by Shayla Black
Tearing himself away from the scene, he turned to Maeve only to find Drake had already taken her to the waiting horses. And though he knew in his gut she would likely never have any more to do with him after this night, he wanted to feel her against him one last time, tell her once more how sorry he was for the manner in which she had lost her brother.
Before Drake could see her mounted on his horse, Kieran made his way to the pair and grasped Maeve by the arm, leading her to his own mount. Drake smiled. Maeve cast him a wary glare before allowing him to hand her up into the saddle.
Moments later, Drake brought Colm to his mount and the party left the scene of Balcorthy, more haunted now for the tragedy that had taken place there. Yet he knew it was like a grave—now it would be left to rest in peace.
Finally, Kieran mounted behind Maeve, and the small party was on its way. He placed his arm about her waist, knowing as she leaned against him that she did so only out of weariness. Still, he relished the opportunity to touch her, fearing it would be his last. He could detect only the slightest thickening of her middle, but still, knowing he would always share the bond of the child with her, the remembrance of the happiest moments he’d ever spent in a woman’s arms, pleased him.
“I understand it not,” Drake said, breaking into the weighty silence. “What did the rebels intend to do with Langmore if Kieran surrendered it? All this blood, and for what? To regain his home?”
“I know not,” said Kieran sadly.
“I know,” Maeve said suddenly, looking at Drake, then Aric just beyond him. “You must warn your king that Margaret of Burgundy has found a new pretender, a boy named Perkin, I think. She and her followers plan to bring him here to Ireland within the week, put an army behind him, pass him off to the English people as Richard, the missing Duke of York. Langmore was to be the base of their operation.”
Kieran, Aric, and Drake all exchanged alarmed glances. They knew full well that the young prince Richard, Duke of York, had been murdered by his late uncle, Richard III. And though Henry Tudor shared their knowledge of the tragedy, no one could produce the corpse of the young boy, and his elder brother, Edward, to convince the English people that no male descendants of the House of York still lived.
And until they could, the new Tudor throne would always be vulnerable to these pretenders. This Perkin was not the first Ireland had supported.
War was ever a threat.
“I suppose if this boy came to power, he agreed he would then pull the soldiers from Ireland and let you rule yourselves?” Kieran asked.
Maeve nodded. “As I understood Flynn, aye.”
“Thank you,” Aric said. “Once we reach Langmore, I will find a fresh horse and ride for London.”
“I will journey with you,” Drake offered.
Aric nodded his thanks, then turned his attention back to Maeve. “I know that cannot have been easy for you, telling an Englishman of such a plot that may gain Ireland freedom.”
“And cost what in lives?” asked Maeve. “I could not live with the knowledge that such a secret would be the death of innocents.”
“You are an extraordinary woman, sweet Maeve,” Kieran whispered in her ear.
“I am a woman weary of death,” she corrected.
Kieran had no illusions that she spoke of her brother’s demise and would give him the full force of her tongue-lashing once they were alone.
He sighed. She would probably cast him out again. But this time, before he went, he would tell her he loved her. If she still wished him gone then…he would ride to London with Aric and Drake. God knew what he would do with his life after that. He yearned to stay at Langmore, by Maeve’s side. Yet he feared nothing he said or did would convince her to open her heart to him—ever.
* * * *
The weary group rode through the night in silence. Maeve did what she could to curb Colm’s bleeding when they stopped for a brief rest and a meal.
Dawn began to streak across the sky in vivid oranges and purples when Langmore rose into their view. As they approached the bridge over the river and trekked down the dirt path, he remembered his first day here. Lord, how badly he had wanted to leave then, to turn away and ride from his fate.
Now he could think of no fate he would like more than to stay at Langmore with his bride for the rest of his days.
Given that Maeve had said next to naught during their long ride home, he had lost all hope she would wish to share that fate. Aye, not only had he killed Flynn, though to save Maeve, but he had taken part in the confrontation, engaged in the war his wife despised. That was plenty of reason for Maeve to hate him always.
