His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3)

by Shayla Black

  Drake caressed his wife’s shoulder in a tender gesture, then flashed her a grin. “And I thank God you let me lead you astray often.”

  More laughter ensued. Kieran took another swig of his ale and cursed beneath his breath when he found the tankard dry.

  Their happiness should gladden him. His best friends, the brothers of his heart, had found such joy in life and in marriage. ’Twas plain to see.

  But jealousy festered like a canker in his heart. He wanted their contentment, the bliss so evident on their warrior faces. And, God help him, he wanted it with Maeve. Such wishes were foolish and impossible, but he could not stop them.

  “What say you, Kieran?” Drake called. “Is it not Gwenyth’s wayward manner that has led Averyl astray?”

  He tried to smile. “Blame Gwenyth not for your sins.”

  “Ah ha!” she said in triumph. “Kieran sees the truth.”

  Drake groaned. “But you give my sweet wife such rebellious ideas.”

  Averyl faced her husband with a saucy smile. “How do you know the ideas are hers?”

  Aric clapped Drake on the back. “She has you beat there, my friend. Poor Averyl has been wed to you now for nigh on four years. Certainly, you must blame your influence on her.”

  “Me?” Drake pointed to himself in mock insult. “I am all that is innocent and pure of thought.”

  Laughing, Averyl faced her husband. “Now we all know your ability to lie. Take you off to the chapel. Such a falsehood cries out for confession!”

  “You are supposed to take my side, love,” Drake whispered.

  “When you are so outrageously false? Never.”

  At Averyl’s giggle, Drake wrapped his arms around her and brushed a kiss on her lips. To their left, Aric cast Gwenyth a tender gaze.

  Kieran turned away, knowing he could take no more.

  Their happiness burned in his gut, dangled before his eyes like a prize just out of reach.

  Springing up from his bench, uncaring that its scraping sound disrupted the joy in the room, he rose and left, fists clenched at his sides.

  “Poor Kieran…” he heard Averyl say.

  He strode faster to block out their pitying conversation, destined to follow.

  To his surprise, Kieran looked up and found himself in the chapel. Ordinarily, the House of God had little appeal for him. Battle and war left little time for commune with a higher being and reflection on the soul.

  Today, it sounded perfect.

  He knelt on one knee and crossed himself before rising to his feet again. What should he do next? Kneel again? Stand here and pray? He sighed. And what would he pray for besides a miracle? Surely naught less would bring Maeve back to him.

  To his right, Kieran heard a sigh, then saw Guilford struggling to his feet. Rushing to his mentor, he clasped a hand around the old man’s arm and helped him upright.

  Guilford shot him an irritated glance. “’Tis slow I am, not infirm.”

  “I am sorry,” Kieran said, releasing the old man.

  “What brings you here?”

  Kieran shrugged. “Quiet, I suppose.”

  Guilford stared in disbelief. “Never have I known you to seek quiet, lad. Your wife trouble weighs upon you.”

  The old man’s perception ruffled him. He had not been so obvious, had he? Aye, he supposed he had. Still, he did not want to be reminded of thus, and he did not want to discuss it.

  “It will pass.”

  “I think not.” Guilford frowned. “Aric and Drake at least had the sense to bring their brides here whilst sorting through the difficulties of their lives. You left your Maeve in Ireland. How am I to meet her then?”

  Sleeplessness and melancholy ruled his life until he hardly knew himself, and Guilford worried over meeting Maeve?

  “I will give you directions to Langmore,” he snapped, then hesitated. “And do not be deceived should anyone tell you that you must trek through the bog because the bridge is down.”

  Guilford chuckled. “Maeve’s doing?”

  With a sad, self-deprecating smile, he nodded.

  “Ah, boy, ’tis clear you love her. You’ve scarce smiled since arriving. You have not looked at any of the wenches you used to fancy, and you even snarled at one you used to find more than passing pleasing, as I recall.”

  Ballocks, Kieran had been aware of that himself. “I need no reminders of my recent history, old man.”

