His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3)

by Shayla Black

  Her husband’s face showed surprise. Then he stared at her for a long, silent moment. “I did naught but listen to your sister, then roughed up a pair of fools in sore need of such.”

  “You disparage your role, but you alone made Fiona believe she could tell the truth. And though I’m loath to see any manner of bloodshed, I could not have been more pleased of your treatment of Freddy and his despicable friend.”

  “Careful, I may make a savage of you yet, sweet Maeve.”

  Looking again at the warmth of his bare brown chest, honed with years of labor, she feared he might be right, though not necessarily savage for the sight of blood.

  “Truly, I thank you,” she said instead.

  His face fell to something more serious. “’Twas my duty and my honor. Your sister is now my sister. Such ill treatment will not be tolerated.”

  He turned away, and she watched as he splashed the rag into the water once more, then sponged his thick brown arms, his neck, his hard chest in long, sweeping strokes.

  Disturbed by the vision, she avoided looking at him. “Still, I appreciate your effort. I suppose most of the household duties have fallen on my shoulders in years past. Flynn has been far too busy with—” She broke off in horror, realizing what she’d nearly admitted.

  “The rebellion?” Kieran supplied, his gaze probing as he tossed on a tunic of black. “And where is your brother? I have not seen his mangy face all day.”

  “I know not,” she lied, before she rushed to continue her subject. “Jana was off and married, and with my parents gone, who else would see to Langmore, Fiona and Brighid?”

  “I observed such. ’Tis another reason I chose you.”

  Nodding, she conceded the point. “My family… Trust does not come easily for us. When Jana’s husband was executed by the last earl, mayhap you can imagine her feeling for all men English. Now we see Fiona has equal reason to dislike your kind.”

  “I lived here for eight years. I remember being Irish.”

  Something in his hard tone gave her pause. His face and form, usually given to energy and expression, looked closed, impassive. Were his remembrances of living here unhappy? Somehow she sensed they were, but felt certain he would tell her naught about the matter if she asked.

  “You do not speak thus and you do not rally to our cause,” she pointed out finally.

  “And what cause is that, beyond making mischief?”

  “We seek freedom, autonomy to run our lives as we have for centuries, without interference.”

  “I have no wish to debate England’s policies with you, good wife, for neither of us can change them.”

  “You have no influence?” she asked, confused.

  He barked a laugh. “None. If I did, I would be in Spain now, warring for a great deal of cash and enjoying the warmer weather.”

  “You were ordered here?”

  He nodded. “Against my every wish, I assure you.”

  “But King Henry made you an earl,” she pointed out.

  “I still would have said him nay had I been given that option.”

  Taken aback, Maeve stared at her husband. Just when she had decided she knew all she could about him—or would wish to—he surprised her. He would have turned his back on wealth and a title? For what, a little warmer weather in Spain? That seemed very unlike every Englishman she’d ever known.

  “You look surprised,” Kieran observed.

  “I-I confess I am.”

  He grinned. “I might provide you any number of surprises, sweet Maeve.”

  That provocative note had returned. Maeve felt alternately thrilled and annoyed by it.

  “Can you fix your mind at all on serious matters?”

  Kieran shrugged, wearing that lopsided grin she knew so well. “Only if avoiding it cannot be helped. And what of you? Can you focus your mind at all on matters not serious? I’ve seen no evidence you can.”

  Maeve frowned, taken aback. “Of course I can—at appropriate moments.”

  “Hmm. Mayhap all of thrice a year: Mayday, Midsummer’s Eve, and Christmastide? Have you not learned that life is too short to treat everything with such gravity?”

  She scowled. “Have you not learned that your future may not hold what you wish if you do not treat more matters with importance?”

  “You sound like Aric and Drake,” he grumbled.

  “Your friends?”

  Kieran nodded. “Aric is always responsible for everybody and everything. And Drake”—he shuddered—“the man’s mind is always working, ever the strategist.”

  This surprised Maeve. She would have thought Kieran would make friends with men prone to smiles, like himself. “And yet they are your friends?”