Finally, they stopped their mounts in the lower bailey. The soldiers Kieran had left behind to guard the castle swarmed the small party, begging for details of its outcome.
“Are ye badly hurt, milord?”
“Did ye win the battle?”
“Where be Flynn?”
The questions came in an endless stream. Their enthusiasm gladdened him, for he recalled the days when they wished him nothing but gone and felt sure they would stick a blade in his back upon their first opportunity. To see them now so loyal made him proud.
Still, he had not come to celebrate now. He must speak with Maeve.
“I am unharmed. Aye, we won the battle. And Flynn is dead,” he answered in a rapid stream.
With that, he thrust Lancelot in the direction of a soldier. “Care for him.”
Then he looked around for Maeve, only to see the last swish of her skirts as she disappeared inside the keep, an injured Colm beside her.
He sighed. Colm needed care now. His conversation with his wife could wait a few moments. But it chafed him. He did not regard her silence as a good one, and the idea of never hearing Maeve’s sweet voice address him again—even in anger—chilled him.
“We leave now,” Drake said from behind him.
Kieran whirled to find his friends standing beside fresh mounts, bags and blankets already attached. “That was quick.”
“Time is of the essence,” Aric explained. “We must warn King Henry of this Perkin boy. He cannot be allowed to sway the country into believing him the rightful heir. The wars in England are over. Peace and prosperity are beginning to settle over the land. Henry is a good if stern king. ’Tis important all stays such.”
Kieran nodded. “I wish you well, then. Both of you.”
“As we wish you, brother,” Aric said, then mounted. “Go to your wife.”
Drake paused. “You hesitate at that notion. Go to her and share what is in your heart.”
Casting his gaze down, Kieran wondered how, why, loving Maeve had changed him so much. “She has no wish for what is in my heart. Much as I yearn to share your fate and Aric’s, wedded bliss will not be mine.” He sighed. “But I will tell her anyway.”
“She embraced you after the battle,” Drake pointed out.
“She was frightened and confused.” Aye, and Maeve had pulled herself from his arms quickly enough.
With a hearty clap on the shoulder, Drake smiled. “She may surprise you. How many women can resist a man’s confession of undying love and devotion?”
Kieran shrugged as he watched Drake mount. He exchanged waves with his friends—so like brothers to him—as they rode again out of sight.
Drake’s words lingered. ’Twas true that few women could resist deep professions of love and loyalty.
But he felt sure Maeve was the kind of woman who could.
* * * *
When Maeve entered the chamber she still shared with Fiona that afternoon for a much-needed nap, she was weary from the long night’s ride, as well as the grueling task of assisting Ismenia in stitching Colm’s arm and seeing him comfortable.
She was also stunned to see Kieran sitting on her bed, his gaze fastened upon her, holding her in place as surely as shackles.
Why was he still here?
Her heart picked up speed, racing in her chest as if anticipating his embrace.
Foolish,
it was! Pining for a man who had never wanted her, could never love her, nor settle into a simple life with her in the country he resented. By the saints, how she wished she knew why he felt thus. Perhaps then she could combat his dislikes…
Nay, if he wanted so badly to leave her and Ireland that he would lie and manipulate his way into her bed, then she would grant him the freedom he needed. They would only be miserable—both of them—if she tried to make him stay.
Wondering if knowing of her love would make a difference in Kieran’s mind was killing her, but she stifled the words. He wanted her not. And that was that.
“My lord,” she greeted finally. “I had thought you would leave with your friends.”
“Not until I spoke a word alone with you, Wife. Come.” He took her hand.
Maeve did not resist, chastising herself for enjoying the feel of his warm, rough palm against her own, enveloping, making her feel so secure.
He led her to his chamber, the room they had briefly shared, where they had made love—and conceived their child. For what purpose did he bring her here now?
