by Shayla Black
“This is Maeve, the second O’Shea sister. We’ve been wed not yet a month.”
Maeve sensed Kildare wanted Aric to think them happy in their nuptials. By her husband’s accounts, his friends were fortunate to have found extraordinary love in their unions.
Aric did not look a daft sort of man. He would see quickly, no doubt, that Kildare had not found the same good tidings.
“Maeve,” Kildare said, facing her with a tight smile, “this is Aric Neville, earl of Belford.”
“My lord.” She nodded and stepped away from her husband.
Aric took her hand and lifted it politely. His cool gray eyes assessed her. “I take great pleasure in meeting Kieran’s bride.”
She swallowed nervously “’Tis pleased I am to meet you.”
An awkward silence fell. Most of the watchful castlefolk shuffled away. Maeve briefly introduced Fiona, Brighid, and Jana to the large Englishman.
Jana gave him a cool nod and departed. Fiona, wide-eyed, mumbled a few polite phrases and followed her sister. Brighid stared with obvious interest. Maeve sent the young girl scampering off with a warning glance.
Another moment of silence fell over the trio. Maeve felt Aric’s regard, his taking of her measure. She opened her mouth to excuse herself when Aric spoke instead.
“Kieran, would you cast your trained eye upon my horse? He seemed to limp a bit the last few miles.”
Shrugging, Kildare said, “If you wish it, but I can send Colm. He is quite good at these things.”
“Aye, but my horse has been longer with me than my own good wife. I trust you.”
Maeve frowned at Aric’s scheme. He wanted Kildare away. What was the Englishman’s game? Did he bear the king’s news?
Puzzled as well, Kildare assented with a nod. “Take you to the great hall and rest your bones. I will join you shortly.”
“I will press your wife for a tour of Langmore’s walls,” said Aric, offering his arm to Maeve.
Knowing she had little choice, Maeve placed her hand upon the hard length of Aric’s arm and led him inside.
After a brief tour of the outer buildings, including the dye house, the ale maker’s shop, and the apothecary, Maeve led Kildare’s friend to the great hall and saw him seated.
“You see, Langmore is quite typical,” she said.
“But ’tis lovely, good lady. Your care for it is clear.”
He was sincere in his praise, and Maeve sensed he did not speak lightly. “I thank you, but my sisters and I all tend to the insides, while Kieran is responsible for the rest.”
Casually, he nodded. “How fares your army here?”
She tensed. Saints above, he wasted no time in pressing his point. “You would be better served to ask Kieran.”
“I would wager he has taught them well since his arrival. He is ever ready for a good fight.”
Maeve gritted her teeth. This man knew of Kildare’s violent tendencies and did not abhor them? Nay, no warrior of England would, she reminded herself. Both these men were animals, exercising more brawn than brains.
“Aye. He knows very much about warfare, my lord.” Maeve could not contain the sarcasm in her voice. “And little else.”
“Ah, so he has lost his touch with the ladies?”
Lost his touch? Nay. To her misfortune, Maeve found her own body betraying her, craving Kildare’s caressing hand, his lazy smile at the oddest times—deep in the night, early in the morn. Still, she could feel his mouth claiming her most intimately… She flushed with heat.
Aric chuckled. “So he has not lost his touch altogether?”
Maeve glared at the Englishman. He was as bawdy and lacking in manners as his heathen friend!
“I will only say that he excels in matters of battle. Of more personal matters, I will speak not at all.”
She rose to leave, but Aric stayed her with a light touch. “I have offended, good lady, with no intent. Pray forgive me. Drake, Guilford, and I have long been concerned for Kieran. ’Tis only that we wish him happy and settled.”
Maeve accepted his apology with a stiff nod. “You would do better to speak to him about his love of war than to speak to me about matters of the flesh.”
All traces of Aric’s grin disappeared. “’Tis right you are. Again, I am sorry. We have worried after Kieran’s need for battle for years. Guilford reminds me often that for much of his life, Kieran has known naught else. ’Tis true, but I worry all the same.”
