by Shayla Black
He barked down the stairs for a bath, then turned to Jana. “Good tidings, Jana. How fares little Geralt?”
She nodded coolly. “He is all health, my lord.”
“Excellent. Will you leave us, please?” He cast his sharp gaze to Maeve.
Sitting on the edge of a chair, Kieran removed his boots with a groan and let them fall to the floor. His weapon followed, then his tunic. He moved slowly, tiredly. Maeve found herself staring at her bare-chested husband, wondering why the sight of him should affect her heartbeat even now.
“There will be a rebellion soon,” he said suddenly, gaze holding hers tightly. “I smell it. I feel it. They are out there, hiding, desperate, willing to do anything for their cause.” He scowled. “My father is in the center. The whispers I hear tell me his plan is pure madness.”
Maeve returned Kieran’s stare, her heart now beating with fear. Ulick’s messages from Flynn had mentioned Desmond O’Neill. They had told her of his dangerous ploy.
She hated it almost as much as the role he’d asked her to play.
“I fear people, many of them, will die if your brother and my father succeed. Maeve, I know our marriage has not been an easy one. I know you disagree with my support of King Henry. But you and I are united in our wish to save innocent lives. Help me,” he implored. “Tell me what you know.”
Maeve looked away. If she helped him, she would betray her brother, perhaps condemn him to Quaid’s fate. And for all of Flynn’s faults, he had protected the O’Shea sisters since their parents’ deaths. He was blood. She loved him.
But if she refused Kieran’s request, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of innocent people could well die. Fathers, brothers, sons, some mere children, would follow Flynn’s vision for an Ireland born in bloody rebellion, having no notion of the awful price they would pay in deaths for an uncertain future. Did none of them see that only freedom, borne of peaceful negotiations with the English, would be lasting?
“Maeve.” He reached for her hands and took them in his. “I know what I ask of you is great. I know you have little reason to believe I want this war to end in peace. But I do.”
She desperately wanted peace, so Jana might raise little Geralt without fear, so Fiona’s memories of her horror might fade, so she could birth her own child in a land not oppressed.
But how could she entrust Ireland’s future to the hands of a man whose very soul resounded with English loyalties? He believed the Irish should be under English rule.
Sweet Mary, her mind understood what her traitorous body did not: she could not place her brother’s fate in the hands of a warrior who had done naught to save her betrothed from execution. Aye, mayhap Kieran had not the power to save Quaid, but had Quaid not been a rival, he might have tried at least. ’Twas no secret her husband and her brother felt much dislike for each other. Would there be no harmony at Langmore until one of them left…or died? Maeve shivered at the thought.
“Maeve?” He squeezed her hands.
“You give me much importance in the eyes of the rebellion, where no such faith exists, my lord,” she began.
Betraying her brother, possibly condemning him to execution, was unthinkable. She could only hope to give Kieran hint enough to stop the worst of the rebel plan without sacrificing her brother’s location.
“I know you have information, Maeve,” Kieran stated. “You have conveyed missives from rebel to rebel over the past year.”
How had he learned that? Panic seized her. Maeve breathed in and looked away, lest he see the truth in her eyes.
“Think you the rebels would trust a woman with such an important task?”
“They would trust an Irishwoman whom the English would not suspect. They trust you, Maeve.”
She shrugged, not meeting his gaze. “I hear but whispers, like you, my lord.”
“What whispers have you heard?” he asked sharply.
Maeve tried to think of details that would not expose her brother. She thought of several, then thrust them aside as too dangerous before saying, “Malahide is but one English fortification the rebels would like back in their possession.”
Kieran’s gaze drilled into her. “Do you say their ambitions are to reclaim the whole Pale at once?”
“Such would not surprise me if the idea was met with favor.”
“With but two hundred men, how can they think to do this?”
Maeve disentangled her hands, relieved when Kieran let her pace the chamber to retrieve some blank parchment. “I believe they have found weapons in household necessities.”