He sat her at the small desk against the wall, then faced her, looming above her. His furrowed brow and taut jaw bespoke his turmoil. Maeve frowned in concern.
“Kieran?”
He nodded, then sighed. She saw the fists clenched at his sides, and her concern mounted.
“I wanted to tell you again how very sorry I am about your brother. I did not wish him dead, truly. Please believe—”
“You saved me. I know thus.” She bit her lip. “Absolve yourself of guilt on that score.”
“You do not hate me for it?” He sounded shocked.
Maeve swung her gaze to him again. Clearly he had believed she would hate him for the deed. At one time, she would have.
“Nay,” she said, then touched his arm in a comforting gesture, though she knew it to be unwise. “Flynn was not the same brother of my youth. The—the war…it had…changed him until he was someone I feared. I will miss the boy he used to be and mourn the man he might have been. I will not mourn him. He would have killed me, killed many, for his cause.”
“Sweet Maeve,” Kieran whispered, kneeling to her. “You astound me always. Your strength, your understanding. Men all over the world would wish for your character, myself included.”
The fervency of his words took Maeve aback. Then he took her hands in his and squeezed.
“I do not deserve you. I know thus. I-I should have told you before we wed about the bargain with King Henry, but I knew if I told you, our marriage would be forever chaste and no babe would be conceived. I put my freedom above yours, and I am sorry for it.”
Did he mean those words? Could he? “Kieran—”
“Let me finish,” he urged, shaking his head. “It wasn’t until you ordered me gone that I saw all I had lost in losing you. I realized”—he paused, gripping her hands even more tightly—“I had allowed my parents’ marriage to color my judgment.”
“Your parents?”
Kieran swallowed, forcing himself to face the past he had spent years avoiding, facing the ugly times at Balcorthy for Maeve’s sake—for their sake.
“My parents wed because of a royal decree. I know not why the match was arranged, but it was calamitous from the first. They had not a civil word to say to one another through the whole of my youth, for he was wont to battle and bosoms. My English mother was a quiet woman of reflection, religion, and study. I suppose, somewhere in my head, I imagined myself too like my father and you like my mother.”
“And you doomed us from the start?”
He nodded. “I could not see any other possible ending, and I feared their fate would become ours.”
“What happened?”
“After years of bitter feuding, my mother wrote her family and begged them to come take her away. Her brother agreed and brought an army to Balcorthy for the task. Desmond was infuriated and beat her near to death for her perfidy.”
“And you saw it?”
Kieran nodded. “’Twas not the first time. He accused her of leaving him for a lover. She had none. I think she merely wanted freedom. She hated this country.”
Understanding began to dawn on Maeve’s face.
He continued on. “Desmond was ready for my mother’s family to arrive, and he trounced them in battle, killing my uncle.”
Maeve gasped at the eerie similarity.
“But my mother would not be denied this want. Before she even learned of the battle’s outcome, she set Balcorthy afire, picked me up amongst the flames, and took me to England. I-I had not been back to Ireland since that day.”
Recoiling in shock, Maeve felt at that moment how difficult his return to this land must have been and all the reasons why he had sought freedom so recklessly.
“She told me my father died in battle, left me at Guilford’s doorstep, then took herself off to a convent. I saw her but once more before she died.”
Maeve wanted to cry for him, for the confused boy who had lived such violence and betrayal, abandonment and uncertainty.
She touched his face. “Oh, Kieran. How I wish I could take that from you.”
“You can,” he whispered, his gaze delving to her eyes, willing her to feel his care. “Let me stay.”
Shock transformed her features. “You want to live here?”
Kieran nodded, his stare unending. “After I left, I realized I—I love you.”
Maeve gasped, then lapsed into a stunned silence. Could he mean thus? His earnest expression, those blue-green eyes tangling with hers, seemed so sincere.…
“I know I have much to learn as a husband. If you will have me, I will stay here, lay my heart at your feet, and love you always.”
