by Shayla Black
Quivering beneath his soft touch, his attention, she wondered briefly how such a warrior could treat her with such tenderness.
Then he claimed her mouth again, hunger mounting.
Her own rose a notch as she felt his hard shoulders tense beneath her hands, began to hear her heartbeat in her ears, urging her to dive into the deep, endless kiss.
He angled his head over hers more, now seizing what she offered. Again, she swayed against him restlessly, seeking the ease of the ache he was building, building.
Heat curled in her limbs, swirled in her blood, set her adrift in a hazy sea of sensation where only his mouth and her ache for him existed.
The hunger seemed to seize him, too, as he wound his hand behind her neck and made her mouth his captive.
Then he truly kissed her, insistently, hungrily, rapaciously.
Maeve had never imagined a mating of the mouths so deep she drowned in its hot urgings. His scent slid across her senses, heightened to his every breath, his every groan. His lips played with her need, surging it skyward until she boiled.
Maeve scrambled to thrust her fingers under his tunic. Kieran sighed his approval as one of his hands made its way from the small of her back to the underside of her breast.
Tensing, Maeve felt his thumb playing just beneath her nipple. His mouth continued to plunder and give, always demanding and bestowing complete assurance.
Her nipple tingled, tightened under his ministrations. She felt herself moisten and swell, hunger howling like a fierce wind, drugging her veins like the heaviest wine.
This need consumed her, stirred her. Surely such desire for her enemy was a sin.
The thought chilled Maeve. What of Quaid? What of Ireland?
Horror, then guilt, crushed her ardor, and she jerked from his embrace. She hated that she panted and ached, that her mind felt somewhat sluggish and uncertain.
Pressing her temples, Maeve closed her eyes and willed rational thought to return, but she could still scent Kildare in the thick air between them, still feel the throb of her need pulsing with every heartbeat.
“Maeve?”
She opened her eyes to regard him. His tunic sat askew on his shoulders. His hair lay rumpled from her fingers. Those unusual blue-green eyes looked dilated and heavy-lidded. From pressing against him, she knew the state of his arousal. And she wanted him.
Biting her lip to keep in her cry, she shook her head. ’Twas unfair she should be married to the one man who challenged her, who could make her blood dance to his rhythm—and that Fate had chosen him as her enemy.
“You promised me a fortnight’s wait, my lord.”
Disappointment hardened his features. “To adjust you to the idea of our marriage, my lady. A few moments ago, you seemed quite reconciled to our…union.”
Maeve looked away and tried to muster up some anger for him for such a sneer. But he only spoke the truth.
“It is Lent, the time for sacrifice.”
He regarded her with a cynical stare. “And you decided to give up sex until Easter?”
“Nay, I-I merely feel uncertain.”
“Your thoughts are uncertain,” he corrected. “You felt more than fine.”
’Twas no use trying to argue with him in this mood. She had broken their unspoken truce. Part of her mourned that, for she hated the anger between them. Part of her knew there was no other way. She was not ready to give herself over to him, to be intimate with him in every way he desired. He wanted more than a husband sought from a wife. With him, there would be no fleeting kisses, no quick entry, no short possession.
Nay, he wanted a lover to envelop, to overwhelm.
The realization frightened her.
“I’ve asked you to wait another eight days. I shall hold you to each one.”
So I might hold my sanity a little longer, she thought, fleeing his room for the sanctuary of her own.
But she knew ’twas temporary. He was a warrior, a predator. He would hunt her down, stalk her senses, and capture her eventually.
’Twas simply a matter of when.
* * * *
Flynn finally returned on that blustery Tuesday morn. Deeply relieved at his homecoming, Maeve laid aside her book and her spectacles and greeted him in the great hall with a hug.
Her brother was in little mood for family affection, and he cursed and stepped around her, seeking a mug of ale.
“What happened?” she queried, frowning in concern.
He downed the mug’s contents in a few swallows. “Quaid is still in prison, if that is what you ask.”
She flinched at his anger. “I have heard thus. Did you see him?”
“Nay, but his father did. We were close, I tell you, to besting those English devils. The guards were deep in their cups. We managed to get a blade to Quaid. But by Saint Christopher, the man used it but once before it was taken from him and he was captured again. Wish that he had killed a whole lot of those English dogs.”
Flynn’s voice rang with contempt and bitterness. Maeve scowled. When had she last seen him smile? She could hardly recall. Now he talked mostly of war and killing the English.
Flynn also had yet to inquire about Jana or any of the others. ’Twas unlike him. Was he so involved with the rebellion that he cared for little else?
“Jana birthed a boy whilst you were away,” she said, offering a smile and a refill of his ale.
“Both are well?” he asked, raking a hand through his long, dark hair. He looked as if he wanted to pace.
She nodded. “’Twas a difficult birth. Jana bled much and we worried she might die.”
“Aye, well…she lives now,” he said as if distracted. “There should not be a reason, I tell you, that we cannot free Quaid and the others.”
Maeve scowled at her brother. Rebellion obsessed him. And it worried her.
“I will keep trying, Maeve. If it takes my last breath, I’ll see you wed to him and freed from that swaggering cock, Kieran.”