  Kieran tried not to look glum, but he felt thus, and was all but certain it showed on his face. Why else would Guilford smile so smugly?

  “Leave me in peace,” he said. “Aric and Drake do well with your guidance. They are men of reflection.”

  “And you have been a man of action these past days, aye. Staring into your ale, refusing opportunities to return to Spain or join the battle in France, glowering at all and sundry. Aye, it must be difficult to think much with so grueling a schedule.”

  Kieran glared at the old man’s sarcasm. Then he realized Guilford was right, as always. Naught pleased him anymore but the thought of returning to Maeve. Naught hurt him more than knowing she would never take him back.

  Kieran sighed. Bleak days stretched out before him, and he had no notion of what to do, how to rebuild his life without Maeve. Why should it be that the very freedom he sought before he wed her was now the freedom that would likely kill him?

  “Did you tell her you love her?” Guilford asked simply.

  “Nay.” He had been too certain she would never return the sentiment. He’d been too afraid that baring his heart would only make their inevitable parting more painful when politics and their beliefs clashed again.

  “Mayhap ’tis time you did,” Guilford offered. “With a woman, ofttimes a true apology and a few tender words will melt the anger from her heart.”

  “Think you I’ve never known a woman, old man?”

  Guilford’s blue eyes turned serious. “I think you’ve known plenty of women, but never stayed long enough to know their hearts.”

  The words took Kieran aback with their simple truth. Aye, he had ever known how to coax a woman into bed. What had he known of keeping her ardor after? Naught, for he had never wanted such.

  “Of you three, I feared you, Kieran, would find making an attachment most difficult. Your parents did not love.”

  Kieran fought a grimace. He had been thinking about Desmond and Jocelyn’s dismal marriage too much of late. Certainly, he had no wish to discuss it, either.

  “Kieran, do you hear me?”

  “I cannot help but hear you.” He sighed. “Aye, my parents did not love.”

  “But if Maeve disagreed with you in silence, would you have beat her for it, as your father did to your mother? If she turned to the Bible to ignore you, would you do your best to force your attentions upon her?”

  The very idea repelled him. “Nay!”

  “And would Maeve destroy everything in her path for the simple purpose of hurting you?”

  Kieran frowned at the foolish image. “Maeve seeks peace.”

  “Hmm. There you have it.”

  “I have naught! Just because we would not seek the other’s pain does not mean we will love. Too much divides us.”

  Guilford’s blue eyes pinned him in place with a healthy skepticism. “Come now. Impetuous you might be at times, but you are not a rash man. And Aric tells me Maeve has good sense. Politics can only divide the fools who allow thus. If you love her, I cannot imagine why you would keep yourself from her. And if she is already breeding, ’tis clear Maeve does not avoid you or think you a vulgar barbarian, for I know you would not force your seed upon her, as your father did to your mother.”

  ’Twas more complicated than that. Was it not? Certainly, he had done more than merely assume at the first hint of conflict that he and Maeve were destined to share his parents’ fate. Had he not?

  Thoughts buzzed in his head, louder than a thousand bees swarming a hive. “What say you, old man?”

  “Compromise, son. Good talk. Consider
that Drake and Averyl have not allowed the fact they came from warring clans to affect their happiness.”

  “They are perfect for each other.”

  Guilford smiled as he clapped Kieran on the shoulder. “Perhaps Maeve is perfect for you, eh?”

  * * * *

  June brought relief from Maeve’s morning-sick stomach. But she could spare no time to celebrate such relief once the rider from Dublin came.

  Ulick McConnell, one of the remaining rebels spying now in Lord Butler’s keep, rode for Langmore as if hell pounded at his back. Maeve rushed out to greet him, along with Jana.

  The young man dismounted, gasping for air. Brown locks fell across his forehead as he regarded her with apprehension.

  “What is it, Ulick? What news do you bring?” Maeve demanded.

  “’Tis—’tis Lord Butler. I know not where from,” he gasped, “but Lord Butler hears rumors.”

  Concern assailed Maeve. “Rumors?”

  Ulick nodded. “He knows your lord husband has gone.”