Frowning at Aric’s words, Maeve tried to decipher them. Battle was all Kildare had ever known? He had his friends and his mentor all these years, had he not? What could Aric mean?
* * * *
The days blended together in relative peace, with the exception of Maeve’s silence—and her absence from his bed. The entire castle likely knew of it. Kieran cursed, for he could do naught to change it without tying the woman to his bed. The idea held appeal, but not without her willingness.
England was more likely to give up the pope.
Saint Patrick’s Day dawned in mist and muted green. Maeve and her sisters had planned some manner of feast today. Kieran wondered if Flynn and the rebels would appear after their long absence and make war. He vowed to be extra alert, in case such an event took place.
In honor of the holiday, Kieran had given Langmore’s budding army a day’s respite from training. Now, wandering idle about the bailey, he pondered why he had done such a thing. Aric was still abed; he had naught to occupy himself.
Except thoughts of Maeve warm and smiling and naked…
’Twas useless to think such things. Maeve would not allow his intimacy again soon. She made that quite clear.
Cursing, he wandered about the gathering crowd preparing for the festival. Musicians and dancers, jesters and peddlers—all prepared for the occasion. Kieran wished they might all go elsewhere.
“Lord Kildare?”
Kieran turned to the voice to find an aging peddler beside his cart. The lined face and graying beard betrayed his hard life.
“Aye,” he said finally.
“Mayhap I could interest ye in some spices so yer foods might better please yer palate. Or these gemstones.” The old man pointed to an array of polished, jewel-bright rocks. “Many were taken directly from the Holy Grail, I tell ye. They are a treasure indeed.”
“I thank you, but no.”
The old man reached down and pulled a woman up by her shoulders. “Are you sure naught here interests ye?”
Kieran paused, staring at the woman the peddler so blatantly offered. She was about ten and eight, and likely the man’s daughter. And she was beautiful, with dark tresses flowing loose and wild to her hips. An incredibly red mouth and eyes that bespoke pleasure with a sinful gleam. An incredibly lush bosom did much to add to her charms as well.
“I am Isolde. ’Twould be my pleasure to assist you, my lord,” she said in a husky voice as she swayed her way around her father’s cart and moved to stand before him.
In the next instant, the peddler disappeared.
Such an arrangement was not uncommon. In his youth, he had availed himself of a pretty peddler’s daughter or two. Why did the idea not please him now?
Isolde touched his arm and sidled closer. “My lord?”
Kieran stared at Isolde. She had incredible breasts—high, round, firm—most of which showed above the square neck of her fitted red dress. She had smooth skin, dancing dark eyes, and a pouty red mouth he knew must appeal to nearly every man.
Why, then, did he not feel even a bit tempted?
He frowned at Isolde, at himself. Such made no sense. Here stood a goddess of sin, willing to bare herself for only a trifling amount of coin. She would lay her hand, her mouth, upon him—likely every inch of him, should he ask it—and give him the release he’d been without since the morn Maeve had ceased speaking to him.
And still, he could muster no interest.
What in Hades’ name was happening to him, that he could find no ardor for a woman as tempting as Isold
e? He knew not, but Maeve was certainly responsible.
“Lovely Isolde, I thank you, but not today.”
He saw little more than the flash of surprise on her face before he turned away.
There Kieran found Aric standing, watching with a damned hawkish gaze. Could he not have a moment’s peace?
“What?” he demanded of his friend, glaring.
Aric shrugged. “I merely came to look at the festival preparations.”
Kieran gestured to the burgeoning melee about him, then snapped, “Enjoy.”
Leaving behind a watchful Aric, Kieran entered Langmore. Today, he would find Maeve. Now. Finally, they would put an end to this foolish silence. ’Twas affecting his ability to think, by the saints!
He journeyed first to the chamber she shared with Fiona. He thundered inside, where he found them both. Fiona stood fully dressed, brushing her hair. Maeve stood in only a shift, her hair flowing about her in a loose, fiery cloud.
