His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3)

by Shayla Black

  But she feared ’twas not destined to be.

  * * * *

  Kieran woke before the sun to the feel of Maeve slumbering beside him, her hand splayed over his belly. Though his mind felt heavy with sleep, his body was awake and eager.

  He smiled, hardly surprised. Maeve had been every bit as womanly and passionate as he had suspected. In fact, she had responded beyond his expectations, pulsing around him in gloried abandon.

  His erection tightened, thickened, demanding her attention.

  Rolling to his side, he lifted the hair covering her cheek and shoulder, placing it behind her back. He brushed her mouth with his finger. Maeve frowned and moaned before rolling away. Kieran smiled. The woman slept with as much vigor as she made love.

  Had she made love with Quaid O’Toole with such abandon?

  Kieran scowled, disliking that question. Maeve was here now, in his bed. Here she would stay. And he would do his best to see she forgot another man had touched her, even if only once.

  He reached for Maeve again, determination and possession heating his blood.

  Someone knocked on the door. He cursed.

  “What?” he ground out, sitting up in bed.

  The door opened, and Colm peeked in. “My lord? Sorry to catch you…abed.” He glanced at Maeve’s bare shoulders above the sheet, then quickly away. “A messenger just arrived. You’ve been summoned to Dublin, to Malahide Castle.”

  Kieran cursed again, soundly this time. Maeve stirred beside him but did not fully wake.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Colm shrugged. “He would not say, my lord.”

  Kieran had thought for some while the other Englishmen in the Pale would wish a meeting, but why now? “When must I go?”

  “This very morn.”

  “And they gave no reason for such urgency, boy?”

  Colm shook his head.

  Kieran had little doubt such secrecy boded ill.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kieran arrived in Dublin two days later, exhausted, irritable, and damned tired of the rain.

  Malahide Castle sat in gray splendor along the banks of a peaceful loch. The structure was solid, worthy, and accessible from but one road. Kieran had no trouble imagining why the other Palesmen thought it best for imprisoning the rebels. Thus far, Malahide’s dungeons had held them.

  Groaning with cold, he swung off his mount. Guards greeted him immediately in the dusk and took him to the great hall. There, fifteen lords sat with tankards in hand.

  “Why should we not tax the heathens?” spouted one thick-waisted Englishman.

  “Their land is more profitable, man,” said another, this one younger and heartier of voice. “If we take the land and let them keep what pittance of funds they have, we’ll have them by the throats.”

  “Why not both?” suggested a third, raising his tankard with a lopsided grin.

  The group laughed.

  Kieran scowled at their greed. None of these men appeared to need the funds, the lands, or the food either would provide. Did they not see taking the people’s lands and funds would leave women and children to starve? Break up families? Force men to take up arms who had not previously, just to survive?

  “Tax policies are directly solicited to King Henry though my correspondence, gentlemen.”

  At Kieran’s words, all heads turned in his direction. Wariness, curiosity, and distrust inhabited different faces around him.

  Suddenly he felt sure this would be a long trip.

  “M-my lord, you’ve arrived,” stuttered the nearest fop.

  “You summoned me with such urgency, what else could I do?” he returned dryly. “I have business back at Langmore. What needs have you so I may address them and be gone?”

  At the far end of the table, a frail old man rose and gestured him to an empty seat upon a bench. “We feared the worst when you did not appear as scheduled.”

  Kieran made his way to the bench and sat with a frown. “As scheduled? Of what do you speak, sir?”

  “This parliament, of course. As governor of the Pale, you must preside over this session and vote. We have many issues before us.”

  Kieran had known these duties would haunt him whilst he remained in Ireland. But the timing could not be more ill suited. Maeve and the joys of her body awaited him.

  “I knew naught of any plans to open parliament.”

  The older man frowned with puzzlement. “We sent a missive over a month past.”

  And he had never received it. He frowned, pondering its fate. Nearly everyone at Langmore would want him to miss this session. Flynn, Maeve, and Jana all had reasons in particular, though Flynn seemed the most likely person to engage in something so devious.