  The spy, only a few years older than she, shot her a look of speculation. Maeve did not shy away. “Aye, he has. What of it?”

  “Now that Kildare is not here to say him nay, Lord Butler has decided he will demand a look in Langmore’s dungeons.”

  Maeve gasped. “He knows Flynn is prisoner there?”

  “He suspects.” Ulick drew in more air. “Some of the other rebels, trying to save their own necks, told Lord Butler of Flynn’s capture.”

  “We must do something, now,” Jana said quickly. “Somehow we must break him free.”

  Jana had said this before, that they should not leave their only brother and the chief of their Fein a prisoner in his own home. Until now, Maeve had disagreed. First, Kieran had, before leaving, placed Patrick and two of his most loyal guards in charge of keeping Flynn inside the dungeon. The rest of his army still held the castle. She’d not known how to break her brother free without harming the soldiers. And she refused to see them injured. Her other reason for hesitation was Flynn’s violence. These past few months, he had seemed to crave bloodshed. That she would not abide.

  But with one of the powerful Palesmen coming, she had little choice but to see her brother free or watch his blood spill.

  The decision relieved her. But it had naught to do with Kieran. She did not see Flynn free to protect her foolish husband from his fellow English brutes if they discovered he had kept Flynn’s capture secret, for she scarce thought of Kieran at all.

  Only every few moments…

  “We must hurry, good lady. We have but a few hours before Lord Butler comes with his guards.”

  Jana grabbed Ulick’s hand. “Come with me. I know of a way we can distract the guards.”

  Apparently, Jana had discerned the same challenge. Still, Maeve warned her, “I want no one hurt.”

  Her older sister smiled, something she did often since little Geralt’s birth. “No one will be hurt, unless Ulick here cannot run.”

  He puffed out his chest, looking much affronted. “I can run better than any English knave.”

  Jana nodded and smiled slyly. “Then let us go. Maeve, once you hear the scream, watch for Patrick and the others to abandon their posts. You’ll have but a few minutes, so be quick.”

  The scream? Maeve wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “What of the keys? The door inside the dungeon—”

  Grimacing, Jana paused, clearly in thought. “Old Patrick has ever been fond of you since you were a wee babe. Would he not be letting you visit your brother this fine day?”

  Maeve nodded. Why had she not thought of that?

  Because Kieran plagued her mind, day and night, with no respite. Why could she not forget the man?

  “Wait a few moments before you…scream, Jana.”

  She nodded and began to lead Ulick away. “We shall go discuss the plan.”

  Had Jana interest in Ulick? Her smile seemed to indicate thus. And she found Ulick’s gaze fixed on Jana as well. Apparently the man was not immune to her sister’s charm.

  “Ulick?” The question slipped from her mouth.

  The young rebel flushed. “Tell Flynn my horse will wait him just off the road after crossing the River Barrow.”

  Then Jana tugged on his hand and they disappeared into the dawn.

  Knowing she had little choice, Maeve strode to the dungeon with purpose. She hated to deceive the old man, one she had known a great part of her life, but her brother’s life—and possibly Kieran’s—depended on this.

  Nay, she must put Kieran from her thoughts now. He had abandoned her after learning of the babe that would free him from responsibility. He had left, making it clear that while he might have some feelings for her, he did not care enough to stay. So she had demanded he leave. Maeve had not really expected him to listen, which made her wonder if he had somehow maneuvered her into those rash words.

  Shaking the confusion from her thoughts, she smiled at old Patrick and pushed thoughts of her infuriating, tempting husband away.

  “Good morn, Patrick.”

  “Milady, good morn to ye.”

  Now came the difficult part. “Might I see my brother for a moment? I shall be quick.”

  Maeve prayed the old man would not refuse her. His reluctant expression made her insides clench.

  “I have questions for him about Langmore’s books. With my husband gone, I have no guidance.”

  Playing so helpless a female irritated her, but Patrick nodded.

  “’Tis not easy, I’ll be guessing, for a woman to understand sums and such.” He paused. “Aye, ye can spend a few minutes with yer brother.”