Maeve looked up in surprise at his entrance. Then her face hardened to an icy chill. “My lord?”
Ballocks! That bloody polite tone was likely to make his ears freeze if she did not cease using it.
“It is Kieran,” he bit out. Then he cast his angry stare at Fiona.
Without a word, Maeve’s fragile, pale sister withdrew.
Kieran kicked the door shut behind her. “Enough of this silence, woman. We are wed. I do not press you to my bed, so the least you can do is provide conversation.”
She set her jaw angrily. “Shall we discuss the fact you are a barbarian with no regard for my wishes, or the fact you deceive me with no regard of my feelings?”
He grabbed her shoulders, holding tight when she would have twisted from his grasp. “Damnation, Maeve! I told you, I could not have stopped Quaid’s execution even if I had wished it. I may be governor of the Pale, but the power is not mine alone. Burkland, Butler, and the others also had a say in the matter. What good think you my one vote against all theirs?”
Maeve glared at him through eyes of golden fire. She wrenched from his hold, then advanced. “I did not say you could have saved him. I say that you should have tried. But you”—she sized him up with contempt—“what have you ever sought but battle? Even your own friends say ’tis too steeped in your blood. You would rather see war than peace.”
Fury exploded, both at Maeve’s dimness in this matter and Aric providing her with ammunition. “Men fight. It is the way of the world. I do not create the battles. I am merely there when they occur.”
“If you refused to fight—”
“If I refused to fight, someone else would. And I would be without a livelihood, without that which makes me a knight.”
She sniffed. “If you refused to fight, mayhap others would as well and we would have less war.”
“What fantasy do you spin? If I refused to fight, I would be the subjugated, conquered by default. Nay, if you want aught in life, you must wrest it for yourself. If that means battle, ’tis common enough. You must know this.”
“I know only that you have no heart and no honor.”
The insult blasted him, and Kieran felt his anger multiply. “I have both, woman. If you would but listen to me, you would understand I have been ordered here to secure this land as best I can for King Henry.”
“Why should I listen to a man of Irish blood who bows and scrapes before an English king but deceives his own wife?”
Kieran grabbed her arms again, jerking her close. Her breasts met his chest in a firm press. Her breathing became heavy. Her nipples slowly hardened against him. A raw surge of triumph burst through him as he lowered his mouth to hers.
Maeve turned her face away. “I would not touch a man who could hide a vital truth from me so he might bed me.”
“I did not intend to deceive you!” he insisted. Why did she refuse to understand that, to understand a word he said?
“I simply wanted to touch you.… When you woke and spoke to me, soft and sleepy and so beautiful, I could not resist.”
Her face flashed with surprise, then suspicion.
“I vow it,” he said, near pleading. “Please understand.”
Suddenly, she shook her head and pulled from his embrace. “Go make war with your friends and your army. ’Tis what you savages like best. Do not bother me again.”
* * * *
After the festival, Kieran sat that night—or rather, early that next morn—in Langmore’s great hall drinking ale. It had been his fervent hope that the brew might turn his sharp ache for Maeve into something dull and manageable.
Four hours and many tankards had brought no luck.
Dawn began filling the hall with soft gray light. Still, Kieran stared into his brew, wondering where he had gone so wrong. Never had a woman resisted him this much, for this long. Why did he have to find himself wed to such a stubborn woman? How had he wed a woman who completely failed to understand the very nature of men, of war, of him?
What the hell was he to do? Following King Henry’s orders meant making his wife despise him. Pleasing Maeve could likely mean treason and death.
“Be you up early, or late?” asked Aric, who stood near suddenly.
Where had he come from?
Kieran frowned and squinted until the two images of his friend became one. “I am up late. And you, up early?”
Aric shrugged. “Aye.”
Beside him, Aric sat and folded his large hands upon the table. “If you are troubled, friend, my ears listen well.”
