His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3)

by Shayla Black

“They are all men, made by God in exactly the same fashion, Brighid.”

  “It doesn’t appear so.” She giggled.

  Maeve took Brighid’s arm and spun her away from the scene. “Their differences mean little. They are all men, all driven to make war. Those men down there would see Ireland’s hopes for freedom dashed and your brother imprisoned.”

  Brighid frowned. “But Kieran is your husband.”

  Holding in a curse, Maeve released her sister’s arm. ’Twas clear the girl did not understand her husband was her enemy. In truth, Maeve wasn’t sure she really understood herself.

  Last night he had all but accused her of whoring for the cause, and it nettled her. Aye, his opinion of her should not matter in the least, so why did it?

  Letting loose a frustrated sigh, she refused to linger on the distracting sight of him. Brighid continued to gape.

  What else might you have done had I not been satisfied with kisses? His accusation rang again in her head. Though he might never believe she would not have shared his bed simply to further the rebellion’s cause, Maeve knew the truth. He insulted her in saying such!

  But what if Flynn had told her of the plan and had asked her to distract Kildare from his absence? Maeve paused. There was little she would not have done to help Quaid and her beloved Ireland. Oh, she could have distracted Kildare without using her body as bait. She was clever enough to think of another ruse. But would she have spoken with Kildare at length if asked? Lied to him? Invented a crisis to distract him?

  Aye. She would have done all that and more to bring her betrothed and her brother home safely and move Ireland one step closer to freedom without loss of blood.

  Maeve’s anger deflated. Biting her lip, she tried to sort the matter through. What she might have done mattered little. Kildare was still an Englishman who had turned his back on his Irish blood. He was the enemy who would likely cheer at Quaid’s execution, if such came to pass.

  But he was also the same man who had finished Jana’s cradle and aided Fiona in dealing with her tragedy. He’d had no need to do either, and Maeve wondered why he had.

  Around and around, these thoughts spun in her head. Just who was Kildare? And what was she to do about him?

  Lightning crackled across the sky, followed by the ominous peal of thunder. A glance upward confirmed rain would soon fall—again.

  “Maeve, are you well?” asked Brighid suddenly.

  Erasing the frown she felt upon her face, she sent her young sister a reassuring smile. “A trifle tired, sweetkins. Naught more.”

  A curse below lit the air, one so foul it could only belong to Kildare. Raindrops fell slowly, one on her cheek, another on the back of her hand. Maeve began to lead her sister inside the castle.

  “I think Jana is tired, too,” the girl said suddenly. “She says she has been laboring some hours.”

  “What?” Maeve gaped at her sister, openmouthed.

  The girl backed away. “Did she not tell you this morn?”

  This morn? Nay. Maeve had gone to the chapel and sought a moment alone to sort out her tangled mess of a marriage. All she could remember was that a wife’s duty was to submit to the will, wishes, and whims of her husband.

  She had never been good at submitting.

  “How does she fare?” Maeve asked, focusing once more on Jana and her coming babe.

  Brighid shrugged. “She says her labor began last night and has lasted into the morn. She asked me to find you.”

  “And you spent time staring at the soldiers instead?” Maeve chastised.

  The girl’s shoulders slumped and she cast her gaze downward. “’Tis sorry I am. I became…distracted.”

  As much as she wanted to lecture the girl on responsibility, Maeve delayed the topic until later. Not only did she understand the girl’s dilemma, having stared at Kildare more than once herself, she also remembered Brighid was not yet a woman grown. For now, she must think of Jana.

  Racing to her elder sister’s chamber, Maeve thrust open the door and rushed inside.

  There she found Jana lying upon her bed, hands clasping her distended belly, panting wildly. Dear Lord, would she have this babe within the hour? Maeve felt a wave of dizzy fear assail her.

  Drawing in a calming breath, she looked at her elder sister again. “Ready to have your babe, are you?” She tried to smile.

  Jana nodded, weakly. Maeve’s rising panic returned.

  Nay, no panic. She had been present for a few births at the castle. She could do this. Nature told a laboring mother when to push. She had but to make sure she received the babe and that he breathed, right?

  Maeve hoped that was so but had no real notion. Her mother had always seen to the births in the castle, along with the help of one of the maids, Ismenia.

