by Shayla Black
“What of his bargain with King Henry? Did you not consider that?”
Maeve looked at Aric blankly. A bargain with the king?
“Or Kieran did not tell you.” Aric spoke the phrase like fact, throwing up his hands in the air. “That fool.”
Foreboding shot down Maeve’s spine. “Since I know not of what you speak, I must assume he did not tell me.”
At that, Aric stood. “I suggest you ask him—and listen with an open ear. Your future may depend upon it.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Maeve raced back up to Kieran’s chamber. A deal with the king he had? Most like, it involved her, and she would not rest until she knew what he plotted.
Up the stairs she trounced, the sickness in her belly she had awakened to all but gone in the face of her anxiety. She ignored the glowing wall sconces, except to allow them to light her way. Every thought focused on her wayward husband.
At the chamber, Maeve pushed open the door. Kieran pulled on long boots, which served to emphasize his long, muscled legs. The image burned itself in her brain, in her belly. Idiot she was! She could not think of such now. At this moment, she must have answers, not succumb to his charm.
At her entry, he looked up, a cautious greeting on his face. “Good morn, Ma—”
“Aric let spill you have some bargain with King Henry. Out with it!”
Kieran paused, his body going still. He sighed, but Maeve heard the muttered curse under his breath.
“Aye, damnation will be yours if you do not tell me all.”
He reached for her. “Maeve…”
She eased from his grasp. “What have you to say?”
Drawing in a deep breath, Kieran frowned with reluctance. “Before I left London, King Henry made me the earl of Kildare and bade me to take a wife amongst you and your sisters.”
“You tell me naught I do not know,” she said impatiently.
Kieran held up a hand to stay her. “I did not wish to come to Ireland or take a wife. I was due back in Spain, and longed to be there. Aric knew this. ’Twas his deal with the king…though I agreed.”
“And this bargain, it was…?”
He hesitated again. “Sweet Maeve, ’twill sound damning to you, and I meant you no ill will.”
Her impatience grew. “Do not stall me with your glib tongue. Tell me now.”
He paused, then admitted, “We agreed that if I quelled the rebellion and I got my wife to breeding, I was free to leave Ireland, and need only return once the child was birthed.”
Fury washed over Maeve.
From the first, he had planned to fill her belly with child and leave her. Had that, and stupid lust, been his motives for bedding her as often as she allowed it? Had he no feeling for her? For their marriage?
His touch, indeed some of his actions, seemed to say he cared. This bargain said he cared only about freedom, about leaving.
Either way, she hated the confusion, the uncertainty that allowing herself to care for him had wrought. One day happy, the next betrayed. ’Twas more than she could stomach.
“Maeve, I know what you think,” he rushed to say, reaching for her. “I planned to leave before I truly knew you. I coaxed you into my bed because I wanted you, not to satisfy this bargain.”
She backed away from his hold. Perhaps ’twas true. Perhaps he merely said what he thought she wished to hear. Confusion spun about her until her head near burst. Always, he found ways to make her believe in him. And always, she discerned the manner in which he’d made her a fool. No more!
She glared at him. “And what of the babe? What was to happen when you returned at his birth? You were to take him from me, to England. Is that not so?”
Kieran raked a hand through his hair, sighing. “Aye, to raise him English, then return him to govern.”
Finally, he spoke true, but much too late to save her from making the terrible mistake of conceiving a child with him. Betrayal seeped into her skin, into the corners of her heart. Pain hit next, blinding, devastating, soul rending.
She had loved him. To the end, he had hidden his cause for coming, pretended to care for her, deceived her sisters into believing him a fair-minded man. Only Flynn had refused to believe the yarns he had spun about his duties in the Pale. Mayhap he had even been responsible for Quaid’s execution. Had every day with Kieran been a lie?
At this moment, it felt thus. And she had never hurt—or hated—more.