  He nodded. “The best. Aric is the most dependable, firm-minded man I know… Well, besides Guilford. The old earl has years of wisdom on him. Drake is loyal, a good man to have at one’s back. Fast and possessed of a quick temper, he’s not someone I would want for an enemy. And now they have both been well wed for some years, I can tease them mercilessly about being so foolishly in love with their wives.”

  Maeve quieted at his words, for she heard their unconscious message: he would never tie his heart to hers in the same manner. Why that troubled her, she could not say. Her heart should belong to Quaid. She had nearly wed the man.

  But somehow knowing Kildare thought himself immune to Cupid’s arrow disturbed her.

  “So they are well settled?” she asked, knowing the answer.

  “Aye, Gwenyth and Averyl both should birth babes soon. ’Twill be Drake’s third.” He smiled. “I recall sitting beside Drake just the day after he and Averyl had wed and hearing him insist he did not love her. I knew then that he did.”

  Nodding in response, Maeve tried to ignore a sting of jealousy. She wanted love in her marriage. But did she want that with Kildare?

  Nay. Such would be like asking for sunshine at midnight. Impossible and foolish both.

  Before she could reply, Brighid burst through the door. “Come quickly, Maeve. Jana says she is contracting again.”

  “This is beginning to be a nightly ritual,” Kieran quipped.

  Maeve nodded wryly, smiling. “You are right.” She nodded at Brighid. “Tell her I will be down in a few moments.”

  “I shall. And when I take to bed with a man, I won’t let him plant a seed into me until my stomach swells and contracts like Jana’s!”

  Then, with a shake of her blond head, Brighid went out.

  Maeve turned to see Kildare smiling with amusement, and she found herself laughing.

  “You will have to explain the truth to her someday,” he said, grin wide.

  “Aye, and how I dread it. She is filled with questions.”

  “True.”

  Silence prevailed a moment later. Maeve knew not what to say, only that she felt an odd connection to Kildare and was surprisingly reluctant to see it end.

  “I suppose you should see to Jana,” he said.

  Maeve nodded. “Aye, but I want to thank you again.”

  She touched his arm in a soft gesture, only to have her husband clasp a hand about her arm and pull her to him, until their faces lay a breath apart.

  “Then I would ask you to thank me properly, sweet Maeve.”

  His allusive tone made her belly dance and her toes curl. Certainly he did not mean what she thought… “Properly?”

  Rather than reply, Kildare swept his mouth over hers. Instead of a lusty kiss of hunger and demand, the kind he had thrice given her, his lips were gentle, probing, hungry without force.

  The flavor of his soft kiss was so unexpected, so welcome, Maeve melted into him.

  He brushed his mouth over hers once, again…then away, still holding her arms. Her flesh tingled where he touched. She leaned into him, seeking more, though some part of her mind knew she should not.

  Kildare lifted his mouth from hers. Before she could stop herself, she made a mewling protest at the back of her throat, then hooked her hand about his neck an
d brought his mouth to hers for another kiss.

  With a possessive growl, he obliged her, melting her will, her thought, her very skin. Maeve drowned in sensation, in wonder as he nibbled on her lower lip before sweeping his tongue through her mouth and tasting her as if she were made of honey. Feeling unsteady, she returned his kiss in kind, tasting a hint of ale and something spicy on his tongue, and sidled closer, reveling in the feel of his solid warmth.

  “Maeve!” Brighid called from the bottom of the stairs. “Where are you?”

  With that intrusion, Kildare ended the kiss. And though Maeve had been loath to let him, she knew that, for many reasons, doing so was best.

  “Good night, sweet Maeve.”

  Biting her lip, she willed the pleasure to recede, her heartbeat to calm. She realized she still grasped his hard shoulder in one hand and released him.

  “Good night,” she said quickly, then hurried out the door.

  * * * *

  ’Twas shortly after the next dawn that an English soldier arrived from Dublin bearing bad news.

