by Shayla Black
Now he stood with Flynn, and he itched to plant his blade deep into the miscreant’s belly.
But Maeve would forever hate him.
Instead, he watched as Flynn threw his torch on the scaffolding’s dry wood and reached for a dagger at his thigh.
“Put out that fire!” he shouted at his soldier, then rushed toward Flynn.
O’Shea tried to dodge him, but Kieran was faster, his sense of purpose so urgent. He caught Flynn about the shoulders and tackled him to the ground. Not surprisingly, Flynn struggled and cursed.
Kieran punched him in the stomach.
Flynn grunted, then glared at him through eyes of hate. “Don’t be tellin’ me you think you can change our victory.”
At his sneer, Kieran pinned him roughly to the ground. “I have stopped you.”
With a shrug, he said, “Such matters not, you English maggot. The rest of the English fortifications will be so damaged we will have no trouble taking Langmore later. Don’t you be forgettin’ that.”
“I would not be so confident,” Kieran returned. “Every Englishman in the Pale knew of your plans. All are prepared to meet your forces.”
A stunned expression transformed Flynn’s face. The rebel leader began to struggle, kicking, growling. Kieran punched him in the jaw.
Flynn went slack beneath him.
“The fire is out, my lord.”
Kieran looked up to see the man had trampled out the budding flames with his shirt and boots. “Good work.”
Coming to his feet, Kieran looked about for other rebels. Finding none, he bent down to lift Flynn and hoisted the man to his shoulder with a grunt.
“Go to the others and help them if need be,” Kieran ordered the soldier.
With a crisp “aye,” the lanky Irishman disappeared around the front of Langmore’s gate. With a tired sigh, Kieran followed.
At the keep’s door, Aric and the others had subdued the rebels, but fight still burned in their eyes.
The fight turned to shock at the sight of their leader slung over his shoulder.
“Nay!” shouted one rebel.
“Aye,” he yelled back. “You are defeated, and I take you all prisoner.”
With the help of Aric and his soldiers, they led the defeated group of rebels into Langmore and down to the depths of the dungeon. There, they put the men into groups. The wounded were kept together, and Kieran ordered two of his men to find the healer, Ismenia, and bring the old woman there.
Flynn he put by himself at the far end of the dim hall, dropping him on a worn wooden bunk with a thud. The man groaned.
Kieran backed out of the small cell, closing the heavy wooden door behind him. He signaled the guard to secure the lock with the key.
Satisfied that Flynn could not escape and the rebellion had ended that night, Kieran made his way upstairs. A need to see Maeve, assure himself of her well-being, tore into his gut. His mind said the rebels had not breached Langmore’s walls. Still, he worried.
Inside Kieran’s chamber, Colm stood over the O’Shea sisters. Brighid had fallen asleep at his side. Jana held a mewling babe, seeking to comfort him with a soothing voice. Fiona sat next to her eldest sister, wringing her hands. Maeve stood away from the others, stiffly, by the fire.
’Twas to her he went first.
“It is over,” he said. “You are safe.”
Maeve turned his way, cold gaze studying him. Her pale, distraught features concerned Kieran. Unable to resist, he reached out for her, placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder.
Stiffening, she moved away from his touch. “How many are dead this morn?”
He held in a sigh. What would she say when he told her Flynn was his prisoner and that the Palesmen would likely want his execution in Dublin soon?
She would surely hate him forever.
“I know not yet. Perhaps thirty.”
Maeve drew in a sharp breath. “I suppose you are disappointed the number is not greater. ’Tis a sad day when you do not shed enough innocent blood.”
Innocent? She was a fool, and her blind devotion to Flynn and the rebels was naught short of dangerous.
Casting a glance to Colm and the others who watched eagerly, he barked. “Out.”
Without a word, all complied. Colm shut the door behind him.
He rent the silence with a growl. “Killing is not some merriment for me. I do not revel in spilling blood. But I defend what is mine. This morn, that meant Langmore. And those innocent men had come to set your very home on fire with you, your sisters, and a helpless infant inside.”