“You are contemptible!” she cried. “Every word and deed from you is naught but a falsehood designed to gain what you wish. Never mind the hurts to others, so long as you obtain what you want.”
“Maeve, that is unfair! I never wanted to be here. I told you thus!”
“Then why did you not leave me untouched, let me wed Quaid, and leave me in peace?” she yelled.
“My duty forbade it and…and…” He swallowed. “And something inside me refused to let another man wed you.”
“How tender that sounds!” She gave him a bitter laugh. “Have I any reason to believe the word of a man who would impregnate his wife to steal her child? A man who would create the child to satisfy his king?”
“I agreed to the bargain to help my mentor, Guilford. Henry had threatened to take his money and power if I did not comply. I owe Guilford my very life. What was I to do? Let an old man rot in poverty?”
His words gave her pause. Kieran’s motives sounded pure enough, but was that not always the case? And if he only wanted to save an old man, why had he not enlisted her help, instead of deceiving her?
“You could easily have told me of your bargain, perhaps allowed me a say in this tangle. After all, I am the one bearing the child!”
He held his hands out to her, face supplicating. “For some weeks now, I have not known whether I wanted to abide by the bargain. Why do you think I held back my joy when you told me of this child? I know not what to do!”
Excuses, all of them. Maeve was heartily tired of them.
“Then I will help you, my lord. Leave.” She pointed to the door. “Travel far from Langmore and never, for any reason, come back. There is naught more I loathe than you!”
Desolation claimed Kieran’s face, and she nearly reached out to him to offer comfort. She stopped herself short. Was the anguish on his face another method of drawing her in?
“Maeve…I see now I should have told you. But Saint Peter’s toes, you scarce spoke to me for weeks. Should I have trapped you in a corner and forced you to listen?”
“If need be.”
“You would only have resisted me more, and I had every intent to claim you as my wife, bargain or no.”
“Regardless of whether I wished it. Exactly my point. You know not how to care for another. You know not how to love.” She glared at him, hoping her fierce expression hid the fact she felt shattered and betrayed—and as if she would never be the same again.
Resignation overtook his face, until he looked weary and defeated, and Maeve’s heart ached all the more.
“I was a fool to think we could live as man and wife in any sort of harmony,” he said, his voice somber. “Politics predestined us to hate. ’Tis unlikely that will change.” He turned away. “I will be gone within the hour.”
* * * *
Kieran rode west as night fell. Every part of his body ached, from his seat, which had sat a saddle for endless hours now, to his head, which whirled at the day’s events.
As he had thought, feared, Maeve was lost to him. Upon his leave-taking, Aric had tried to convince him to remain at Langmore. Aric had said he was certain Maeve would understand in time that Kieran belonged with her.
Rarely was Aric wrong, but now was such a time. Weariness, sadness, defeat, all tumbled in his blood until he could scarce think—misery had known no better soul mate. How had Maeve wrapped herself so thoroughly around his heart so quickly, when others had tried and failed?
Kieran shook his head. Knowing ’twould do him little good to dwell on this failure, he put his morose thoughts aw
ay, in the back of his mind, and buried them deeply. Now he would decide where to travel, what battle to join. Aye, he would.
For some reason, the decision brought no excitement.
Dusk settled across the mountains. Kieran gazed into the vivid pinks and oranges settling at the horizon. He pictured Andalusian Spain, her dark-haired women, her golden beaches, the wild Sierra Morena Mountains.
His mind replaced it all with images of fire-haired Maeve on a windswept hillside of heather, golden eyes beckoning.
Cursing, he forced himself to focus on the view before him. The Wicklow Mountains, his boyhood home, loomed close.
A moment’s glance told him he was little more than a mile from Balcorthy. Compelled there in a way he understood not, Kieran turned his mount north, headed up the mountain, past the stream, to look at the charred ruins of his home.
The once stately keep now looked black and twisted, crumbled with the passing of time, bowed under the pelting of rain, snow, wind, neglect. Yet, closing his eyes, he could picture Balcorthy as it had once been: alive, full of intrigue, rife with violence.