  With nary hesitation, Maeve turned to Brighid and whispered, “Find Ismenia—swiftly, if you please. Send her here.”

  Brighid nodded, then ran back down the hall and down the steps. Satisfied with the girl’s effort, Maeve turned back to Jana, who clenched her fists so hard her knuckles nearly turned white.

  Rushing to her sister’s side, Maeve knelt. “How long have you been thus?”

  Jana did not speak at first but scrunched her face against the pain and groaned. More panting followed. From her vague recollection, Jana’s time must be very near.

  Suddenly, the pain seemed to leave Jana. “I cannot say.” She looked out the narrow window, her limp, dark hair pasted to her temples with sweat. “Since midday, perhaps.”

  Alarm beat inside Maeve again, stronger now. Midday had been nearly four hours ago. She had labored this hard for so long? By herself?

  Taking Jana’s hand in her own, Maeve squeezed. “I am here. All will be well. How can I make you comfortable?”

  Jana sent a weak smile. “Get this babe out of me.”

  Maeve smiled in return. “I will do my best. I’ve sent Brighid for Ismenia. She will know what to do.”

  Before Jana could reply, a wave of pain seized her again. She clutched Maeve’s hand until it seemed near breaking. Biting her lip against discomfort, Maeve was not prepared when Jana issued an ear-splitting scream.

  Sweat poured off her sister’s face now. Her cheeks looked to be losing color. Maeve did not remember this much struggle as normal before the baby’s appearance.

  Dear God, that must be it! The babe must be coming now!

  “What in the hell was that scream?” barked Kildare from the door.

  Maeve glanced at her sister and felt another wave of concern when Jana did not even lift her head.

  “Get out! Jana’s babe comes.”

  Kildare glanced at Jana, frowned and hesitated, then left.

  Sighing, Maeve turned her attention to her sister again. “Jana, I must see if the babe’s head is visible. If so, you need to be concentrating on birthing him now.”

  With a weak nod, Jana agreed.

  Maeve took Jana’s overskirt and shift in hand and lifted them to her waist. Instantly, she saw the baby emerging from Jana’s red, swollen body.

  Instead of a tiny head, she saw buttocks.

  Eyes widening, she clapped a hand over her mouth to hold in a squeal of panic.

  Women died in breech births. Frequently. She had not had much practice in assisting births. Would she know what to do? Pray God would tell her, help her see Jana’s babe into the world with a living mother to feed him.

  “What is it? You see him?” her sister asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Aye.” Maeve hoped her voice did not shake as her hands did. “He comes.”

  “Her time comes?” asked Ismenia, who bustled into the room in a manner that belied her aging years.

  Maeve nodded, then whispered, “He is breech.”

  Ismenia’s lined face became grave. “We can do naught but pray.”

  The woman crossed herself, and Maeve fought off anger. “We must help her.”

  Maeve wanted to tell the crone she would not leave her sister to die, but knew she
could not say thus where Jana might hear. No one here could afford panic flung wide.

  The old maid shrugged. “’Tis all I can promise to fetch water and a few herbs. The rest will be God’s will.”

  With that, Ismenia departed the room. Maeve stared after the empty portal, bereft and panicked at once. Would no one help her? Would no one lend assistance to keep Jana alive?

  Maeve turned to call for Brighid again. She found the girl crumpled at the door in a dead faint.

  Another wail, sharp and wounded, sounded from the bed. Maeve turned to see the baby’s buttocks pressed against Jana, who made little effort to push her babe into the world. Blood began to seep out, staining Jana’s dress and sheets.

  Trembling, Maeve knelt to her sister again. “Push. He wants to come.”

  “No more,” Jana whispered weakly with a shake of her head. “Let me sleep.”

  “Nay. You will birth this child first!”

  Jana began to cry, silent tears squeezing from her tired eyes. Maeve mentally flogged herself.

  “Please, Jana. Do not give up,” she cajoled.

  Squeezing her sister’s hand one last time, Maeve left Jana to rush to the portal.

  “Ismenia?” she yelled. “Come quickly!”

  Kildare appeared in his chamber door moments later instead. “She’s gone to fetch herbs from her cottage.”

