backing out of the room. “Of course, my lord. ’Tis certain I am you are busy.”
With those two sentences, she was gone. Hellfire, the woman had not said that much to him all morn. Kieran supposed he ought to be grateful.
Instead, he felt surly.
For now, his choices in bride were but two: a budding girl-child…and an irksome wench with a kiss like fire.
CHAPTER FOUR
Another morn, another O’Shea sister.
Kieran sighed tiredly as Brighid appeared in the great hall directly after Sunday’s Mass celebrating the beginning of Shrovetide. She wore a high-waisted dress of bright green, with patterned sleeves. The shining mass of her golden hair lay about her shoulders. Atop her head rested a decorative headdress of gold that was wider than the whole of her head. Kieran stared.
Brighid had dressed with all care, and he had no doubt the garments she wore were her finest and newest.
Unfortunately, such elaborate garb made her look all the more youthful, as if she were a young child who had chosen to filch her mother’s clothes.
Trying to hide his grimace, Kieran reminded himself that he had chosen to speak with Brighid today for a purpose. If she would make a suitable bride, pliable and tolerable, able to be a helpmate here, he would consider wedding her. After all, of the four sisters, she was the friendliest—and the least likely to bring a blade to their bed. Kieran could not deny he disliked the idea of a child bride, but he knew he must be careful. With Jana and Fiona eliminated as potential wives, his choices were fast dwindling.
And he must do his duty by Guilford. He owed the man too much to allow him to lose Hartwich Hall to King Henry’s nervous machinations. The old man had taken him in and fostered him after he had been ripped from Ireland by a distant mother, then abandoned for his unruly ways.
He focused on Brighid, clearing his mind of the past.
“A good morn to you, my lord.” She curtsied prettily.
“Good morn, Brighid. Will you sit and break your fast?”
She bowed her head and sat beside him on the bench, bringing her closer into view. A flush lit her skin from the top of her low, square bodice, all the way to her pointed hairline.
He squirmed in his chair and turned his attention to the warm cider in his cup, aware of Brighid sipping likewise beside him.
Uncertain what he should ask her, he took a sip of the fermented liquid.
“What are you wantin’ in a wife, my lord? A woman who will enjoy you ridin’ her each night?”
Kieran choked at her question and nearly spit out his cider. Aye, such a woman sounded pleasurable, but how would this girl know of that? “What?”
Her bony little shoulders rose in a shrug. “Flynn says all men want such a bride.”
Most did, and though Kieran knew many girls her age who were already wed, he had n
ever thought the practice a wise one. His thought on the matter was, if a woman had not yet developed a bosom to please a man’s eye, she had not the bosom to suckle a babe. Until she appeared a woman, she could not possibly be one.
And though he thought Flynn a coxcomb, he had not imagined the maggot would be so shandy-minded as to say such a thing to his young sister.
“But that is not all men seek in a wife,” he answered.
At that, her shoulders fell in a dejected slump. “Aye, I hear Flynn say a man wants a wench who can kiss as well. But I ask you, where am I to get such practice? Every man who looks my way, Flynn scares to the devil!”
Kieran believed that. “’Tis not important now, little one. In a few years’ time—”
“But how else will I learn so I might be a good wife?” She bit her lip, and before Kieran could respond, her face brightened. “Of course! You might teach me. Even though you are more English than Irish, as Jana says, you are fierce handsome.” She blushed again. “And since we might soon be wed—”
“I have made no decision, Brighid. We might not be wed.”
The idea of kissing the girl—much less bedding her—made him flinch. Why? He had no such compunction about her sister.
True, Maeve was older. But Brighid was simply sweet and unfettered, unlike maddening Maeve. He suspected Brighid would be great fun to laugh with, which he always enjoyed in a female. He would bet her inhibitions were few.
But the girl was merely a child.
“I shall be ten and three in April. If not now, when?”
Ten and three? As he had imagined, she was too young.
“Not much longer. Two or three years.”
Brighid’s mouth dropped open when she looked at him with an indignant glare. “Two or three years! I will near be a spinster by then, I tell you.”
He laughed, and for that, the girl kicked him beneath the table.
“Do not chortle so at me! It’s very unkind, you ass.”
Kieran bent to rub his offended leg and bit his lip to hold in another chuckle. No doubt, the girl had spirit.
“You smile still!” she complained. “I asked you for a kiss, which you should have requested from me, and I am but mocked?”
“Sir? I-I mean, my lord?” came Colm’s query from the entrance to the hall, saving Kieran from a reply.
Kieran turned to regard his young squire. Colm’s gaze met his gaze, then strayed to Brighid before meeting his own once more. A familiar expression lit Colm’s dark gaze—one of interest.
His squire and young Brighid?
He smiled. “Aye, Colm. Come, sit.”
Eyeing him warily, Colm did as he was bid, sitting on Kieran’s left. Again, the young man’s gaze flitted past him and landed on Brighid. He turned to his right and found the youngest of the O’Shea sisters turning even pinker under his squire’s regard.
Colm was himself but ten and five. Possibilities lay there… His squire was a kind soul, too gentle to be trained for battle. But Kieran liked the boy.
“My lord, those remaining of the last earl’s army are outside, awaiting you.”
“Thank you. I will see to them soon. Have you met this fair maid?” he asked his squire.
“N-nay, my lord.”
The boy looked as if he were about to turn red and sweat, and Kieran smiled again. “This lovely lass is Brighid O’Shea.” He turned to the girl, then finished the introduction. “Little one, Colm Colinford. He is my squire.”
Silence reigned for a full ten seconds. Colm finally broke the quiet.
“Gre-greetings, mistress.”
Brighid turned from pink to red and seemed to find sudden fascination with the hands folded in her lap. “And to you, good sir.”