Maeve paled at his words. “Even Langmore?”
“Every English fortification. Did you expect me to stand by and watch them set Langmore ablaze, to watch you scramble to leave the fire alive?”
“Nay,” she conceded, voice small.
“You even provided me enough hints to aid in ceasing this rebellion, so you must have believed their plan evil.”
“But I did not expect you to kill them, only stop them!”
“Sometimes”—he sighed—“that is the same thing.”
She bit her lip so hard Kieran feared ’twould bleed.
“Maeve…” He reached for her. She stood stiff as he wrapped an arm about her shoulder, but did not pull away.
“The dead— Do I know any among them?” Her voice broke.
“I know not. I’ve sent Ismenia to the wounded in the dungeon.” He paused, not knowing how to tell her of Flynn’s capture. “Your brother is in the dungeon as well.”
“Flynn!” She jerked from his hold. “He is wounded? I must go to him—”
Kieran wrapped an iron hand about her arm. “He is well and will have no more than a few bruises.”
She relaxed a bit in relief.
He closed his eyes, hating what must come next. “Maeve, he is in serious trouble. I cannot lie.”
“Nay! I will speak to him, ask him to cease. Only spare him.”
Her golden eyes pleaded, and she clutched his hands. Reveling in her touch, Kieran squeezed them. “That may be beyond my power, Maeve. The Palesmen are to send all the captured rebels to Malahide Castle…where parliament will deal with them.”
Maeve wrenched her hands from his. “You mean send them to their deaths.”
He saw no point in lying. “In all likelihood, aye.”
“And you would like naught more, I am certain, than to be King Henry’s battle hero, the conqueror of the rebellion. What pleasure that should bring, at the expense of your own wife’s brother.”
Kieran grunted bitterly. “You think I wish to partake of glory resulting from this wretched rebellion? I hated coming upon Flynn with a torch in his hand as he lit the scaffolding about Langmore’s wall. I wanted to kill him for his treachery, for putting you in danger. To spare your feelings, I did not. I see I’m the fool for thinking ’twould matter.”
Glaring, Maeve remained mute, chin raised stubbornly.
He cursed. “Do you fail to understand that Flynn made a choice to engage in this rebellion? He chose to participate in a plan designed to kill people and destroy homes. Think you that warrants no punishment?”
“But none of that happened,” she argued. “So must he die for it?”
“Flynn will not rest until he sees English blood run. I cannot spare him so he can kill others.”
Turning away, Kieran made his way to the door and slammed it behind him with all his fury. He prayed the anger would last long, for once it waned, misery would take its place. Marriage between the English and Irish would not work. His own parents had proven that well.
Kieran felt painfully certain he and Maeve were well on their way to proving that again.
* * * *
“You plan what?” Aric demanded of Kieran the following day as they rode about Langmore’s walls to survey any damage the rebels inflicted.
“Damnation!” Kieran cursed, tightening his hands about the reins. “What choice have I? If I give Flynn over with the rest of the rebels, parliament will ex
ecute him within the week. Already, I have received missives from most of them. The few rebels who lived through the battle are to be sent to Malahide within the week. If I do this duty, I will lose my wife forever.”
Aric wanted to point out that refusing to do it might be seen as treason, but refrained. Having nearly lost his own wife over issues of duties soon after marriage, he understood Kieran’s dilemma.
Still, he believed his half-Irish friend made the wrong choice. Flynn was dangerous and angry; he would not cease this rebellion until he took his last breath.
“What will you do with Flynn if you keep him at Langmore?”
Kieran shrugged. He looked haggard, his usual smile most recently replaced by a frown. Aric prayed it would not last. Surely Maeve would see the impossible position in which she had put her own husband, choosing sides where he could not without risking a king’s wrath.
Then again, his own Gwenyth, despite his boundless love for her, had proven a time or two that where women and feeling were concerned, logic did not always rule.