  She gave him the most radiant smile she could muster, given her clammy hands and beating heart. The old man responded to it and let her in.

  After a short walk down a dark, musty hallway, they arrived at Flynn’s door. As usual, the overpowering odors of human waste, sweat, fear, and vomit nauseated her. Maeve reined in her reaction with what she hoped appeared a friendly expression. Patrick nodded at her as he let her in Flynn’s cell and walked away, locking the door behind him.

  Maeve turned to her brother, who sat on the straw-covered floor with fury burning in his eyes. Taken aback by his fierce expression, she approached with care.

  “Flynn?”

  In an instant, he stood and crossed the room, bearing down upon her with a scowl. “That English maggot you call a husband is long gone, and yet you scarce come to see me? Get me gone from here! Time is of the essence.”

  Confused by his words, she frowned. Flynn grabbed her arm, grip impatient, before she could ask him his meaning.

  “Well, what do you wait for? An invitation from Christ?”

  Flynn’s voice grew alarmingly loud. Maeve shushed him with a quick hiss.

  “We have a plan,” she whispered. “In a minute, Jana will scream to divert the guards. I will call for Patrick and tell him I must go join the search for her. When he comes to free you, grab him and lock him in your cell. Ulick McConnell left his mount on the side of the road, just after you cross the river. Ride far away.”

  “Aye, I will do that, now that you’ve finally decided to do as you should and release me.”

  Flynn had never had a nasty temper, and Maeve tried not to take his tone to heart. Instead, she grabbed his hand in sisterly affection. “I will free you, but I must have your promise that you will seek a rebellion free of blood. Flynn, I cannot have innocent lives on my hands, nor should you want them on yours. We must try negotiations, find peaceful ways to seek resolution.”

  Her brother’s expression turned narrow-eyed with anger. He looked ready to explode, to refuse her request in the most ruthless of terms. Maeve opened her mouth to implore him, reason with him.

  Jana screamed.

  Loud, filled with panic and terror, the sound rang from just outside the curtain walls all the way down the dungeon. At little Geralt’s birth, she had known Jana capable of great noise, but not on command.

  As they hoped,
most of the castle guards went running for the sound, including the old Irish guard.

  “Patrick!” she cried, doing her best to sound panicked. “I would have you release me now!”

  The old man turned to her, face rife with impatience. “Milady, ye cannot help. Stay here where ye are safe and let us search for the lass.”

  Maeve shook her head adamantly. “That is one of my sisters, I know. I must help. Do not say me nay!”

  The old man hesitated, then muttered a curse as he thrust the key into the lock of Flynn’s cell and swung it open. Maeve raced out.

  Before the guard could shut the door, Flynn grabbed the older man by the throat, thrust a savage kick into his genitals, then tossed him to the ground. As Patrick lay writhing on the ground, Flynn bent to mumble something low and menacing, thieved his dagger from his belt, and darted out, locking the guard inside.

  Maeve greeted him with openmouthed horror in the corridor. “I asked you to cease the violence.”

  “He did not bleed,” Flynn sneered as he gripped her arm and propelled her down the darkened hall. “He is an Irishman now loyal to England. What use have we for such a man? For any man loyal to England? None. Any good Irishman would take delight in watching English blood run to death.”

  “All English blood?” she choked as he led her out of the garrison, to the curtain wall.

  “Every drop of it,” he growled. “Especially that of your lice-ridden husband.”

  As Flynn tried to lift her over the curtain wall, Maeve resisted. Did he mean to take her with him?

  “Go on,” he prompted with impatience. “We have not much time!”

  She shook her head, hoping Flynn did not see how her hands shook as well. “Nay, I must stay here. Lord Butler will be here within hours and expect me to greet him.”

  Flynn smiled then. “He was coming for me, to take me to Dublin?”

  Maeve hesitated, then nodded.

  “Perfect! Now you must come.” He tried to push her over the wall again.

  Still, Maeve clung to the stones and tried to push herself to the ground. “He will know you are gone, that I am gone, and that something is afoot! Surely you want to surprise them.”