Again, silence. Furtive glances were exchanged by both. Kieran saw in his awkward hesitance that Colm had little experience with females. He sighed when he realized he’d been neglecting such an important part of the boy’s education.
And now he fancied Colm and Brighid might be good for one another.
Wearing a broad grin, he rose from the bench, leaving an empty space between them. They both looked at him in question.
Kieran gave Colm a friendly pat on the back, then teased, “Brighid is looking for a man to kiss her. Mayhap you could teach her whilst I go start with the men.”
Smiling, he walked away from a pair of identical stunned expressions and left the great hall. Around the corner and down the stairs, he strode.
No sooner had he begun down the stairs when he saw Maeve.
She climbed up in the opposite direction, taper in one hand, balancing a book in the other, with wooden spectacles perched upon her small, round-tipped nose. Her lips moved a bit as she read. She appeared not to see him.
Watching her, Kieran thought she looked learned—something he had never fancied in a woman. It reeked of deep thought and an aversion to action. Aye, she could kiss sweetly, but he could not imagine her romping in the rain nor enjoying a good hunt. She belonged indoors, a book close to her face, mayhap with a hound at her feet.
He shuddered, for he could not imagine a life so…settled. His boyhood had been anything but, and today that suited him well.
“Good morn,” he said an instant before she would have collided with him.
Maeve tore her gaze from the pages before her to his face. When she caught sight of him, she eyed him warily.
“Good morn,” she replied, then frowned. “I thought you were to spend the day with Brighid.”
“Aye.”
Maeve waited, as if expecting more of an answer. Kieran smiled, happy to let her wait. Vexation crossed her lovely features, giving them more color, more expression.
“And so where is she now?”
“In the great hall above.”
“Breaking her fast?” she asked, closing the book she held.
“Kissing my squire, I presume.”
Though he but teased her, Kieran couldn’t stop his grin when ire overtook Maeve’s golden gaze.
“Kissing?”
More fresh color lit her luminous skin, and for some reason, Kieran wished her remembrances of their kiss, not her anger, had caused such. After all, had that kiss not kept him awake last night, tempting him? Making him wonder if Maeve would be his best choice of a wife, even though he had not spoken with her and all her sisters?
“Brighid has no need to be kissing anyone,” protested Maeve, “much less some English fool of a squire. Likely he will trifle with her an-and leave her with child—”
Kieran erupted in laughter. “’Tis unlikely Colm yet knows how to trifle with himself, much less a female.”
With a wink, he walked past Maeve as she attempted to sputter a retort. It pleased him to render her near speechless, and he whistled all the way outside.
* * * *
Kieran had scarce worked with the last earl’s soldiers for a quarter hour before he decided they were a pitiful lot.
Standing on the grassy plain in front of Langmore, he looked over the “army” once more. ’Twas an abysmally small group. Out of the two dozen galloglasses, permanently employed soldiers who had stayed since the last earl left, four men looked as if they spent all their days gorging from dawn to dusk—and beyond—another three looked as if a stiff wind would blow them to their arses. Several others, with their grayed hair, showed they were much closer to the grave than the cradle. Fully a dozen had no real knowledge of wielding a broadsword, an ax, or a mace. Who in Hades had trained them? The rest were Irishmen, the kern, only there for the coin, and such showed in their defiant demeanors.
’Twould be a long road before he could make warriors out of this motley lot.
With a disgusted sigh, he turned away. Clearly, he would need to best the men well and often for most to listen or respect his ability.
He had not the time for this. Taking a wife and getting her with child so he might leave—that should be his focus. Except the wife hunt had not gone well. Jana was too lost in grief to make a suitable bride. F
iona seemed trapped in some nervous silence that made him want to find the nearest cup of ale. Brighid was fun…but terribly young.
Damnation! He wanted no wife. But Guilford needed him. And now he had no O’Shea sister to consider but Maeve.
He felt trapped, as if the walls at Langmore were closing about him, squeezing him off from air and light. He shuddered, wanting it to stop, wanting to be free.
Holding in a curse, he turned to one of his own captains, who had arrived in Ireland with Colm, and bade him to continue instructing the deplorable castle soldiers.
He needed to be away!
In minutes, Kieran sat atop Lancelot, aimlessly heading east as if for the sea and England, or anywhere else that might bring freedom.
The sun’s zenith came. He passed the River Slaney, pausing only to sip from its cold waters as it babbled across mossy green rocks.
As he traveled on, the landscape turned mountainous. The sun began a sharp descent from the sky. Rock-strewn glens and bogs abounded, covered with dormant heather of muted purple. And green everywhere, budding shades of it, beginning to come alive with the coming spring and cover the hilly land.
And the land looked hauntingly familiar, like land he had not seen since the days after he had turned eight.
In the explosion of a colorful dusk, he dismounted before a lough and followed the water’s edge around a gentle slope of a hill.
He encountered a waterfall, one that looked much like one that had been his favorite place to play as a boy. Chilly water cascaded over craggy granite, seemingly locked together in nature’s hold.
And suddenly he felt quite certain that beyond the next rise lay the remnants of Balcorthy.
Nay. He would not see the ruins of his boyhood home. He had no need.
Settling again on Lancelot’s back, he decided to make his way back to Langmore, to face the task of taking a bride and seeing her birth a babe.
Instead, he found himself urging Lancelot forward, to climb the next ridge.
Moments before the sun disappeared behind him, Kieran looked over the pasture. The ruins of Balcorthy sat in stately neglect, utterly abandoned.
Fire had turned the stone black in places. Battle and disregard had caused some of the walls to tumble down. He would even bet some of the nearby townsfolk had taken blocks from the once-imposing keep and used them to build their own homes with more security.