  Damnation! That O’Shea man near begged to have his arse kicked from here to London with all his mighty talk of rebellion. And Kieran longed to do the dirty work himself.

  Except ’twould infuriate Maeve.

  Then again, his own Maeve did receive most of the correspondence at Langmore. Was shuffling information her role in the rebellion?

  Muttering a curse, he sat. “Let me meet everyone and then you may tell me what business we have before us.”

  The older man nodded and resumed his seat. “I am Lord Burkland.”

  Kieran nodded in acknowledgment. Burkland then pointed out each of the others.

  The thick-middled man was Bishop Elmond, and Kieran distrusted him and his pinched expression right away. Men ambitious in the Church had ever been shifty. This one appeared no exception.

  The younger, hearty-voiced man proved to be Lord Butler, a swaggering prick if he’d met one. Suddenly, Kieran thought he might give his right arm to be away from these pompous men and back at Langmore.

  “Well, now that we are done with introductions, my lord, we shall go on with business at hand. Most notably, we meet to discuss the rebels.”

  “As we should!” shouted the bishop.

  “Aye, they have all but destroyed parts of Malahide trying to break their own free,” said another Englishman whose name escaped Kieran’s memory.

  He resisted the urge to run a tired hand across his eyes. ’Twas no doubt in his mind—and probably King Henry’s—that action must be taken against the rebels before they succeeded in destroying some major English holdings, and rightly so. Among other threats, King Henry would not tolerate another Yorkist pretender to his throne hiding on Irish soil. Lambert Simnel and the duchess of Burgundy’s forces had attempted such an overthrow a year past. Aiding the cause had been the treasonous downfall of the last earl of Kildare.

  The issue could wait no longer.

  But Kieran found himself oddly reluctant to participate in this decision, and he wondered why.

  Burkland turned to a pair of guards in the great hall. “Get the rest of your force and bring up the rebels.”

  The duo left to follow the old man’s orders right away. Tensing, Kieran waited for the rebels to arrive whilst the others around him spoke of taxes, land disputes, and the king himself. Kieran could think of little more than Quaid O’Toole—and Maeve’s reaction if her once-betrothed’s fate was not a kind one.

  Within minutes, ten motley, unwashed rebels filed in with bound hands and ankles. Their faces were grim but proud. Kieran tried to remember their crimes against the crown, everything from petty mayhem to the murder of Englishmen. In their hearts, they harbored the seeds of rebellion, which had grown, feeding others just like them. They must be dealt with.

  Why, then, was he so damned reluctant?

  “Shall we, Lord Kildare?” Burkland asked.

  At that, a rebel’s blond head snapped up. The short, stocky man fixed him with a gaze that burned hate. “You’re the bastard! You’ve stolen my Maeve from me.”

  Around him, a few of the men gasped. Others stared.

  Kieran gritted his teeth and met his opponent’s gaze squarely. “Quaid O’Toole, I presume?”

  “You knew before you wed her that she belongs to me.”

  �
�The Church and the law have decreed differently now.”

  Quaid’s blue gaze brimmed ire. “Don’t you be layin’ a slimy English hand on her.”

  “Bind that man’s mouth!” ordered Burkland, then turned to Kieran, who would rather have exchanged fists with the man. Stony silence would have to do instead.

  Burkland smiled, and a guard placed a cloth firmly over Quaid’s mouth. “Let us begin.”

  Burkland recited the murder allegations against the first of the rebels. The parliament allowed the man to speak in his defense for less than five minutes.

  Burkland interrupted the rebel’s words with an impatient wave. “What say you, gentlemen?”

  All present voted for death. Kieran followed suit.

  One by one, the small parliament worked its way through the rebels, always with the same outcome.

  O’Toole, gagged until now, had his mouth freed and was allowed to speak. “I did naught wrong, I tell you.”

  “Do you deny killing two English soldiers?” Burkland asked.

  “I but kept them from stealing my sheep and raping my sister!”