With that, she tossed the parchment onto the fire. It flared, with the sudden kindling, burning orange and hot, flickering and gyrating with power and hunger.
Kieran watched with dawning horror, his face ashen.
Satisfied he understood what he must, Maeve quietly left.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“So what will you do now?” Aric asked late that night.
Kieran looked across the empty great hall with a shrug and clutched his tankard of ale. He had spent the evening writing missives to other Palesmen, warning them of a massive attack, one he knew would happen within days. He plotted a scheme to defend Langmore using its army. With the divided loyalties of the soldiers, he could only wonder on which side they would fight and pray ’twas his.
Those tasks completed, he’d sat with Aric for the past hour, telling him all he knew of the rebellion—all Maeve had hinted at. Exhaustion ate at him. Still, he felt the need for Aric’s counsel without rebel ears nearby.
“Do?” Kieran raked a hand through his shaggy hair. “I must wait. I know not where to find Flynn or my father. Maeve would not tell me as much.” He paused. “She trusts me not.”
“You represent her enemy, a threat to her family. In time, she will accept you.”
Kieran laughed bitterly. “You are full of hope. More than I.” He shook his head. “Maeve will not come. She may be a quiet creature, more inclined to books than battle, but she will fight accepting me until her last breath.”
“That disturbs you.”
’Twas not a question. As always, Aric’s gray gaze seemed to see his every thought.
Both relieved and resentful, Kieran nodded.
Aric’s gaze questioned. “Why do you suppose your feelings are thus?”
Kieran pictured Maeve, mouth pinched in anger, head thrown back in rapture, wearing one of her teasing smiles, her hair a fiery wreath about her face. Something in her quiet manner drew him in, always had. Yet beneath her surface beat the heart of a passionate, brave woman, a woman of intellect, capable of great caring for those around her. When he was with her, she confused him. Yet through her eyes, he saw life as he’d never seen it—with a hope of peace, of promise for something beyond the next battle. He saw a life of joy.
“Because…” He sighed, paused, then realized his terrible dilemma. “Because I love the wench.”
Setting aside his tankard, Kieran buried his head in his hands. Did he truly love Maeve? Aye, he did. When? Why her?
Beside him, Aric laughed. “Welcome to the fate Drake and I share. ’Tis pitiful to love a woman so that she twists your mind, but there is no escape, I’m sorry to say.”
The fact his friend was clearly not distressed made Kieran rise with a frown.
“’Tis easy for you to say. Your wife returns your regard.”
“And so will Maeve, and soon, I believe.”
A heady thought that filled Kieran with a bright wish, but an impossible one.
“Nay. Because of Quaid, Flynn, and the rebellion—Ireland itself—she will never trust me, never cleave to me.”
Aric smiled. “You have ways of coaxing her to you.”
“Even if I coax her now and again, her silence and resentment will run deeper each time I do. I begin to wonder if the pleasure is worth the price.”
“Oh ho! That is serious,” Aric said. “You do love her, to desire her conversation and goodwill more than her body.”
Kieran shot him
a killing glance. “Thank you for pointing out what a perfect idiot I am.”
“Nay, I think your choice a wise one,” he countered.
“It means naught,” Kieran declared. “For she will never take me into her heart.”
“She will.” Aric waved his fear away.
Kieran stood, his bench scraping across the floor in the echoing silence. “You do not understand. You cannot, for you never wondered if Gwenyth loved another.”
“If you recall, she pined for Sir Penley Fairfax when first we wed,” Aric reminded.
“That prick? Gwenyth did not love him. She sought a position as his wife, as a lady. Once Gwenyth surrendered to you, ’twas with her whole heart. And Averyl loved Drake almost from the start of their marriage.”
“Maeve cannot wed a dead man,” Aric pointed out.
“I do not believe he is dead in her heart,” Kieran argued. “And she blames me for his execution. She blames me for persuading her to be unfaithful to him and his memory.”
Aric paused, thoughtful. “Of course. ’Tis easier than facing the fact she cares for you.”
