by Shayla Black
Whatever the cause, Balcorthy looked naught like the important, bustling castle he recalled. A sadder monument to the hate with which a husband and wife could hurt each other did not exist, he felt certain.
’Twas merely another reason to return to Langmore and complete his duty. He would assess his options, take a damned bride, and be done with the mess. The sooner he left Ireland, the happier a man would he be.
* * * *
The following night, Kieran sat in the middle of the raised dais for supper. Jana sat stiffly to his left. Maeve, doing her best to ignore him, sat to his right. ’Twould be a long evening, no doubt.
As the servants brought in the meal, Kieran glanced at Fiona, who sat at the next table, close beside his. Flynn rested beside her, looking bruised and malcontented. No doubt the man had taken part in the recent rebellion, but he had not accomplished a thing, particularly not the release of Maeve’s seditious betrothed, Quaid O’Toole. But ’twas no matter, Kieran planned to punish the O’Shea man very soon.
Looking away from Flynn, Kieran glanced toward Brighid and Colm, smiling shyly at one another, as they sat a bit farther away. Perhaps Colm had taught Brighid to kiss, after all.
Everyone ate in silence. Kieran was aware of Maeve beside him, smelling faintly of this afternoon’s damp rain. She kept her gaze in the trencher they shared, barely eating.
He speared a bit of garlic-spiced mutton with his knife. Their arms brushed, sleeves warmed by their bodies. Maeve tensed. So she was aware of him. Kieran felt his blood stir.
He tossed a bite of meat into his mouth. Maeve reached for her cider and took a small sip. When she finished, her berry lips looked glossy-wet and luscious. Enticing. Edible.
Then she mopped up the apple-spiced alcohol with her tongue. Kieran knew he stared, knew that Maeve was aware when she stared back, frozen. Her tongue stilled across her upper lip as her eyes flared wide. The feminine flutter of her pulse pounded at her throat. Kieran felt lust flood his loins.
Even when she looked away, he pictured her thus, tongue upon upper lips, golden eyes wary and wanting at once.
He had never been good at denying his wants. And he could not deny Maeve topped his list of desires at the moment. He wanted to kiss her again, to feel her heat and hear her mewl in his arms once more. He wanted to share the delights of the bedchamber with her.
Why, he knew not. Too oft, he found her now with a book in her lap and those blasted spectacles upon her face. She strolled in the garden occasionally but never raced outdoors for the fun of it. In fact, never did anything for the sheer joy of it that he could see.
How could he want such a woman?
Yet when he looked at her, flowing red-gold hair, firm jaw, gracefully sloped neck, breasts he could not forget if he lived to be one hundred, he wondered how any man could not want her.
“So, I see you’ve settled into Langmore as if you’ve owned the place all your life, you ratty Englishman. But I wouldn’t be getting too comfortable now, I tell you.”
Kieran jerked his gaze from Maeve to Flynn. “Do you think to threaten me?”
Flynn shrugged. “’Twould be unwise to think too little of an Irishman’s mettle.”
“Tell him, Flynn!” cried Jana.
Kieran ignored her. “It would be unwise to think too little of a trained warrior’s skill. Have you already forgotten?”
“Forgotten? ’Tis not likely I am to forget a bastard who attacks another man when his back is turned. But that is the way you English like to fight.”
“Odd, Flynn, for I recall seeing your eyes wide with fear when I first punched you.”
A few feet away, Brighid gasped and Colm chuckled. Fiona looked warily between him and her brother.
Flynn turned a deep rose, which mutated into a red that soon became mottled and glowing. Kieran smiled.
“But if you think me mistaken,” he continued, “I can be persuaded to go outside so we might fix the puzzling matter once and for all.”
Beside him, Maeve prodded his ribs with a sharp elbow. “We are eating a peaceful meal.”
“Are we, now?” he asked with a raised brow.
She was riled again, her face alive. He enjoyed seeing her thus, to see her when she could think of naught else but him.