  “You’re certain?” Kieran asked the man.

  “Aye, my lord. Last night, they attacked Malahide Castle again, trying to free the jailed rebels.”

  Including Quaid O’Toole, he’d bet. Damnation, why did the rebels want the man released so badly? Or was that simply Maeve’s wish?

  “Did they succeed?” Kieran asked.

  “Nay. The keep is still secure, but the attacking rebels escaped, my lord.”

  Gritting his teeth, he dismissed the soldier and went in search of Flynn. His small chamber was empty. Kieran touched the sheets. Cold, not a hint of warmth to suggest he’d passed the night here. Kieran cursed. He’d been so involved with the army and Maeve, he’d not noted Flynn’s departure. In fact, after their agreeable conversation and her kiss last night, he’d been able to think of naught else.

  Taking the narrow hall in a few long strides, his boots echoing off the corridor’s walls, Kieran flung open the door to Maeve and Fiona’s chamber.

  Fiona lay sleeping in a quiet ball upon the bed. Maeve sat on the edge, dressed in naught but her shift.

  Despite the urgency of the situation, he could scarce overlook Maeve’s creamy skin visible at the garment’s low neckline and the thick red braid teasing the top of her buttocks.

  His wife’s gaze whipped around at his entrance.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. “Fiona sleeps finally.”

  He glanced at the younger girl. Her tortured soul had not allowed for safe sleep recently, according to Maeve. He did not wish to disturb her now.

  “Come to my chamber.”

  Maeve frowned, then sighed. “As you wish. Let me dress—”

  “Now,” he insisted, striding across the small room to take her by the hand.

  The look on her face screamed protest, but Kieran knew that Maeve would try not to wake Fiona. He also knew she would not linger in the hall in her undergarments where anyone might see her.

  And so his wife came to his chamber, more undressed than dressed, while he had to question, rather than seduce her.

  He frowned and frustration lent an edge to his voice. “Where is your brother?”

  Maeve looked at him as though he had sprouted a second head. “You dragged me from my bed without proper clothing to ask me that? I really could not say.”

  With that, she turned and made for the door.

  Damn the woman’s hide. Could she not be more compliant or docile?

  He grabbed her by the arm once more and spun her to face him. They stood so close Kieran could smell her light blossom scent, could see the rise and crest of her rounded breasts beneath her thin smock. Memories of last night coursed through his mind. She had spoken of her family, asked him of his life, his friends, seemed so…open to being with him. Then, during their blistering kiss, she had thrown her arms about his neck and demanded another kiss.

  Cursing, Kieran grabbed her chin and thrust his gaze to her face once more. “Look at me when I speak to you.”

  Anger flashed in her golden eyes, tightened her mouth.

  Kieran felt himself flush. Usually, he could play games of seduction like a master, letting a woman know he wanted her while remaining in control of his desire. With Maeve, he could not hide his eagerness; he felt his control slipping, to be replaced by a madness he feared only she could cure. Was it lack of sex? Of sleep? Was it Ireland? He frowned, knowing he must leash his urges or risk delaying his wife’s surrender further.

  He looked directly at Maeve, his gaze delving so deeply into her snapping eyes she tensed.

  “I will ask again, where is your brother?”

  She raised her chin. “I know not.”

  “Did he go to Dublin?”

  “I know not.”

  “Is he with the rebels?” Kieran asked.

  She hesitated. “I know not. I know nothing!”

  “Why would your brother not tell you of a plan to free your former betrothed from imprisonment?”

  “Because he does not tell me his plans.”

  Kieran felt sure she lied. Even if Maeve knew not exactly where her brother was, she knew his intent. Still, she had said naught to him. She had said even less of the matter last night.

  Hell, Maeve had even sought him out without a word of the truth. Aye, she had come to his chamber, thanked him for his help, and passed some quiet moments. She had lingered in his kiss when she could have left to see to Jana’s labor, which had again produced no babe. Indeed, Maeve dragged his mouth back to hers, distracting him from all else but her.