“How I wish that were true.” He sighed, sitting once more. “But your thinking is only wishful.”
“If you say,” Aric murmured, his tone clearly indicating he did not agree. “So, what will you do if she conceives? Will you leave Ireland and return for the babe, or stay?”
A good question, that. Kieran cast his gaze to the ceiling, but no answer came. Life away from Ireland had long been his goal. Now, the idea of parting from Maeve distressed him. To his shock, even this green, if wet, isle had a certain appeal. But living by Maeve’s side for years to come, his feelings unrequited while she pined for a dead man and plotted with the rebellion—’twould be pure misery. They would come to hate each other, as his parents had. Still, what if Aric was right?
“I know not what I will do if she conceives.” He sighed, then reached for his tankard, taking long swallows until the contents were gone. “I truly know not.”
* * * *
“The rebels come!” sounded a predawn shout, followed by a pounding on his door. “The rebels come now.”
Kieran sat up, instantly awake, heart pounding.
“Gather the men and rouse Lord Belford. I will be down shortly,” he shouted back even as he jumped from his solitary bed and pulled on his tunic and hose.
Colm knocked and stepped inside the chamber. “Lord Belford is awake, my lord.”
“Is everything else at the ready?”
“Aye. They finished digging yesterday morn.”
“Good.” Kieran sent the boy a grim smile. “How many men march our way?”
“Fifty or so, my lord.”
More than he had thought. “Send another pair of kernsmen to scout their progress. Then you must return to see to Langmore’s women and little Geralt. Gather them.”
Swallowing hard with a wide-eyed nod, Colm scurried off.
Muttering a curse, Kieran made his way to the bailey. Never did he recall a time when he dreaded the fight to come.
In the hall, Colm stood with Brighid against his side, her long, pale hair hanging around her. She looked more frightened child than budding woman. Jana cradled her son, seemingly made of stone. Fiona clutched Maeve’s hand in the portal of their chamber. His wife looked weak and pale.
He frowned at their apprehension. Did these women await soldiers fighting for their cause with fear?
Again, he looked at Maeve, wishing he could read in her face caring, knowledge of the coming battle—aught to guide him, give him hope. She merely looked strained and white. Still, he ached for her.
He was not so foolish to believe that she would ever love him. But he wanted her touch, her smile. Like a fever consuming him, he could not purge her from his system.
And for the past three days, she had scarce spoken to him, claiming illness. She stayed abed. Brighid whispered that she did naught but sleep and vomit. He’d gone to comfort her. Jana had turned him away—at Maeve’s request.
Kieran sighed, his gaze lingering on his wife. “Are you well, Maeve?”
She looked away. “Go fight your battle.”
The bitterness in her voice wracked him with frustration. What would he do with a wife who loathed him, while his heart belonged to her? He supposed this love of his explained his disinterest in the pretty peddler’s daughter. And he cursed. How had he come to this pitiful state?
He could do naught about it now, Kieran realized as he made his way down the circular steps to the bailey, where his army waited. To his shock, he saw all twenty-three Irish soldiers, plus a dozen new ones.
He turned to his guard. “Who are these men?”
Shane offered, “Beg pardon, milord, but they’re Irishmen who aren’t liking the rebels’ plans. The soldiers say you are a fair man, so they came to take their chances.”
Before he could reply, Aric strode up to his side, and a pair of guards ran up the lane, breathing hard.
“My lord, the rebels are bringin’ at least fifty men. They march on foot, and half carry blazing torches.”
Kieran began to sweat. ’Twas as he’d feared; the rebels would burn them out, uncaring of who died. No doubt they felt that if they had no fortification, the English encroachers should have none, either.
Such actions had a way of balancing the power in a war, but often at great cost of life. Women and children died in the twisted, burning flames. Did Flynn not see that? Not care that these plans meant the destruction of his home and his family?
Clearly, he cared not.
And Kieran wanted to spare Langmore and its people from the same fate Balcorthy had suffered all those years ago.