“Just remember,” Flynn growled, “that an Irishman never gives up. We will never let a little thing like blood stand in our way.”
Kieran presumed Flynn meant his blood. And ordinarily, he would laugh. Flynn was no match for him alone, but if he had a group of soldiers willing to fight for his cause… Well, Kieran was not anxious to test their tenacity against that of the “army” left by the last, now late, earl. He feared more than half of them would desert to the enemy cause.
And thus he must tread carefully here.
“May the enemies of Ireland never meet a friend!” said Jana, reciting an old Irish curse.
Before he could reply to Jana or Flynn, Maeve stood beside him and glared down the table at Flynn. “Peace with bloodshed is no peace at all.”
Kieran expected a retort from Flynn, at the very least about managing females. Instead, he looked…chagrined.
“Freedom cannot always be won without bloodshed, Maeve,” argued her brother.
“But it is, at least, best to try.”
With that thought, Maeve sat again.
To his pleasant surprise, Flynn said not another word throughout the rest of the meal. Aye, O’Shea continued to glare at him—as if he should like it if the English invader would be the next meal slow-roasted upon the spit for a freedom festival. But he kept his mouth closed.
All because of two sentences from Maeve.
Kieran knew he could not have accomplished such a feat. Of course he did not agree with her. Conducting the rebellion—and handling it—would require bloodshed, but to have said as much would only have incited Flynn to further mutiny.
With her quiet logic, Maeve could silence her rebellious brother. Indeed, she seemed to have some power over this unusual family, despite their differences in personality. Whether calming the nervous Fiona or quieting the defiant Flynn, she seemed to know exactly what to say.
Swinging his gaze left, he watched the second O’Shea sister as she now kept a watchful eye on Brighid and Colm, who stole clandestine touches of their hands beneath the table.
As if to remind him that their budding attraction was his doing, and therefore his fault, she turned her fiery gaze to him.
Somehow, despite all her learnedness, he found her intriguing. How would she look in laughter? Flushed with passion?
Kieran knew of one simple way to find out.
The kitchen maids came in and began clearing away the rest of the meal, carefully saving the trenches for the almoner to give to the poor. A troubadour emerged from the corner of the great hall, as he did most every night, to entertain the small crowd of seven. Kieran stayed the man and the lute player beside him with a hand.
Puzzled, Maeve stared at him.
Kieran merely stood and smiled. To his satisfaction, everyone in the room turned to watch him, even Colm and Brighid, who appeared until now to have eyes only for one another.
“Flynn, ladies,” he addressed, “I have chosen my bride and should like to inform you all.”
Fiona and Jana exchanged glances, then Brighid joined them. Maeve frowned. No doubt, she was aware he had not spent a whole day with any of her sisters, and no time devoted just to her.
“I won’t have you makin’ one of my sisters an Englishman’s whore,” warned Flynn.
“Wife,” Kieran growled. “We will be wed by the priest. ’Twill be nothing improper or unsanctioned about the union.”
“But you’ll be takin’ her to your bed, is that not so?
He smiled just thinking about it. “Definitely.”
“Nay!” Jana shrieked in horror. “I won’t have you touching me!”
“Nor will I, good lady, for I’ve no intent to wed you.” Kieran frowned.
At that, Brighid st
ood and scampered up the steps of the dais to his side. She motioned him down, and he bent so she could whisper in his ear.
“I know you are bound to consider me and that I asked you to teach me to kiss, but Colm has done that, you see. Though you are a handsome man, I—”
He patted her shoulder, holding in a laugh. “Go sit.”
With a tense sigh, the girl did as he bid, sliding closer to Colm. A shaking Fiona next caught his eye as he stood once more, but he refused to be distracted from his purpose again.
“We must plan a wedding and a feast.”
“Lent is upon us,” said Fiona. “We can have no such event until after Easter—”
“We can,” Kieran insisted. “Tomorrow is Shrove Tuesday.”