  “And you required taking a blade into the belly of one and the throat of another to do that?”

  “They had blades as well, blades they would have used, had I given them a chance.”

  Burkland cast O’Toole a disbelieving glance. “Do you have any evidence these sheep were yours?”

  “Nay, but they were.”

  “I see,” Burkland said as if he had proven his point. “And your sister… Do you have any evidence she did not welcome these fine Englishmen in her bed?”

  “She screamed so loud my ears rang!”

  “Perhaps she screamed in pleasure,” suggested Lord Butler.

  “No honorable Irishwoman takes pleasure in an Englishman’s bed,” O’Toole spat, glaring directly at Kieran.

  Knowing ’twould infuriate O’Toole, he gave the man a shrug and a smile.

  The rebel surged forward in fury. A pair of guards stopped him, one dealing him a blow to the stomach.

  “Enough!” Burkland decreed, then turned to the rest. “Your decision, gentlemen?”

  “Death!” the others declared in unison.

  Kieran felt his throat plunge to his stomach. Aye, he held no love for O’Toole—but Maeve did. And he doubted she would understand his part in her once-betrothed’s death. He knew not why, but the rending of the fragile bonds of his peace with Maeve distressed him. And O’Toole’s defense, if true, weren’t crimes that warranted death.

  Awaiting his answer, the Palesmen turned to hear his verdict.

  Impulsively, he opened his mouth to say he would take Quaid back to Langmore and deal with him privately, starting with a meeting of his fists and O’Toole’s nose. But he could not. Such foolishness was not smart or logical, for it would put the rebel directly into Flynn’s—and Maeve’s—paths again. Both were too dangerous. Neither could he allow.

  Resisting the urge to fly from the bench and pace, Kieran gritted his teeth. He was no damned coward. War had always meant making such decisions of fate, most of which were difficult. When he took an ax in one hand and a sword in another and faced a man with intent, he took a life. Without blinking, he moved on to the next opponent. Warriors did these things in times of war. ’Twas their duty. Ordinarily, he thought not about ending a rebel’s life.

  But Maeve’s anger would be great indeed if O’Toole died this day.

  And Kieran knew he could do naught to stop it.

  “Death,” he muttered finally, damning Ireland under his breath.

  * * * *

  Three days later, Kieran crept into Langmore’s keep long after midnight. In the morn, he would have to tell Maeve the truth about O’Toole. He dreaded every minute of it, knowing she would hate him for his part in the rebel’s execution.

  Tonight, he wanted naught but to see Maeve and sleep without seeing O’Toole’s face of resigned bravery in his mind.

  Treading to his chamber, he was surprised to find Maeve curled up in his bed, sleepy and warm, her hair twisted into a single braid that curled about her neck and lay between the tempting mounds of her breasts.

  She wore naught but a shift, and the burning taper in his hand revealed the shadows of her dusky nipples to his hungry gaze.

  Blood rushed to his shaft, making him thick, tight, and hard in mere instants. Not so unusual, he thought with a grimace. What he disliked was the tangle of thoughts in his head, careening around until his belly churned and he knew no peace.

  The urge to be near her drove him to sit on the edge of the bed, beside her. He touched her shoulder, grazed his finger across her cheek.

  Longing, thick and demanding, settled in his gut. He hated the thought she would not speak to him once he told her the truth. She would withdraw the sunshine of her smile. Too well he knew even his best explanation would not soothe her.

  He would miss her—even more than he had in Dublin. For whilst there, they had been but separated by miles. Here, beliefs and loyalties would separate them. She would not change hers, and he could not afford to change his even if he wished to. And the torment would be greater, for he could see her each day but not hold her sleep-soft body in his arms, not win her smile—not for some while, if ever again.

  Maeve moaned in slumber, and Kieran looked down, realizing he had been squeezing her hand too hard.

  He also saw her golden eyes open, glowing by the dim candlelight.

  “You’ve returned. When?” Sleep slurred her muted words.

  A puzzling wave of tenderness swept through him. Had she worried? The thought held appeal. “Only now.”