Fixing him with a frown, Maeve began, “You—”
“You cannot free your sister from me. She is my wife.”
Maeve and Flynn both whirled to the sound of Kieran’s voice. He looked imposing and large, and none too pleased. He gazed at Flynn with contempt and ire, then shifted his attention to her. To her shock, his gaze upon her seemed much angrier.
Maeve glared back. If he thought to be angry with her for refusing to share his bed, then he could stew and fume into next week, for all she cared.
“You will never wed Quaid.”
Kildare’s anger hardened as he spoke those words, and she saw then he smoldered over her wish to escape their union. He viewed it as a duplicity, she felt certain. Maeve swallowed against a sense of guilt and apprehension she scarce understood.
“My lord—”
“Not now,” he barked, then turned his attention back to Flynn. “’Tis time for you and I to talk.”
“I have naught to say to you, you English prick.”
Kieran grabbed her brother by the arm in a harsh grip. His wicked grin showed traces of unyielding steel. “I have plenty to say to you, swine-sucker. And you will listen now.”
Her husband began leading her brother away. Maeve ran after them, panic rising. Flynn’s pride would not withstand another beating like Kildare had given him that first day, not to mention what such would do to his face. And what if Kildare should see her brother imprisoned for his suspected part in the rebellion?
“My lord—”
“Stay out of this, Maeve. I simply wish to question him.”
“Do not hurt him,” she implored.
“I can see after myself,” Flynn insisted as if insulted that a mere woman thought to protect him.
Knowing she could do naught, Maeve watched them go, heart sinking.
CHAPTER NINE
Kieran returned to his chamber later that night, frustrated. He’d gotten precious little information from the foolish Flynn earlier. And blast Maeve, but he had been unable to punish Flynn f
or his rebellion with fists, as her protests had rung in his head.
And then there was the woman herself. By Saint Peter’s toes, he could not recall the last time he’d had this much difficulty in seducing a woman. He frowned. In fact, he had never had this much difficulty. That Maeve should lead him on such a chase did not surprise him; a more stubborn creature he had never encountered. Still, why did all his charm fail him now, with his own wife?
The object of his own thoughts knocked upon the door to his chamber and hovered just inside, looking very well in a dress of shimmering gold. ’Twas no surprise he could think of little else but her lips beneath his. The blasted woman had that effect on him.
“My lord?” she called.
He sighed. Would she ever call him by his own name? He knew her refusal to say it was another form of defiance. But damnation, he could scarce handle more resistance this night.
“Aye, my wife. You have come for our hour together?” he asked, noting the book tucked beneath her arm and her spectacles in her hand.
“Nay, I came to speak to you of my brother.”
“I sent him to his rooms. And you may rest easy, for I did not hit him, though he sorely tempted me.”
The relief on her delicate face only irritated him more. He watched with fascination as she flung a stray lock of fire-hued hair behind her shoulder. Hellfire, how he wanted her.
She, on the other hand, hated nearly everything about him.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Kieran,” he corrected futilely.
As he expected, she behaved as if he had not spoken.
“Flynn is not himself of late, and I would caution you to know that, while he can be rash, his intent is pure.”
“Pure rubbish for the English position, Maeve.” Kieran shook his head, weary. “I do not wish to discuss your brother. We are to spend an hour together—”
“But—”
“We will spend this hour together, Maeve. We have been waylaid by birth and rebellion, but no more. I’ll not have you stiff and unyielding in my bed seven days hence.”
A flush colored her features, and Kieran felt his energy rise again, as did his interest. Maeve was a lovely creature, full of intelligence and quiet spirit. Last night, when he told her she amazed him, he’d meant those words. Her deeds somehow only made him want to possess her more. Why, though, he could not say. Usually he cared more for a woman’s pretty white bosom than her mind.
Yet as with everything else, Maeve was different.
“But—”
“I do this to ease your path between us. Accept that and read yon book to me,” he said, settling into a nearby chair.
Maeve took the small book from beneath her arm and gripped it. “Th-this one? I-I do not think you would like it.”
Her reticence intrigued him, and he pressed on. “Why? I enjoy words as well as the next man.”
“’Tis poetry.”
“And you assume I do not like poetry?” He frowned.
“You are a man of battle, not one of study.”
“I can read, Maeve.”
She flushed guiltily. “I meant that I cannot see you enjoying these verses.”
At that, he smiled with mischief. “Mayhap you can convert me, sweet Maeve.”
Looking skeptical indeed, Maeve stepped into the chamber and sat upon the stool beside the hearth, roaring with warmth. Donning her spectacles, she opened the book and looked at him with uncertainty.
Again, he merely smiled. “Please, read.”
Her shoulders conveying tension, she began.
“After the day, before the night,
Or before day, after the night has gone,
For modest girls a reassuring shade,
Just the right sort of light, with curtains drawn,
Wherein to lay inviting ambuscade.”
Kieran leaned back in his chair and pulled the next words from his memory.
“And there Corinna entered, with her gown
Loosened a little, and on either side,
Of her white neck the dark hair hanging down.