“I know not what to do,” Kieran said finally. “From the information I have gathered thus far, I surmise the rebellion has been all but destroyed. Over three-quarters of their men are either dead or captured. Their weapons are only crude at best. They have no strongholds and no monies to sustain them. Given that, perhaps I can detain Flynn in Langmore’s dungeon until England has achieved more stability in the Pale.”
“That may be years yet,” Aric pointed out.
“Aye, but he will not be dead.”
Nodding, Aric asked, “And what will you say if the other Palesmen—or King Henry—discover what you’ve done?”
Kieran’s jaw clenched as he stared straight ahead, over the landscape awash in greens, pinks, blues—a feast of color for the eye. Aric doubted his friend even noticed.
“I…” Kieran sighed. “I suppose I will prepare to have my neck stretched by the hangman’s noose.”
“You would take that risk to spare Maeve’s hurt?”
Kieran laughed bitterly. “I know such actions are foolish beyond words. This plan… It goes against all logic. Of that, I am aware. But I cannot be the one to cause her pain.”
Aric understood that sentiment well.
“Then do what you must. We forged these blood bonds as boys to become like brothers,” Aric said, holding up his palm, displaying the thin scar upon it. “I will help all I can when I return to London, which I must do next week.”
“What do you say?” Kieran faced him, frowning.
“I will tell King Henry the rebellion is all but over and all its leaders have met their justice.”
“You cannot!” Kieran insisted as he stopped his mount. “Such a falsehood would be dangerous for you, perhaps deadly.”
Aric smiled. “Ah, but that is the risk I choose to take so I may help you, my blood brother.”
Kieran paused. Aric wondered for long minutes if he would respond at all. Finally, he nodded. “I am blessed with such friends as you and Drake.”
“Never forget that,” teased Aric.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A week passed in which Maeve stayed in her chamber. Each morn, extreme stomach unrest ailed her. Each evening, weariness plagued her.
The afternoons… She refused to take the chance of encountering Kieran and weakening from her anger at the mere sight of him. It was cowardly, she knew. Still, the afternoons gave her ample opportunity to ponder this dilemma with Flynn and his imprisonment.
Pacing to her window, Maeve sighed into the rain. Why had her brother strayed to such extreme measures of rebellion? They had been making slow but steady progress toward their freedom with the minor theft of documents and supplies destined for English strongholds.
Then Flynn and the others had become impatient, their plans reckless. She wanted to rail at her brother. His foolishness and arrogance had led to his capture.
Kieran had shown no compunction about throwing Flynn into the dungeon. He had not even hesitated.
Could he have done aught else? asked a voice inside her. She had no answer to such a question.
As spring blushed its way across the wet land, Maeve looked out, scarcely noticing such dewy beauty.
What would she have done in Kieran’s position? She wanted to believe she would have spared Flynn, even if only to keep her hands free of blood. But as Kieran had pointed out, war was upon them. Selective acts of mercy could free a man who might later plant a blade in his back.
Maeve shook her head at the argument. Flynn would not attack Kieran without provocation.
Would he?
Recalling Kieran’s first day at Langmore, he had been trapped within the mud pit and Flynn loomed above him with taut bow and arrow… Perhaps Flynn would kill her husband.
Aye, now he would do so without a second thought.
Still, Flynn was her brother. Did that mean naught to Kieran?
Or did the fact that Flynn had tried to set Langmore afire overshadow, in Kieran’s eyes, the blood that tied her to her brother?
Maeve shook her head in confusion. The circle of her thoughts had been thus all day. Still, she could not unravel the tangle of her feelings and her logic, each telling her something different.
Taking a deep breath, Maeve looked into the drenched bailey below—just in time to see ten of the castle guards lead twenty rebels, filthy and bound, out the front gate, into the rain. With haggard steps, they ambled down the muddy lane. They were too far away to identify, but she feared Flynn marched among them.
Would that wretch she called husband not even allow her to say good-bye to her brother one final time?