  Perhaps, that had been the point.

  Kieran’s mind exploded with possibilities. Aye, Maeve had come to his room last night, keeping him occupied while turning the conversation away from her brother and his absence. Had that been her goal—even melting into his kiss, taking more—to divert him whilst the rebels did their work?

  Why else would she seek him out with such amiable intent?

  Such made sense. Maeve had resented his presence even before his arrival at Langmore. Only a fool would believe she had suddenly sought his company, unless for a device of her own—or the rebellion’s.

  Kieran regarded her through narrowed eyes. Why should he feel betrayed by the bride he’d never wanted?

  That he could not answer now. He was too damned mad.

  “I imagine you want to know what has become of your lover?”

  Maeve cast her eyes downward. Perhaps she could sense his anger. Part of him wanted to believe she regretted sharing herself with another man, but he knew better.

  That only added to his growing fury.

  “He is my friend as well,” Maeve murmured. “I have known Quaid all my life, my lord.”

  “Kieran! How many times must I tell you my name before you use it, woman?”

  “That has no bearing now.”

  “Aye,” he barked. “Now we must discuss the fact you came to me last night and accepted, even seemed to enjoy, my kiss. And why? I thought it because you might come to accept me, even want me. But nay, you did it to deceive me. Sharing your sweet mouth and distracting me from the matter of Flynn’s whereabouts. ’Twas all a ruse, was it not?”

  Maeve gasped. “Think you I-I let you kiss me to distract you?”

  “By damnation, I do. I think the rebellion sent you to keep me occupied so I would not ask after your brother. And you did it admirably. But know this, sweet Maeve,” he ground out, finger pointed at her shoulder, “it will not work again. I understand you now—”

  “You understand a pig’s hindquarters, perhaps, but you know naught of me.”

  Kieran grabbed her arm and held tight. “Lie all you wish, but I see the depths you will sink to in order to help the rebellion. I stood and watched you ply me with kind words, then tempt me with your mouth. What else might you have done had I not been satisfied with kisses?”

  “You truly are a swine! Yestereve, I wondered what manner of man you were: the bully who beat on my brother’s face
for pleasure or the gallant who helped my sisters. But I see you are much more one than the other! And if I were of a mind to lend my actions to the rebellion and remove you from their path, ’tis more likely I would poison you than kiss you, you horse’s ass!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Two rainy afternoons later, the sun finally appeared in a still gray sky. Kildare took the last earl’s soldiers and those newly arrived from Dublin out for a long session in the bailey. Freddy and his friend were conspicuously absent.

  Maeve tried not to watch the men as she stared out from the battlements, waiting for Flynn’s return and praying it was a safe one. ’Twas difficult to pull her gaze away, for none wore a tunic.

  And none looked more virile than Kildare.

  “Watch your shoulder, man!” her husband shouted to another of the men. “Be at the ready, lest an opponent beats you.”

  “’Tis a heavy beast,” complained the young soldier.

  “It is, and for a reason. Your weapon must be strong enough to kill, not merely wound, if need be. It must be heavy enough to endure the pounding of your enemy’s blade. So you must be strong, as well. To be the best, you must control the sword always and at will.”

  Her gaze roved over Kildare’s bare chest. Even from a distance, she could not miss the hardened, ridged muscles from neck to hips. Most of the other men lacked such strength. Even her own brother was not so well-honed from his fighting. Nor was Quaid. Both had rather talk of rebellion than train for it.

  At the thought of the rebellion, Maeve began pacing again. Where was Flynn? Had he freed Quaid or been caught?

  Sighing, Maeve stepped away from the battlements.

  She bumped into Brighid.

  “Lord and mighty, is he not full of power and perfection?” The girl spoke in awed tones, glancing down into the bailey.

  Maeve knew not if her sister spoke of Kildare or Colm, but another glance at the field below confirmed that only her husband could be termed perfection. His squire… He was but a boy.

  Either way, ’twas up to her to turn her sister’s thoughts in a more pious direction. After all, Lent had begun.