Semiramis could not have been, as bride,
Any more lovely, nor could Lais move
The hearts of men more easily to love.”
“You know this poem?” Her face betrayed her utter shock.
“I do know a thing or two besides lances and broadswords. The earl of Rothgate, my mentor, ensured the educations of all his charges were properly completed, Ovid included.”
Maeve’s cheeks flushed a beguiling pink. “So you know what comes next?”
Kieran’s grin broadened.
“Sheer though it was, I pulled the dress away;
Pro forma, she resisted, more or less.
It offered little cover, I must say,
And why put up a fight to save a dress?”
He rose from his chair and made his way to Maeve’s side. He trailed a purposely tender thumb along her nape, then brushed the back of his hand along her cheek. Tensing, she watched him, gold eyes widening as he knelt before her.
As she took a shaky breath, Kieran kept her gaze captive and he continued.
“So soon she stood naked, and I saw,
Not only saw, but felt, perfection there,
Hands moving over beauty without flaw,
The breasts, the thighs, the triangle of hair.
“No need for catalogue, to itemize
All those delights.”
As he whispered, he traced a gentle finger upon her ankle, caressing her shin, then her knee.
To his delight, she shivered and reached for his shoulders, placing her hands upon them as if she could no longer balance without him. Grin wide, he lifted her ankle to his mouth and laved a kiss upon her stockinged skin. Her fingers curled into his arms, clutching.
He leaned closer, feeling her tremble again as he whispered against her mouth.
“Nor could I truly say
That I confined my pleasure to my eyes.
Naked, I took her, naked, until we lay
Worn out, done in.
Grant me, O gods, the boon
Of many such another sultry noon!”
When he finished speaking, Kieran’s hand rested just above her knee. Maeve looked entranced and uncertain at once.
“You know every word of it.” Maeve’s whisper sounded breathless—and accusing—as if that somehow betrayed her idea of him.
“I am more than brawn and battle, Wife.”
“Nay.” She frowned at his words.
She tensed, then gasped as he brushed his hand from just above her knee to the inside of her thigh.
“Why? Does the fact I know a few verses of Ovid make hating me harder? Or wanting me easier?” he challenged.
Maeve jerked away from his touch and closed her eyes, as if that might block out the truth. “Neither!”
“Are you certain?”
Closing the book with a frustrated sigh, she pulled off her spectacles and rose, darting for the door. Kieran took hold of her arm with a firm grip and stayed her.
When she struggled against his hold, he brought her closer with a subtle tug, then pressed his mouth to the inside of her wrist.
Her heartbeat surged beneath his lips.
With a feminine growl of fury, she wrenched her arm from his grasp. “Touch me no more!”
Kieran paused, pondering her reaction. She responded to him as a woman does to a man she desires. He had no reason to believe she would not eventually succumb to their marriage bed and the pleasures it would bring. But if she resisted him for the reasons he suspected, he feared ’twould take much time to overcome her strong mind and her convictions.
“I know this marriage has meant much change in your plans, sweet Maeve. But if you forget for a moment that King Henry sent me, you might find we can talk with much to say.”
“I do not wish it.”
“Since we are wed, ’tis best if you try. This marriage will only be a failure, dismal beyond comprehension, if we do not.”
Though she stood half a head shorter than him, Maeve somehow managed to look down her nose at him. “I imagine you will think yourself well versed with the ladies. What I think you fail to understand, my lord, is my disinterest in you as anything other than the man who can keep peace here.”
“If ’tis peace you seek, why do you aid the rebellion? And do not deny your involvement.”
She arched a reddish brow at him, her expression haughty. “I merely want freedom without bloodshed. I want no war. And you’ve no need to worry, for I will do my duty to you as God intends, but I do not think you draw me into your kisses now that I know what you’re about. I do not wish to be breathless or enthralled.”
“But I will not rest until you are, sweet Maeve.”
With a regal lift of her head, she shrugged. “If you enjoy a life of disquiet, that is your choice.”
Cloaked in silence, she left, a vision of aloof female.
But Kieran knew a woman too well, sensed the excitement she fought, tried even to hide from herself.
And with half of her fortnight’s reprieve gone, he thought now might be an excellent time to show her the strength of his charm until he found her, sighing and happy, in his bed.
* * * *
The following afternoon, the sun glowed with golden intensity across the Irish hills. Maeve watched Langmore’s army. A few were still in sore need of training, and they grumbled at Kieran’s directives and stared at passing maids. She repressed a grin, glad to see her cocksure husband had made little progress with the most unruly of the group. But the rest were much improved.
He worked patiently with the soldiers each day. Some of the fat ones were beginning to slim under his rigorous training. Some of the old were building strength again. Those with no training were learning, a few eager, as if sensing they learned from a master. Indeed, he seemed to be winning the respect of most of the soldiers, for they looked upon him at times as if he were a god.
Maeve only prayed she did not look at him with that same expression.
If the man would make war, ’twas double certain he could seduce a woman. Last night, his words and a few simple touches alone near made her skin dew with moisture, her heart beat, her belly tingle with wants she never felt in Quaid’s arms.