Whirling to the outnumbered army, he barked, “Be at the ready. You know our plan. Where are my archers?”
Four of the kern stepped forward, bows and arrows in hand, faces filled with determination. Aye, these four he trusted.
“Good. You will march first on foot to the top of Langmore’s battlements. While I ready the rest of the troops, you do your best to wound the rebel force as they come up the road. They must not reach Langmore’s walls.”
As the four men scrambled away, Kieran faced the rest. “Keep your weapons and your courage at the ready. Watch one another’s backs. We all have family here to protect.”
“Aye, my lord,” shouted the guard. The rest echoed.
“Does everyone remember the plan?”
All the faces, even the unfamiliar ones, registered understanding. Kieran disliked that complete strangers, with untested loyalties, knew his ploy, but all he could hope for now was that he’d earned his men’s trust and they did not plot to see him served up to the rebels for execution.
“When I give the command,” he said, “be quick. Our advantage will not last long.”
The men indicated their understanding by word or gesture, then made their way outside the gates of the castle.
Kieran followed, glancing at Aric. His pulse pounded. “Will this work, my friend?”
“I can think of no better plan.”
“Nor I,” murmured Kieran.
He did not take comfort in that fact. Either way, many would die this night. And he ached for Maeve, knowing how much she hated bloodshed. He found himself wishing he might stop it for her.
That was as impossible as seizing the moon.
Making his way to the side of the dirt lane leading up to Langmore, he jumped to the trench and crouched low, pulling the grass covering he and the soldiers had fashioned over the past days. He could only hope that with the rebellion’s small army, they had not the men to spare for spies. The sun had yet to prove more than a hazy gray light for the coming rebels. If he could surprise them, that would aid this deception.
Still, he feared they would see through this ruse and Langmore would lie in rubble within hours, only to be abandoned and forgotten like Balcorthy.
Shaking the maudlin thought away, he waited, listening. Finally, he heard footsteps, many sets of them, coming acros
s the bridge, then heading up the road. The light of their torches reached him in the next moments. Kieran swallowed a lump of fear, recalling the heat, the screams, the stench of charred flesh.
The rebels marched closer, between the trenches on either side of the lane. Suddenly, the whoosh of arrows filled the air, mingling with the sounds of booted feet. Grunts and screams came moments later, followed by the sounds of men falling, men dying.
The remaining rebels did not stay to help the fallen. Instead, they charged toward the castle, away from the archers’ range, until they flattened themselves against the half-finished curtain wall for cover, below the battlements.
Kieran’s pulse raced. Sweat trickled from his temple.
“Now!” he shouted.
As one, the men tossed their grass coverings into the air and charged the rebels. Running over the fallen bodies, Kieran followed, looking into the shocked faces of his enemies.
The fight ensued. Sword in hand, he parried and thrust, his blade finding men’s vulnerable flesh repeatedly. At his side, Aric staved off two rebels with little difficulty. The Irishmen were ferocious, but Aric was by far more skilled.
The scent of blood tinged the dawn as the sky exploded with orange and pink. Sweat dripped into Kieran’s eyes.
The rebels who held torches made their way around the side of Langmore. A bolt of panic surged through him.
“Aric, the others!” he shouted.
“Go. I will keep these,” he said of the few uninjured rebels still in front of Langmore’s gate.
Nodding, he tapped three of his men on the shoulder and motioned one to follow him. The other two he sent around Langmore’s other side. The rest of his men stayed with Aric to aid the defense of Langmore’s gate.
Seconds later, he came upon a trio of miscreants, one with a torch. Two found the wooden scaffolds used to erect the castle wall. The third drew the torch near. The light from the fire touched his fevered grin.
Flynn!
How could the man destroy his own home? All his sisters had ever known? What if they died in this blaze?
Enraged at Flynn’s stupidity, Kieran charged him, sword poised. By his side, Langmore’s soldiers followed and dispatched one of the other rebels to his maker. Kieran dealt quickly with a blade to the gut of the second rebel.