  “Her cottage? Nay! There is not time.”

  Panic gripped her now fiercely. Jana began panting and groaning behind her; the sounds were growing faint.

  “I need Ismenia now! Jana’s babe is breech.”

  Kildare came closer, a concerned frown furrowing his wide brow as he stared at Jana. “Can you turn it?”

  “My sister is not a horse, you ass!”

  He grabbed her hands. “Aye. Stay calm, Maeve.”

  Jana groaned again, then whimpered. Maeve broke away from her husband and rushed to her sister’s side.

  Her eyes were closed. Her blue-veined lids provided the only color against her pasty skin. Even her lips looked white in a face paler than death. Maeve felt fear eating at her.

  “She’s going to die,” Maeve whispered, voice shaking. “Dear God…”

  Kildare grabbed her shoulders. “She will not die. Let us try once more.”

  “What do you know of birthing babes?” she snapped.

  “Only slightly less than you, apparently. Get in position to catch the babe. He will come out.”

  With that directive, Kildare made his way to Jana’s side and gripped her limp hand in a firm fist. “Listen to me,” he ordered, voice stern. “You must not give up. This babe needs you.”

  “Nay,” Jana whimpered.

  “Aye. Fight! Would Geralt have wanted his child to die before knowing life?”

  Maeve hoped Kildare’s blustering gained Jana’s resolve. She prayed anything would, for it won naught but her ire. Did he not think Jana realized Geralt’s last wish for his babe was life?

  Jana opened her eyes to slits. “Nay,” she admitted, then groaned. “Nay,” as another contraction seized her.

  “Push, dear heart,” Maeve coaxed.

  “Push, damn you!” Kildare shouted.

  “I cannot,” Jana cried.

  “By hell’s fire, you can. Now!” he insisted.

  Jana cried out, her shoulders jerking off the bed. And she pushed.

  “She is falling. Get behind her!” Maeve shouted.

  Without hesitation, her husband did, sweat dotting his brow with the effort to keep Jana upright for the long minute. Though he wore a bemused expression, Kildare did not move, even when Jana screamed, the sound so shrill it bounced off the chamber’s walls and vibrated the very air.

  Maeve glanced down and saw the baby’s buttocks had emerged, as had his hips and lower back.

  “He’s coming!” she cried, hope and joy mingling in her heart.

  Kildare laid Jana back on the bed as the contraction subsided. Maeve was shocked when he grabbed her sister’s hand and crooned, “I knew you had fight in you. You’re a brave woman. Geralt would be proud.”

  “Is he born?” Jana asked weakly.

  “Almost,” Maeve assured. “One more push, mayhap two.”

  To her relief, Jana slowly nodded.

  Time stood suspended for long moments until the next wave hit her. She gripped Kildare’s hand. He grimaced against Jana’s hold and nodded to Maeve, who grabbed hold of the infant’s protruding behind and tugged gently.

  Jana reared off the bed once more. Instantly, Kildare got behind her, holding her frail shoulders in his massive hands. Maeve tensed. Her sister let loose a cry that curdled her blood. Long and pain-filled, the scream tore at Maeve’s composure. Blood oozed everywhere, and Maeve again feared ’twas too much for Jana to overcome.

  “Push!” Kildare shouted. “Push!”

  Teeth grinding, Jana made another attempt. Another long cry filled the air.

  Suddenly, a slippery bundle of flesh dropped into Maeve’s waiting hands with a wail.

  Maeve looked down at the babe she held, caked with blood and full of displeasure.

  “’Tis a boy!” she shouted. “A boy!”

  Jana nodded and gave a tired smile.

  A moment later, Ismenia, having returned, stepped forward, cleaned out the babe’s mouth with her finger, cut the cord, then swaddled him in a cloth she’d brought with the water.

  “Congratulations, good lady,” the old woman offered, handing the babe to his exhausted mother.

  Jana took him and smiled at his red, blood-smeared face. He loosed another hearty wail. Kildare laughed.

  By the door, Brighid roused and rose, mouth agape and eyes joyous, to meet her nephew.

  Maeve looked at her husband, his face full of awe, his eyes sparkling. For some unknown reason, she felt tears prickle her eyes.