The inevitable day, the last one, came rushing back. His mother’s quiet contempt for his father’s barbarian ways—the battle, the lack of courtly dress, the rough manner in which he did nearly all things. And his father had railed, always trying to prove himself more manly, more powerful. To this day, Kieran knew not whether Desmond had sought to impress his wife in his own way or repel her more.
Urging his mount forward, Kieran entered the remains of the castle. As he looked about, he felt cold. The roof in most places had fallen after the fire without the wood beams to support it. The black walls screamed misery, and Kieran wondered again why he was here. Memories he’d held at bay for over twenty years assailed him, vivid and terrible. Inescapable here at Balcorthy.
He wanted to leave, to continue forgetting. Yet something about the fading old place drew him to dismount, cross the fragrant grass growing where the wooden floor once lay, touch the dying walls.
As if they could show him the past again, he saw his father yelling at his silently defiant mother as she clutched her Bible in one hand, Rosary in the other. Desmond called Jocelyn a whore, accusing her of bedding down with any and all of his kin. Kieran recalled his puzzlement, as he’d oft seen his father sharing a pallet with other women of the castle. Never had his mother done aught but cling to her spirituality and ignore her husband.
Then the battle had come. Jocelyn said her family had finally come to free her from oppression. Desmond swore she would never leave. Then he hit her. Again and again and again—and not for the first time.
Kieran shook his head, refusing to remember what happened next. ’Twould do no good. He could not alter the past.
He feared that, if he followed his heart’s impulse and returned to Langmore, it would become much like Balcorthy someday, its spirit dying, walls filled with hate, until ’twas abandoned. He also feared its people would suffer the same fate, and he could not do that to Maeve.
If he returned, Maeve’s hate for him would surely only grow. As he loved her, Kieran knew he could not endure that.
In return, he would have the cold consolation of knowing he had done the best he could to see her happiness—and miss her always.
* * * *
A week later, quiet reigned at Langmore, except for the occasional cries made by little Geralt.
Each night, Maeve muffled the sound of her tears in her pillow and hoped Fiona, with whom she still shared a chamber, could not hear in the silence.
Another dawn burst over the spring-laden land. Maeve woke but did not open her tired eyes. Those, along with her aching heart and roiling stomach, were all intimate reminders of Kieran, of the husband she could never forget.
’Twould be easy if she could bring herself to hate him as she had told him she did. But her heart would not be merciful in this, and it pined for him, yearned to see his wicked smile, feel his tender touch again. It remembered the happy moments, the occasional teasing, the help he gave her sisters, the care with which he’d made love to her.
Only her mind recalled his ugly bargain, considered all the ways in which he had probably deceived her with any number of glib lies. With Kieran’s charm, ’twas likely he knew well how to seduce women, tell them what they craved hearing, whilst keeping his heart to himself, untouched. She’d known upon first meeting Kieran that was his game. Maeve knew he had ensnared her in his smile until she forgot the truth. And she was more the fool for it.
“Are you coming to break your fast, Maeve?” asked Jana suddenly from the door.
She looked across the room, to Fiona’s bed, and found it empty. It must be late indeed.
She sighed. “Nay, food holds no appeal.”
“You must keep your strength for this babe,” she admonished. “You’ll want him strong for you and for Ireland.”
Maeve nodded. Deep in her heart, she knew Jana spoke true, but her spirit felt so battered by Kieran’s departure and her unrequited love, she could scarce think about much beyond surviving this day.
Jana frowned, then crossed the room to Maeve’s side suddenly. “You miss him?”
Biting her lip, Maeve did her best not to cry. Kieran deserved no more of her tears. Aye, he was capable of an occasional kindness if it suited him. But he could not return her love, could never put her wishes at equal with his, could not be honest if it meant revealing his motives or explaining himself. A man like that was not worthy of her sorrow.
So why could she not contain it?