With those eloquent words, Kieran turned to her a face so earnest Maeve knew not what to say. He wanted to stay and he loved her? She swallowed against confusion. ’Twas all so quick. But her heart knew for certain she loved him as well.
“I know we still have the matter of politics between us,” he said, rushing into her silence. “And I cannot fight for the Irish cause. Such would bring harm to Guilford, Aric, and myself, as well as betray my honor. But I can vow to do my very best to be the voice of reason with the other Palesmen. I will do all I can to see the rebellion ended in diplomatic ways whilst encouraging the English to leave you in as much peace as can be. I will do all possible to avoid the shedding of anyone’s blood. This I promise.”
She believed him, felt so connected to his heart, his soul. Maeve knew he would live up to each of his promises.
“But,” he went on, his voice growing taut, “if you wish me gone, I will go now and never bother you again. The choice is yours alone, sweet Maeve.”
Her choice? For a man of Kieran’s ilk to give her such power over his life, his future… Aye, he loved her well indeed. As she loved him.
Tears stung her eyes as joy washed over her in towering tides. She stood and flung herself into his arms.
“If you ever leave me again, you’ll not have to worry about the rebellion, for I will kill you myself.”
Maeve’s broken voice and ardent declaration were the sweetest sounds Kieran had ever heard. He drew his arms around her and held tight to his wife, this amazing woman he loved with all his soul.
“Never will I leave,” he whispered as he clasped her warm, freckled cheeks in his hands. He was stunned to see tears making silent silver paths down her face. “Nay, do not cry.”
“I cannot stop. I am overwhelmed by my good fortune. I love you.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes, inhaling her springlike scent. Relief and joy filled him, and yet he needed to know all of what lay in her heart. “You’re certain you can love me? You no longer wish you had wed Quaid?”
Maeve shook her head. “Quaid and I were promised from the cradle, and he was my dear friend. But he never made me feel…whole. I never loved him as I love you.”
Kieran sighed in relief. “Oh, my sweetest Maeve. I cannot stop lov
ing you.”
With a heartfelt smile, she met his gaze, love warming her golden eyes. “I never thought you could love me. I never thought you would love at all.”
“Nor did I,” he whispered, soothing her with the gentle touch of his thumbs across her cheeks. “But I do, so much.”
She drew in a ragged breath. “I wondered why you could not love me, why you could not stay.…”
“’Twas hard for me to believe such joy could come from so forced a union.”
“But it can,” she whispered.
“It has,” he agreed. “And with you at my side, I have no doubt I will always know joy.”
Smiling through her tears, Maeve rose up to the tips of her toes. Kieran met her halfway and sealed their union with a kiss destined to last a lifetime.
EPILOGUE
Langmore Castle, Kildare, Ireland
March 1491
Kieran smiled as the group, so like a family in all the ways that mattered, gathered around the cradle.
“She is beautiful,” whispered Gwenyth, sending him a misty-eyed gaze. “And look! Her little mouth moves as she sleeps.”
“She is lovely. I see why you are such a proud papa,” said Averyl, placing a sisterly kiss on his cheek.
“Aye,” Kieran answered. “But I cannot take much of the credit. Maeve had the biggest hand in Elinora, even down to the red hair.”
His wife cast him a rueful grin. “Aye, you had the diverting part.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” Averyl asked her, hazel eyes dancing as she juggled a dark-headed boy not yet six months old on her hip.
Laughing, Kieran took the few steps to stand beside Aric, Drake, and Guilford, all recently arrived to see his new addition to their informal clan.
“What news brings you from London?” he asked the group.
Aric answered first. “Beyond the usual court intrigues, King Henry is keeping an eye on the rebels’ pretender. Perkin Warbeck appears to be the lad’s real name. With his Irish backing disarmed now, Margaret of Burgundy is rumored to be taking the boy to France, to seek support there. But I’m sure naught will come of it, now that the king is prepared.”