Kieran cast Aric an annoyed glance. Everyone at Langmore knew he and Maeve did not speak—or do anything else—together. Why should his observant friend be different?
And why would this blasted problem not leave him in peace?
“I have naught to say, except that I’ve imbibed a bit too much.” He tried to give his best lopsided grin.
Aric merely shot him a skeptical scowl. “I doubt it has escaped your attention that your own wife speaks not to you.”
Irritation chafed him. Could Aric not leave the matter alone?
“She is ill-tempered and I can do naught to change it.”
“And you, of course, have done naught to provoke her.”
Kieran glared at his friend. “Not any more than you had provoked Gwenyth after you first wed.”
“I was wrong then to believe she wanted only my money and my position, instead of me. I righted my wrong with an apology. What of you?”
“I can do naught to change what is,” he bellowed. “And I will thank you to remove your nose from my affairs!”
Aric hesitated, then rose with a sigh. “As you wish.”
As his friend walked away, Kieran muttered a curse and rubbed a tired hand across his stubble-laden jaw. His own wife spoke not to him, and now he had offended a man who was like a brother. When had he become so clumsy with his words?
Would naught go right?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
March meandered into April’s stunning skies. Aric remained on the king’s business—to check on Kieran’s progress with the Pale and at Langmore. Kieran knew not whether he appreciated the familiar company or resented Aric’s duty.
Flynn had not returned to Langmore, and Kieran knew well the sly fiend plotted more rebellion. Various reports from other Palesmen paired Maeve’s brother with his own father, no doubt stirring up ire in the hearts of Irishmen. But he knew not where they were or what they plotted so he might stop them.
He fared even less well with Maeve. For nigh on a month, she had refused to speak to him more than a word or two, despite his constant efforts. Always, she snubbed him, ignored him. He would have preferred her voice raised to the heavens at this point. Anything but this killing silence.
Damn, but he could not remember a time of more frustration in his life!
Forcing himself to concentrate on the business at hand, Kieran crossed swords with one of his kernsmen, Shane, as they practiced. Barely grown from a pale boy, Shane held his sword in a tight fist, arm trembling. He gritt
ed his teeth.
“Use your strength,” he encouraged the boy. “Remember this could be a fight for your life.”
“Aye, my lord, but ’tis frightful heavy.”
Kieran nodded and engaged the young man’s sword again.
A drop of water splashed on his arm, another on his face. Within moments, the rain poured down, as it had nearly every day for the past week. With a vicious curse that reflected his need for sleep and a soft woman—not necessarily in that order—Kieran all but threw his sword at Colm and stalked inside. Aric fell in at his side.
“Blasted rain,” he muttered.
“It falls often,” agreed Aric.
His accepting tone chafed Kieran. Did naught disturb the man anymore?
“Shall we have an ale by the fire?” his friend suggested.
Kieran wanted to be alone for reasons he knew not. Solitude had never appealed. Why it did now, he could not say.
“In a bit. Start without me.”
Casting him a speculative gaze that was both frequent and maddening, Aric made for the great hall. Gnashing his teeth, Kieran made his way to his chamber.
Inside, he found Maeve, not seeing to wifely duties of any sort. Nay. Such would be too common, too helpful.
Instead, he found her rifling through his missives.
One after another, she unrolled the parchments, scanned them, then pushed them aside.
“Need you something in my personal papers?” he queried.
Maeve gasped and started. Placing a trembling hand to her chest, she turned to face him, golden gaze wide.
“’Tis not what you think.”
Anger rose. For a month, the wench first refused to speak. When she did, ’twas to spy and lie. What next?
“Is it not? So you did not intend to glean information by reading missives addressed to me alone?”
“I merely seek information about Flynn, you bloodthirsty ruffian. ’Tis weeks he’s been gone now. I worry.”
“Did you think to ask me if I had heard aught about him? Nay,” he answered before she could. “You simply searched my missives. Heavens fall upon us that you might actually speak to me.”