“Maeve, I know not what happened between you, but I—”
“Then say naught. I will deal with this.”
“I think he cared for you very much. The manner in which he looked at you… ’Twas more than lust, Sister. He saved Flynn and even now keeps our brother’s presence secret in Langmore’s dungeon. He has allowed us all to visit him. The last earl would not have done so much.”
Her own sister defended the enemy? Must she endure rebellion within her own family?
“I was not wed to the last earl!” Maeve cried. “I cared not if the last earl lied to me. Kieran stood in silence and watched Quaid die. He made a bargain with the king to destroy the rebellion and conceive a babe so he might have his freedom, and did not tell me thus! Why should I want a man like that?”
Jana sat on the edge of the bed beside her sister. “Did he leave before you dismissed him from Langmore?”
Maeve hesitated. “Nay, but—”
“I think, Sister, that you turned him away before he could leave you. I think, once you heard of his bargain, you feared the man you loved would leave you forever, and you cast him out first. Did you think ’twould hurt less that way?”
Maeve paused, still now. Had she done what Jana accused?
A fresh wave of despair rushed up to claim her. Anger followed. “Why did he leave?” she cried. “Not because I ordered him to, I know. He ne’er listened to me of his own will.”
“Maybe ’twas your will he followed. I think he cared for you, Maeve, and did not want your contempt and distrust. He left, rather than upset you more.”
“Why do you defend him?” Maeve demanded. “He is English and he came here to subjugate us, enslave us to the English ways.”
“If that were true, he would have seen most of us dead or reduced to servants, imprisoned, or starved us. Instead, he wed you, cared for Langmore, cared for you, helped with little Geralt’s birth, and saved Flynn’s life. His bargain with the king was made long before he met you.”
True, all of it. But something inside Maeve still fought back. “But he never told me of his odious deal!”
“If he had, what would have changed?” Jana prompted, touching a soft hand to Maeve’s shoulder. “Would you have been able to resist him forever? Nay. You would have loved him, only fearing sooner that he would leave you.”
Maeve closed her weary eyes. ’Twas ugly, but she feared Jana had the right of it. Her elder sister had no reason to defend a ma
n so aligned to the English cause. Could it be Jana saw what she herself did not?
“I know not what to do,” she whispered, feeling fresh tears sting her eyes.
Jana drew her into a sisterly embrace. “It will come to you, Maeve. Just listen to your heart.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
April blurred into May, which quickly passed to the first of June. Kieran gripped his mug of ale and tried not to remember that forty-eight days had passed since he’d last held Maeve, had last wanted to smile. ’Twas hard to forget with so many reminders haunting the keep of Harwich Hall.
“Averyl, love,” Drake cajoled his breeding wife, whilst holding their two-year-old daughter, Nessa. “You cannot mean to spend the day riding about to visit the villagers and Gwenyth. You are fragile now—”
Gwenyth snorted at that as she came down the stairs and entered the room. “She has twice been through a breeding, you mutton-head. I will watch over her. She will not break.”
The women shared indulgent grins. Maeve would fit in well here, Kieran thought. Or she would if she didn’t hate him.
But she did, and he knew naught would change that.
The thought came with pain. He pushed it away and watched his friends with dispassionate eyes.
Drake threw a mock glower at Gwenyth. “And why should I trust you? You ever lead my wife astray, you English hoyden.”
The Scotsman’s teasing tone had Gwenyth laughing.
“I like that quality in my wife,” Aric called as he stepped down the stairs behind Gwenyth, holding the bundle of their infant daughter.
“Besides,” Averyl murmured, grinning at her husband, “’Tis you who leads me astray, and I will soon have a babe to prove it.”
Standing in a small circle, the foursome laughed. Drake kissed his daughter, who squirmed for release. As he let her down to join her three-year-old brother in the nearby garden, he wore a contented grin, the likes of which, a few short years ago, Kieran had not believed his Scottish friend would ever display again.