  She groaned tiredly. “’Tis late. You must be weary.”

  Moments ago, he had been. Now he could think of little but Maeve and the twisted tangle of his thoughts.

  “Not so weary now that you are near.”

  Kieran could not resist clasping her chin softly and running his thumb across her lips. Maeve lifted a heavy-lidded gaze to him, eyes darkened with the golden fire of awareness.

  The want in his gut tightened, sparking his entire body with desire. Aye, he’d thought of holding her these three days past. And now she lay before him, in his bed, soft woman.

  But a soft woman who would soon hate him.

  His conscience warred with his urge to be near her. His battered mind needed the soothing balm of her touch.

  His conscience lost.

  Bending to her, Kieran arched his hand around the back of her neck and brought her mouth gently to his. He brushed his lips over hers once, then again. She smelled of…Maeve. He recognized her scent, some unique blend of woman, spring, and Ireland itself. Never had he smelled its like. ’Twas addicting, he thought, deepening the kiss, leaning in.

  Maeve did not resist him, but curled her arms around his shoulders and welcomed him with a willing mouth that parted when he ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. Triumph and a belly-deep need implored him to taste her honeyed essence—unique like her scent.

  He felt himself drowning, his thoughts swimming in all that was Maeve. Half lying upon her, he leaned his weight on one elbow and lifted his other hand to her breast. Thrill charged through him when he found the mound taut, its tip erect. He teased her nipple with his thumb, alternately brushing and pinching.

  She arched beneath him and whispered, “I-I missed you.”

  He looked at her, those golden eyes full of uncertainty and longing, and murmured, “I thought of little but you.”

  The admission did not come easy, but he owed her that honesty. Mayhap, ’twould soften the truth he must tell later. He pushed the thought aside, knowing he needed to taste her one last time—before she pushed him away for weeks, mayhap even months, or God forbid, forever.

  The possibility chilled him. He kept it at bay by caressing her cheek with his fingers.

  Pleasure lit Maeve’s fiery eyes. A smile touched her mouth before he kissed her again, this time deeper. She hesitated not an instant, but opened beneath him, u
nfurling like a petal to the morning sun. Kieran reveled in her response, running a hand across her breast again, tempting her with his touch until she moaned.

  To his shock, she lifted the shift from her body, over her head, baring her nakedness to his hungry gaze. Though he had not known such was possible, he hardened further at her honest display of her wants. Though she was hardly the first woman to remove her clothes for his pleasure, he found Maeve’s gesture more pleasing because it was her and it was real.

  “You’re lovelier than I remembered, sweet Maeve.”

  The candlelight lit up the glow of the red-gold wisps about her face, along with her smile. Kieran knew an uncompromising urge to touch her, to make her his again.

  Seizing her mouth, he set his fingers to unbraiding her hair. He would not be satisfied until its fire lay about his white sheets as he loved her.

  While his fingers worked at her tresses, his tongue swept through her mouth. Maeve arched and moaned, then surprised Kieran by sliding his tunic over his head. They broke the kiss for a mere instant, long enough to see the garment strewn on the floor, before their mouths came together once more.

  Kieran could not recall anything that felt more perfect.

  Then she set her hands to his chest, her fingers to his nipples. The shock of her soft fingers upon him, squeezing, caressing—’twas more arousing than he could bear.

  “Maeve, my sweet, what do you do to me?”

  Her mouth kissed a path to his ear, and she whispered, “I’m making you feel all the heavenly things you stir inside me.”

  That whisper—her very words—sent shivers through his body. He captured her mouth again, hard, urgent, driving her to meet his desire. She did, and incredibly, he wanted more.

  Kicking off his boots, he knelt on the mattress and set his hands to work at his hose and braies. To his surprise, Maeve joined the effort, her hands gliding down his back, over his buttocks and thighs. With a tug on the garments, the rest of his clothing lay haphazardly across the wooden floor.

  Now he lay naked beside Maeve and her delicious ardor.