“You mean to wed tomorrow?” Fiona gasped, then clapped a hand over her mouth as if to keep further protests in. But her fearful eyes told him she had plenty of them.
“Aye, tomorrow. Then we will celebrate.” He turned to gaze at the redheaded vixen by his side, whose eyes began to widen beneath his attention.
“We will celebrate my marriage to you, Maeve.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Maeve stood beside Kildare on the chapel’s steps and glared at her groom. Why had he chosen her to wife? He’d not spent a day with her, as he had with her sisters. She’d had no opportunity to prove why she would make him an unacceptable wife, blast him.
And why would Kildare assume she would celebrate the event that would bind her to an Englishman against her Irish cause and spell the doom of her betrothal? The thick-headed dolt. ’Twas his arrogance and cocksure nature that allowed him to believe she would rejoice this day.
Soon, she would show Kildare how wrong he was.
Listening with half an ear to Father Sean intone the ceremony that bound her to Kildare, her mind wandered. How had this come to pass? She should be wedding Quaid. Had Flynn been able to free him, she might well have married her dear friend this day. Such would be as she had always planned, as her mother and Quaid’s had plotted for years.
Kieran Broderick had disrupted a lifetime of plans with a single sentence and a wicked smile.
Aye, she was unhappy with this turn of events! If he bedded a woman with the skill he used to kiss, he could well overwhelm her. With but a touch of his lips, she felt as if her senses were drowning. The thought of giving him more—nay, all—of herself… ’Twas frightening indeed.
Not that she had any interest in giving him any more than the sharp side of her tongue. She might have forgiven him for kissing her without her permission, someday mayhap. But then he announced his intent to rush her into marriage without asking her wishes, without even telling her he wanted her as a wife before making such a pronouncement. ’Twas unforgivable! Maeve had no doubt she had been the most shocked person at the table that night.
Tonight, he would expect her to yield, demand she be a willing bride in his bedchamber.
And she had a ewe that might sprout wings this very moment and fly away to London.
She risked a glance at her groom. Morning sun slanted behind them in a clear sky as they stood on the chapel’s steps, bathing Kildare’s sharp profile in golden light.
He looked to be in the height of health, drat him. Such meant she could not reasonably hope he would soon perish. So she must live with him, whilst finding a way to hide her role in the uprising, as well as forward the seedlings of rebellion with minimal bloodshed.
A difficult task, indeed, but the task before her.
Suddenly, silence filled the space around her. Maeve sensed all eyes upon her and her husband-to-be. Before she could grasp his intent, Kildare bent his head to her and brushed her lips with his own in a manner so gentle and brief she could scarce find fault with such—except that this wedding he forced made such a kiss necessary.
That…and even a touch so fleeting made her heart pick up its pace.
Kildare broke the contact a moment later. Maeve met his gaze. She tried her best not to appear affected or timid. But with her breathlessness and fluttering of her lashes, she feared she failed. By the saints, the man had kissed her in a manner appropriate for their setting. Why, then, was a foolish part of her remembering the time he had kissed her with passion?
As if he could read her mind, he raised a mischievous brow. The glint in his eyes promised a much more thorough kiss later.
But he smiled not. Such was very unlike Kildare.
Though it was not rational, Maeve found herself missing that irksome grin.
As she dismissed such a foolish notion, Kildare took her by the hand. She looked everywhere but at him. Still, she could not deny the solid warmth of his palm against hers. By Virgin Mary’s heart, could she not get this man from her mind?
Above them sunlight beamed. Green budded everywhere. Birds sang, as if celebrating their union with song. Even flowers looked a breath from blooming, and a slight breeze stirred the air with perfume.
Such a beautiful day—marred by the fact that she had just taken the enemy as her husband.
Flynn had made his displeasure much known. She hoped he would not make trouble, or worse, seek her new husband’s blood this night. ’Twas her dilemma—and one about which she was none too happy.
Tonight, she would make certain her groom knew as much.
Moments later, Kildare led her into the chapel.