Anger allowing her to summon her energy, Maeve tore out of her chamber and wound her way down the stairs. Through the great hall, out the damp day, past the gardens and the dye house, until she reached the garrison. Mayhap the guard there could tell her Flynn’s fate.
At the dungeon door, the guards stopped her.
“No need for ye to be in there now, milady,” said Patrick, an elder castle guard who had once served her father.
Tears stung her eyes, then rolled down her cheeks. She mourned all of Ireland’s doomed soldiers, but her brother most particularly. She and Flynn had not been terribly close of late, but he was family. Her parents had once had much hope for his future—and she feared the worst had befallen him now.
“They’ve all been taken to Dublin, then?”
The old man hesitated, then said, “All but Master Flynn.”
Surprise, hope, and joy all skittered through her. “He’s still here? How? Why?”
“He remained on milord’s orders.”
Kieran had allowed Flynn to stay? Relief bubbled within her. She trusted Patrick; he would not tell a falsehood. Her brother stayed and lived!
Why had Kieran done that? Why had he risked the ire of his fellow Palesmen and his king to keep Flynn hidden here?
Maeve knew of but one reason: he honored her request.
Something inside her lifted, lightened. She smiled as if her heart had grown wings. Her vexatious husband had taken an unexpected, kindhearted turn. Saint Mary above!
“I cannot be allowin’ ye down there, lass,” said the graying Patrick.
Nodding, Maeve smiled. “I understand. And thank you.”
Whirling, she raced back through the slow, steady rain, toward the main keep, hoping to find Kieran somewhere within.
Dashing to the great hall, she spotted Aric by himself, composing a missive.
As she entered, he looked up and smiled.
“Greetings, my lord,” she called with impatience.
“Greetings, my lady.” He stood, nodding. “You are wet.”
Maeve looked up a long way before she found his face again. “Aye. Have you seen my husband about, my lord?”
“Well, my lady—” He stopped with a mock frown. “We both have names. Ought we use them, perhaps, instead of this foolish formality?”
She had never been one for such ceremony herself. Bes
ides, she liked Aric. Aye, he was English through and through, and a man of great consequence to King Henry. Still, she found she liked him, his dry humor, his honesty. And she felt a great urge to make haste to Kieran’s side.
“Indeed…Aric,” she said.
He smiled. “Thank you, Maeve. Now I ask what you seek, since you ran in here from the rain with all possible speed?”
“I seek my husband. Know you where he is?”
“Try his chamber. I believe he sees to his correspondence, as do I.”
“Of course. Forgive my intrusion.”
“I but write to my lovely wife. You will have to meet Gwenyth someday soon.” He smiled, then offered, “For now, I believe Kieran would very much like to see you as well.”
With that cryptic comment, Aric sat again, attention on the parchment before him. With a last, curious glance, she turned away and made for the stairs.
Within moments, she stood at Kieran’s door. Her hand shook as she lifted it to knock. Would he truly wish to speak to her? She had offered him naught but insults for weeks. And still, he acceded to her wishes to keep Flynn here, at great peril to himself. Only a warrior who cared for her feelings would take such a risk.
She tried to tell herself his loyalties were English, that he had come here to wed her to conquer her family and her people.
She had known the first time he held her, when he comforted Fiona, and when he had assisted her birthing Jana’s son, that his loyalties were English.
Still, he had proven himself capable of compassion, no matter if ’twas someone Irish who ached.
Aye, but Kieran watched Quaid die.
Maeve’s hand faltered as she held it up to the door. She drew in a deep breath.
Kieran had said more than once he could have done naught to stop Quaid’s execution. Knowing what she knew of Bishop Elmond, Lord Butler, and the others, she could believe they wanted Quaid and all the rebels dispatched to hell, posthaste. One voice against many would likely have meant little.
Besides, Kieran had apologized for bedding her before telling her the truth, endured a month of her silence, then protected Flynn, whom he liked not, all at great peril to himself. If he were truly bloodthirsty, he would have sacrificed Flynn to the Palesmen—or killed her brother himself.