  “We did it,” she gasped. “I can scarce believe it.”

  He came to her side, his eyes warm and full of life. “You did it. I but yelled at her.”

  Ismenia appeared at her side with a fresh bowl of water. “’Tis a miracle, I think.”

  Maeve washed her hands and looked down to find the new babe suckling noisily at Jana’s breast. It seemed a miracle indeed.

  They were alive, thanks in part to Kieran’s help. All would be well now with Jana.

  “You did more than yell,” she assured Kildare. “You helped.” At his dubious expression, she rushed on. “Truly. I was most fearful until you came.”

  Kieran shrugged, as if he could not conceive how she believed such but would not argue again.

  The babe soon tired, as did Jana. Ismenia took him from his mother’s arms, then washed the infant.

  Kieran curled his arm around Maeve’s waist and led her away. “Come. They need us no more.”

  Without a word, Maeve followed Kieran to his chamber.

  Once there, quiet fell between them, but she sensed no tension, only…gladness.

  As he poured wine, she ambled to the window and looked out. In the hours during the babe’s birth, night had fallen completely over the land, tossing milky stars into a blue-black sky. The moon hung high, casting a silvery glow over the hill-dotted landscape she knew so well. ’Twas so quiet she heard frogs croak. In the distance, she heard the River Barrow trickle. Not even a breeze disturbed the cool air. She sighed with the peace of it.

  Tonight seemed as if God had declared a holiday from strife. He had brought forth a new child into the O’Shea fold upon an eve so blessed, harmony sang in her veins. ’Twas as if calm enveloped Ireland and the walls of Langmore. Though she knew it was all temporary, a fleeting illusion, it still made her smile.

  Kieran put a cup into her hand, and she sent him a tired smile. “You did very well by your sister.”

  She shrugged. “I am glad they are alive and the boy looks healthy.”

  “He does. He looks like a boy she can be proud of.”

  Maeve nodded, and Kieran’s hand came up to soothe her back, first in a gentle caress, then a firm
stroke, easing tension from her tired muscles. He sent his fingers over her shoulders, about her tight neck, as he sipped wine.

  A lazy contentment stole through her, a combination of the day’s life-changing events and Kieran’s easing caress.

  Had she ever imagined his touch would rouse aught but apprehension or passion? Nay, but now that she had felt his comfort, she was loath to let it go. She should—she knew that. But right now, she could not deny herself such small solace.

  She closed her eyes, feeling his hands upon her and languor wash through her.

  “You amaze me,” he said softly.

  “Me?” she queried, opening her eyes a fraction.

  Then she saw his gaze focused on her face, her mouth. Her lips tingled in anticipation of his kiss.

  Instead, he spoke. “You are brave and smart and kind. You care for your family.”

  Against her will, she flushed upon hearing his praise. “I do only what I believe to be right.”

  “You keep Langmore and your family together.”

  She frowned. “You would do no less.”

  Disagreement flickered across his face, but he said naught, simply continued his questing fingers over her back, fluid now where stiffness had so recently reigned.

  As he gazed upon her, a new tension slid through her, one she welcomed in a way she did not understand. She opened her eyes to regard him with honesty and all the uncertainty and need within her.

  As if he read the emotions in her eyes, he swallowed. He wore no teasing grin tonight as he eased his thumb along her nape. The pleasure of it seemed to steal straight to her heart, and she melted closer to him.

  “Sweet Maeve,” he breathed, brushing the hair away from her face as he leaned closer, closer.

  He pressed his mouth to hers. Tonight, there was no hurry in his kiss, only a soft hunger, a joy for life she, too, felt. ’Twas a yearning she could not resist answering.

  With a brush of his lips, he claimed her mouth again, his tongue dusting her lower lip with a light stroke.

  Maeve felt it all the way to her belly—and lower. She opened her lips to meet him, needing to taste him. Tonight she would think about naught, tomorrow and yesterday be damned.

  Thought disappeared as he accepted her invitation with a groan. His tongue made a sweep through her mouth that was somehow lazy and thorough at once. Turning to him fully, she clung to him, drawing him in. She pressed closer, her breasts against his wide chest, as they shared each breath. He touched her cheek with gentle fingers.