Mass ensued, and Maeve found she could not concentrate on the priest’s words of faith. Kildare, standing warm and broad beside her, took up too many of her thoughts.
More than an hour later, he escorted her from the chapel, his hand holding hers atop his forearm. When he cast her a stare that bespoke sin, Maeve nearly lost her calm.
“You can cease with that rapacious grin,” she hissed.
Kieran sent her a teasing glance, making Maeve want to grit her teeth. “You think this rapacious? Wait until later.”
Then he winked.
Maeve felt her control on her temper slipping as Kildare took her to Langmore’s great hall. There, a feast awaited. A pig had been roasting for hours on a spit, along with a goose and three kinds of fish. The scents of rosemary and yeast also hung in the air, along with the ale and wine awaiting merriment of the guests.
Inside, one of the villagers toasted her new union. “May God be with you and bless you, may you see your children’s children, may you be poor in misfortune, rich in blessings. May you know naught but happiness from this day forward.”
A lovely toast indeed, but purely impossible!
Maeve sighed, refusing to take part in this farce. The castlefolk and her groom could make merry without her. She had done all the duty she had planned to do this day.
Behind her and Kildare, members of her family filed in, as they had traveled from a neighboring village to Langmore to witness the wedding. A look at their faces told her that no one appeared ready to make merry. She understood their sentiments. Even Kildare seemed oddly subdued.
So why had he ordered this feast?
Maeve made her way to the dais and motioned for a kitchen maid to bring her some mulled wine. She returned with the drink, along with a mighty mug of ale for her groom. Grabbing the cup from the maid, Maeve tossed the warm liquid down her throat and wished again for more.
She could not recall the last time she had been so nervous.
Then again, she had never thought to be wed to a man whose very mission was likely to see her betrothed and her brother dead, her home confiscated, and her sisters wed to his kind.
With that unsettling thought, she wound her way through the thin crowd as the serving maids began bringing forth all the food. She was aware of many gazes upon her, Kildare’s burning most.
Drawing in a breath of courage, she left the great hall and retreated to her chamber. People would be achatter with her actions, aye. But she desperately needed this moment alone.
Yesterday she had been too dazed by his announcement to do much more than gape. Last night had been a sleepless tangle of uncertainty and fearful anticipation.<
br />
Now her time to consider the situation and decide how best to handle Kildare had run out.
After throwing open her shutters, she leaned against the narrow window ledge and gazed at the setting sun. Clutching the last of her mulled wine, she focused on her dilemma.
Kildare liked a challenge. She knew thus from their first kiss. She must not, under any circumstances, present herself as a woman in need of conquering. He would take up the gauntlet and use every bit of his persuasive charm to win her over. And she wanted no part of him, only of peace. For no other reason except the hope of peace for a free Ireland did she wed him.
Draining the last of her wine, Maeve let the warm liquid slide down her throat and warm her stomach. How not to present herself as a challenge? Could she conceive of such a strategy? Short of greeting him this night wearing naught but the skin she had been born with and begging him to bed her—a truly ridiculous idea—she saw no such option.
Sighing in frustration, she looked over the land she had known all her life. Mayhap she could drive him away. Perhaps with ill-prepared food and quarters, clothing ripped in the wash, rodents finding their way into his bed… Such a plan was thin, she admitted, but mayhap over time, such discomforts would annoy him enough to leave Langmore.
Even if he decided to make Dublin his home with only occasional visits here, that might be enough to keep the rebellion alive, keep her role as scribe and messenger hidden—and keep him and Flynn from sparring until one died.
“Do not leap out the window,” demanded Kildare from the door. “As a husband, I promise I will not be that troubling.”
Maeve gasped and whirled about at his sudden presence, then realized he thought her willing to jump to the middle bailey below and end her life to avoid him.
“You think overmuch of yourself.” Maeve glared at him.
She wanted to rail at him further, tell him ’twas clear he always thought overmuch of himself, given that he had both kissed and wed her without her consent. But that would only goad him to vanquish her.
